By Nobody knows exactly how they’re going to die. For example, while I’ve pencilled in ‘mistimed volcano Swegway jump’ as a potential cause of my death, statistically it’s probably going to be something like ‘ignored dental infection’ or ‘crisps’. But at least I can be sure of one thing. At least I know how my wife will react after I die.
She’ll get right back on the horse. She won’t even blink. I’ll pop my clogs on Monday and by Tuesday afternoon my kids will have a brand new daddy. I’m certain of this, because I’ve already seen how much she loves dating.
The woman cannot get enough of it. Most weeks while I’m working, she’ll nip out and grab a coffee with a stranger. If she likes them, they’ll text for weeks until they can meet again. If she doesn’t, she’ll cease all communication and pray they don’t bump into each other in the street. It never ends. She is always putting it out there.
To be clear, she isn’t dating dating. She’s mum dating. She’s just looking for new pals to hang out with, but treating the whole affair like proper swipey romantic dating nevertheless. She meets a mum, then comes home and explains why it won’t work out between them. And my job, I’ve found, is to console her. It’s a weird position to be in. Even in the rom-com of my own life, I’ve somehow ended up as the kooky best friend.
Meanwhile, I haven’t been able to make a single new dad friend. Not one in three and a half years of parenthood. This, I’ll admit, is partly my fault. I’m a freelance writer who works alone in a shed at the bottom of a garden. I can go for days without any adult interaction, and it’s my idea of heaven. The older I get, the happier I am with my own company.
But my wife makes it look like so much fun. Whenever I’m at playgrounds with my family, other mums will just walk straight up and start chatting to her. Two minutes later they’re Facebook friends. That doesn’t happen with me. I suspect this might be because I’m often the sole dad in a sea of mums. At playgrounds, in cafes, at the cinema; I seem to be the only dad in town who ever goes out with his kids on weekday afternoons. And I can’t make new mum friends, because all mums uniformly look upon me with a mixture of mistrust or pity. I’m not a person to them; I’m a Stranger Danger poster made upsettingly flesh.
I mean, I’m sure I could make a new dad chum if I tried. The local council runs these monthly Dads Go Bowling clubs, ostensibly to provide a support network for fathers who struggle with parenthood. If I went to one of those I’m sure I’d come away brimming with buddies. But I won’t go to one of those because jesus christ are you fucking kidding? I want friends, but not friends who go bowling because the council tells them to.
The other option is that I do what my wife’s new friends do and simply ask a stranger to be my friend. I know exactly who I’d pick, too. There’s a guy I see at soft play sometimes who is prime mate material. He’s huge and bearded and medieval-looking. He looks like the sort of bloke who smashes his plates on the floor as soon as he’s finished eating. He roars with delight whenever his little girl does anything of note, just like I do with my boys. I think we’d probably get on. But then again I’m 37. I’ve spent my entire adult life insulating myself against the sting of rejection. Why risk stripping it away for 45 minutes of smalltalk?
Still, at least this has given me an idea of what I’ll do if my wife dies before me. Nothing. I’ll do nothing. I won’t move on. I won’t go out. I’ll pass the phase where people think I’m grieving, and the phase where my kids try to set me up with a neighbouring widow in a doomed bid to stop me going mad from loneliness, and then finally everyone will leave me alone and I’ll get to die by myself, on a volcano, next to a broken Swegway, just like nature intended.
