Breaking the Bro-Code

‘Seriously? It’s up to your neck Miss Moo! How on earth….awww, awwww!’  Came Soccer Hubby’s desperate cries from the change table last week.

And in 3,2,1… ‘DEEEEEE, where are the wipes???’ I mouthed in perfect timing knowing the words were as imminent as a sunrise.

It took every ounce of strength I had to sit quietly beside the pair without A) pointing out that if he failed to pin her chubby little feet together and lift them that they would end up in the mess and B) not sarcastically tutting ‘probably in the spot where we keep the wipes, in the pouch marked ‘wipes’ darling.’

Sleep deprivation aside, there barely appears to be enough hours in the day to complete the demanding roles of motherhood and yet I find myself instinctively wanting to sigh ‘just leave it, I’ll do it myself,’ on a daily basis. 

Just kick him, my brain calls to me in those moments. No, scratch that. Wait until the girls aren’t looking and flick him with the chain of the Jolly Jumper.

‘How can you not know that!?’ we want to slap them with. ‘We get fat, we squeeze them out of holes that are a complete design fail on Mother Nature’s behalf, only to clamp them to chaffed nipples at 2am and you can’t see that you’ve just put 3 pairs of pants in a t-shirt drawer?!’

For some reason, we Mother’s seem to draw an invisible line in the sand between us and them crowning Mothers as the reigning Goddesses Of All Child Related Knowledge and Dad’s as…well, Dads.

Breathing deeply and composing myself like the wannabe all-loving Buddhist yoga master that I am, I often find myself trying to peek through that fence for comparison.

What is it really like to be a Daddy?

Sending the call out to all Father’s great and small, I compiled an influx of Dad Data and prepared myself. With a prime couch position and sports blaring in the back ground I completely disregarded the mess surrounding me and the fact that the cushions were in the wrong order. Then, and only then was ready to go through the looking glass.

For Mums, as soon as the doctor peels off the latex gloves and confirms ‘Yep, you’re pregnant’, the instinct kicks in and we whizz about in a tornado of to-do’s like a maternal version of the Tasmanian Devil. For Dad’s however, the vast majority sight the birth as the instigation of parenthood. 

Whilst the announcement of pregnancy does tend to bring on what many of them descried as a ‘drive’ to earn more and be more, holding their bundle for the first time is where it all kicks off. 

‘It’s hard to describe,’ explained one very new Daddy. ‘It’s like you look at them and you automatically want to be a better version of everything you are. You’re the protector. They just look at you and that’s it, you’re each other’s world, you’re a Dad.’

Labour also tends to be a defining moment in the transition for men. Depending on the experience, this event transforms the way they view their world. While we’re screaming abuse, attempting to beat them with the tube of the gas pipe with one hand and clawing our initials into their wrist with the other, there is actually an internal progression they’re working through on their own. 

Although their survival instinct tells them that it would not be well received to look off in the distance and sigh ‘I’m just really trying to deal with something…’ while we lay there being literally torn in two, they still struggle with the elements of doubt and nesting that we have had nine months to categorise. 

All the months of crying in the shower over fears, competency and irrational hypotheticals is old news to us by that point, but for Daddy, those emotions are concentrated into the duration of our labour.

‘It goes a million miles an hour,’ said one. ‘You just want to shout ‘Not now, I’m not ready yet!’ It’s like you’re being called up to take the winning penalty  and just as you step out in front of the keeper you realise you’ve never kicked a ball before….except you have  your wife screaming at you in pain JUST KICK THE F***ING  BALL!’

‘And they just do it,’ he added dumbfounded. ‘They just … do it.’

Ah yes, what we are dreading in the lead up as being the moment our partner’s will look at us differently forever is just that…but not in the ‘um, eww’ way we were contemplating. Noted by most men, childbirth of any description is the turning point in the relationship where we cease to be mortal and transpire into mere Superhero’s. 

Carried over into all aspects of parenting, it would appear that these co-founders of our children’s existence honestly believe that we are just too good at what we do. 

‘She never stops. Ever.’ Said a Daddy of two. ‘I don’t attempt to touch the washing because I can’t make it smell as good as when she does it.’

‘I can’t tell you how much respect I have for women,’ said another new-to-the-game Dad. ‘She deals with more than I ever could and she does it every single day. It’s like she has everything set up with such perfection that I’m literally scared to mess with it. If I tried to do anything she does I’d stuff it up and then she’d have something else to do.’

It became overwhelmingly apparent reading through the pages and pages of interviews that what we may perceive as laziness (well, rightfully so) is actually 100% fear of disappointment. Seeing the process of pregnancy, birth and motherhood unfold before their very eyes somehow separates them into a cluster of intimidation.

‘You know on Master Chef when they have to cook for a famous Chef and they look like they want to wet themselves? That’s how I feel when my wife asks me to clean the bathroom.’ 

We Ladies wonder with exhaustion why we can clean an entire house without spoken admiration, yet men seem to require a standing ovation every time they do the dishes. But delving further, this male notion stems not from lack of appreciation on their part and simply from a yearning of approval. 

Remember being a kid and meeting someone you considered an idol? You get tipsy with star-struck awe and they ooze statements that while being semi-patronising, are actually the inspiration for all your future motivation?

Ding ding ding. Same thing.

I can see what you’re thinking though girls. If they feel that way, why do they get so defensive when approached about these issues?

When posed with this exact question, the answer was quite unanimous.  ‘I know I’m no good at Mum stuff, so it’s hard when someone is judging a Dad on your ability to be a Mum. I don’t want to be in contention to compete with her.’ 

With a heavy heart I do concede that fact. We spend so much time comparing ourselves with other Mums and judging our own ability as a Mother that perhaps we do exude that competitive resistance.

Considering that I am the one who 98.9% of the time folds and distributes our children’s washing, perhaps it is unfair on some level to expect Soccer Hubby to know that the first two drawers are for bibs and singlets only. And colour coded.

Same can be said for watching him snoring away through a late night feed and being actually quite physically mad at him for not having functioning boobs.

(Never fear though…. I’ve since labelled the drawers) 

As one Dad so impeccably put it; ‘My wife is the center of our family, we revolve around her and she is the only one that matters. She has become so selfless that she has trouble being herself …and she does it all for us.’

So what is the underlying common thread that stirs up the universal bro-code and what does it mean to these guys to be ‘Dad’? 

Simply agreed on by the masses;  to be needed.

‘The joy I get when I see my girls, no matter how upset I am from a day’s work, they bring a smile to my face. They look up at you and you just feel so needed,’ said one. 

‘He needs me to protect him, to provide for him and to teach him things, and I’m the only one he wants to ‘need’ those things from. It’s amazing,’ said another.

‘I guess that at the end of the day, it makes you a part of something really exclusive, and they need you there to complete it. Can’t beat that,’ said a lot. 

Being one of the lucky ones, I can’t say I disagree. In the early stages of my horrendous pregnancies, I remember my own awesome Dad being the one who raced out to buy over priced banana’s because I mentioned in passing that they helped ease nausea.  Not to mention having glasses of water miraculously waiting at the bathroom door when I did dash through the house in need of a good vomit. 

How could you ever stop needing someone like that?

And who doesn’t giggle slightly when they spy Dad’s at the supermarket pushing the trolley soothingly back and forth in a habitual pram motion. 

Thus, Boys and Girls, Mum’s and Dad’s, or co-parents of any way, shape and form - let’s all put housework and romanticism aside and agree on one thing… Every now and then guys, tell us this, tell us that you think we’re amazing and in return we’ll never stop needing you.

Deal?