I’m going to write the blog post that you just don’t see on the internet.
The vastly greater majority of personal blogs are written by women - typically mothers - and they invariably concern their children, and the task of raising children, on a regular basis.
I’m going to tell you what it’s like to be the Dad - the one who goes to work. The one who is seen to escape and get away with not helping all day.
I get up at 7 every day and greet the children with a happy smile. I may well be quite a frightening sight with gorilla hair and squinting eyes, but the children shout “good morning” back in a manner that recharges batteries from 20 paces.
I follow the children downstairs and make their breakfast and drinks before considering anything for myself - quite commonly I will miss myself out entirely as I run out of time. I will make those of school ages their packed lunch while they eat cereals. I will go on to make toast as well if they are still hungry.
I find interesting (although not too advertising laden) television programmes to fill the minutes I am in the shower and having a shave. I am watched as I shave, with comments of “you look funny” from the middle child.
On school days I do my best to clothe the children, but know that I will have put the wrong things on them, and it will be corrected after the fact by Mum (with repeated calls of “silly Daddy…”).
After throwing some clothes on, gathering my own bag together, and perhaps making my own packed lunch, I do the hand-off to Mum. Children are hugged, Mum is kissed, and I leave.
I spend the next 7 hours trying to do well at a job that is the major source of income for our entire family. It weighs on my mind. Today for instance, I have had a headache throughout most of the day that’s so bad it’s making me feel sick. Before children I would have called in sick or worked from home - not an option any more.
I wonder how Mum and the kids are getting on throughout most of the day - inbetween fighting fires with support calls, and trying to revise for a raft of Microsoft exams. I want to call home, but worry that it will add to an already stressed situation that might be going on at the other end of the phone line.
I finally go home, walk in the door, and am invariably greeted by happy smiling little people - who it turns out were doing their best to push their Mum’s buttons all day - until the moment I arrived. You would never guess. Thankfully we talk about everything.
I amuse the children while Mum makes dinner, and then we both become the law while the children tidy up the mess they have created during the day - this invariably also involves detecting their latest tactic for avoiding helping. At the moment “needing a wee” is the favourite.
Dinner time is “family time”. We all sit around the table, and coax the children into telling us what they have been doing. I make constant requests of the youngest to tell me what she has been doing - it’s really a ruse to make her speak more, and she loves having the platform it would seem. We can’t understand half of it, but practice will make perfect.
Following dinner I become an accessory in the bedtime routine - taking one or other of the children up - through the bathroom, and into bed for a story. Apparently I am not as good at reading stories as Mum, who is the favourite with all the children. I am the booby prize at bedtime, and so do my best to compensate.
We eventually creep back downstairs and I become Mr Beckett once more - and tidy the kitchen up from dinner time. At somewhere around 8pm my chores are usually done and I get to sit with my other half for a couple of hours and watch mindless television, talk about who did what during the day, and maybe check email. I feel bad if I leave Mrs Beckett for more than a couple of minutes in the evening - although she is invariably engrossed in CSI, NCIS, and her knitting.
Eventually we catch ourselves falling asleep on the sofa and repeatedly tell each other that we should perhaps go to bed. We do eventually, and I fall asleep reading a book about mathematics while W reads a novel.
Apparently I am told I am snoring, and apologise and roll over without waking up.