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Is there some ad hoc science to explain why I’ve become such a melt?
I loathe my sudden inability to not become a snivelling mess.
I’ve never been an outwardly emotional person, but I’m no tinman either.
The best policy for me has always been to deal with stuff internally. Don’t make a fuss and don’t you dare draw attention to yourself. Healthy, right?
It’s the typical case of working class lad grows up with piss-taking relatives. I was nearly called Jessy, but my folks were worried other children would call me a ‘big Jessy’ on the playground – whatever that means.
Yes, the small possibility of primary school homophobia was a sufficient reason to alter my literal identity in the womb. Vis-à-vis, I don’t need a therapist to espouse theories about repressed memories and why I struggle to ‘let people in’. I HATE that cliché and all.
This default setting of concealing bad feelings and not burdening others has been toggled on since my formative years. Since having my daughter 18 months ago, however, the firewalls that used to protect me from embarrassment have up and vanished like a fart in the wind.
I don’t know whether it’s attributable to a prolonged period of very limited sleep, but I can’t so much as watch a mid ITV drama without starting to well up on the couch. Prior to Ruby being born, I could count the number of times I’d cried on one hand over half a decade. Now, I’m probably surpassing that total on a yearly basis.
It sounds incredibly sanctimonious, given the obvious, but children have become a massive weakness of mine. The child stuck between warring parents in a recent rewatch of Fatal Attraction recently sent me over the edge, let alone the harrowing reports on the evening news – which has become an absolute no-fly zone.
My girlfriend has suddenly gained the ability to twig exactly when I’m feeling a bit crap, and you’d best believe she endorses having a ‘little cry’ as the best medicine. Perhaps my apparent cues aren’t as subtle as I once thought, or maybe it’s because we’re on top of eachother more often in our new flat that she’s noticing things.
Either way, she’s rubbing her hands together and making up for lost time. Just let me do the washing up in peace.
Perhaps there’s also some scientific basis for this influx of gooey, exposed sensibilities being linked to becoming a dad. I prefer that explanation… the one that means I take no direct responsibility for anything.
There are numerous studies that suggest testosterone levels drop dramatically in new fathers, while oxytocin – the ‘bonding hormone’ – surges to naturally sculpt a more nurturing, caring human that’s less likely to shout and hit things.
Another qualitative study suggested that new fathers experience heightened emotional sensitivity and empathy after the change, with some participants describing a ‘well of emotions’ opening. Sounds familiar, though I may not have been conscious of this effect immediately.
I’d like to think that I’m enough of a freethinker that the so-called societal and behavioural expectations of your archetypical modern pa aren’t tinkering with my subconscious in any way. Who knows though.
Perhaps becoming a wet blanket is all good and necessary, even if it feels strange now.
