Bringing the Baby Home

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Bringing the Baby Home

I was in Ireland with my grandkids recently. My youngest daughter, who lives in Manchester, phoned me beforehand and said: “D-a-d” which has three syllables and usually means trouble.

“I’ve got the dates confused,” she said, responsibility distanced by blaming the dates.

“My school friends are gathering for a weekend in Belfast and I wondered would you mind taking Cian back to England?”

“Of course,” I said because that’s what Dads do without thinking. I put down the phone and started the thinking bit. Cian is a year old and we hadn’t really bonded yet – plus he poos and vomits without giving notice. I brought up four daughters so didn’t foresee a problem but Cian’s a boy and tends to wee when the nappy is released. All of a sudden, I’d this nightmare of wiping pee from my face and eyes as I stuck the nappy pin through his penis. I told my wife who said: “Serves you right,” then said they don’t use pins on nappies any more.

I planned to arrive in Dublin airport as close to take-off as possible but my daughter wasn’t having any of that. I ended up with three hours to kill which is 15,000 steps and a lot of smiles from women.

I queued up to change his nappy before boarding. The mother who was holding everything up came out and offered to join me in the room. She was lovely but with two screaming kids that wouldn’t do. Cian fell asleep on the plane. I wrote this very silly Haiku and we slipped quietly into England.

Attracting women

with a grandchild. It’s better

than poems and rhymes.

 

First published in Swindon Link