The Meaning of Life - Mini Me

First marriage – then kids.

This seems to be another rule that is self-imposed upon the human race.

“So when are you gonna have kids then?” is a question that is asked to the bride and groom literally five seconds after the phrase “You may now kiss the bride.”

I never considered the possibility of fatherhood. I had no urge to procreate and, like marriage, it crept up on me and before I knew it I was a dad.

I still remember the day I was told.

“What?” I said, “Are you sure?”

I was the stereotypical father, the man who does not believe his wife when she tells him that a tiny explosion of life has begun within her. It was only when she started to throw up every morning for three weeks solid and then grow over the next nine months that I realised my life was about to change.

And it did.

Twice!

I have two kids – or should I say "adults" now.

And their resemblance to me is uncanny, which of course you would expect.

Through all the mayhem that descended when Stephen, my eldest was born, followed by even more pandemonium when my youngest was born, I discovered two things:

(a) I love kids

(b) I am a giant kid myself

I don’t want to dwell on the bad points of having kids (changing nappies at 3am, foul substances exploding out of every orifice – usually on me) - simply because the good points far outweigh them.

I discovered fairly quickly that the best way to deal with children is to become one yourself. And that is the easiest thing in the world for me.

Some people hate kids because they demand so much of your time. For me, however, although tiring, kids are terrific fun and are easily pleased.

I found myself rediscovering childhood toys and TV programmes that were quite entertaining. I knew everything about Thomas the Tank Engine, for example, and Stephen couldn’t understand why I laughed so much at a particular episode called Thomas Comes To Breakfast where a runaway Thomas crashes into the station master’s house. With the whole house wrecked, the station master’s wife says:

“You miserable engine! Just look what you’ve done to our breakfast! Now I shall have to cook some more!”

Not one word about the semi demolished house – only the breakfast.

And when it came to birthday parties, I joined in. One time, in our house, I was surrounded by around ten four year olds all screaming their heads off. The answer was simple. I did what I do best – devolved into a four year old child myself.

I got up out of my chair and knelt in the centre of the lounge.

“I bet that nobody can push me over!” I declared in a loud voice.

Before I could say anything else, all of them, as one, grabbed my arms, pushed me, pulled me and tried to knock me over. They giggled as they struggled, one lot of kids pulling one arm, the others pulling the other arm – competing against each other rather than me.

We all had a lot of fun.

All you need to do to have fun with kids is play silly games with them, draw silly pictures, build things, watch kiddy films - anything that kids love.

I love films like Toy Story and Shrek and I would never have seen them had it not been for the kids. In fact, I reckon I enjoyed them even more!

They are all good fun.

There is a part of me that is sad that my two lads are now grown up (Mike is 17 and Stephen is 20). Our relationship has changed and I still try to stay at their level even though they are now adults themselves.

Mrs PM calls them the clones and I can see why when I look at photos of us together. In fact, I am a clone of my dad too. When I look at photographs of him in the years just before he died, the similarity between us is almost spooky.

Ultimately that is the true appeal of children for me. They are an extension of yourself and when I see them growing up from babies, to toddlers, to boys, to teenagers and now to adults, I can see myself in them.

I know that when I am a cranky grumpy old cantankerous old git, I will still have a child within me somewhere. Hopefully I will also be able to see their kids start out in life too and I imagine that I might have to allow a bunch of four year old kids to try to drag me round the lounge again.

One thing is for sure, though; I will dig out that old episode of Thomas the Tank Engine and giggle with them again – even though my sons will almost certainly say:

“Dad, when are finally going to grow up?”

I can answer that now:

NEVER!!!

And for any "kids" out there - here is the episode I am talking about.

Over to you, dear reader.

Do you like kids?

How many have you got?

Are you a big kid yourself?

Childbirth - A Dad's View

I was poking around a few old directories on my desktop computer when I found a little piece I had written in 1993.

As I read it, I had to smile because it brought back bittersweet memories.

It was a small article I wrote about the birth of my eldest lad, Stephen.

At the time, I was married to my ex-wife, the mother of my two boys. I shall refer to her as W.

The memories conjured up by my words are bittersweet simply because I was overcome with joy at the birth of my first born child but, as you will no doubt have guessed, our marriage didn’t last and ended in some acrimony.

Nevertheless, both myself and W appear to have come to terms with those dark days and now we get along reasonably well. We both made a pact to put the boys ahead of anything else and, despite initial bitter recriminations we are philosophical about it all; we still continue to put the boys welfare above all else.

