I swore, on the birth of my son, that I wasn’t going to become one of those painful parents who never shuts up about their little prince’s progress.
At least, I wasn’t going to do it in Pitch Bitch. I would not turn my column into a stage for my stage-mother aspirations, and I would not subject the wider world, my loyal readers, and any poor random gays who happened to pick up the paper for the first time to bleatings about my proud parenting.
Off this small stage, it’s another story. I’ve become the Most Boring Parent In The World -“ one of those insufferable monsters who only ever has good stories to tell.
And a quick check over my schedule for the next couple of weekends (three first birthdays, a baby shower and a non-baby barbecue that we were only invited to out of sympathy) proves just how far down the downward spiral I’ve travelled.
It’s fair to say I’ve generally spared the Star‘s readers from stories of poo and wee, celebrations of steps and words and other general information that only my girlfriend and I and a greatly reduced number of more tolerant friends care about.
So indulge me this one column, dear audience. My son turns one this weekend and I’m feeling particularly proud.
Of myself, that is. Sure, he’s an outrageously sweet boy, he walks on two legs and says mummy along with much incoherent babble. He’s also good lookin’ enough that several parents-to-be have expressed hopes for one as handsome as him.
None of that’s my doing. It all came from the two fabulous people whose genes he shares. So far all he’s got from me is a love for our dog, and he might have had that anyway.
So where’s my self-pride coming from? Well, I think it’s pretty cool that my girlfriend and I have made it through his first year without fully cracking up.
We still love each other -“ more amazingly, we still like each other -“ and every night we go to bed absolutely stoked that we did it in the first place.
So here’s to us, on our first birthday of parenthood. Ask me if we’re still loving it in 13 years’ time.