Goodbye Twenties, Hello Fatherhood – Week One

It would be an understatement to say that my normally placid life is going to change vastly in the next 6 months. Firstly, in less than three weeks, this cruel world will take away my twenties forever and replace me with a slightly creakier, less mobile version of my former self and bring me closer to that inevitable bus pass.

Over the period of my thirtieth year, I have come to accept the fact that I would be entering my third decade and there was nothing I could do about it apart from the obvious drastic measures such as running in front of various modes of transport,an overdose, enforced starvation or watching the omnibus editions of Eastenders and Coronation Street back to back. These all seemed a little extreme, so I had no choice but to ‘man up’ and accept the fact that in the future when I complete application forms online and I am asked to state my age, I may have to schedule a few extra minutes to scroll further down the list.

Once I fully came to terms with the fact I was getting older, I was happy again, the world was a wonderful place. The incessant reminders of my impending doom from friends and family no longer hurt me. I had encased my slightly older body in a younger man’s forcefield and brushed them off with a wide smile upon my face.

However, a night of passion later and a few weeks of wondering whether’things worked’, my forcefield malfunctioned and I was yet again hurtling towards my thirties, but this time with extra baggage. It was likely that I would soon be wearing a papoose or pushing a pram, rather than wearing a cool pair of new trainers or the latest trouser trends, modelled by all the contestants on The X Factor. (I’ve even surprised myself with my papoose and trouser trends knowledge there.)

Please don’t misread my sentiments here, especially if my wife is reading this. I was overjoyed, ecstatic that we would be adding to our family for the first time. I couldn’t wait to welcome our ginger son or daughter into the world. At the same time, I realised that many of the activities and past times that I had learnt to enjoy over the course of my adult existence were soon to be a figment of my imagination. I would look back at them with misty, nostalgic eyes as Master or Miss Carlton scream and wail from the bottom of their tiny lungs. Have they no respect for the past!

Let me give you an example. As I write this, it is currently 13.39 on a wet, dull Saturday afternoon. This time last week, I wouldn’t have been able to impart this information upon you as I was safely tucked up in bed, blissfully unaware of any of the kerfuffle going on outside my four walls. Before you get the impression that my weekends are exclusively for sleeping off a hangover, this was the first time I hadn’t arisen from my pit at a respectable time since my teens. I don’t make a habit of it. There was something particularly nice about sitting in my own filth, and when I use the word ‘filth’, I don’t mean I couldn’t even be bothered to venture to the bathroom, I just mean the general funk of an unwashed body.

I felt bad about my lack of adventure for 4 or 5 minutes, but then it soon dawned on me that it shouldn’t. The lay-in will be one of those soft-focus, ‘do you remember when we used to…?’ moments that will be brought up in conversation between my wife and I for the foreseeable future. It may even bring a tear to my eye when little nipper is waking me up before the birds have surveyed the days landscape. After a few more sleepless nights, a small tear will be replaced by uncontrollable sobbing until my wife wonders what is going on in the nursery and comes to console both of us.

The countdown has begun, my thirtieth birthday is only 16 days away, fatherhood is just 5 short months down the line. Better not waste my time writing this blog and get myself back to bed and make the most of sitting in my own filth.