Choose your weapons

They fuck you up, your wife and kids. They may not mean to, but they do.

Once upon a time I had a life. I had a job. I ran marathons. I socialised with friends and bored them rigid with stories of the time I hitch-hiked alone through Central Africa (have I told you about that trip? Don’t worry, I will).

And then – BOOM! – a tiny creature wrapped in a blanket was placed gently into my clumsy hands. His name, we decided, was Matthew. Sleep appeared to be alien to him. From that day forward, I have never looked up.

And fate wasn’t done with me yet. Two years later – BOOM! - another boy, Luke. Work offered redundancy; I took it. I was hoping to combine freelancing with childcare; a naïve and foolish plan. Now, of course, I spend my days wiping bottoms, washing clothes and worrying about head lice. The missus brings home the bacon. I am stuck at home ironing. Somehow I have become a stuck-at-home husband. My name is Simon and I am a stuck-at-home dad.

Do I give a shit? To be honest: not really. I signed up for this and I’ve no right to complain. We’re not short of money. I’m content with life. I love my boys, and the missus, and would do anything for them.

Yet something feels odd, a little emasculating, shameful even. Is this really how things were meant to be?  At 10, I dreamed of being General Custer. At 20, I wanted to be a war reporter. Now, aged 44, the only combat I’ll ever know is the bloody battle of the sexes. You could say I’m a casualty, wounded at the frontline. I am a bewildered, shell-shocked POW dreaming of tunnelling to freedom.

But there’s a silver lining, there always is. Now that I’ve stopped living, I can start writing. Words are loaded pistols. Sartre said that. My weapon of choice is the Bendle Blog. I said that.

With apologies to Philip Larkin