Staying Schtum



Subject: Staying schtum



In the process of ‘child care’, men generally are far too contrived to forgo their self analysis of the world around them to give more than symbolic attention to the job of looking after the toddler if they have to forgo the footie.  Women on the other hand, normally extremely self absorbed, even borderline neurosis  regarding their looks and presentation, seem, at the stroke of a pen,(in this case giving birth to a baby) to cast aside their narcissism and lend themselves 110 % to the child 24/7.
Why is this, is it genetic or is it that having carried the grommet inside, each embryonic kick reestablishing their presence, the links are formed maternally not just sociologically as in the case of a man. He only stands on the proverbial touch line whilst the game is in progress, shouting encouragement but hardly understanding the rules of the game. As a father he is already nine months behind at birth playing catch up and given his position as reserve, his role of carrying on the water bottle when asked, this inferior psychosomatic interaction instills a servant/master relationship between husband and wife not a collaborative one. For most men this isn’t a worry as they scurry off to work, much more attuned to its rigours than nappy changing and return at night to a confusing world where the little bundle’s needs have become paramount.  Turning on the tele as normal, “it’s too loud”, the room is too cold, or too hot, bugs attain a new significance and sleep is rationed. Each whimper from the bundle electrifies your wife and, as if by osmosis, you. The cough becomes life threatening, the rash the start of something unpleasant and one is forced into thinking how do children survive in the insanitary conditions of Africa. Of course the short answer is, they don’t !
Doctors in this country are fast becoming a rarity and doctors on ‘call out’ extinct so the child is brought up on the internets wide reaching prognosticationary analysis of ills and illness which covers the writer of the journal with dozens of sub-clause’s when dishing out remedy’s. Rather seek the advice of a doctor it reminds you, forgetting of course that the reason you are poking around in this frightening world of paediatric medicine is you can’t get a doctor in the first place.
Sitting in the car with a fraught wife by your side, (the match sidelined) dark streets swish by you watch out for the sign, To the hospital. You pull in as near to the entrance as you can, ignoring the ‘don’t park here sign’ you march purposefully in clutching your precious bundle to find medical attention.  At least in moments like this you really feel part of a family. “Who is the father” lays down a marker, your first in months and even if it’s only where and to who the invoice should be sent, at least it’s a start.
The brightly lit hospital corridors flash by as you trail along once more relegated to the end of the procession, but already feeling a little discounted (even with your credit card in hand), the hospital procedure takes over and the Mom becomes the de facto definitive parent one’s again. 

Not for the first time and having learnt your place to be patient, you stay schtum