The Day the Octopus Became a Father

The Decision-Making Octopus, Part II

Read The Decision-Making Octopus — an 8-part series about internal chaos, emotional sabotage, and showing up anyway.
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← Read Part I: The Decision-Making Octopus

Okay, so here’s the problem:

Up until now, your Octopus was doing okay. Not great - just sort of flailing its way through life like an over-caffeinated air traffic controller with too many screens and no training.

But then someone hands it a baby.

And that’s when the entire internal system breaks down.

Because suddenly the Octopus isn’t just in charge of your job, or your social battery, or whether or not to text back that one friend who’s weirdly intense about BBQs. It’s now in charge of a tiny human.

A human with no instructions.
No off switch.
And a face that looks at you like you're supposed to know what you’re doing.

Which you don’t.

Welcome to the Emotional Control Room

Imagine your head is a submarine.
The Octopus lives in the control room. It has eight levers - one for each of its major instincts.

When something important happens, it pulls multiple levers at once. When something life-changing happens, like becoming a parent, it panics and yanks all of them simultaneously.

This is what that looks like:

The First Time the Octopus Looks Down

There’s this moment where you’re holding your newborn and the room is quiet, and you realise:

“They’re not going to remember this. But I will.”

And you think:

• Don’t mess it up.
• Don’t drop them.
• Don’t breathe too loudly.
• Maybe I’ll just stand here forever holding them so nothing bad ever happens.

This is what the Octopus calls a rational plan.

The Battle Between Protection and Preparation

Here’s the first trap of fatherhood:
You want to protect them from everything.
But you also want them to be strong enough to face the things you can’t protect them from.

Which puts you in a weird philosophical cul-de-sac where you find yourself wondering if letting your kid fall off a bike is an act of love or negligence.

So what do you do?

You protect them badly.
And prepare them awkwardly.
At the same time.

Usually while overreacting to the wrong things and underreacting to the things that actually matter.

“You can’t say poo at the table, also please tell me if you’re ever lonely in a way you don’t have words for.”

Legacy: The Haunted Word

Legacy sounds like something grand.
In practice, it’s mostly just guilt with a decent haircut.

At some point you realise you're not just raising a child - you’re transferring a blueprint.
One that includes all your code - bugs, patches, and unresolved grief.

You start hearing things come out of your mouth that don’t feel like you wrote them.
Phrases that smell like old wallpaper.
Reactions that feel borrowed.

It’s not your fault. It’s just the Ghost Tentacle doing its job.

But it rattles you.

Because the thing you swore you'd never become is hiding in your voice. And the Octopus doesn't know how to delete that file.

Apology Loops and Emotional CCTV

The Guilt Tentacle is relentless.
Every moment is recorded, replayed, dissected.

• The raised voice.
• The distracted scroll.
• The not-listening when you should have been listening.
• The sigh you didn’t mean to sigh.

Each one gets its own playback.
Each one ends with: “They deserved better.”

Which is how you end up saying “I’m sorry” at bedtime more often than you say “Goodnight.”

But Then They Still Love You

This is where the Octopus malfunctions completely.

Because despite everything… they still reach for you.
Even after the sigh.
Even after the snapped “hang on a second.”
Even after the weird silence you didn’t know how to fix.

They still climb into your lap.
Still ask for your help.
Still hold out their toast like it’s currency and communion all at once.

And that triggers something in you.

Because they don’t want the version of you that’s figured it all out.
They want the one who stays in the room.

The Real Job

It’s not about being perfect.
It’s about being present.

It’s about trying again after every quiet disaster.

It’s watching the Octopus flail and whispering, “You’re still here. Keep going.”

It’s letting the levers settle.
Just for a minute.

So you can sit beside the kid.
And love them.
Not with words.
But with you, showing up again.

Part II of The Decision-Making Octopus series.
Read the full Octopus series →
Next up: The Octopus Tries to Love →