Snarky Fatherhood

On Fatherhood – Part 2

  “They fuck you up, your mum and dad.”

Wise words from Phillip Larkin there, and certainly applicable when talking about my own levels of neurosis towards my 4 year-old son.

Let’s take the latest issue being faced by my stupid psyche. It’s certainly a biggie, and one that I have feared for some time now (well, just over 4 years!).

You see, back in September of last year, my little bundle of lithium starting school.

Not an issue in itself. Thousands of kids do it each year. Well, this is the first time my kid has done it, and to put it mildly, I have my own shitty hangs up.

In short, I hated school… every poxy second of it!

With the exception of a few mates, and a wicked English Literature teacher who scared me into learning stuff that was actually helpful, absolutely nothing else about my entire educational experience was enjoyable. The day I left was like receiving a get out of jail free card – hand delivered by a team of Playboy Bunnies.

The educational establishments (loose term) that I occasionally attended were truly dreadful, and acted as nothing more than state-sanctioned hurt lockers for aspiring criminals and future cast members of Benfits Street.

The pupils didn’t give a shit about the school, the teachers didn’t give a shit about the pupils, and I didn’t give a shit about most of it.

As a result of this breathtaking daisy chain of crapness, from Sunday night to Friday afternoon I pretty much plotted ways to avoid the school bell.

I hoodwinked my mother into time off with tales of various germs entering my frail body and laying waste to my immune system. I played truant with my friends in the local town centre, hiding in various café and perfecting my ability to eat cheese toasties whilst playing Paperboy and Bubble Bobble.

And when I had no choice but to attend, I spent the entire time doing anything other than what I should have been doing. For the most part, I concentrated on trying to make the girls laugh whilst avoiding the roaming bullies, droogs and other members of the faculty staff that were employed to keep order and maximize fear.

It was a bad time for me, one that I wouldn’t wish on my favorite enemy – if I had one.

And so it comes to pass that my son now enters the British educational system. The most precious thing I have is being handed over to who knows who, for six hours a sodding day! When else would a responsible parent do such a thing? Do I throw the keys to my house at a complete stranger each morning, and say, ‘I’ll be back in six hours, try not to break anything!’

I feel like I should fight against this apathy. I need to challenge the arcane doctrine we all seem way too willing to accept as normal. And yes, I’m also terrified that his experience will be just as shit-awful as mine!

However, it would appear that underneath my painful attempts to redirect my fear, I have miscalculated one very important aspect. One fundamental element in all of this ridiculous expectation and self-created scaremongering:

My son is not me!

Honestly, I can’t tell you how much of a blessing this is for him. Actually, if you’re a frequent visitor to this site, you probably know all too well just how lucky the kid is for not taking after his father.

Whilst it’s fair to say that being skeptical, a little introverted and a tad standoffish is good for business, it isn’t always helpful away from the keyboard. It’s also pretty obvious how this aspect of my nature (albeit a younger, more toned down version), would ensure my time at school be nothing short of a glorious picnic of red ants and curly Spam sandwiches – covered in dog shit!

I really don’t want to get into a whole diatribe about Paul Millard: The School Years, and recount tales of woe and misery-soaked bollocks. It really wasn’t like that. I’ll freely admit to a little poetic license in this tale, but do not dismiss it as nothing more than a complete fiction. My schooldays were far more Carrie than Tom Brown. Trust me!

Anyway, these days I’m more transfixed with the hope of seeing such potential horrors vanquished from my son’s future experiences. The thought of him having to deal with some of the shit I went through is enough to have me follow him around each day, disguised as a text book, and ever ready to jump out and protect my little angel from weird teachers and fat kids with personal space issues!

Well, he is now into his third term at school. His teachers are glowing towards his efforts, he already has more friends than I have managed to accrue in 42 years on the planet, and he seems to love every aspect of the school experience.

