Pants

I sometimes feel sorry for my boyfriend. He was thrown into the deep end of parenthood, meeting my daughter for the first time when she was three and a half years old and already a fully established little girl. Like me, before Poppy came into his life, he had no hands-on experience bringing up children, but at least I got to grow and learn with her and I had a considerable head start on him. When I think about it, it’s really quite remarkable the way he’s adapted to the role. While most of his friends who have known him for years struggle to imagine him as a responsible parent, I can confirm that he is pretty damn good at it. After all, I wouldn’t entrust him with the single most precious thing in my life if I didn’t think he was capable. And I certainly wouldn’t be having a baby with him. I’m quite lucky I’ve been able to “test drive” him as a parent before we decided to have one of our own together.

However, as much as I appreciate how difficult it must be to suddenly be thrust into parenthood without at least having the 9 months preparation period most people have, I can’t help but laugh at some of his questions as he tries to get his head around the dark art of bringing up a little girl.

The first time I left him on babysitting duties is by far the funniest – though at the time I did question my decision to leave him unattended with my pride and joy. Picture the scene: I had just been “relieved” from the duties of motherhood to go to relive my youth at a Shed 7 gig in Glasgow. I was on the train, winding down, getting ready for a few beers and the chance to belt out every lyric of every song like it was 1996. I hadn’t been on the train 2 minutes when I got my first phone call.

“The helter skelter’s shut because it’s too windy. She’s upset. Can I take her to McDonalds to cheer her up?”

“Sure, why not?” I’m no stranger to food bribery myself.

Another two minutes pass. My phone rings again.

“She says she doesn’t want the chicken nuggets Happy Meal, what will I do?”

Me: “Just get her it anyway, it’s her favourite and she’s playing you…if she’s hungry, she’ll eat it.”

I think I might have had, at a push, five minutes of peace when the third phone call came.

“She needs the toilet. What do I do?”

“Take her to the toilet.”

“Which one do I take her to?”

“Well unless you want to get arrested, I’d strongly recommend you go into the men’s…..”

Since that night, I’m pleased to report he’s getting much better at making common sense decisions, and I don’t need to be consulted on *every* minute detail. Although a recent trip to H&M to buy socks for Poppy resulted in him spending an hour in the store, with a running phone commentary, and him returning with about 20 pairs of socks looking like he’d just served six months in Iraq.

And one of my favourite gems came a couple of weeks ago when he nipped in to Marks & Spencer to look for some new work trousers for himself.

I received the following picture via text message:

“Should I buy Poppy some Frozen pants?”

“If you want,” I replied.

Him: “What size?”

Me: “I dunno, are they generous sizes?”

Him: “I don’t know, I’m not taking them out the packet.”

Me: “Yeah, cos that would be weird wouldn’t it? A bit like a grown man standing on his own in the middle of Mark & Spencer taking photos of children’s underwear….”

Him: “Right, that’s it, I’m leaving. She’s not getting any pants!”