Fatherhood is wasted on dads. There has not been a moment – not a single fleeting moment of my entire poxy life – when I’ve had this much female interest. I’d always been useless with girls, but now they flock to me. I may as well be a Beatle. One of the good-looking Beatles, too. Not even Ringo. This is unprecedented.
What’s the cause of this sudden attractiveness? Is it my charismatic new thousand-yard stare? Are these vomit stains making my eyes pop? Hardly. It’s him.
I had no idea that people went so crazy for babies. In my pre-fatherhood days, a baby was something to endure through gritted teeth because it was about to ruin your flight. I thought that was universal. But no. Take a baby outside in a sling and well-wishers will swarm around you. I’ve even amassed a small arsenal of stock answers, such has been the barrage of genuine affection for him. A boy. Almost two months. About 10lb. He has his mum’s eyes. No, he’s not normally this quiet. Bright yellow, smells awful, thanks for asking.
Incidentally, this sling has been incredible. Put a baby in a sling and not only will it automatically go to sleep, but you also get to use both your arms again. Last weekend, because motherhood had transformed the back of her head into a nightmarish mishmash between a dreadlock and a rat king, my wife went for a haircut. It was the longest amount of time I’d ever had to spend alone with my son without the safety net of an emergency handover, and it was making me slightly antsy.
However, once I’d put him in a sling, I could do anything. I was able to wash up, bake a cake, wash up again and complete the really hard Assassin’s Creed side-mission where you have to rescue the prostitutes, all by the time she came back. This newfound explosion of productivity was amazing. I felt like the star of a tampon advert, ready to go skydiving or white-water rafting just because I could. In summary: hooray for slings.
Having the baby out in public has only helped to reinforce what an unbearable stereotype of a proud dad I’m becoming. All I ever want to do is hang out with my family, preferably with my boy sleeping on me. When that’s not happening, I miss it. I miss the weight and warmth of him, and the noises he makes when he breathes.
For most of his life, I’ve been eager for my son to race to the next developmental stage. I’ve been impatient to see him smile, or hear him talk, or get him to make me a cup of tea, or fund my retirement. But now – right now in this moment, typing this one-handed on my phone while he nestles into my chest – I want time to halt in its tracks. I want him to stay exactly like this for ever.
He won’t, of course. He’s already outgrowing his first set of clothes, which is making me sadder than I expected. Each babygrow that refuses to fasten is another moment with him that I won’t get back. Soon he’ll outgrow his sling, and become too heavy to carry around. Soon he’ll stop wanting to sleep on me. Soon I’ll have to learn how to be the father of a child who moves around.
I’m starting to realise that this is what parenthood is going to be like. I’ll keep grasping at moments again and again, only to helplessly watch them slip through my fingers. It’s going to be tough, isn’t it?
