I’m not asking for an Oscar. I’m not asking for Jennifer Lawrence to chuck herself up some stairs in a dress that looks like it should be worn by one of those toilet roll dolls that sit on my great aunt’s cistern. I’m not asking for a shrivelled up Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway to announce the wrong winner (I mean, what were we expecting from a pair of prunes with a collective age of 160?). I’m not even asking for a streaker - although that would be the most excitement I’ve had in a while…
I’m not asking for anything when it comes to being a freelance dad, because I know that I won’t get it. I bet you’re thinking, ‘oh boo hoo. This privileged white male is upset that he doesn’t get a gold star on his homework at the end of the day.’ Well, no. But a foot massage would be nice.
I’m kidding, of course - nobody would ever want to go near my feet after a day’s work - however, just a little percentage of your consideration would suffice.
First up, let me talk to you about what it means to be freelance. For all you naive prats who think I shoot a couple of weddings a year, then spend the rest of the time drinking espresso martinis, you’d be right. But only about the espresso martinis. See, there’s something that people don’t tell you about being self-employed, and it’s that there aren’t enough espresso martinis in the world to be able to keep you sane while you’re on your third 14-hour working day of the week.
You can imagine how this experience of freelance work differs from the view of 20-year-old Avi, who thought that people who worked for themselves slept all day, boozed it up all night, and occasionally clicked a shutter release button. I wish I could say that money would rain down from the sky into my lap, like dollar bills at a strip club, but that’s not the case. And I can’t find my platform heels and nipple tassels from my glory days, so I can’t revisit that money-making opportunity again.
After you’ve managed to wipe that image from your mental hard drive, let me tell you about what it means to be a dad. I guess, in 2019, being a dad is a lot different to how it was fifty years ago. Or maybe even 10 years ago, for those who couldn’t get with the times.
My wife and I share responsibilities, from trying to convince our son to stay away from the kid called Mason with the earring during school pick-ups, to packing a kickass lunch that makes our daughter’s friends jealous, to quality-time divided between working out how to operate an Xbox controller and pretending to be a purple unicorn called Frank (I do a much better unicorn impression than my wife, by the way. She needs to step up her game).
Now, on the subject of my wife, let me tell you about life as a husband. In between being a unicorn and driving to and from school (not at the same time - it’s hard to drive with hooves), I manage to see my wife for around two hours a day. During that time, I’m either too tired to stay awake for Mindhunter (her choice) or Strictly Come Dancing (my choice), to talk, or do anything else. And even then, I’ll get a text from a client who’s suddenly had an epiphany about props for their pre-shoot. It might be romantic for them, but it’s certainly not for me. Or my wife, who’s trying to burn a hole in my head with her eyes as I pick up my phone for the 50th time that night. I’m lucky that we have an understanding relationship; just as she understands that, for me, work never stops, I understand that she always eats Nutella straight out of the jar with a teaspoon and puts it back in the cupboard (don’t tell her, but I have my own jar stashed in my office).
Despite all the advice against combining these aspects of my life - being a dad, husband and freelancer - I usually find myself being all three at the same time. I went on a holiday with my family a couple of months ago, for the first time in what feels like forever, and I was still allocating around 15% for clients, just in case they wanted to confirm that awful prop selection. But I didn’t mind. The one great thing about working for myself is that, instead of answering emails at my desk, I can answer emails while turning lobster-red on a lilo in Tijuana, sipping on my third obligatory afternoon gin.
I’m really not asking for any prize, at the end of the day. I know that I won’t have to prepare an awful acceptance speech for the Freelance Dad Awards 2019, because there isn’t one. However, a little recognition on behalf of myself and all other freelance dads would be just swell.