Blamange

A lot of my friends have kids. The most natural thing in the world. Its been done since time begun. In fact, in the most obvious statement ever committed to the world wide web, it perpetuates time itself. If it wasn’t done, none of us would be here.

I haven’t done it, yet. That I’m aware of anyway. I’d like to. At least I think I’d like to. I’ve seen stuff recently that makes me question if I’d be able to cope with the trials and tribulations that is parenthood.

Would I have the patience? Would I be able to make my daughter feel better when she fell and scraped her knee. Suppose my son crayoned all over the kitchen wall? Could I keep my cool?

All that of course is getting way ahead of itself. Before any of that there is the trauma of pregnancy (I am aware that ‘I’ wouldn’t carry the baby.) Then the sleepless nights, the unexplained caterwauling and constant fear that something will go wrong and it will be all my fault.

These are all valid questions and I know every potential parent suffers this type of doubts. As someone who is not expecting a bundle of joy anytime soon, I don’t think I’m the appropriate person to delve into the mysteries of impending parenthood. I do think I am equipped to look at something that is never spoken about.

It might make some of you uncomfortable to read. I might even be putting myself at risk with this dangerous expose. The New World Order will not be happy about it and may attempt to silence me but I can hold my tongue no longer. I’m here to show the world what parenthood truly is. A Cult.

Ok, I gone a bit far there. I don’t think the Rockefellers or the Lizard people are too interested in my blog. And I do know that its not really a cult. In the same way that the Catholic Church is a legitimate religion. Numbers. There are just too many parents out there for it to be classified as a cult.

When did I first realise the underlying secrets of having offspring. I think I first noticed that something was amiss a couple of years ago. I worked in a fairly small office with maybe twelve or thirteen people. A lot of these people were parents or expecting. A lot of the conversation was driven by not they were doing but by what their child was doing. It was never about what they did at the weekend. It was about juniors visit to the doctor.

They spoke a language I didn’t really understand. IgglePiggle, PeppaPig and BenTen. I have no idea what any of that means. I can assume that it was some kind of incantation they use to appease the overlord of all things ‘Family.’

And then I look at my friends and how they have changed. People who used to be into music. Proper music. Bands with clever lyrics, good tunes and some kind of credibility. Now they go to Jedward concerts and buy Hannah Montana merchandise. And what is this iCarly thing. It gets 11.2 million viewers in the state. The highest rating for any tv programme at primetime, including programmes like Heroes and 24.

A friend of mine recently cancelled meeting up for a few drinks because he had to get up early the next morning to drive his son to a birthday party in Wicklow. Let me see if I understand this correctly. He was going to drive to a different county so that his seven year old could eat some cake and see a clown?

For a start, what kind of selfish asshole has a kids party in a different county to the one where the kid goes to school. And then they invite all the other kids in the school so that if one kid doesn’t go he is some kind of pariah. And just because you have a kid and I have a kid, why the fuck does that mean I have to go to your house.

This is definitely the biggest drawback of being a parent that I can see. The way it seems to work is because you spawned an off spring in the same year as a someone else, you now have something in common. That means you now have to be friendly with people who you wouldn’t give the time of day to a couple of years ago. You invite these people over for dinner. Share a glass of wine with them. And why? So you can share tips on where to get the best bargains in school shoes.

Maybe that’s more of a problem with me. I’m not really a people person. I try and mostly I get by quite well in social situations. But that’s of my choosing. I decide who I want to be around. Now I have to be around people because my 3ft financial drain likes playing transformers with their 3ft financial drain?

That’s another thing. Suppose you just don’t click with your kid. I mean, there are lot of jerks out there in the world. They are all somebody’s kid. What if they are yours. I guess kids are kind of like farts. Everyone loves and is proud of their own.

Certain people (and by certain people I mean, those of you who have reproduced) probably aren’t going to be huge fans of this piece. They will probably look at it as the deranged ramblings of a bitter man who hasn’t experienced the joys of parenthood. There maybe an element of truth to this. Like I said at the top I would like to have kids. But that doesn’t make what I’ve said any less true.

What you gain in the unconditional love of a child you lose to a certain degree in individuality. How often is it when you meet someone that you haven’t seen for a long time, they ask, almost immediately, about your child rather than you.

Whereas before close friends and family used to see something and think of you, or be on holiday and bring you back a little something its now all about your child. They get all the gifts, all the kind thoughts. You? You get to clean up the mess after they tear the wrapping paper asunder.

Actually maybe its not parenthood that is the cult. Its the kids themselves. So much is aimed and marketed for Mommy's little precious its hard not to give your life over to it. Everything you do, everything you buy, everything you think about, its all about junior. You can't help it. Any parent would gladly lay down their life for their child.

Of course all this is coming as an outsider looking in. I don’t get to see all the wonderful private moments you share with your children. I don’t have the unspoken bond that comes from parenthood. I hope to. I also hope that any changes that might come from being a father are good changes. I certainly hope any changes you’ve gone through as a parent have been good for you. And anyone who hasn’t changed since becoming a parent?

Well you’re probably doing it wrong

Bottle

I would think at this stage of my life as a bit of a drinker there would be very little to surprise me in the way of a hangover. Headaches. Had them. Nausea? Not a bother. Inability to talk? Some people think I’m at my best in this condition.

Then why is that one recent occasion I suffered more than I have ever suffered in my life? Its not because I drank more than usual. Or because I drank something exotic and out of the ordinary. It was a relatively normal late night where I had couple of beers followed perhaps with one or two whiskey chasers.