We split up almost twelve years ago – it seems like such a long time.

Anyway, I’m not one for dwelling on the past so I am going to use this post to show off my kids a little.

My eldest is Stephen and he is 17 – which incidentally makes me feel very old. My youngest lad is Michael and he is 14. Both of them are wonderful and I am so proud of them.

I find it very hard to treat them as adults and spend all of my time with them fooling around – so much in fact that I have been told to “grow up” on numerous occasions (you can read about it here). It is difficult for me to grasp that Stephen is 18 in June next year and will, hopefully, disappear off to university soon afterwards.

Anyway, here is the article I wrote and I apologise in advance to Stephen for this account of how he entered the world. He has been known to read this blog and even make the odd comment.

In my defence, at the time, I was almost certainly an absolute wreck, riding a rollercoaster of conflicting emotions. The experience obviously had a profound effect, hence my desire to get the words down way back in 1993.

Here's the article:

I thought that I was fully prepared for fatherhood until I walked in the house and found my wife, W, in labour. I had been to all of the ante-natal classes, read books on the subject and even seen a video of a birth. Naively, I believed that the delivery of our first child would be relatively straightforward and that I would easily be able to cope.

How wrong I was.

One of my main problems was seeing how uncomfortable W was. I understood that child birth could be painful but when I saw her, I didn’t know how to react. My original plan was to reassure her and calmly drive her to the hospital. What I could not predict was how I would feel about it. Rather than trying to comfort W, I found that I couldn’t think straight and spent a fruitless ten minutes rushing aimlessly around the house trying to sort everything out. In fact, W seemed more composed than I was and, in between contractions, helped me to organise everything.

Up until that point, I had felt as if I was not participating in the pregnancy. W had carried our baby for nine months and, although I had seen the baby grow and felt him kicking, I considered myself to be an outsider. After all, W had carried the baby, suffered from morning sickness and spent several uncomfortable months with backache and sleepless nights. My only contribution was to take over the housework and do the shopping. Now was the time when I would be involved and I was filled with apprehension.

When we arrived at the hospital, I was relieved that W was now in the hands of the experts, though I was still extremely nervous. We had a scare because W’s waters broke shortly after she had been examined for the first time. The baby became distressed and W was almost rushed into the operating theatre for an emergency Caesarean section. Fortunately the baby’s condition stabilised.

We started the long wait in the delivery room. A foetal monitor echoed the baby’s heart beat. It was the first time I had heard the rhythmic electronic pulse from the machine and it brought home to me the fact that there really was another member of our small family on the way.

In many ways, the waiting was the worst thing. The midwife told us that the baby would come when he was ready. I was hoping he would as impatient as I was and would make an early entrance.

W and I passed the time listening to music, reading and talking, although I have to confess that my mind was elsewhere throughout. I couldn’t help thinking about things which could go wrong and worrying about the condition of my wife and child. In contrast, W seemed remarkably at ease under the circumstances. I wondered how she could talk to me and smile during those long and painful hours.

Eventually, a midwife persuaded me to go and get something to eat. As I sat pushing my food aimlessly around the plate in the hospital canteen, I reflected on how the arrival of our child would change our lives. I wondered how we would cope with sleepless nights, bottles and teats and dirty nappies.

Had we got the right equipment?

Would I be able to hold the baby correctly?

How would we bathe him?

What if he became ill?

In the end anxiety won the battle over my appetite and I went back to the delivery room with half my meal untouched.

There were times when I thought that W was not getting the attention she needed. I felt that there should be somebody monitoring the situation constantly. However, when something did happen, the hospital staff were there in force. In what seemed like seconds, the delivery room was filled with doctors, anaesthetists, midwives and paediatricians. The moment seemed to have arrived.

Everybody in the room was playing an important role, that is, everyone except me. At that moment, I felt more inadequate than I have ever felt in my life. I was completely helpless, my only contribution being to hold W’s hand and look extremely worried.

W had wanted to give birth naturally but, when it came to the final push, the baby was just too big. The doctor said that an emergency caesarean section was necessary because the baby was becoming distressed again. Husbands can be present at these operations but because this was an emergency, I was told that I had to wait outside.

A midwife said “Say goodbye to your wife,”

And I did with tears in my eyes.

I’m sure the midwife didn’t mean to make it sound as if this was the last goodbye – but that’s the way her words registered when my addled mind tried to make sense of them.

