Dispatches from Dadland

by Mike Reed

Relief at last

Last night, my wife and I finally gave in and went to bed - at just after half past nine. It seemed ridiculously early, but we'd both already slept through at least
ten minutes of CSI:Miami. By now, neither of us cared who killed the guy in
the closet, or what particular emotional dilemma David Caruso was squinting and whispering about this week.

How did it come to this? Not long ago, 9.35 was the sort of hour I'd have been settling happily into my second or third pint, surrounded by bright and cheerful friends. Now I'm slumped drooling into the sofa, failing to keep up with some fatuous TV show. Some demon has scooped out my brain and replaced it with
a congealed bowl of Oatso-Simple.

These are the bad nights. The nights when you collapse into bed knowing that within two hours you'll be up again, standing in a dark room surrounded by furry animals, your gentle little sshh noises lost in the window-rattling din sent up by the wriggling creature in your arms.

There's an episode of Roseanne in which John Goodman turns to his unruly household and says, 'Well, this whole wife and family thing's been fun, but I've got to go.' And let's face it, we've all had days like that. Days when you feel that
if you don't get away, something inside is going to go ping - and you'll be found
a few days later, curled in a foetal position in the furthest corner of the garage, whimpering quietly to yourself.

But now, thank Google, help is at hand: Dad Club. A place where we can dispense with I wouldn't change them for the world and I'm just pleased they're healthy, and indulge in a bit of If they don't shut up right now I'm off to be a longshore fisherman in the Outer Hebrides. The inspired founders of Dad Club have asked me to write this regular dispatch from the front line of dadhood, and get a few gripes off my chest. Whether this will do anything for you, I have no idea. But it's sure as hell going to help me.