In short, I think his experience will be just that – his experience. No need for me to muddy the waters with my bullshit. I should take a breath and have a little faith in my son.

The fact that he was recently caught in the girls toilets trying to make the chicks laugh, will be put down to a rogue strain of the Millard personality seeping though!

Paul Millard 2015

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On Fatherhood

On occasion, it’s difficult to believe that I’m someone’s Dad. It’s weird to say the word, let alone get comfortable with the concept. I’ve been doing this job for four years, and there are days when I honestly don’t think I’m suitable for the position. Maybe there was a mix-up in the Human Resources department, or perhaps the recruitment consultant was just like every other recruitment consultant I’ve ever met – staggeringly stupid and glorious in their empty-headed inability to do anything, much less offer a guy like me the role of “Father of One – 3rd class”.

I mean, how the hell can I be someone’s Father?

Anyone who has had the pleasure of my company (you lucky devils), will agree that I’m a tad prickly – not nasty prickly, or prickly in the way Josef Fritzl might come across to his children, I’m just a bit difficult.  I give dreadful advice about pretty much everything, I’m constantly distracted by whatever is going on in my head at the time (a perfect trait to have when caring for a baby!), and for the most part I’ve never really given a shit about much else.  I consider my day job to be an impediment that I’m trying to find a corrective shoe for, my wife an impediment towards my desire to marry Amanda Peet, and my ancient, money-pit of a house a serious impediment… period!

Where do I get the balls to have a kid, much less school the poor sod in the ways of life? I’m not joking here; take my general regard towards the various jobs I’ve had over the last twenty years, it’s truly horrendous and not exactly in-keeping with the kind of thing a father figure should be promoting.

Honestly, I’ve had more roles than a delivery driver for Greggs (I know the spelling is wrong, but just go with it). I’ve been known to start a promising career at 9am, go to lunch a few hours later, and that’s pretty much it. The older I get the more I regress into a prissy student who’s too stupid to hold down a job and just fucks off when the dinner bell rings… I’m like the Curious Case of the Unemployable Nothing. I’m embarrassed by it. The amount of jobs I’ve carefully expunged from my resume is hilarious – it’s like cutting and pasting into a patch-work quilt of utter bollocks.

I’m serious; my resume is so fictitious Marvel was interested in buying the rights (they eventually went with Guardians of the Galaxy as it’s more believable).

However, having a child brings alarming things into your once semi-manageable life. I don’t mean alarming as in “let’s scare Dad by putting spoons into this power socket”, but more in how they can alter your perspective, your character, your need to put circuit breakers on everything and insulation tape on their pudgy, burnt fingers!

For me, I seem to be moving away from the snarky Dr Seuss character I’ve spent a lifetime fleshing out, and more towards something akin to a weird Jewish mother-type figure, with wide eyes and thinning hair. You see, I’m now stupidly neurotic, over protective, suspicious and bat-shit crazy when it comes to my precious. In short, I’m Gollum with a Toys-R-Us store card.

Am I happy about this? I guess so. I used to spend a lot of time doing stuff I had no real reason to do – like trying to get stupid Benjamin Button references into whatever I’m writing at the time. These days I spend most of my time removing Lego figures from the soft tissue of my foot and wondering where all the damn spoons have gone.

With each new day comes a new fear. Something I can mull over, worry about until I’m on the verge of mixing myself a vodka Prozac martini, and then drive my wife insane with my unfounded dread and anxiety. She hates this aspect of my quirky, lovable nature – to the point where I frequently need to remind her that Amanda Peet would be far more understanding and sympathetic to my sociopathic tendencies. Will I ever get used to fatherhood? I really don’t know. It’s a minefield that changes on an hourly basis and is destined to end in an amputation of some kind.

I guess you’ll have to watch this space to find out which limb goes first.

Paul Millard 2014

Paul Millard Snarky Tuesday

… and for my own enjoyment, here is the future Mrs Millard!

Amanda Peet Snarky Tuesday

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