Toilet cleaner, kitchen porter, chip fryer – when it comes to jobs, I’ve tried the lot. And at 33, I’ve finally found the best one.
It's better than the time when, as a junior reporter, I was dispatched to swim with sharks to see if they would bite me. (It’s a long story concerning ex-footballer Luis Suarez, his repeated gnawing of opposing players’ shoulders and some internet boffins who, with a heavy dose of stretching the truth, produced stats claiming humans are more likely to be bitten by the Uruguayan than by sharks).
It's considerably better than the time when my friend and I decided we’d sell balloons, an adventure that left us both deflated after a promise from our initial seed investor (his mum) turned out to be a load of hot air.
A few years ago, if someone told me there's a great job available, but the only niggles are that the hours are horrific, the salary is abysmal (in fact, I would have to pay rather then be paid) and I'll be screamed at incessantly hour after hour … I'd cross the road and phone the zoo to report a wild beast was on the loose.
However, proving some cliches are cliches for a reason, the greatest job in the world – a job for life, no less – is being a dad.
Less dad bod, more dad jokes
Annually, June 21 is Father’s Day in the UAE, while the UK and US marked it on June 16 this year. Although it’s my first time celebrating, with our son arriving earlier this year, I feel it’s a role I was born to play.
Firstly, as anyone who had a brush with Manchester’s club scene circa ‘07 to ‘18 can attest, my dad dancing is suitably undignified. I already enjoy telling dad jokes, that’s just how eye roll. And by the age of nine, I already had a dad bod (something I’ve since jogged off, sort of).
I have all of John Grisham’s books, only go to bed after yelling at the news and have already written about the virtues of a funky pair of socks. And when Rod Stewart comes on the radio, I always put the car in reverse and announce: “Ah, this takes me back.”
As a childless bachelor, I spent what felt like millennia feigning interest as parents groaned about the woes of having children. Or even worse, as “show moms” cackled with giddiness while forcing me to look at pictures of their babies I never asked to see, only to turn incandescent with rage when I closed my eyes as they scrolled. But now I get it. I have seen the light. I am one of them and it is simply extraordinary. I am one soppy puddle of gooeyness and love.
The questions from my last remaining childless friends barely register: “Aren’t you absolutely exhausted? Are you catching up on sleep now the pregnancy is over? Can I come to your ‘goodbye freedom’ party?”
I’m lost in Mother Nature’s doing. These little souls are perfectly evolved to make parents fall instantly and deeply in love. It doesn't matter that the bags under my eyes are big enough to carry my shopping home; it turns out I can work, drive and function on 53 minutes of sleep.
How I'm preparing for parenting
Amid the many conversations with parents, there is one that I’ll never forget. It’s one that I am endlessly searching to replicate.
After a friend welcomed his daughter, his brother bought her the best present I’ve heard of. Working in the City of London, the financial heart of Europe at the time, he was told about a game-changing invention that could possibly save the world. For a lowly sum of $50, he could take part. Now if it were me, I would’ve told that snake oil salesman to slither on. But he didn’t and now, approaching her teens, his niece still holds the one Bitcoin he bought her.
When I’m not muttering “Ponzi scheme” to myself, and desperately searching for an investment that'll take our boy into the 1 per cent before secondary school, I set goals for how I want to raise him, and any other children we may have.
The main one for me is the total avoidance of social media, better read as freedom from antisocial media. It's not just the vitriol and feelings of inadequacy on rotation; it's the idealistic pictures of parenthood some paint online, their incessant calls for me to “find my tribe” or fist-pumping promises like: “You’ve got this, warrior.”
There will be bad days, he will get sick, I won't always know what's going on. But I’m happy to roll with it instead of self-sabotaging with others in the quest to be superhuman and get everything right. Cavemen did it and I think I can, too – even without TikTok.
When it comes to photos and videos, I adopt the same approach as going to gigs – I want to watch it live, not through a phone screen. A few snaps here and there are enough. You'll never hear a grandparent declare: “Gosh, I wish we had iPhones to shove in our children's faces. We really missed out not being able to document every cough and spit online for people we met on a night out once 12 years ago.”
My main goal for my son is when he asks an honest question, he knows he'll get an honest answer. I always wanted to be treated like an adult when I was young. I wanted to ask about the hard stuff: war and peace, love and hate, were Ross and Rachel really on a break? And I wanted the warts-and-all answers.
So should the boy follow the same route and ask something like: “Where do armies go?”, it’s my duty to give him the proper dad answer: “In your sleevies!”
Happy Father’s Day to all those celebrating.
