The Loneliest Dad

It's a modern world. Australia is, slowly, moving towards equality for same sex couples. The USA may be about to see its first female or African American President. My dad is thinking about buying a microwave.

Just don't tell the Stepford wives at Mitcham Playgroup.

We've been taking the Noodle there for a few months now, Knickers mostly but me if she's working, and every time I go I get shown a shoulder that's colder than a well digger's arse.

The Unley wannabes raise their manicured eyebrows (the only emaciated features on their overfed bodies) and hustle their Fred Bare clad offspring away from the unshaven man like I'm a barbarian invading the inner sanctum of Acca Larentia.

So I make myself a mug of tea and follow the Noodle about for an hour and a half as he pursues his own solitary entertainment. At the end they have a singing session. He is still a little reluctant to join the other kids on the mat so he sits on my lap and helps me do the actions. Then we pack away our chair, take off our name tags and go home. It is really bizarre.

Surely other dads go to playgroups? I hardly think I'm a pioneer in the brave new of shared parenting. Surely the odd, 'Hello' isn't too much to ask?

I'd stop going, but we've paid for the half year, and the tea is free.