Dad hasn’t got a clue

I woke up to quite a shock this morning. It turns out that when you have a lazy one (as I did on Friday) all the housework you haven’t done is simply sat there waiting for you again on Monday. I thought the housework fairies did it for you but I’m now beginning to suspect that they dont exist.

Anyway, I didn’t fancy it much so I thought I’d try one of the old distraction techniques. You know, that one where I take Freddy to a toddler group. Eliminates housework time with no comeback from you because I can argue that its good for his “socialisation and development”. Then I remembered the last time I did this. My pre-impression that I’d be the only dad therefore treated with admiration and sympathy was shattered within moments mainly because there was another bloke there who was way ahead of me. He knew all the words to the Nursery rhymes and knocked them out in a rich Tenor whilst enthusiastically and flawlessly performing all of the actions. By contrast I spent two hours muttering under my breath whilst feeling like a complete tit. Oh and on that subject Freddy, who should have been sat on my knee, spent pretty much the entire event standing two feet from a woman trying to discreetly breast feed staring and saying “ooh, baby” a clearly pre-meditated act designed to cause me even more discomfort, as if “the wheels on the bloody bus” wasn’t enough!

Post event, whilst Freddy was attacking the snacks like a slimmer on treat day, I thought I may engage in some polite small talk only to realise that the favoured subject in this type of environment is childbirth. The only bloke alive who can get away with joining in this type of conversation is Peter Andre, a man who seems to have dedicated his entire career to impressing you and making me look bad. I, like most honest men, would only discuss the experience of childbirth with a psychiatrist to try and overcome the PTSD. The icing on the cake was trying to wrestle Freddy, not impressed at leaving the buffet, into his pram whilst kicking and screaming. This brought about those discreet disapproving looks reserved for a clueless bloke 8 miles out of his comfort zone.

So I realise that I’d be out of my depth and on reflection the housework looks comparatively appealing, as does my former police career, bare knuckle boxing and a bad case of typhoid. It’d make no odds anyway since its obviously the case that todays distraction is tomorrows task!

My wife is probably wondering why I just readily agreed to her doing 3 hours overtime.  It is because I am drunk, delirious and dont know what I’m saying. Don’t worry about Freddy dear, he’s playing with your underwear and a pair of scissors! If you can’t find me when you get in I’ll be crying in the bathroom.