Dads could soon get more time off to look after their babies if a group of MPs have their way. Britain has among the ‘worst statutory leave offers for fathers and other parents in the developed world’, the chairwoman of the Women and Equalities Committee, Sarah Owen, has said. The committee called on the government to consider raising paternity pay to the level of maternity pay in the first six weeks after a baby is born. Deloitte has gone further, offering male staff six months off. As a mother on maternity leave, I can get on board with six weeks; but six months? Let me be the first to say: no thanks.
Men at home all day have an uncanny ability to misunderstand the rhythm of the house. They use the blender during wind-down time, for instance
The image of a father pushing a pram while mum catches up on sleep or sanity is a heart-warming one. Paternity leave sounds rather noble. It’s a time, you might think, of shared bonding and equal parenting. But the reality of paternity leave is very different. In a household where the man has a full array of opinions and a limited grasp of the laundry system, six months of paternity leave is not an act of support; it amounts to domestic invasion.
It’s not that I’m against fathers bonding with their babies. Far from it. I’m all for help with bedtime stories, bath time, and nappy changes at 3 a.m. What unsettles me is the idea of my husband being in the house. All day. For months on end. Anyone who lived through lockdown with a furloughed spouse, or whose partner works from home, will understand that having your other half home all day does not always mean domesticated bliss.
A man with little to do can be completely infuriating to live with. You see, men often have a rather different idea of what ‘paternity leave’ means. My husband’s, for instance, is a serene blend of extended staycation and postnatal honeymoon. It is treated like a sabbatical, to do all the things he never gets around to doing.
‘How lovely that he’s at home to help with the baby,’ everyone says. In reality, he has begun all those ‘jobs’ (read: ‘self-indulgent projects’) that are far from urgent but seem to take importance over domestic duties and childcare. My husband has spent the last fortnight stacking our logs into a carefully designed beehive structure. ‘Well done darling,’ I say. ‘Thank you, very helpful’. But is it really? Could he not help me with the mounting ironing pile instead?
Then there’s mealtimes. At 12 o’clock, my husband appears. ‘What’s for lunch?’ he asks. He expects a proper sit-down affair, not the four-minute boiled egg I had intended in order to squeeze in a lunchtime nap while the baby is finally down for theirs.
My husband offers to cook dinner, but then decides to become Mary Berry and suggests we cook duck a l’orange. After struggling to find the cornflour at the back of the cupboard (it’s right in front of his nose), he finally produces it at 9.45pm having started five minutes before bath time. Once we’ve eaten, of course, it’s my turn to wash up, since he cooked. All I wanted was a bowl of cereal and to go to bed.
‘Sleep when the baby sleeps’ is a well-known mantra. However my husband thinks this is an invitation for afternoon sex. He generously granted me six to eight weeks of celibate ‘recovery’. But when I suggest a lunchtime nap, he brightens with hope. This is not a euphemism; this is not lockdown: I truly just want to sleep.
On the subject of appearances, a maternal glow and instant return to my pre-pregnancy wardrobe is what he envisaged. He had certainly not anticipated months of me in a pair of leggings and one of his shirts permanently half unbuttoned ever ready to peel back to my milk-stained bra. I resent the pressure of having him there to judge. I want the freedom to use this time to become a bit of a slob and do things in my own time, like only making the bed and emptying the dishwasher minutes before he comes home from work.
New mothers become a strange hybrid: carer, cleaner, cook, and cow. The idea of doing all that while also performing the role of pleasant, accommodating spouse and dutiful composed mother because your husband is home is exhausting. When evening falls, there is also no one to complain to about how hard your day has been, as they’ve been through it themselves.
Then there is the intellectual laziness, and I don’t mean that my husband can’t decide on what he would like me to defrost for supper. He constantly asks me what he needs to do with the baby, leaving me the responsibility to Google it, or read the relevant chapter in the baby book. I once curtly suggested he look it up himself. This inspired him to study two Instagram infographics before lecturing me on the exact scientific ‘nose-to-nipple’ gradient for the perfect latch. Never mind that I had attended all the midwife appointments and actually gave birth to the thing.
Men at home all day have an uncanny ability to misunderstand the rhythm of the house. They use the blender during wind-down time. They open a new packet of baby wipes without finishing the old one. They ask you to hand wash their jumpers when you’re frantically trying to clear the back log of meconium-stained baby grows. ‘What shall we do today?’ they ask, as if keeping the baby alive and the house in order isn’t going to take all day. Any spare moments of peace I can find I want to vegetate in front of Homes under the Hammer. But he has commandeered the TV room for his occasional work calls, which happen to coincide perfectly with when the baby’s nappy needs changing.
So, while MPs mean well, lets not get carried away. A man on paternity leave should be like a good guest: helpful, but aware when it’s time to go. Yes, give men the chance to bond with their babies, change nappies, and master the art of swaddling. But do we need half a year of them clattering about in the kitchen? No, we do not. Let’s not pretend that longer always means better. In parenthood, as in so many things, less can be more. More sleep. More sanity. More sex, even. Just not every afternoon between Loose Women and lunch.
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