MenGetPregnantToo

Home with Kids or At The Office: Work is Work. But, does it work for you?

The tug-of-war between the armies of those who are At Home With Kids, and those who Work in An Office For Money seems to be constantly revving its engine, yet never releasing the hand break. I was finally convinced to put my thoughts online after yet another in an endless river of conversations with stay-at-home moms whose husbands want to be left alone after an exhausting day earning a paid living. This wife and mother was frustrated and tired, spending her days looking after three young children, her husband also needed to decompress after a full day of pressure to perform and be successful in his workplace. Each insisted they deserved more of a break than the other.

Both are right, both are wrong, both are missing the point.

I was lucky; I was able to spend the first several weeks at home after the birth of each of my two children. I took pleasure in the time away from life within corporate walls to hold, bathe, change, read to, play with, and cuddle my newborns. In addition, my joy of cooking extended to preparing homemade baby food, and dicing little morsels large enough to be plucked by little fingers, but small enough to not block tiny tracheas.  Working as a freelancer for the past thirteen years has for me meant that even when I did return to work, it was at irregular hours, often allowing me to be home during the week for breakfast, or lunch, or supper; sometimes all three. My love for cooking continues. My wife  - who works part-time outside the home, and the rest of the time "inside" with our kids - and I also share laundry duties, grocery shopping, housekeeping chores, as well as all the other nuts and bolts which accompany child-rearing.

Since I spend more hours than she earning a paid living, most of the responsibilities at home fall on her. BUT! Here is my philosophy vis a vis responsibilities in the household:  

When I walk in the door from work, the responsibility of caring for our children and our house includes...me.

We decided to have these children, and they are our responsibilites for the rest of our lives. That means that, if I arrive home half-an-hour before supper, I generally drop my bag in the vestibule, give everyone a hug and kiss, and head to the kitchen where my wife and I prepare dinner together. There are times when, depending on the temperature of the room, I may linger with the kids, giving her some much needed mental and physical space. Other times, depending on the type of day each of us has had, stress levels, and the children's level of emotional taxation on their mother that day, she may linger in the garden while the kids keep me company during meal preparation.

It's not about who has had the harder day, it's about what one partner needs from the other at that moment.

I have spent plenty of time at home while my wife was away at work. The kids can be exhausting: constant questions, neediness, injuries, meal preparation and clean-up, and messes on the floor lead to my inability to get in a simple telephone conversation, and the near impossibility of a moment to myself - even in the bathroom. You really can end up feeling drained of any essence of individuality and adulthood.

Contrarily, there are days at home with them which are easy and delightful: play dates, movies, lunches with fellow parents and children, trips to the park in the sunshine followed by a call to the local pizza joint for supper; as much relaxation as one can expected while still having to wipe someone else’s bottom.

As for office work, I find the pattern similar: There are days when being at work is a lovely break from child-rearing and parenting. There are adults only in the offfice, central air conditioning, a bistro on the second floor, a coffee machine near my desk, and an outdoor terrace onto which I can bring my toasted chicken and artichoke salad sandwich.

On other days, stress, deadlines, expectations, and personal conflict in the workplace send me home with mild headaches and nausea. It is then that when walking through the front door to be greeted by children who are exuberant to see their father, and supper preparation still waiting to be done can be too much to handle.

But, it is then that:

It is my responsibility to communicate to my wife my need for a moment to myself.

Conflict between partners arising from a belief that each has a more difficult role to play than the other exists not due to a reality which can be tabulated in columns of energy output, or a measurement of stress levels over a year. It's not about proving to the other person that your role is more challenging, therefore you are entitled to certain perks. If half of a parenting team feels neglected it is because...

They are not getting what they need from the other half of the relationship. Period.

Being a successful, and emotionally and physically healthy parent can seem nearly impossible. It requires time dedicated to your children, dedicated to your relationship with your partner, and time set aside for yourself. Not to mention sleep, food, & showers. 

