Après moi, le déluge

[credit: polaris37 @ Flickr]

It has been 6 months since the Boy Child has arrived. Wow. I can hardly believe it. Just a few months ago he was an immobile lump of flesh and bones, occasionally yelling until something (usually Lady V’s breast) filled his mouth. But now, how things have changed! He smiles, giggles, tastes mashed-up food, spits it, smacks his tiny little fists on the ground, slaps me and Shu Shu T when we take him into bed early in the morning - having broken his mum after being up most of the night - happy as a pea in the pod at being allowed to play with his dad and non-Chinese American uncle. Our life is changing, slowly but surely, in ways that we could never imagine.

When people tell you “kids change your life”, they are right. Except, you have no way of understanding the phrase until you become a parent. When you do, you realise how real it is, how the certainties that have dominated your life quickly crumble with a single cry in the middle of the night. How the secure routine of daily activities, governed by a certitude stemming from years of independent adult living, sizzle and burn when faced with the constant demands of a newborn baby. The Boy Child knows no time, no space, no concern for other people's needs. He knows no mercy when you crawl at 3 am to his cot, begging him to go the fuck to sleep. He is like the Biblical Jewish God: capricious, irascible, vindictive, all-powerful. And we are the little humans God likes to play with, to plague with unimaginable tortures, to batter until we are broken, and occasionally to reward with a beaming, glorious smile. But what I really understood about the phrase “kids change your life” when I became a dad was not only that they dislodge you from your previous life’s pace and securities; they also change you as a person. More specifically: they turn you into a horrid human being.

Before the Boy Child arrived, Lady V and I were two very nice people, loved and trusted by our community of friends and by the world at large. We were kind to strangers, holding doors open for people entering a store behind us, giving up our seats on buses to anyone who looked a little older/fatter/more tired than us. Our strong social and environmental principles meant we would only consider working for non-profit organisations, accepting minimal or no-payment for hours of back-breaking servitude. We considered the idea of working for a large corporation and of earning shitloads of money absolutely shameful. We felt sorry about other people’s misfortunes, especially overseas, and donated to NGO appeals every 6 months or so. We often thought about volunteering in our communities, without actually doing anything about it. We were basically quintessential white middle-class Islingtonians. But once the Boy Child had installed himself into our lives and house, these feelings of goodness, generosity and love started slowly disappearing from inside our hearts. After 6 months, I can safely say they are completely dead and will never resurface into our hearts again. In their place, there are now feelings of contempt, greed, rage and schadenfreude towards everyone that surrounds us.

For example, when I first realised people got out of the way when they saw a man carrying a baby (they really do, out of what I think is a mixture of respect and fear), I started using the Boy Child - strapped to my chest - as a tool to get from A to B in less time. I now make it a point to snarl at people who are in my way when I am carrying him, especially those who stand on the left on escalators: “I am a father” - I tell myself  - “I don’t have time to waste. These idiots should know better”, and I push past them violently, telling them to return to the bloody provinces if they are unable to adjust to London’s rules. When before, in an act of exaggerated but well-meant courtesy, I’d wait until everyone got onto a bus before boarding it, now I push to the front to get on first, regardless of whether I am with the Boy Child or not, secure in the conviction that - as a father - I need that last seat far more than that whiney old hag. And work-wise, as my bank account hovers dangerously into the red zone after yet another nappy purchase, I have re-written my CV to make it appealing to Exxon Mobil. If during the interview they want me to club a baby seal to death to prove that I am worthy of their trust and their large paycheque, I’ll do it. No problem at all. Just give me the axe.

At first, I thought it was just me, and I felt a bit ashamed at how horrid I had become, so I decided to share my feelings with Lady V:

- Darling, I think I am turning into a cunt. I stopped caring about ordinary people out there and have become a total selfish bastard. I really only care about you, the Boy Child, our partners and our closest friends. I want to earn lots of money and I really don’t care if climate change drowns half the world population. I just want to make sure we survive and have enough cash to buy a house with really high stilts. Fuck everyone else. Should I be concerned at the fact that I am becoming a horrible person?
- Oh not at all - she replied with a loud sigh of relief, - in fact, I am really glad you shared this with me.
- Why is that? - I enquired.
- Well, I feel exactly the same way and I thought I was the only one turning into a bad person, but now that you told me it’s happening to you too, I am actually relieved!
- You feel the same way? Really? That’s great!!

How silly of me to believe her. As a matter of fact, Lady V had taken this plunge into the dark corners of the human heart far more seriously than I could ever (of course) do. While I confined myself to being a bit more bullish and assertive in public spaces, and definitely more preoccupied with money, she had turned into someone who actually rejoiced at other people’s misfortunes. On one occasion, for example, she set off on one of her weekly running dates with other new mums, who stick their babies in a pram and use it as an exercise tool as they jog around a park, terrifying anyone who stands in their way. When she came home, she had a massive grin on her face:

- Hey darling, looks like Pushy-Mummies was fun today, uh?
- Oh yes it was! - she replied beaming.
- Did you get lots of exercise done then?
- Yes, but that’s not the reason why I am happy. It’s that horrid M., the mother of baby-boy C. She’s always gloating about how her fat, ugly child has been sleeping thorough the night since he was born. And she’s pretty and thin as a broomstick.
- And? - I asked, frightened.
- Well, for the last 10 days, fat little C has stopped sleeping! Apparently he only passes out for 20 minutes at the time, and then scream for 2 hours. She’s a wreck, bags under her eyes, tearful and shaky. You should have seen her! Ah ah ah! The stress even gave her acne all over her face. Brilliant!
- Er... yes... brilliant...!
- Indeed. It made my day!

And with these words she tottered off downstairs with the Boy Child looking puzzled into her arms. I was left speechless, and wondering whether she might, at some point, turn into a mass-murderer. Because, let’s face it, when they set their mind to it, women are far better than men in pretty much any field. If Lady V has decided to become evil, God save us all. Britain won’t have seen the like of it since Maggie beat the shit out of the miners in the 80s.