The Best Cure for a Parental Hangover is a Duck

Sometimes caring for children while nursing a hangover is unavoidable. Judging by the gallery of restorative booze shots on social media it seems to be a common problem; on a daily basis there are scores of parents posting snaps of Pinot Grigio pints with a jolly message about their increasing dependency. It seems that along with all the nappies and rusks, parenthood can bring with it a mild functioning alcoholism.

My advice to myself is twofold. Firstly, a bit like driving, check that I am not still shitfaced from the night before and if I am don’t attempt to operate a child. Secondly, just get on with it. Looking after my sons is so consuming that I don’t have enough brain capacity to consider a hangover.

It was in this spirit that I accompanied the two boys to a local pond to feed the ducks last Sunday, having attended a party the day before at which I was the first to arrive and virtually the last to leave. To my shame there were children at this event, including my own. Fortunately my wife had to the foresight to perform an early extraction of the boys, before for instance I manhandled my own son and told him that I absolutely fucking loved him.

I have previously confessed on these pages to a quiet admiration for ducks. Their phlegmatic nature, the attractive iridescence of their plumage and the fact they can swim, walk and fly with a minimum of fuss. It seems this respect has been bequeathed to my sons, they are both well into ducks as well. So the trip seemed very apt.

A hangover cannot survive in a world where two small children are careering around a body of water. This is a situation that requires complete focus and the swivel-eye function of a chameleon. In truth I couldn’t muster the energy to face this so the Minor was permanently installed in my arm cradle. This set-up was complicated by a worsening issue with my wrist caused by an insect bite suffered the previous evening. In fact I had been nibbled around twenty times and not in a good way. The bite on my right wrist was inflicted in the middle of what the Minor would deem to be his seat and the pressure of his bum was causing the whole area to swell up.

I had also made a fundamental error in strategy by adding a football to the equation. On arrival the football immediately escaped and rolled into the pond. Fortunately it ran aground on a minor mud flat about a yard away from the bankside. How to retrieve a ball from a pond with a three-year-old and one-year-old sort of sounds like one those corporate riddles posed to get disaffected colleagues to work together. The simple solution is a stick, the sourcing of which became a pleasant distraction in itself. The Major is big on sticks.

I was thankful for the stick mission because the duck pond was a disappointment. There were no ducks. Instead the pond resembled a well-croutoned minestrone, each soggy uneaten scrap of bread representing the shattered dreams of all the children who had visited that day hoping to mass-cater for some wildfowl.

We were on the point of leaving when two ducks touched down on a grassy hump near to the pond. So as not to spook them we approached stealthily (as stealthily as two excitable little boys and man with a hand that was rapidly turning into giant foam glove could).

The ducks may have just lunched because when we threw our grub towards them they skulked off. I’d seen Carol the weathermum off BBC Breakfast explain that bread was actually bad for ducks, so instead we brought a bag of what amounted to some rubbish crudités. Once the ducks had turned their beaks up at it, the Minor tucked in, shoving grotesque squidgy cucumber batons into his mouth. It was only later that his mum revealed she’d retrieved the food from the bin.

But at least by then my hangover had disappeared.

Any good?

My Son Wasn’t That Into Me And It Was Completely Fair Enough

I’m hardly the kind of dad to be handing out advice, but if a prospective father did approach me for some I’d probably give them this nugget: never let your child see your weakness.

My own failing was a childish need for acceptance from my children, borne of an actual concern that my progeny wouldn’t like me that much. I mean they’d love me obviously, they’d just think I was, well just a bit of a dick really.

It seemed to me when the Major arrived that my fears had been realised as a large discrepancy opened up in his affections between his mother and me. He very obviously preferred his mum to me, which I took very personally. Of course I’ve realised since that this is entirely natural.

After all his Mum gave him lodgings in her own stomach for nine months, hooking him up to a nutrient-rich drip connected to her own flesh. In that time, all I did was offer his home the odd ineffectual neck rub. And after the Major popped out above ground, she provided all his sustenance for nearly a year, letting him chow down on her bosom. I mainly just gurned at him and made awful twee clucking noises that even a kitten would find off-putting.

Alright dad, that's enough now.
Alright dad, that’s enough now.

And after only two weeks of his life I left him. I went back to work, abandoning him most days and returning to cut short his day of fun with mum by dunking him under duress in a tub of hot water and putting him in his cot so he could go to sleep and wake up and be abandoned by me all over again.

It seems obvious to me now that the Major should have developed a distaste for me in his first three years, but back when he was looking at me with cold disdain and telling me ‘to go back to work’ I found it difficult. I was lovelorn and reacted in the most pathetic way by getting on my metaphorical knees and beseeching him for cuddles, clinging onto his ankles as he tried to toddle away.

The more horrid wheedling pleas I threw at him ‘to come to Dadu’ the more he withdrew. At one point I genuinely ranked at about sixth or seventh in his affections behind various grannies, uncles and the man who came to read the electricity meter. If I ever retrieved Major from his grandparents’ house he would react like I’d come to kidnap him and sell him into child slavery.

Since those dark times Major and I have come to an acceptable working relationship. I’m not exactly aloof, but definitely less smothering and we can go about our business in an agreeable fashion. I’ve probably been promoted to about joint third and not just because the electricity man hasn’t come back. He now regularly tells me he loves me and recently described me as ‘a very good man’. I’m thinking about having this printed on a business card.

And I have been more prepared the second time with the Minor, which is a good thing because I am beginning to recognise the familiar patterns in his behaviour, leaning out of my embrace as he enters the gravitational pull of his mother. And stabbing me in the face with a fork.

Any good?