Dad Diaries: The Sandwich Faux Pas, and Batman.

In which I commit sandwich etiquette suicide, ­and the most meaningful party conversation I had was an imaginary exchange with a 15 month old baby.

Today my partner and I are attending our son Frank’s first Christmas party. You know, for babies. In a way I feel sorry for them. They’re only here after all by the grace of a thunderous male orgasm followed by a painful vaginal expulsion. And yet a mere twelve months after this terrible ordeal we dress them up in elf costumes, feed them sugar and fill their periphery vision with psychedelic lights and tinsel. They don’t have a clue.  It’s clearly more for the parents, a chance to have a natter and some nibbles. A nice small scale affair- just four Mums, their respective offspring, and me. It’s a Saturday, but presumably the other Dads are either at work, or doing Something Else.

Being the only Dad attending these things can sometimes be weird. Don’t get me wrong; at play groups I really do try hard to be ‘one of the girls’. It’s a source of pride.  I can hob nob and gossip with the best of them. There are some differences of course. In my circle of friends for example, I could get away with saying-

‘Gee, babies smell almost as good as cocaine’

Whereas at playgroup I feel this would be frowned upon. But when things do get rocky conversation-wise with all those Mums, I’ve always got Frank there as my wingman. They’ll bring out old chestnuts like ‘My, isn’t he getting big?’ or ‘Look at him walk, isn’t it funny?’

But this Christmas party is different. All of us in attendance have moved on from being tired, stressed individuals with merely having kids in common. We are now Friends.

The kids have a great time, while Frank misses it all and sleeps. Deeply. So deeply he doesn’t look even cute. So deeply he doesn’t even look unconscious- it’s like I have a dead elf on my lap.  Catherine, I soon learn, owns two cats. As I look at one of them rising out of slumber and gently mewling for food- I realise that though there are differences between the way a baby lives and the way a cat lives, there really should be more. Babies at Frank’s age don’t really grasp concepts like ‘giving affection’- I’m reminded again of cats, who turn on the charm around dinner time, then promptly fuck off again for a few hours. Also, in certain cultures, it’s considered a grave insult to shit all over the floor in someone’s home. Not true of babies and cats.

I’ve involuntarily skipped breakfast, its getting on for half 12- so I’m absolutely starving. I’m waiting impatiently for the promised buffet, the sweet, sweet buffet. Catherine starts to prepare the food, but is hampered by her clingy (yet adorable) daughter Eve. I offer to take care of her, and whisk her away in my arms. My partner gives me a loving look- I don’t know why, as I only want to help speed up the buffet making. That, and distract myself from all the Mum chatter about in-laws, Christenings and shoes sales.  I tune out. My mind wanders, lamenting the dearth of proper conversation.  Inevitably, my so-called imagination just thinks of more Batman stuff. Eve gives me a look that definitely seems to say-

‘Batman is a bit daft isn’t he?’

I bristle at this. Little upstart! Perhaps it was the hunger making me delirious, but just like that, a fully formed argument unfolds in my head.

‘I refute your dismissal of Batman as daft. Batman is... a powerful metaphor for something. I forget what’.

‘No’ Eve seems to say, ‘He’s definitely daft.’
I’ll not stand for this. ‘Why? Give me an example if you’re such an expert’.
‘Okay, well despite his apparent genius, Batman invests billions of dollars into a campaign to fight the lowest level crimes in the least efficient way’.
‘He has to’ I cry, ‘The traditional justice system is corrupt’.

‘If he’s that worried about corruption and organized crime, he could simply buy out the entire system’.
‘Well, he hasn't got that much money!’ I scoff. But Eve just smiles devilishly, as if I’ve just walked right into her trap.
‘Seriously? On a good night, he may stop one, maybe two crimes, but the cost of operation per night is easily thousands of dollars, if not more.  Flying around in an experimental jet or car, looking for muggers stealing $20 from a purse is a laughable application of resources’.

I sense I’m on the back foot here- ‘Look, We’ll talk about this when you’re older--’

‘--Crime is a symptom of socio-economic factors like poverty!’ baby Eve interrupts, ‘If he actually cared about the net reduction of crime, he would spend all that money on public works programs and education!’

 Well. The baby might have a point. Eve sucks her thumb, victorious.

‘Foods ready!’ Catherine announces. I drop Eve.

Whilst in the buffet queue, plate in hand, I’m pleased to see the sandwiches have been cut into triangles. Triangle sandwiches always taste better than square sandwiches. It’s just one of those things. But I also notice an alarming discrepancy with the sandwiches.  The chicken sandwiches are already running dangerously low, and many of the cheese sandwiches have been snapped up by my vegetarian other half. A full tray of egg mayonnaise sandwiches remain, untouched. I hate egg mayonnaise.   

‘There’s some egg mayonnaise sandwiches still going if you want them!’ Catherine reminds the room.

‘I’ve got some chicken ones here, thanks’ someone replies.

‘Message received’.

Oh dear I think- “message received?” That’s how nice women say ‘fuck you’.

It’s my turn. I swear I can feel Catherine’s gaze on me. What do I do? No one’s going to eat the egg mayonnaise sandwiches at this rate. Surely that’s a slight on our hostess? Me and my partner were supposed to have hosted this party, until plans changed for reasons that essentially boil down to ohmygodthefuckinghouseisamess. Catherine had done us a favour, I owed her one. I should take one for the team. I should eat an egg mayonnaise sandwich, even though I hate them. These are the moments that define a man. Moments that force you to look deep inside yourself and irrevocably draw lines in the sand.

I am a renegade. I am Jack Bauer.

I take two egg mayonnaise sandwiches, and gingerly peck at them. Catherine looks pleased- is that a sigh of relief?  

‘I thought for a second I was going to be alone with the egg mayonnaise!’ Catherine says.

‘Oh no, I love egg mayonnaise!’ I hear myself say, whilst retching slightly. What? I’ve suddenly become an advocate of egg mayonnaise sandwiches. That was unexpected. 
'Ooh, they're just lovely Catherine'. There’s no going back now. I grab two more and wolf them down, wincing. I won’t let you down Catherine,  we comrades in arms. I reach for another.

‘And they’re my favourite as well...’ She says a little quietly.

I notice she doesn't take any of the sweet foods- the chocolate fingers, the Jaffa cakes, the party rings- the good shit.  She instead nibbles at the single paltry egg mayonnaise triangle I’ve left her, and sips water (because I took the last of the Appletiser).

Hmm. I think I’ve just robbed the hostess of all she was prepared to eat. I’m not Jack Bauer, I’m Nina Myers- the traitor that killed his wife. I feel remorse, and queasy.

Still, lovely day all in all. Great photos to cherish in the future. I’m in the background of most of them. I rather think that when I die and go to heaven, they’ll give a photo album with all the pictures I’m in the background of.

The next day I attend a Christening. There’s another buffet. I’m first in line this time, and fill my paper plate with cheese and ham sandwiches- fuck the ramifications.

Although I notice no one is touching the onion bhajis...