In case you weren’t aware, I happen to be a dad. And not just any old dad, but a proud dad. I’m proud because I played my part in creating another human being, and that sets me apart from all the other dads out there. Sure, I know their errant sperms also fertilised eggs, but not in the way mine did. Mine was different because it - she - isn’t like all the rest. She’s special. And in proudly believing that my child is superior to all others, I must surely be unique. Of course, raising a hyperactive, destructive, rampaging toddler - even one as adorable as mine - brings with it its own problems; no sleep and not enough sex, screaming tantrums (not least from girlfriends peeved at the paucity of sleep and sex) and of course dirty nappies. But I’m not here to whine about the trials and tribulations of being a father. After all, I have it on good authority that my parents went through exactly the same rigmarole with me. Admittedly, I don’t recall any of my supposed brattishness, but I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt, and say for the sake of argument that they did change my nappies and mollify my tantrums. In selflessly doing the same for my own progeny, that doesn’t make me dad of the year.
It’s a fact of life that shit happens, but when you’ve got a baby, shit³ happens. Several times a day. Thankfully it’s not all bad however; in fact to my surprise, it’s mostly all good. Remember Listitis, the weekly themed list I began in The Trash Whore Diaries while in prison? Well today it’s back, featuring a compendium of my top reasons for having a baby...
1. You get to use the Parent & Child parking spaces at supermarkets. OK, so you can use them anyway as customers are not obliged to undergo biological testing to certify their paternity, but now that I’m a bona fide dad with brat in tow, I can use Parent & Child parking without getting glared at by irate mothers. They should really be thanking me for forcing them to park further away, thereby walking off some of their excess baby fat, but for some reasons the stroppy bitches don’t see it like that. And frankly, I’ve no desire to incur their wrath. They’d most likely reverse over me several times and then escape a murder rap by citing post-natal depression.
2. You’ve always got a packet of baby wipes on standby. For cleaning cum off your dick; for cleaning cum off your girlfriend’s tits; for cleaning cum of her sister’s ass before the family dog wakes up and tries to lick it off. The possible uses for baby wipes are endless. Oh, and supposedly they’re pretty good for cleaning babies’ pooey bottoms with too. Who’d have thunk it?
3. You get chatted up by MILFs in coffee shops. Picture the scene: you walk into Books & Beans with the bairn in tow and locate the table with the high chair, only to discover that a yummy mummy has beaten you to it. You’re just turning to go when she calls out; ‘Here, we can share the table if you like.’ The next thing you know, she’s whipped out a portable baby seat, made from an apron tied around a chair, and the four of you have begun bonding over baby food. One minute you’re asking how old her kid is; the next you’ve ascertained that she’s eating alone because her man’s always working abroad, leaving her with kids to raise and itches to be scratched. As an icebreaker, babies are truly indispensable; after being flashed a cutesy smile and high-pitched ‘Hiya!’ from my butter-wouldn't-melt bairn, even the frostiest of MILFs can’t help but crack a smile and thus acknowledge the fuckable father pushing the pram. They don’t say it but I know what they’re thinking; ‘If I play my cards right, his perfect DNA could be making me a beautiful baby just like that.’ And they don’t know it but I’m thinking almost exactly the same thing…only in my fantasy, the sperm doesn’t end up in their uterus. It sure as hell ends up everywhere else though.
4. Chicks on the bus flash you knowing smiles. As I explained in January 3rd’s blog, ‘After somehow completing the Byzantine task of lifting pram, pram cover, shoulder bag and baby on and off the bus, I realised that I had developed a newfound appreciation for Heather Mills. It’s hard enough holding a baby and buggy, but to do so while hopping onto a bus with a prosthetic limb tucked under one arm? I couldn’t do it if you paid me. Although if you paid me £20million then, like Heather, I suppose I could give it a shot.’ What I didn’t explain was that there is one small advantage to lifting your baby onto a bus, plonking her down in the aisle and then returning to stow the buggy and pay the driver: by the time you’ve climbed the stairs onto the gangway, the bairn has trotted off towards the back of the bus in that cute, wide-eyed loping way that only babies can. (Or that only my baby can anyway.) In the process, the tot has attracted doting smiles from all onboard - old ladies, skater boys and hot chicks. Upon catching sight of me - the lone parent - struggling manfully onto the bus, their looks turn from adoring to sympathetic; 'Look at that poor boy - a single father, reduced to bringing up that cute wee bairn on his own. How could the mother walk out on them like that?' I can’t bring myself to tell them that mumsy is at home sleeping any more than I can bring myself to tell mumsy that all the women on the bus - old ladies included - want to mother my baby and smother my baby face between their heaving bosoms.
5. You get second helpings of everything. Every meal your baby can’t finish - porridge, pasta and mum’s milky paps - is yours to dispose of as you see fit. And we’re not talking leftover soggy seconds here - we’re talking the finest organic food that looks even finer than the luxury cat food that used to make my mouth water so much when I watched the Sheeba ads while in jail.
