Tapping Out at 7am

Wake me up when September starts

The other morning started like most others: at 6:45am, I’m awakened to the sound of tiny pounding footsteps across my landing as my three-year-old daughter runs into our bedroom. She comes to my side of the bed, knowing that I’m the one that’ll actually get up and entertain this early morning bullshit.

I pull myself to sitting and, holy fuck, the world is spinning. I thought my body had gotten used to the horrible startled jolts out of a sleep state that punctuate days as a parent. Usually I’m just about able to function on a near-human level—but this particular morning hit me differently.

My instinct is to get her out of our room, as not to wake the baby or my wife—equally terrifying scenarios. I quickly realise though that I possess none of the mental faculties to start making up games or read books to my eldest. So, I reach for the iPad, grab my pillow and usher my daughter back into her room.

I turn on some painting app for her, drop my pillow at the other end of her bed and crash out. It’s genuinely surprising to me at this point just how knackered I am. I barely drink anymore, so it’s not like I'm hungover—but the general malaise and pounding headache feel familiar. At least when I was hungover, I’d had a fun night to soften the blow. The previous night this time around had been spent in a familiar fashion: feeding and changing the baby, and coaxing my eldest back into bed when she’d wake up at 3am and try to sneak into our bed.

I hadn’t set up the painting app on the iPad on the right setting, or something. I don’t know, the inside of my head feels like it’s been scooped out with a rusty spoon. Either way, my daughter isn’t satisfied with the childcare arrangements I’d put in place. She must have seen me dozing as I top-and-tail in her bed, and seen the opportunity to make another play for the holy grail—mummy and daddy’s bed.

I hear the footsteps too late to stop the advance. I watch, stumbling in pursuit, as my daughter leaps onto the bed, squealing “MUMMY!” and pawing at her until she wakes. This obviously startles the baby awake as well.

I crash out on the bed beside them both, knowing I’ll have to get up again in a minute to change the baby’s nappy.

But I’m done. I’m spent. It’s barely 7am and I already want to tap out of parenting for the day. I just don’t have anything left in me.

I’ve been feeling this way more often than usual lately, and I think it’s got something (also, a lot) to do with the summer holidays. As a family, this is the first true taste we’ve had of the six-week-long ordeal of keeping children continuously entertained and stimulated—all while keeping the regular day-to-day shit floating along. I now fully appreciate why my parents would be desperate for us to go back to school come September when I was a kid.

Let’s be real though, we’re doing this with the training wheels still on somewhat. One of ours is still a baby, and my wife is on maternity leave so isn’t having to juggle work as well.

And don’t get me wrong, I do love having a bit more time to spend with my eldest. I’m painfully aware from the constant stream of reels you see while stuck flicking through Instagram that these times don’t last forever. If you know me day-to-day, you’ll know that I never take any of this for granted, ever.

Despite those caveats though, I’ve no shame in admitting that this summer holidays shit is way harder than I’d thought it would be.

We get such a finite amount of down-time and space to climb our admin mountains in the early days of parenthood—and there’s even less of it right now. The diary is full of trips out, activities, play dates and more—just in an attempt to stop our nearly-four-year-old from going feral as she bounces off the walls. She’s so ready to start school and get stimulation from other kids her age—it’s an itch that, try as we might, we just can’t scratch for her as parents.

Not only does the cost of all of these excursions add up financially, but mentally and physically also. The logistics and pure physicality of lugging two kids and all their daily paraphernalia around for a month and a bit has hit me harder than I’d imagined—and it came to a head that morning at 7am, with the prospect of another action-filled day ahead, where the kids need me to give a full 100% yet again.

But I don’t have it to give.

That’s why this week’s essay is shorter than usual—I’m sensing burnout touching the edges of my peripheral vision, and I need to put the brakes on a few things. I’ve removed all the social media apps from my phone’s Home Screen, I’m thinking of starting some form of meditation—and I need a small break from writing.

I’ll still drop into your inboxes every Monday, but for the next few weeks we’ll be taking a look back at some of the essays from behind the paywall that launched Some Other Dad—but a bit freshened up. They only went out to a mere handful of subscribers at the time, so chances are they’re fresh to you anyway. Full subscribers will still get a weekly Here’s Five as well, but these might be nearer the end of the week rather than the usual Wednesday.

I’ll aim to resume normal service on Monday 4th September—but honestly, who knows. I’ve sensed my mental resilience begin to swirl around the drain of late, so I need some time to address that before I can commit back to this endeavour.

Think of it like the core message behind the episode of Bluey called Sheepdog: I love doing this very much, but I just need twenty minutes.

Thanks to you all—I hope you’re all enjoying your summer breaks.