Being a Medical Dad – Baby to Toddler Years

As qualifications go, there’s no flimsier credential than "being a parent."

Spend an afternoon on Mumsnet and you'll be signing up for Cupping therapy to "remove vaccines" from your definitely-ADHD kids. (Disclaimer: Other sources of mass hysteria are available.)

I have two nuggets to my unfortunate surname — Lewis (2016) and Ruairidh (2018), and yes, I’m spelling that name for the rest of my bloody life).

Describing young kids to my non-parent friends, I say it’s like a stable substance addiction: you know your life has gone fully sideways, but for some reason you f***ing love it and keep coming back for more. (At time of writing... No. Just no.)

And like every parent, my kids have given me the full carnival ride.Lewis was premature and co-wrote the weirdest phone call I’ve ever made:

Me: "Hi, it’s Dave, Renal Reg on-call..."

Her: "Hi, Dave – it’s... erm... Emma. Your wife. Now, don’t panic..."

Me: panics instantly "What?"

Her: "My waters have just broken."

Me: "Shut the f*** up..."

(Should really have asked the patient to leave at that point. Didn't. Far too f***ing

professional. Honest.)

Cue me flapping my way through a two-hour drive to Kirkcaldy’s SCBU while my heroic wife bulldozed through 12 hours of induced labour on nothing but Entonox. (Her fire frightens even me sometimes.)

Then he was born. And then the real fun started.

Yellow, floppy, borderline animatronic. We had to blow on his face to get his eyes open. Feeding him was like topping up a leaking sponge. My wife and I did night shifts just to confirm he was still breathing.

It. Was. Stress.

After a week, my work asked me back because they couldn’t cover my second week of Pat Leave. Collapsed in the car park by Day 3. Diagnosed as “looking like sh*t” in Acute Medicine and sent home. The following two years were a clusterfudge of industrial proportions — but that’s a story for another time.

Ruairidh was a little simpler. Not by much. Basically, hell still broke loose, just maybe at a more manageable velocity.

So, based on a fistful of hindsight and some late-night dad rants, here’s what I’ve learned about being a Doctor Dad:

You’ve Felt Helpless and Alone Before — Use That

Not trying to poke anyone’s emotional wounds here (don’t do that anymore after "The Incident"), but you know that night shift moment where everyone turns and looks at you? And you realise: there’s no senior, no escape, no cavalry?

Parenthood’s version hits at 2am.

Lewis. Two weeks old. Emma dead to the world. I heroically volunteer for night feed.

Walk in to find tiny screaming infant covered — coated — from head to toe in faeces. Not an exaggeration. Wriggling like a pissed-off ferret. I finally wrestle him clean — and he immediately sh*ts, pisses, and projectile vomits. Simultaneously.

Options:

• A. Wake Emma? Get murdered in my sleep.

• B. Drive 150 miles to my Mum? Nonsense.

• C. Call her Mum? Nuclear escalation.

• D. Do it myself? Feel hopeless and broken but somehow keep moving.

That’s parenting in a nutshell. Helpless, sh*t-soaked, exhausted — but you just do it.

Like a cardiac arrest in the middle of nowhere: no ideal team, no ideal kit. Just you and a bag. And afterwards? Massive sense of achievement. Same with parenting. You survive the clusterf***, and it becomes a badge of honour.

Until then — bite the bit, and run.

People Without Kids HATE People Who Use Kids as an Excuse

You’ll either have been or will be on a rota with someone who bails citing "kid issues."Remember how furious you were? It felt like that kid in PE claiming “asthma” to dodge running laps. (You're not asthmatic, Dave. You're just fat.)

Now, your options as the parent:

1. Fight it — Fair, but shaky ground. You do have obligations... but in their eyes, you’re screwing them over.

2. Ignore it — Common choice. Less drama but risks simmering resentment.

3. Earn it — Work harder to "make up" for leaving. Slippery slope to burnout and martyrdom.

Honestly? None of these work perfectly. Your best play is to gauge your department and be honest about what you can realistically do. Also: know you’ll still get sh*t no matter what.

Welcome to parenthood.

Do Your Homework

I wish — truly wish — I could tell you paperwork gets easier once kids show up.

It doesn’t. It multiplies. Like bloody Tribbles.

Prepare yourself. Know your rights:

• Paternity leave.

• Maternity leave (Mat B1 forms).

• Parental leave.

• Compassionate leave.

• Childcare schemes.

And get everything in writing. Email chains = your Kevlar vest.

"Oh, sorry, can we just confirm this over email? Baby brain is real, and I’m currently running on leftover caffeine and spite."

(Top tip: when in doubt, screenshot the bloody policies. Send them with your requests. Makes it 3000% harder for HR to wriggle.)

Shared Mental Models Work at Home Too

Ever had a nurse say: “Observations are normal but something’s off”?That’s the Shared Mental Model. It’s about sharing instincts, not just numbers.

Apply it at home.

Your partner saying, "I’m fine" while holding a bottle like it’s a weaponised stress toy? SMM moment.

Talk it out. Don’t be the hero. Split the load.Communicate like you’re crashing a septic patient — urgently but gently.

Mating Within Medical Isn't Always The Answer

Old legend says doctors marry doctors because no one else gets it.

I married a nurse. And it was brilliant. No medic-chat at home. Life felt lighter.

Then we had kids.

Holy mother of f***.

Suddenly we were bickering over everything — bottles, nappies, whose turn it was to be the Walking Dead.Turns out, everyone — medics or not — fights after kids.And if you are double-medic? Double the rotas, double the logistical hell.

Moral: Don’t choose your breeding partner based on "shift pattern compatibility." You’ll be knackered either way. Pick a teammate you can fist-bump after surviving the carnage.

Never Lose Sight of Your (New) Priorities

Being a junior doctor is like training for the Olympics.

You line up at the 100m sprint... gun fires... and you’re met with a pool, a horse, and 100 kilos of Edam cheese.

Welcome to parenting. No one is ready. You just improvise.

I pivoted careers — from Renal Reg to GP trainee — not because GP was "easier" (it isn’t), but because I needed a job that let me race the race I wanted to win: being a Dad.

Cue emotional vomiting noises.

Use Shared Experience Carefully

Sharing stories with other parents? Golden. Bitching with sleep-deprived colleagues? Healthy.

Sharing birth trauma war stories with your 23-year-old Tinder-surfing F1? Maybe not.

Sharing parenting experiences with patients? Tread very, very lightly.

It’s like Digoxin — therapeutic window is tiny.

You could accidentally offend, alienate, or worse — trigger someone whose experience doesn’t match yours.

Rule of thumb: Only use your war stories if it genuinely helps them, not you.

Baby Vests Pull Down, Not Up

See those flappy bits at the shoulders?They’re so you can pull the vest down off the baby during a poonami — not smear it up their back and into their hair.

You’re fucking welcome.

Sympathy is Between Sh*t and Syphilis in the Dictionary

I’ve got a jaded view on sympathy. It’s like morphine — amazing if you actually need it, utterly destructive if you OD on it.

Bottom line? No one will care that you're exhausted. Not really. Not even other parents.

Focus on relating, not whining. “Isn’t this all ridiculous?” > “Pity me.”

Save the real moaning for beers and late-night DMs.

They Need You — Not Half of You

Wise old consultant once told me:

"This place will run without you. Your family won’t. Don’t get confused about which needs you more."

I love my boys. I’ve changed careers, changed priorities, changed myself for them.

It’s exhausting.

It’s frustrating.

It’s the best thing I’ve ever done.

And if I had to? I’d do it all again.

Stay Positive.

— DW