All I could do was watch as W was wheeled into the operating theatre, the doors shutting behind her with a firm bang that seemed to confirm my mind’s interpretation of the situation.

I remember seeing old films with men pacing up and down the hospital corridor, chain-smoking packets of cigarettes while waiting for the nurse to come out with news of the birth. Looking back, I was just like those men, except I was guzzling glasses of blackcurrant juice rather than smoking. Every time a door opened I would whirl around thinking that the midwife was coming out to give me the news. I felt like the operation took two or three hours, when in reality it took probably half that amount of time.

Eventually the midwife led me into a small room to see my son for the first time. My first thought was that he looked pink and healthy, although his head was slightly misshapen and bruised. All I could do was stare at him with an inane grin on my face. The midwife told me that he was a big baby, weighing 8lbs 10oz, and asked what he would be called. W and I had disagreed about the name but at that moment I was so proud of her that I gave the midwife my wife’s choice: Stephen.

Shortly afterwards, I was allowed to hold Stephen while W recovered. All my fears about how to hold a baby were vanquished as I cradled Stephen in my arms. Wrapped in a blanket and wearing a little hat, Stephen looked at me and his surroundings with his big blue eyes. I held him close and spoke gently to him.

At that point I was the happiest man on earth and couldn’t wait for the next chapter in the life of our family.

Thankfully, Michael’s birth was far less traumatic. Because Stephen was born via an emergency caesarean section, Michael came into the world in a nice orderly planned caesarean section. I was there, in the operating theatre when it happened and there is nothing more to tell apart from my being so scared at the prospect of blood that I almost passed out.

Finally, I want to apologise once more to Stephen and now extend my apology to Michael.

Why?

Because I am going to publish a couple of embarrassing photographs below.


Stephen in the bath - as you can see, I gave him a great hairstyle.


Michael thought he had got away with it - how wrong he was.


Michael on the beach.


Stephen at his fifth birthday party.


Michael, Stephen and me at Blackpool in 2006.


Last year in Majorca - crikey I feel old!!

So, lads, if you are reading this, I'm really sorry for publishing a couple of embarrassing pictures.

I will grow up one day - honestly.

Dear Father Christmas

Dear Father Christmas,

My name is Dave and I am not a child any more (despite what you may have heard). Nevertheless, I hope that you listen to adults as well as children because I have something to say.

I thought it better to write to you rather than finding you in a shopping centre and having to queue up with the kids just to have a little chat. I wouldn’t want to appear to be any weirder than I already am.

Last time I encountered you in a shopping centre, I was a child and you had been on the ale; frankly your behaviour was disgraceful. You stank of alcohol and your speech was slurred. And this was a few days BEFORE Christmas Eve as well. All the children were disappointed. I remember asking myself; if he is this bad before Christmas Eve, what on earth is he going to be like on the big day itself?

I know for a fact that every household in the world leaves you a glass of sherry and a mince pie to help you on your way, which presumably explains why you are so overweight and drive a huge sleigh. Or perhaps you pass the alcohol to your head reindeer, you know the one with the big red beer-drinker’s nose.

I’m sure that you are risking the wrath of the local constabulary, being in charge of a sleigh under the influence of intoxicating substances. And surely, forcing a reindeer to consume liquor is contravening a major RSPCA regulation.

How do you get away with it?

Maybe the police just turn a blind eye to your antics because it’s Christmas Eve. After all, how popular would they be if they arrested Father Christmas for drunk driving and animal cruelty? What bad press would they get if they confiscated all of the Christmas presents for the entire world? Furthermore, what would all of the other nations think of the UK for holding Father Christmas in a cell?

It would appear that you are above the law. Whenever I visit another country, I have to present a passport and then explain to the sadistic and ill-tempered immigration officer why I am visiting his country. You can just fly in can’t you?

I’ll bet you’ve never been searched when entering Australia to see if you have any foodstuffs. I’ll bet you’ve never had a beagle sniffing your rucksack for biscuits. I’ll bet you don’t get the third degree when crossing the US border. No US immigration official demands YOUR fingerprints.

My fingerprints are probably in an FBI database now. Are yours? I seriously doubt it.

I can imagine that you probably pop in and out of Europe like a ghost. I’ll bet the Russians and Chinese are unaware that you are flying into their airspace.

Are you James Bond or Jason Bourne by any chance?