And that’s about all the reasons I can think of for having a baby, but what reasons! Free Parent & Child Parking, limitless baby wipes, second helpings of dinner and admiring glances from MILFs? It almost makes the ensuing 18 years of penury and teenage tantrums worthwhile. I’m not saying you should go out there and start trying to make babies on the strength of the above incentives, but it’s comforting to know that should you ever find yourself getting fast and furious without a connie, having vowed to pull out at the last moment, but it feels so warm and wet you just can’t bring yourself to disengage, well, it’s not all bad. Parenting isn’t a chore - it’s an investment. Get it right and they’ll pay to put you in a nice nursing home in 40 years time. Get it wrong and they’ll kill you for your inheritance.
It’s a fact of life that shit happens, but when you’ve got a baby, shit³ happens. Several times a day. Thankfully it’s not all bad however; in fact to my surprise, it’s mostly all good. Remember Listitis, the weekly themed list I began in The Trash Whore Diaries while in prison? Well today it’s back, featuring a compendium of my top reasons for having a baby...
1. You get to use the Parent & Child parking spaces at supermarkets. OK, so you can use them anyway as customers are not obliged to undergo biological testing to certify their paternity, but now that I’m a bona fide dad with brat in tow, I can use Parent & Child parking without getting glared at by irate mothers. They should really be thanking me for forcing them to park further away, thereby walking off some of their excess baby fat, but for some reasons the stroppy bitches don’t see it like that. And frankly, I’ve no desire to incur their wrath. They’d most likely reverse over me several times and then escape a murder rap by citing post-natal depression.
2. You’ve always got a packet of baby wipes on standby. For cleaning cum off your dick; for cleaning cum off your girlfriend’s tits; for cleaning cum of her sister’s ass before the family dog wakes up and tries to lick it off. The possible uses for baby wipes are endless. Oh, and supposedly they’re pretty good for cleaning babies’ pooey bottoms with too. Who’d have thunk it?
3. You get chatted up by MILFs in coffee shops. Picture the scene: you walk into Books & Beans with the bairn in tow and locate the table with the high chair, only to discover that a yummy mummy has beaten you to it. You’re just turning to go when she calls out; ‘Here, we can share the table if you like.’ The next thing you know, she’s whipped out a portable baby seat, made from an apron tied around a chair, and the four of you have begun bonding over baby food. One minute you’re asking how old her kid is; the next you’ve ascertained that she’s eating alone because her man’s always working abroad, leaving her with kids to raise and itches to be scratched. As an icebreaker, babies are truly indispensable; after being flashed a cutesy smile and high-pitched ‘Hiya!’ from my butter-wouldn't-melt bairn, even the frostiest of MILFs can’t help but crack a smile and thus acknowledge the fuckable father pushing the pram. They don’t say it but I know what they’re thinking; ‘If I play my cards right, his perfect DNA could be making me a beautiful baby just like that.’ And they don’t know it but I’m thinking almost exactly the same thing…only in my fantasy, the sperm doesn’t end up in their uterus. It sure as hell ends up everywhere else though.
4. Chicks on the bus flash you knowing smiles. As I explained in January 3rd’s blog, ‘After somehow completing the Byzantine task of lifting pram, pram cover, shoulder bag and baby on and off the bus, I realised that I had developed a newfound appreciation for Heather Mills. It’s hard enough holding a baby and buggy, but to do so while hopping onto a bus with a prosthetic limb tucked under one arm? I couldn’t do it if you paid me. Although if you paid me £20million then, like Heather, I suppose I could give it a shot.’ What I didn’t explain was that there is one small advantage to lifting your baby onto a bus, plonking her down in the aisle and then returning to stow the buggy and pay the driver: by the time you’ve climbed the stairs onto the gangway, the bairn has trotted off towards the back of the bus in that cute, wide-eyed loping way that only babies can. (Or that only my baby can anyway.) In the process, the tot has attracted doting smiles from all onboard - old ladies, skater boys and hot chicks. Upon catching sight of me - the lone parent - struggling manfully onto the bus, their looks turn from adoring to sympathetic; 'Look at that poor boy - a single father, reduced to bringing up that cute wee bairn on his own. How could the mother walk out on them like that?' I can’t bring myself to tell them that mumsy is at home sleeping any more than I can bring myself to tell mumsy that all the women on the bus - old ladies included - want to mother my baby and smother my baby face between their heaving bosoms.
5. You get second helpings of everything. Every meal your baby can’t finish - porridge, pasta and mum’s milky paps - is yours to dispose of as you see fit. And we’re not talking leftover soggy seconds here - we’re talking the finest organic food that looks even finer than the luxury cat food that used to make my mouth water so much when I watched the Sheeba ads while in jail.
And that’s about all the reasons I can think of for having a baby, but what reasons! Free Parent & Child Parking, limitless baby wipes, second helpings of dinner and admiring glances from MILFs? It almost makes the ensuing 18 years of penury and teenage tantrums worthwhile. I’m not saying you should go out there and start trying to make babies on the strength of the above incentives, but it’s comforting to know that should you ever find yourself getting fast and furious without a connie, having vowed to pull out at the last moment, but it feels so warm and wet you just can’t bring yourself to disengage, well, it’s not all bad. Parenting isn’t a chore - it’s an investment. Get it right and they’ll pay to put you in a nice nursing home in 40 years time. Get it wrong and they’ll kill you for your inheritance.
