Happy BlogDay, Son

On Monday, we celebrated seven years since

The day when (with rather more than a wince)

My wife gave birth to our eldest son

Her oven pushed forth a small wrinkly bun

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It’s fair to say we expected a girl

But everything happened in so much of a whirl

It took me a while to realise with joy

That our first ever baby, was actually a boy

My wife is a teacher at an all-boys school

And during her pregnancy set a strict rule

To avoid the names of some kids who she taught

Which made it quite tough, but after some thought

There was one we agreed on, so we told the midwives

That Oliver Martin had entered our lives

He was cleaned and weighed, an outfit arranged

Then I had my first cuddle, and everything changed

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I cried like a girl, I’ll gladly admit

Overcome with emotion, and scared half to shit

I was now responsible (along with my wife)

For the safety and wellbeing of this tiny life

As I sat there, proudly holding my lad

All I could think was “Fuck me, I’m a Dad!”

I’m sure that I speak for my wife and I, when

I say that it’s been quite the whirlwind since then

There’s been feeding, and screaming, and teething, and naps

Not to mention all manner and colour of craps

He learned to crawl, and then stand, and then walk, and then run

And before we knew it he’d gone and turned one

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Now here we are six more years along

It’s fair to say that I’ve got some things wrong

But I try the very best to do what I can

To raise a polite, well-mannered and respectful young man

He’s handsome and clever; he’s wacky and fun

I couldn’t be prouder to call him my son

He supports Stockport County, just like his Dad

But this particular Hatter, is especially mad

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There is honestly no feeling that I enjoy more

Than seeing his face light up when County score

We’ve shared joy and elation, disappointment and tears

(He even ignores all the swearing he hears)

I know that his childhood won’t always last

But it’s sad to think how he’s growing up fast

It’s his last year in Infants; done his first SATs exam

Match of the Day is his favourite programme

He’s learning guitar, and just lost his first tooth

I wish life could slow down, to tell you the truth

But for now, I’ll just watch him, and try to enjoy

The years we have left while he’s my little boy

It might seem quite soppy, but I’m just trying to say

How proud I am of him (in my own unique way)

Oliver Martin, you are second-to-none

So, this blog is for you…

Happy Birthday, son.

 

 

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Every Blog Has His Day

Last Sunday, as I am sure you are already aware, was Father’s Day. If you weren’t already aware, then it’s probably too late to get him a card now, and you’ve got some making up to do.

Like Mother’s Day, this has become an opportunity for card manufacturers to cash in, so I was especially chuffed to see that my boys had in fact made their own cards for me. This meant a lot more to me than a purchased sentiment about how awesome I am. I mean, I am fucking awesome, don’t get me wrong, but I would rather they told me that in their own words (without swearing like their old man, naturally).

Having said that, I don’t think Father’s Day is as commercial as Mother’s Day. Ok, the card manufacturers still rub their hands together with glee for both occasions, but the florists and chocolatiers aren’t quite as enthused about the Dads. Whereas Mother’s Day is all about the bouquets, afternoon teas and boxes of chocolates, Father’s Day is much more simple: pub and an afternoon nap. Sorted.

Now, my wife would argue there is nothing special about a trip to the pub and an afternoon nap, bearing in mind this is my masterplan for most Sundays, but there is one subtle difference on Father’s Day – she isn’t allowed to complain about it. Not that she ever does anyway, but it’s nice to know I have the fall-back position of relying on my ‘get out of jail free’ card, if she does start to grumble about the fact my ‘nap’ has now entered its third hour – which is more sleep than she usually gets all night: it’s my special day, so I should be able to do what I want.

Father’s Day is a time for remembering the menfolk of the world, including those Dads and Grandads who are sadly no longer with us. I don’t think any of us would dare to suggest we have it harder than the mums, but that doesn’t mean we have it easy either. Being a Dad can be a tough job, and I sometimes wish that the naff greetings cards the likes of Clintons churn out would reflect that.

So, with that in mind, I’ve had a go at writing my own poem about being a Dad. Enjoy.

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Being a Dad can be tricky

Being a Dad can be tough

You’re supposed to stop swearing and farting

And walking around in the buff

 

That first ever cuddle is amazing

I cried like a girl, I’ll admit

But the novelty starts to wear off

When you’re up to your elbows in shit

 

Babies only come with three settings

There’s ‘sleep’ and then ‘crap’ and then ‘cry’

And you’ll never predict which one’s coming

No matter how hard you might try

 

The stuff babies need is astounding

I must have spent thousands of pounds

And believe me when I say that a ‘breast pump’

Is not nearly as sexy as it sounds

 

It all starts with the changing of nappies

Cleaning bottoms of numerous poos

Then before you know it they’re walking

And you’re spending a fortune on shoes

 

Their first word is a magical moment

That first ‘Daddy’ will make you choke up

But wait ‘til a month or so later

And you’ll be wishing they’d shut the fuck up

 

You’ll know every ‘Peppa Pig’ character

Want to tear Nanny Plum limb from limb

If you’re lucky you’ll avoid Justin Fletcher

(there’s something seriously not right about him)

 

Before you know it, you’re having another

“Maybe this time we’ll get it right?”

Only later, you realise that’s bollocks

As you cry yourself to sleep every night

 

Child number two is a nightmare

Doesn’t sleep, likes to fight, is a pain

And you make a promise with your partner

There’s no way that you’ll do this again

 

Kiss goodbye to relaxing holidays

A night out? That’s a thing of the past

The house you were once so proud of

Now resembles a nuclear blast

 

You’ll be knackered and struggle to function

Find it tricky to even converse

As you pray that brown stain is just chocolate

And not something so very worse

 

But for every night with no sleep

There’s a day when they just melt your heart

There’s a giggle, a hug and a kiss

For each scream and explosive fart

 

Each shirt ruined by vomit or wee spray

Is paid for by a wonderful smile

Getting handmade cards from your boys

Makes the whole bloody thing so worthwhile

 

Show your kids just how much you adore them

Don’t waste time being grumpy or sad

Ok, it’s not the easiest job ever

But it’s the best damn job I’ve ever had.

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