Scared of the Slippery Slope
8:53 a.m. -- 2009-01-16
I�m off skiing next week, and I�m scared.
Not of strapping a carbon-fibre plank to each foot, and racing down a tree-infested hillside. That�s good fun, and has the implicit promise that you might be meeting nurses before nightfall.
No, that�s fine. It�s the apr�s-ski that worries me.
You see, after almost two years of marriage I have consented to partake in some 'carelessness' in the bedroom for the first time. In fact, since Vicky and I didn�t want to be worried about her falling over, and being unable to drink, etc., we have delayed any serious moves that might have placed bun in oven.
That stay of execution is drawing to a close, however.
So... parenthood. At the very least, we�ll be having a stab at it. (Which sounds more than a little vulgar, of course. It�s why I wrote it.)
Can you tell that I have mixed feelings about the project?
Perhaps the social engineering that I was subjected to at school is causing some kind of backlash. I mean, sex education wasn�t actually about having sex... it was about all the different diseases you could catch, and their symptoms. It was also about the horrors of pregnancy, which would Ruin Your Life. I�m sure it was a very good thing to say to schoolkids, who would have missed out on years of fun, innocence, and not-so-innocent university...
Trouble is, I still have this �Oh my God, what am I doing?!� reaction. I think of lovemaking without a condom as �unprotected� sex... and as something that carries the �risk� of getting Vicky pregnant.
Which, you don�t need to remind me, is The General Idea, of course.
I concede that my whinging is immature, selfish and will probably be banished should I someday clap eyes on a little nipper of my own. (And the idea that my apparently rational thought processes can be over-ridden by a simple, biological urge scares me too.)
I should also mention that Victoria is not particularly interested in having children, either. In fact, two less broody people you couldn�t imagine. We have seen all our friends (yes, all) become utter baby bores. Intelligent doctors, marketeers, accountants, journalists... all are reduced to discussing the consistency of baby's first stool, and the plot of Maisy the Mouse episodes. One girl recently spoke quite coherently for several minutes, when we met up in town. That was while her husband was away in the baby-changing facilities, wiping excrement off the child�s nethers. As soon as said baby returned to the mother�s field of vision, she lost the ability to discuss anything other than baaaby... baaaby. Her voice went weird, and she gazed at nothing but the three month old proto-human that had become her whole universe. It was antisocial, dull, and a bit scary.
We have a nice house, with nice stuff in it. We have a new sofa with a light-coloured fabric covering. Visiting children have a tendency to be given food by their mothers, smear it all over their hands and then zombie-walk towards the sofa with arms outstretched, or climb all over it with their trainers on. If you keep them away from the sofa, they knock vases over instead. I�d probably kill the little bastards... but I�m too busy trying to stop Vicky from killing them.
You see, we both agree. But Vicky is an only child, so she feels obliged to squeeze out a grandchild. And then there�s that �biological clock� thing.
Many potential parents manage to tell themselves that age-old lie: ours will be different. We will do things differently. But I think too much, perhaps. It�s my job to predict the future, and I can see that the future will find us, too, getting a �sensible� people-carrier and vast quantities of plastic crap from Mothercare. I mean what is it about parenting equipment? Could it be any more kitsch? When a child is too young to form any permanent memories... when their eyes and brains don�t work like ours... when they�re just as happy playing with an empty cardboard box... why does everything have to have Winnie-the-fucking-Pooh on it? Winnie-the-fucking-Disney-Pooh, at that. Not even the far nicer original Ernest Shepard drawings.
Piglet should not be seen in a pink jumpsuit. It�s just wrong, and it sets my tranny-senses tingling.
I digress. Quite badly.
Obviously, no more romantic surprise mini-breaks. Just getting a child into a car seems to involve more logistics planning than the operation to retake the Falkland Islands. You don�t get to eat in nice restaurants anymore, and everybody hates you when you board a flight with a screaming kid. Also, I foresee that my working from home will either be impossible, or will lead to my becoming a house-husband. That or Vicky wouldn�t be able to do her high-powered job, flying hither and yon all over Europe every week.
Then there�s the cost implications. If you�re filthy-rich, you can have as many children as you like. Ditto if you�re living on income support. In between, however, are lots of ordinary, middle-class people who find that they�d better have just one child - or none - because they can�t afford the school fees, can�t take a career break, or whatever. Few things in this life seem to be as disincentivised as creating life itself.
And of course, there�s that huge personal issue. Gender.
Fatherhood is a very male thing, isn�t it? And I�m honest enough with myself to admit that I�m not an entirely male-focused person. Like beard growth, baldness and broad shoulders, being a father will always nag at me, just a little bit. I think it will probably be a watershed for me; a time to finally accept the blindingly obvious, turn away from girlie things and go with the flow. A time to try really, really hard to be a good father-figure, even if I don�t feel particularly well-qualified. I�m talking about getting on and doing something because it�s my duty. I�m good at doing the right thing, and being brave and honourable and all that stuff... but I know from experience that you don�t necessarily feel happy about it.
Sometimes it sucks to be a transvestite.
But as you may be able to deduce from this lengthy article, I�m going to do my (really quite minor) bit. As King Harold said to his men, in a pep-talk shortly before the Battle of Hastings: �We�re going into this with our eyes wide open.�
The only remaining problem is that I�m really crap in bed now. Without a condom, unaccustomed to the increased level of sensation, recent evidence suggests a certain... brevity to the whole business. Poor Victoria.
If I�m out of touch for a while, don�t worry. I won�t have fallen into a crevasse... I�ll just be getting so thoroughly wasted on gl�hwein that typing becomes impractical. Or maybe I�ll have managed to put one ski each side of a pine tree. Widespread blunt testicular trauma is actually looking increasingly attractive.
previous - next
|
