We're delighted to present an extract from Diary Of A Wimpy Dad, the new book by David Diebold, published by published by Monument Media Press.
A few years ago, David Diebold took the brave decision to give up a full-time job to be a stay-at-home Dad. Thing is, there was already a stay-at-home Mum, three hairy monosyllabic teenage boys, and a pathologically cheerful, explosively hormonal pre-teen girl...
It's not all missteps and pratfalls. Amid the chaos of life, David and family must contend with the trials of teenage angst, and the death of a loved one. Can he survive 12 months and keep his sanity? Sure. But can anyone else?
My brother is visiting from America where he's the bass player in a metal band. When he trudges out of Arrivals he has a shaved head and a goatee sprouting from somewhere below his lower lip. His T-shirt says 'Cannibal Corpse’.
—Wow, I say, clapping him on the back and hoping for a moment someone might think I’m in a band too. But no-one is really looking. —You look great.
I try to recall what I looked like when I was his age, my early thirties: cargo trousers, sailing shoes, Ralph Lauren shirts… There are mannequins in TK Maxx that look more rock ‘n’ roll than I did.
We walk to the car.
—How’s the band doing?
—We fired our lead guitarist.
—Oh. I turn the key in the ignition and wince when The Pretenders, which I had been merrily thumping the wheel to all the way here, suddenly blares.
—Haha. Don’t know what that is.
I turn it off. He simply smiles and shrugs.
When we’re home, we catch up, in the kitchen. Teens file through shyly, mumbling polite hellos. The girl giggles.
—You look younger without your hair, says my wife, standing back to take a look.
—Everyone says that. He shrugs. —I’m like, you know, whatever.
—Guess what? I chirp, suddenly remembering. —I’m going to be a judge for the local Battle of the Bands.
—Man, he says. —That sucks.
I try not to let my shoulders droop. —Yeah. Right?
—Or, you know, whatever. He shrugs again.
—Hey, did I ever tell you I was in a band? I blurt out suddenly changing the subject. —I was eighteen. It was a punk band.
I trot off to dig out a photo, but when I do, I see I’m wearing a shirt and tie in it.
—Can’t think where that photo is, is what I say when I shuffle back in.
—It’s in the little red album, says my wife.
—Nope, I say. —I checked.
I decide to take my brother out and go upstairs to change. The inside of my wardrobe looks like a rummage sale of second-hand band tour T-shirts—but nothing is cool and nothing fits.
I rifle through raincoats in the utility room instead.
—Where’s my denim jacket? I yell irritably.
I find it and give it a shake. A spider plops out. I try the jacket on, but it’s so tight across the shoulders that I can’t wear it without my arms sticking out, which makes me look like a penguin that’s joined Status Quo, so I abandon it and grab a black leather sports jacket.
In the pub, I finally abandon any aspirations to looking cool when I catch sight of us in a mirror and realise I look like a plain clothes policeman meeting a contact.
—It’s good you’re here, I tell him, handing him a pint.
—It’s good to be here, he says, meaning it.
We watch the sun set outside without talking.
We’re sitting around the barbecue next day and the middle boy is munching a burger behind his hair.
—He’s just formed a band with his friends, reveals my wife. —They’re called ‘Dil-arious’.
—It’s Delirious, he mutters with a deep sigh. —And it’s just an idea for a name.
He stomps off. I watch him go.
—I remember that boy when he was a baby.
—You might want to keep that little nugget to yourself, says my wife, —when you’re judging them in the Battle of the Bands.
—I am? I mean, he’s… they are? Oops.
—He plays drums, she tells my brother.
All our children have taken music lessons and our house is a graveyard of abandoned instruments. We’ve probably spent enough on these classes to hire Bob Dylan for a private performance. But I can’t help being quite pleased that we’re getting at least one band out of it.
—I can’t stand Bob Dylan, says my brother.
I’m dropping the middle boy back to school after lunch the next day and The Pretenders are on again.
—Back on the Chain Gang! I shout over the music, slapping the wheel in time to the beat. —1983! Can you believe this was more than thirty years ago?
The boy keeps looking straight ahead. —Yes, he says.
—So, I hear you guys are in the Battle of the Bands. Did you know I’m one of the judges?
He looks at me to see if I’m joking then goes back to looking straight ahead again.
—Oh, God, is all he says.
This being a cool dad, I think to myself as he lopes off a minute later, really is a rollercoaster ride.
When I stop at the supermarket, I notice The Clash are playing over the in-store music system.
—Wow, I gush enthusiastically to the young clerk when I go to pay. —Is supermarket music just getting cooler? Or am I just getting older?
The clerk blinks at me.
—The Clash, I explain, gesturing to where the music is coming from, grinning and making a little drumming motion on the edge of the conveyor belt with my hands.
—Um, he says, sticking out his lower lip, shaking his head and handing me two cents. —Older?
I snatch the receipt.
—Keep your damn change, I tell him.
Diary of a Wimpy Dad: Toe-curling Tales… for Grown-ups (published by Monument Media Press) is out now - find out more here.