This means that it behoves each person too be clear when communicating their needs and expectations to their partner. When we're tired, and need a break from whatever our routine may be, we need to speak up. It may be as simple as a couple of hours in a movie theatre with friends, a book and a beer on the front stoop, or even a night away. Without having your voice heard, the resentment starts to build. And when the frustration boils to the surface, the argument often becomes a ping-pong match about whose days are more challenging.When in reality, as a parent inside the home or away at the office, the challenges never end. The biggest challenge is always recognizing your own stress, and arranging to do something about it.

Yes, it would be ideal for your partner to pick up those cues on their own and insist you take some time for yourself. But, hey, you can't blame them...they've also been working all day.

 

 

Negotiaphobia: Let's NOT Make a Deal.

When it came to confrontation in "Return of the Jedi", the Emperor was told: "Overconfidence is your weakness." Mr. Palpatine and I are different in this respect.

   

I hate negotiating, and I avoid confrontation unless my blood is really boiling. I'm told this is because I "like to be liked". Who doesn't?

When I was employed in retail establishments, I enjoyed most those positions which involved social interplay, and not horse-trading. As a teenager, I would seek employment in video stores; what better way to spend an evening than socializing with the public, discussing movies, and having no pressure to sell the commodity? People always walked out with a film (on VHS!).

My first brush with commissioned sales was in a Levi's store, Christmastime, about twenty years ago. I would receive a small commission on any sale. Once I answered a client's needs, I would guide them and their new jeans to the cash, and utter some catchphrase - either "Thank you." or "There you go." loud enough that the cashier would turn and notice it was I who had helped the client. Unfortunately, I worked with two girls who were retail sales sharks. They would circle the racks, just out of sight, only to glide to the front of the store and greet the customer within five feet of the entrance. They would never take "I'm just looking" for an answer. They would hound the client:

"Have you seen our specials?"

"Did you notice the rack with our new winter line of shirts?"

"Come with me, I'll show you some of our best deals."

They were relentless; I was nauseous. I felt pushing someone passed their "Just looking, thanks." comfort zone was offensive. As a shopper, my "Just looking." meant "Bugger off."

I eventually took a job selling radio airtime to potential advertisers. Yes, I was selling air. The job involved cold-calling start-up businesses, whose owners were young couples having just poured their life savings into a dream. There I was, on the other end of the phone, trying to steal their money. I hid a bottle of painkillers in my suit pocket, and lasted six months at the position.

Of course it's one thing to feel uncomfortable being a salesman; it's another being too intimidated to argue for you own enjoyment's sake. I've received pizzas with the wrong ingredients, and eaten it anyway, not wanting to be the 'difficult customer' on the other end of the line. I pay more than I should for many big ticket items, such as electronics and cars, knowing how much I resented having the screws put to me as a salesman. In a showcase of naïveté, when the dealer tells me "That's the best I can do.", I belive him. There are those, however, who revel in debate and adjudication. Often, these people have the means to forego price-chopping completely. I'm friends with a successful business owner who not only negotiates a better price on even the smallest of items, but will also accompany friends to retail establishments to negotiate on their behalf. Even standing next to someone while they barter by proxy makes me queasy.

At home, I'm responsible for phone calls requiring corporate confrontation - poor service from our telecommunications provider for instance. In situations where I have been wronged, I'm reticent to take the initial step toward crisis resolution. BUT! I often get so frustrated by the level of bureaucracy and stupidity on the other end of the phone, I become a man possessed. I draw inspiration from the greatest negotiation ever captured on film: 

   

 Of course, it didn't get him anywhere. Not only that, the moral of that story proved that being a prick gets you nowhere.

I don't think my Confrontaphobia or Negotiamentia makes me any less of a man, and maybe it's true that I like to be liked. But, mostly, I believe these traits are a combination of two truisms: 'Do unto others as you would have done unto you', and 'Life's just too damn short to be wasted dickering about.'...or something like that. Besides, if I have a ever have a desperate need for negotiation, I'll clone Luke Skywalker who was told, referring to his weakness: "Your faith in your friends is yours."

 

 

 

Commentary: Power Tools for Father's Day? Not so fast...