Frankly, it was a gentle night.

The next day however was Hell. I woke up fairly fine. A bit groggy…but these things have to be expected. I showered and dressed as usual without any ill effects. It was as I was on my way to lunch with a friend that it started to hit me.

First was the issue with the Sun. Did it really have to be so bright. I hate to sound ungrateful but given that its graces us with its presence on such rare occasions was it to much to ask that scoot off back behind the grey clouds were he usually resides.

Any other time I would happily bask in its solar glory. However today my eyes were offended by its very existence and my head did not appreciate it sending down all that heat into my cranium.

It was around then realised I was still very tired. Lifting my feet as I walked was a bit of a challenge. The shirt I was wearing decided that it wasn’t happy in the position that you would normally associate with shirts. No, not your normal, arms in sleeves, buttons at the front for this shirt.

This shirt decided it wanted to be a scarf. No matter how I adjusted it, tugged at the seams, opened and closed the buttons or flicked the collar, this shirt wanted to be wrapped tightly around my neck cutting off my air supply like a boa constrictor with a South American school boy that has wandered too far from his school trip.

The next question to addressed is why I had decided to wear dress shoes. The answer is probably because they would look good with the shirt. It certainly wasn’t for comfort as my painful 20 minute to the walk the coffee shop could attest to.

No I was not dressed appropriately to be this hung over. When I’m suffering the effects of alcohol I prefer to keep it sartorially simple. Naked or very loose at most. This was neither of those. I wasn’t going to be defeated by it however. I could go and change as soon I’d eaten.

The next issue was not far away unfortunately. The friend who I was dining with is a delightful person. She is good natured , funny and good company. This day however it was The Care Bears themselves had rode down from the heavens on rays of sunshine in order to dispense to her an over dose of happy pills.

Anyone who has ever shared a house with, worked with or generally seen me can verify that I am not a morning person. I have in the past been accused of being grumpy. Its been known of me to threaten physical harm to those who aren’t accustomed to my easing into the day. I have tried to alter this reputation and like to think I’m a much nicer person these days. But its like Chris Rock said when talking about Siegfried and Roy’s tiger who attacked one of them. “The tiger didn’t go crazy. The tiger went tiger.”

My natural grouchiness plus a hangover plus my companions sunny dispo-fucking-sition does not equal a good time for all. The grumpier I got the perkier she got in an effort to give me a boost. All I wanted to do was sit there and replenish my body with buckets of Pepsi. She wanted to ‘talk.’ What kind of sadist wants to talk at 1pm on a Sunday.

I played with my cutlery as she waffled on about lollipops and rainbows or whatever the hell she was talking about. I looked down at the knife. It would take too long to cut my wrists with that blunt blade. There was nothing else for it. I would have to stab her in the eye with fork.

Oh come on. Don’t tell me you’ve never fantasised about impaling your friends with eating utensils when hung over.

At least when the meal arrived I’d be able to concentrate on that. Food would be my saviour, right? So very wrong. I felt that I needed something greasy and stodgy to make me feel somewhat normal. Steak Sandwich and chips please. As I saw the waitress approach with my order its almost as if I could hear the Hosannas and Hallelujahs. That was until she put it in front of me.

The food itself was fine. I’m not here to besmirch the reputation of Rita’s Café. It was cooked well, the ingredients were fresh and it looked like a steak sandwich should. The smell, however, emanating from the meat and mushroom filled baguette was not something that my stomach was quite prepared for. First it danced a reel, then a jig and then I’m not sure but I think it may have finished off with the Macarena.

I won’t go into details but let us just assume that time has passed and I spent ten minutes or so in the bathroom doing what Nadine from Girls Aloud swears she doesn’t do.

So I returned to the table and my still bouncy buddy. Taking my seat, I looked down at my food congealing. It would be a real shame to waste it. I have to pay for it anyway. So for the next forty minutes or so painfully masticating a steak sandwich while trying to have a conversation with the ridiculously happy bastard child of Barney and Rachel Ray.

When the food was done and the bill was paid I said goodbye to my friend (Who is genuinely lovely…I may have exaggerated slightly for dramatic effect) and went home to change my clothes. I have to be honest, I wanted to just strip off and lie on my bed as natural as the day I was born. Sadly, on this particular day, I had another appointment.

It was fates cruel sense of humour that had done it. My life had been too easy up until now and it was time to make up for just breezing through life. I had promised I would attend a gathering and not amount of whining about being a little hung over would justify not going.

A quick change into jeans, trainers and my ‘Clearly I Have Made Some Bad Decisions’ tee shirt and I was off again. I would be attending a birthday party. Not just any birthday party you understand. A two year old’s birthday party. Surrounded by noisy children singing and screaming, balloons bursting and babies crying. Dante must have forgot about that level in his inferno.

Generally I would have called up, told some sort of audacious lie that no one actually believes but everyone is too nice to call me on. However , on this occasion I couldn’t. Besides the fact Cathals Mammy makes some pretty amazing cakes, the two year old in question was my good buddy Cathal. It was Cathal’s second birthday but it was actually his first birthday party. For his first birthday he had been in Our Lady’s Hospital having an operation on his heart.

He really is a brave little guy and you should definitely read his blog. Its much better than mine and he doesn’t whinge like a baby just because he over indulged on exorbitantly priced eastern European lagers. He might only be two but that kid can drink.

Before I go I think its important to say that I have learned something from this and a more recent mixing of hangovers and young children. I really need to avoid kids when i'm a little worse for wear.