In fact, talking of names, I am wondering whether I am addressing this letter to the right person. Is your name really “Father Christmas” or is “Santa Claus”? I’ve often wondered why some people call you “Santa Claus” – is that you rock star name?

I know that Bonehead – er sorry – Bono of U2 has a huge enough ego to get away with calling himself a ridiculous name, but your so-called philanthropy is legendary. All Bono does is sing and then shout at his audience for not being as great as he is, and all this despite the fact they have paid huge sums of money to see his concerts. You simply turn up at every house in the world and give away presents to everybody.

Except you don’t do you?

As a child I used to think you were the best man on the planet. You turned up, once a year, and gave me lots of gifts for absolutely nothing. All that you asked in return was that I was a good boy.

I still recall that dark December day as a five year old when my nan told me off for being cheeky to my mum. You see, Santa (or whatever you real name is), I have always been mischievous, rude and defiant. As a child I always wondered why grown-ups shouted at me. I’m not deaf you know.

But then that fateful day came when my nan said:

“If you don’t button your lip, Father Christmas won’t bring you any presents”.

I laughed and said “Yes he will. He’s a kind old man and he comes to visit me every year with lots of presents.”

“He doesn’t give presents to NAUGHTY children,” she countered with a stern look on her face.

I was five years old and I crumbled.

“I didn’t mean to be naughty,” I cried. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise to me,” she said.

“I’m sorry mummy,” I cried.

“Don’t apologise to me,” said my mum. “Apologise to Father Christmas.”

“He’s not here,” I said.

“He’s up the chimney,” said my nan.

Like a complete lemon, I sat in front of the gasfire and cried “I’m sorry Father Christmas,” as tears ran down my little cherubic cheeks. “Please bring me some presents.”

I took every opportunity to apologise to Father Christmas right up until Christmas Eve. My dad saw me shouting up the chimney and thought I’d gone mad.

“Father Christmas, I’ve been a good boy today. I’ve tidied up for mummy and I’ve behaved myself for daddy.”

“What’s going on?” whispered my dad to my mum.

“Shush,” she replied. “He’s been as good as gold since we threatened him with no presents from Father Christmas”.

I had been had. I was a victim of a cruel joke. I fell for it hook, line and sinker. I was a complete idiot. I didn’t know any better.

And it was all your fault, Santa Claus (or whatever your name is).

Because of you, my mother lied to me.

Because of you my father lied to me. Here’s another lie he told me:

“How can Father Christmas get all around the world in one night?” I asked once.

“He has a very fast car,” my dad lied.

“And how does he get to America then?”

“He also has a very fast aircraft.”

“And how does he get down the chimney when there’s a gas fire?”

“Magic!!”

Now I’m older I realise that you don’t make all the presents yourself, or even buy them; you are just a delivery boy. I have to buy the bloody presents for my kids and somehow you get the bloody credit.

All you are is a glorified postman.

And what’s worse – you are a burglar as well. You come round to my house every single Christmas Eve and break in; I don’t leave you a key or leave any windows open. I haven’t exactly double checked whether anything gets stolen but I do know this: you leave presents and my bank balance collapses like a house of cards.

When you visit, I get robbed. Last year we could have blamed it on those bankers but I bet you were in cahoots with them.

And you are lazy too. After your one night’s work, you bugger off back to the North Pole or wherever it is you drag your drunken bulk and then you go to bed and sleep until December next year. That must be some bloody hangover!

How on earth do you get away with that? Haven’t the inland revenue caught up with you yet?

How in blue blazes do you manage it?

As you can see from the tone of my letter, I have issues. Let me summarise:

You are a lying, drunken bandit, masquerading as a philanthropist when in reality you are just a glorified thieving delivery boy. You are a lazy fat bugger who works just one night a year, apart from the odd day when, drunk on beer and wine, you allow little kids to sit on your lap and intoxicate them with your fetid breath.

You cause parents to lie to children, you humiliate those children and then you rob the parents. You eat and drink so much in your one night of drunken debauchery that it is a miracle you can crowbar your blubbery body through any door in world, let alone squeeze your fat flabby beer-filled belly down a chimney.

You use aliases to keep one step ahead of the police; you drive while intoxicated and you break the immigration laws of every single country on the planet.

And you are cruel to animals.

I’ve found you out. I really should report you.

However, I still recall my dear old nan. She never ever lied to me. This year I have been a good Plastic Mancunian and I have not been naughty at all.

Can I have a Ferrari for Christmas?

Yours

The Plastic Mancunian.