A recent radio ad (paraphrased with sufficient precision to make a point):

"Only a few days left until Father's Day! Why not get your guy what he needs to make even the biggest project a simple breeze! Come on down to (hardware store named here)! Special pricing is now available for a limited time on: circular saws, cordless drills, garage door openers, and all kinds of toys every dad deserves! This is a limited time offer, these prices won't last forever; neither will Father's Day!"

...What is Father's Day? Why does is exist? What purpose does it serve?

The Wikipedia definition is worth a look: "Father's Day is a celebration honouring fathers and celebrating fatherhood, paternal bonds, and the influence of fathers in society."

Similar to many professions and persons whose time on this planet is occupied largely by endeavours which are at least designed to enrich - in even the smallest of ways - the soul and humanistic endurance of the people around them, a day has been set aside for Fathers. This day, this third Sunday in June, is a handful of waking hours to honour his love, his kindness, his hugs, his kisses, his broad shoulders, his weak knees, his prickly stubble, his smooth brow, his blind eye which sees not your faults, his blind eyes which see not what hides behind the cereal on the second shelf of the pantry, his voice which says "I love you" as he passes you on the stairs, his hand which rubs your back and whispers "It's all o.k." as you stir from sleep in the middle of the night, his strength in crisis, his weakness in despair, and most of all his knowledge that he would be no father at all, if not for you.

It is a day of deep breaths, and of absorption of all which is sweet and fleeting in the life of a father.

Not a day for Black & Decker...

Unless he really loves power tools ;-)

 

Tired Toddlers & Father Fatigue

"I'm so tired, I haven't slept a wink
I'm so tired, my mind is on the blink
I wonder should I get up and fix myself a drink
No,no,no....

You know I'd give you everything I've got
for a little peace of mind"

- The Beatles

John Lennon thought it important enough to sing about: being utterly exhausted. The Beatles were, in fact, so weary when they completed the album, they couldn't think of a name for the thing. Thus, it was dubbed by the public "The White Album". Having drawn such enormous inspiration from the group during my youth, I am surprised to not have named my daughter "The White Daughter", being sometimes so exhausted by the thing.

The other day, my wife went to wake the youngster for breakfast - her last 2 1/2 hour session of pre-school lay ahead. She opened our child's door, and pulled back the shades. My daughter, Harper, grimaced, hopped out of bed, drew the shades closed, and shut the door. Four minutes later, the 4-year-old,  no longer able to sleep due to the interruption, stood on the landing in front of her room, in her kitty-cat pyjamas, cowlicks of horned hair searching for alien reception in all directions, fists clenched by her sides, with an expression which screamed "Who Dared Disturb My Slumber!" Fortunately, this mood was short-lived; cured through a fulfillment of her ritualistic morning request:  warm milk, full to the top, in her Lighting McQueen sippy-cup.

The day's more challenging period is not the morning, as nighttime fatigue wears off, but in the afternoon, when the daytime fatigue settles in. Symptoms of fatigue in adults, in a nutshell, are difficulty concentrating, and difficulty coping with a given situation. As an adult, when I get tired, I am irritable, unsociable, and impatient. At a social gathering my wife can always notice when I'm tired; I stop talking, and sit quietly until it's appropriate to bolt from the party and head home. Sometimes, if it's too early to make a break for it, as an adult, I have recourse through which to deal with my sleepiness in public. I can excuse myself, and spend several minutes in the washroom - either splashing some water on my face, or feigning constipation, and reading a dozen pages of Home & Garden.

 

At home, I am more difficult to deal with. A tired Kenny gets downright chirpy, impatient, and unpleasant. Occasionally, I know enough to ask for forgiveness for my behaviour, and admit my fatigue turned me rogue.

Harper, however, is a much newer, more sensitive machine. She may feel tired,  yet doesn't make the connection between her fatigue and her inability to cope. Tantrums, disobedience, and crying all become her way of trying to remove herself from, and avoid, the situation her brain doesn't have the energy to deal with. Typically, an example of my daughter's fatigue manifesting itself will be:

Me: "Harper, do you want an apple?"

Her: "NO! I TOLD YOU I DON'T...WANT...FRUUUUIT!"

