|The G in her favourite hat.....|
That said, from time to time an insurmountable obstacle is encountered, a task that, as hard as we might try, men just can't complete quite as well as women.
Breastfeeding, for instance, that's one big ask for a man. I'm glad that that particular stage has passed.
The one that's getting me at this moment is time is dealing with The G's hair.
You see, men and little girls' hair just don't go together.
I've got clips and bands and grips galore, but I have no idea what to do with them.
For one thing, as The B likes to remind me, I don't have hair.
"I don't want hair like yours when I get bigger, I want hair like Mummy's," he said to me the other day.
The B I can handle, the clippers, number two attachment, Marine-style buzz-cut, job done.
The G? She's a different matter. Her hair has a life of its own.
No matter what I do, her hair is always mop-like and messy, long and thick, strands sticking out at all angles, conceivable and otherwise, like an impenetrable crash helmet plonked rudely atop her head.
Where most girls have hair, The G has straw. I've never met anyone able to look more like a scarecrow, it must be said.
The G doesn't mind her astonishing appearance. Bald for so long, she's enjoying her hair, that much I can understand.
Earlier this week, it was at its all-time worst, the combination of soft-play sweats, the windiest of days, a 90 minute nap beneath a nice, thick duvet and an afternoon spent at a coastal playground conspiring to give her the punkiest of appearances.
In such situations there's just one thing for it: a good dunking in the bath.
Behind closed doors I can just about cope, but in the outside world, I lose control as her neatly-combed and styled hair is transformed from the moment we leave the house into a bad bouffant and beyond.
It's an 'awkward, in-between stage', The W tells me.
It's not long until woolly hat season and it can't come soon enough.