Above: In a previous life, I played a number of gigs in front of less people than those depicted here.
Being a father is kind of strange. Assuming you’re not the primary carer, you’re heavily involved in the process of raising your kids, but you’re the support-act rather than the main attraction. You follow orders (as best you can) and step into new realms of cleaning-up and cooking that your partner may have covered pre-BCE (Before Child Era).
The worst part is when the support act has to substitute for the headliner, while my partner needs to get out of the apartment. My baby can sense my fear and inadequacy, because she always screams like a black metal frontman when I’m in charge.
Above: Dani Filth, the frontman of Cradle Of Filth, the world’s most famous (or infamous) black metal band. My daughter’s crying/screaming is a lot scarier than this guy.
I try to do what I can, offer a bottle (of milk), go for a walk, sing Tool covers to her (her favourite is H, sans curse words) but she knows that I’m not the boss. Don’t get me wrong, our daughter is a really well behaved baby, but whenever I’ve got the baby in my hands, she’s a loud baby. I suppose it’s one of those things that parents and kids have to go through or maybe my daughter can sense that I’m somewhat apprehensive, secretly dreading the wailing and the tears.
Above: A photo of me trying to tackle the challenges of parenthood in the modern world. Well, I guess beer isn’t that modern, but Baby Bjorn’s and Sennheiser can’t be more than a hundred years old (I’m more than happy to accept ‘gifts’ from Baby Bjorn, but I would much prefer a new set of speakers from Sennheiser).
When I see my partner caring for our daughter, I’m filled with admiration. She’s like Luke Skywalker when he turns off the targeting computer during the raid on the Death Star trench; she knows exactly what to do, as if she can channel ‘the Force’. In comparison, I’m like that idiot in the Y-Wing who keeps repeating ‘Stay on target!’ in a strange, robotic fashion. I have a vague idea as to what is going on, but I’m no Jedi. Being the co-pilot, like Chewbacca to Han, I’m happy to pitch in where needed, growl occasionally, walk around with a crossbow that shoots lasers and be the best co-pilot/support act father I can be.
Above: My partner, Carla (right) and myself. Raising children, smuggling spice and trying to save the galaxy.