First of all, she hadn't told me she didn't want fruit. Secondly, I think to myself, I'm holding an apple, not a bowl of soggy spinach and mothballs.

Sometimes, on a good day, I'll realize rather quickly that her behaviour is a product of fatigue. When that happens, I'll have the wherewithal to leave her alone (during which time, she'll often stop-and-drop, wherever she is, for a little quiet rest - sometimes in the middle of the kitchen floor while I'm making supper), or, if she's really weepy, I'll give her a hug, and ask her if she's tired, to which she'll nod, and sob out some of the exhaustion. Realizing her behaviour is a product of fatigue helps me give her a little more distance from any instructions or suggestions, and gives me the strength to both accept that which I cannot change, and not look into giving her up for adoption.

The real firestorm is created when our tired worlds collide. The Perfect Storm of a tired parent, and an exhausted child. It's during this tumult that my inability to cope escalates the confrontation. I'm more likely to yell at her, force discipline on her, and insist on her obedience. For instance:

Me: "Harper, do you want an apple?"

Her: "NO! I TOLD YOU I DON'T...WANT...FRUUUUIT!"

Me: "FIRST OF ALL, YOU DIDN'T SAY ANYTHING ABOUT A FRUIT! DADDY IS TRYING TO DO SOMETHING NICE, AND YOU'RE YELLING AT ME! STOP YELLING! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?! NO YELLING!"

Oops.

When I'm tired, I break every rule in the book teaching adult about coping with tantrums. Really, if you look at the list one point at a time, I break them all. It's a catch-22; when dealing with a tired child, I should first evaluate my own level of fatigue. But, I'm so tired, I don't have the presence of mind to do it.

That, dear Reader, is what spouses are for! That is when it's time to call in support: "Sweetie, can you deal with her?" Hopefully, I have the presence of mind to put  on the mental emergency brake before my thought spins out of control: "Sweetie, can you deal with her before I load her into the Yard-a-pult and send her next door?!?!"

Eventually, things seem to work themselves out before bedtime - sometimes hers, sometimes mine. We take our break, eat our supper, shed our tears, and then put on our pj's. When evening settles in, and the house is once again quiet, I'm quickly reminded that she is a human being who has been on this earth for only four years; one Olympic cycle. All she knows is the last half-hour, and this moment. The future is a concept clouded by the emotion of the present, for better or for worse. By the time I head to bed I realize how fleeting the years are when I wake up to a little 4-year-old, in her kitty-cat pyjamas, with cowlicks of horned-hair searching for alien reception.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The End of Fertility

        We agreed we were done. A son, a daughter; both beautiful and healthy. Being one of four children, I could have been easily swayed toward having a third child in our house. But, for both my wife and I, age began to tap its foot, and the availability of our potential energy lessened.

    Our youngest is four years-old, which means it's been at least a couple of years since, as a couple, we courageously acknowledged there would be no more children. Personally, it wasn't the sleeplessness of caring for a newborn which seemed most daunting, it was chasing after toddlers. I watch each of my children reach new milestones daily, as they transform from pre-schoolers into images of the adults they will one day be. It can be thrilling, frustrating, challenging, and inspiring, and with that transformation in full bloom, we knew we didn't want to be back at the beginning.

    So, how to halt the process? If fertility were a corporation, we would hold interviews for the candidates best suited to run the company into receivership. The Pill? A candidate with a high success rate, but while it may halt fertility, the side effects could make the building itself unstable, and unpleasant to do future business in. Condom? Only slightly less effective, but with a tendency to kill the mood by interrupting the company christmas party with long speeches. The IUD? Not all companies welcome foreign investors. A Vasectomy? Ahhh, aren't all corporations prepared to take a short-term hit if it will result in future prosperity? You bet.

    After receiving a referral to a urologist, I was expecting (actually, counting on) being hurled onto The Waiting List, which masquerades as our Universal Healthcare System, for several months. During that time, I could bask in the courage of my decision, while being far enough away from the actual procedure that I wouldn't really feel any sense of commitment to it, or fear of it. But alas, I was in His office one month after my phone call, and pulling my pants down in that same office on a Saturday morning (?!) two weeks later.

