IT'S A DAD'S LIFEBecoming the most rinkadink, geeky dad on the block is the best job aroundm, writes Adam Brophy
THE FIRST incident that stripped away my cool took place in February 2002 - well, the first one directly attributable to babies - there were many others before that.
I had only just quit my full-time job to look after the child and the old personal identity was in crisis. If someone looked sideways at me on the street I would stop them to make sure they understood that, yes, I was minding the kid during the day but I had things on the go in the evenings.
I wasn't copping out, I was a busy man. Many the street sweeper and panhandler got more than they expected in the first half of that year.
On this particular sunny afternoon I'm strolling up Lombard Street to the junction with Pearse Street, on my maiden buggy-pushing voyage through town. We had been gifted a Mountain Buggy with an aluminium frame and a canvas cover; the brochure depicted toothy parents and sprogs cavorting somewhere in hill country, marvelling at the all-terrain ability of their baby carriage.
It had cost the grandparents about the same amount I had just spent on a second-hand car to replace the one my previous employer had supplied. It didn't matter, I still felt like a prat.
The moment you push a buggy through a crowded urban streetscape you realise that any cachet, any street cred you had previously convinced yourself you held, has decidedly vanished.
I approached the lights alternating between rolling shoulders homey-style with an imaginary 'do-rag on my head, and using a one-handed technique on my push bar while skinning up a Drum cigarette with the other.
I was aiming at rock god nonchalance coupled with beaming new-father pride, crossed with busy young exec on short career break while assessing professional options that will allow maximum parent-child interface time.
The damn buggy was ruining my kudos and I had a feeling the message wasn't getting across to the variety of pedestrians and motorists who were obviously intrigued with my predicament.
So I stared at the red man and waited for him to turn green, rueing the loss of cool. A BMW coupé pulled up and a face peered out. I recognised the face - one I only saw at three in the morning, very occasionally and not for a long time.
It was a face that appeared when people were dragging the arses out of a nightclub and reluctant to go home.
He recognised me too, pointed inquiringly at my baba and indicated a response was required. I nodded, he laughed and pulled out into the traffic. Haha.
I think about the geezer in the Beamer most times that I find myself approaching a new kid-related task. These have included swimming lessons, birthday parties and horseriding.
Every time I take the nippers on one of these familial rites of passage, I feel I've stepped into someone else's life, that sitting, numbed, at the edge of the pool was never supposed to be how it turned out.
Then I think about the alternative, staring at a PC screen in a job I hate, and give thanks to the circumstances that allowed me to become the most rinkadink, geeky dad on the block.
It's not a job for the socially aspiring, but it has great benefits. My colleagues are nothing if not original, and the hours are flexible. Money is an issue, but the job satisfaction makes up for it. I think about Beamer boy and wonder how he's getting on; it's been a while since we met.
Last week the missus took the kids off and left me alone with my thoughts. I did what any self-respecting father of two would do when presented with seven consecutive days and nights of freedom, and went and got roaring drunk.
I think I may have danced, which is always a bad sign. The next day was horrendous - a swill of Solpadeine and Dominos and hungover self-loathing. No matter, I had another six in which to get my game back, six days to loiter in cafes, read newspapers, take in some theatre, opera, philosophical debate, engage in the higher arts.
The following day I ran for the hills, eager to rejoin my absent family and the mayhem of kid central. You can stick your culture in return for hilarity at toilet procedures any day.
It's my own dad's birthday today. For a while he looked at the grandkids and wondered what they were supposed to do. He was never one to discuss the toilet, but my kids don't let him disengage. They have melted him; that's their job.
abrophy@irish-times.ie