So how was it for you? Here, at The Zoo, it went bloody great. SheWhoIsNeverWrong, despite having a bad day with the old noggin, aching eyes and loaded up on drugs (of the prescription variety, you understand), soldiered on and turned out a bloody superb dinner. Turkey, beef and gammon accessorised with all the usual trimmings and some unusual ones, too.
The Princess of Darkness, at seventeen the family’s apprentice woman, was originally going to do the whole schebang but, surprisingly, seemed somewhat distracted by her new notebook from Santa. Still, her special sausage-and-garlic stuffing was culinary genius for which we gave much thanks.
It all felt a bit odd, though, standing there in our shiny new kitchen with the full complement of Spawn gathered at the family seat. Lurch, twenty one and strapping, with his career sky-rocketing, made me feel old. But in a good way.
POD, seventeen and a bloody stunner, even if I say so myself, flashing that smile that melted the last remaining icicle in my hollowed-out arctic heart and even Satanicus Maximus, under his floppy-black goth-fringe, could actually be spotted smiling. Many times. Yeah, weird.
Weirder still, though, was the realisation that not only did I father the three of ‘em, the hardest part of conception as you men-folk will know, but that, subjective biases aside, I seem to have actually done a half-decent job. Oh sure, SheWhoIsNeverWrong helped a bit, as they do, but it’s us Dads who do the real graft, right men?
Anyway, there I was. The wise old patriarch, with three kids who seem to be almost normal now. Walking upright, joined-up-writing, toilet-trained and everything. Christ, who’d have guessed? I don’t feel mature enough, responsible enough, sane enough or qualified in any way to do this crazy father thing and yet, somehow, I’ve fumbled, bumbled, stumbled and blagged my way safely through to this point.
Considering the whole family thing was never, ever on my agenda and with the odds stacked massively in favour of a coffin or a jail cell before twenty five, I’m amazed, humbled and deeply happy just to be here with my odd-ball brood. Don’t get me wrong; I could cheerfully strangle all three of the little shits at various times but they aint too shabby, all things considered.
And so, at three in the morning, stood on the back garden with Satanicus Maximus, tottering on the spot with the umpteenth whisky of the day in hand, peering up at the stars as he and I contemplated the hidden mysteries of science and nature, the glory and vastness of the universe and it’s great architecture, it hit me: I may well be just an insignificant bit of carbon, hurtling through time and space with only death waiting at the culmination of it all, but the meaning of life is right here. The secrets and mysteries of it all come down to bringing up your kids to be decent, compassionate, happy and fulfilled human beings. Watching them go forward, with all you gave them, to carve out their own little slice of the universe and make their marks.
I’m prone to moodiness, selfishness, irresponsible hedonism and recklessness but, incredibly, The Spawn love me, seem proud of me and continue to act as though anything I say might actually mean something of value. Christ, are they mad?
What a bloody great Christmas it was so here’s to The Spawn. Same time, next year then? Right, kids?
That was a fantastic read, thank you for sharing it
it echoes so many of my sentiments, i just can’t ever find the words to express them .
Thanks, Carmen
You’re too kind.
Pretty much my take on it too. Who’d ever thought, hey, who’d ever THINK I’d father decent kids.
I could throttle mine too but most of the time I’m damned proud of them.