As babies, both my son and daughter flirted daily with being asked to pack their bags and GET OUT. The house was littered with boarding-school prospectuses, adoption brochures and “How to dispose of an infant via the waste disposal” instruction booklets. They weren’t bad kids, per se, but man, they were annoying. For “were,” replace “are;” for “are,” replace “AAARRGH.”

Shut your mouth
My son started the ball rolling two years ahead of his then-yet-to-be-(ill)-conceived sister. He’d obviously been watching reruns of The Exorcist while in the womb, as from the moment he was dragged screaming from my wife’s ladypocket, he took to projectile vomiting on an industrial scale. The local doctor prescribed Gaviscon; the local priest prescribed Jesus and refused to enter the house.

In one particular instance, my boy threw up into my open mouth as I held him aloft at a friend’s wedding. In my haste to relocate the spewing child I was holding above my head, I lost my grip. To the casual onlooker, it may have appeared as though I threw him to the ground in disgust. As if I smashed him to the floor like a plate at a Greek wedding. Now that is how you upstage a beautiful bride.

I wrote my own vows on that day. I vowed to perform a self-vasectomy as soon as I got home. Two years later, my second child was born.

My daughter upped the little-shit ante by being born with only one eye on the living-room floor. I don’t know what upset me more: An unexpected Cyclops for a baby or the newly stained wooden floors being flooded with nine months of my wife’s insides.

I inadvertently offended the midwife by mopping around her as she attempted to rebuild my wife’s exploded vagina. Apparently, the sewing of a shredded fru-fru needs a ‘very steady hand’ and being nudged by a dickhead with a bucket is ‘not helpful’.

Turns out the floor could withstand a gallon of afterbirth, and that my daughter had two eyes and was in fact simply engaged in the world’s longest newborn-baby wink.

Originally my wife didn’t want children and had to be persuaded (with wine) to have one. After we’d had one, she decided she loved it and persuaded me (with wine) to have another. Now we have two children, she wants three, and I don’t want any. The mathematics of marriage, right there, people. Add it all up and divide by booze.

I still drink wine but do so locked in the garage. One cannot risk being caught unawares and drunk by a women hellbent on a third child. I have a turncoat for a penis. He is terribly persuadable.

So for now, there are four in Da House, and so shall it be, at least while I’m in charge of my genitals. To be honest, there is little else I am in charge of nowadays. Life is not what it was. Fatherhood redresses the balance. Being a dad changes you in ways you cannot imagine. You see things and do things that will haunt you.

Dirty protest
The other day I inducted my daughter into peeing in the garden on a sunny day—one of life’s simple pleasures. It’s a tradition. It all started last summer while I was trying to encourage my boy to stand up and pee like a man. (He had a penchant for the lady-sit). As we stood side-by-side in the backyard I was filled with pride, until he turned to speak to me and pissed all over my shoes.

So, not wishing to treat my children differently or play to gender stereotypes, I took my daughter into the garden to bond in the same time-honored fashion. As I held her over the geraniums and encouraged her to be at one with nature, she promptly shat onto my left flip-flop. I did not see that coming. I don’t know why?

The soft, warm thud took me by surprise and without thinking, I lifted her up over my head to look at my feet. As I gazed down at the steaming plonk now balanced on my flip–flopped-foot, an ocean of urine cascaded down my shirt sleeves.

I shouted for my wife and stood there, frozen in time like a dirty protest waiting to be rescued. I vowed for a second time to castrate myself at my earliest convenience. STUPID COCK AND BALLS.

Being a father is tricky, yo. You do what you can. What else can you do? You turn up and you do your best. You try to learn from your mistakes. You carry wet wipes and become accustomed to accusatory stares. The important bit is that you keep turning up, even though everyone thinks that you’re a dickhead and you worry that you’ll never earn enough money to pay for your children’s therapy bills.

FYI: Number three is on its way – STUPID COCK AND BALLS!