     Here's the information I'd been privy to about vasectomies prior to being the procedure's next client: it takes about fifteen minutes, it's relatively painless, you are sterile two months later, and - if you're this sort of fool - it's reversible. Here's what the procedure entails. Even the patient leaving the doctor's office as I was entering it (the urologist had about 10 vasectomies planned, at half-hour intervals, all morning) said "It doesn't hurt much, it just feels weird. And I don't think I've ever sweat so much." I admonished him for wearing a thick black sweater to a procedure which included a needle, a scalpel, and his scrotum. Still, I found his review encouraging; I could deal with uncomfortable much more readily than I could deal with pain.

    After signing some papers in his office, the urologist - shall we call him Uri? - sitting across from me on his desk, instructed me to drop my pants and underwear, throw them on the visitor's chair, and follow him through the door to the adjoining exam room. There, the mini-operating theatre was ready. The typical black vinyl exam table shone in the warm glow of a surgical spotlight, and a nurse who we shall call "Trixie" was present to "help me out". As I lay on my back, bearing my scrotum and other pieces to Uri and Trixie, I noticed the music of choice was opera. The soundtrack was not only adding little-needed gravitas to the procedure, it was also doing nothing to calm my anxiety. The last time I lay still listening to opera, the Corleones were taking out the heads of the Five Families.

 

    The first thing I felt (after the ironic application of alcohol to render the area 'sterile'), was a sharp 'prick' (another touch of irony - why not?). It was painful enough to make me wince, curl my toes, and take a sudden deep breath. It was at this point I understood Trixie's role was to apply gentle pressure to my left hip, holding me still, while Uri worked to my right. What I was feeling was the anesthetic being injected into my scrotum. Better to suffer the momentary pain of anesthetic application than to suffer the prolonged agony of no anesthetic at all, yes?

    Normally, when one receives some form of anesthetic, they are told by the doctor that it may take a couple of minutes for the numbness to set in before we begin the procedure.  Not Uri. Seconds later, I felt a painful cut, or two, or three. I winced again. Finally, I could sense the cool numbness of the freezing taking place, and I felt nothing more. I could sense a slight pulling, hear a little clipping, as well as the searing of the cauterization, and the slight odors which accompany anything being torched. But, I relaxed as I knew the worst was over. I then realized, he had only snipped the Vas Deferens on my left testicle, the right one was next.

 

    When the whole procedure began to be replicated on my right side, I yelped. "Am I not paying for anesthetic???" I asked. (While the 'procedure' is covered under the umbrella of our "Universal Healthcare System", there is a $300.00 office fee for, among other things, anesthetic.) "That was the anesthetic." Uri replied. 7 minutes later, I was told to hold the gauze in place, put my pants back on, and not to go jogging for a week.

    There were several positives to the experience: In anticipation of discomfort, I arranged for the kids to spent two nights at their grandmother's. This gave me two days of serious couch time while my brother and a friend barbecued my lunch, my wife and I watched a movie (The King's Speech helped put the vasectomy into some perspective), and the following morning I watched Rafael Nadal beat Roger Federer in the final of the French Open. I also blogged for the first time.

    A day later, I have no regrets about having had the procedure. It will make me much more relaxed during personal matters, and I should be back to 100% in another day or so. Two months ago, upon asking for a referral to a urologist, I remarked to my general practitioner that it is clear that a chapter of my life has come to a close. When I first saw him 21 years ago, I was concerned about acne, now it was hair-loss and runaway sperm. But hearing 50-something Uri talk about his motorcycle and iPod, I realize that at 39 there's a lot of fun left to be had, even if it doesn't involve an infant drooling, crawling or taking a first step. And besides, worst case scenario...it's reversible, isn't it?

 Cheers.

KB.

Final thoughts: While frozen bags of peas, and gel packs are great for reducing swelling in the area. Rather than run to the pharmacy for gauze, use panty-liners; they're sterile, absorbent, and adhesive. Man up.