Dads are from mars.

It is generally accepted that men and women are remarkably different. From how we express our emotions, see crying quietly for women and punching a wall for a man, to the immortal Sex and the City versus the Matrix argument which rages every Saturday night.
Women can’t parallel park and men are arrogant maniacs behind the wheel..
Obviously I’m generalising but you get the idea.
But forget the chick flick/action movie debate in your local Xtravision, If you want to see the real differences…
Try having children together.
My wife and I are remarkably different in so many ways. She has a very responsible job while I get to act like a five year old and make people laugh, I have four points on my licence while she has none, (although I am obviously the better driver by reason of gender) but the most recent addition to our long list of differences is in how we dress the boys.
She feels our children should be dressed in matching, clean and well fitting clothes whereas I am more from the school of the, throw the nearest thing to hand to the four year old while wrestling the 10 week old into the outfit of least resistance, typically some form of stretchy pants and anything that buttons up the front.
Colour and size are immaterial. One is ten weeks old for God’s sake and growing at an alarming rate (he is already testing the seams of his three to six month clothes) while the other is happiest with his bum hanging out over his trousers like some miniature builder.
I’m just happy if when I am done dressing them that there are no tears from any of us.
My older boy Leon took great pleasure yesterday announcing to the whole supermarket in a voice that would put their tannoy to shame that he was wearing his pyjama top.
I blame my gender.
I honestly had not noticed the repeating pattern of sleeping sheep and crescent moons all over it ( I grew up in the eighties, everyone dressed like that) and the fact that it was four thirty in the afternoon meant I was on the receiving end of a lot of sympathetic looks amidst all the giggling.
Clothes are just the tip of this sexist iceberg.
There is one thing which my two boys and I are in complete agreement on and to which my wife is inherently opposed. The lads and I think that farts are the funniest things in the world, ever.
The moment last week when wee Sam farted so loudly that he startled himself and then burst out laughing was the moment my beautiful wife had her own private epiphany.
As she gazed at her chuckling infant and then across at Leon and I high fiving each other she realised that she was now heavily outnumbered in a houseful of boys.
Toilet humour is here to stay and as her frequent outraged cries of “Dada” as I either encourage or instigate some rude shenanigans at mealtimes suggest, she has donned the mantle of mature adult in this house.
Well, somebody had to.
I remember once when Leon was two and was sitting on our doorstep with a snail in his hand, staring at us and bringing it slowly to his mouth. My wife was aghast and about to leap over like a GI in a WW2 movie diving on a hand grenade to save his platoon when I told her to wait as one lick would cure him of his snail fetish forever.
However, instead of one dainty lick followed by a pulled face and valuable life lesson my boy popped the entire creature into his mouth and crunched down on it. The only one who wasn’t revolted was Leon.
Left to my wife’s sole influence, my sons would grow up to be well dressed, perfectly groomed, super sensitive wimps who spend their days driving around looking for two parking spaces together.
Left to my influence, they would grow up as flatulent, opinionated, slobs who will swallow just about anything.
I am afraid they would go into politics.
So, yes, we have our differences but thank God for that. Between us we just might turn these two beautiful boys into two strong, sensitive men who can admit that women drive just as well as men but still think Sex and the City is shite.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *