Ingrate Expectations

Being a parent gives you all sorts of concerns. From worrying that the sniffle and tiny red spot on their chest is actually some sort of necrotizing cancerous meningitis, to apprehension over what career your child will take up when he/she/it grows up all contribute to a sustained high level of stress hormone that, without a doubt, must take years off your life and makes Gordon Brown's current position seem about as stressful as that of Jennifer Lopez's nipple tweaker.

A job that comes with it's own place to put your hat can't be bad.

We want to do the best by our sprogs, and will take action to protect our little genetic investments because they're the closest thing we get to immortality, other than blogging.

This action may not always be particularly rational. I'm sure our GP is fed up of telling me and the Missus that the tiny bit of eczema on The Boy's eyelid probably won't infiltrate his brain, and that a child needing less sleep than you is not an indication that said child is unwell, it's just natures way of being a complete git, now stop moaning, you overanxious parents, and go order more coffee and ProPlus tablets.

For the long term, the action we take is in trying to ensure our little bundles of joy reach their full potential. Lots of books, interaction, educational toys, singing, music and cheesestrings will, we hope, let them flourish into complete, well-rounded (although not obese) confident people, able to make the world their bivalve and snatch the pearls within.

But without putting too much pressure on them, of course. There's nothing worse than pushy, over-expectant parents, although I do hope he mentions us in his acceptance speech for the Nobel Prize for Complete Bodacious Awesomeness in the Fields of Science, Art, Music and Parkour. We'll put it on the mantlepiece next to the World Cup and Wimbledon Trophy.

When I was a kid I wanted to be David Attenborough, especially if dinosaurs were still alive somewhere, which I hoped for with the reality-avoiding desperation that 7-year-olds hope Santa exists and Scientologists hope they don't look really, really silly.

All hail Xenu (just in case).

Of course, this was an achievable goal, had I just a bit more brains, ability and competence, and was also willing to put the work in, which I wasn't, so I didn't. I did eventually become a biologist, and had an enjoyable decade in the pest control industry before embarking on a second career of ferrying mildly-injured drunk people around in a blue-light taxi.

I take heart that my brother, when asked, told us he wanted to be "a moo-cow".

Ahahahaha! What an idiot! A moo-cow! At least I never said moo-cow! Who's laughing now eh? EH?

Actually, he is. He's now a respected PhD in the biochemical sciences, with all publications in journals that have swirly DNA helices on their white covers, and cut-away diagrams of cell membranes and words like "hydrophilic", "phospholipid bilayer" and "moo".

Wish I'd said moo-cow.

Anyway, with the coffin of childhood dreams buried forever 'neath the clay-like topsoil of harsh reality, I can at least live vicariously through my own son.

So what shall he be?

A scientist? A medical doctor? A musician? A sportsman? A famous artist? A non-corrupt, non-cheating, non-rule bending or at least non-getting-caught politician? Maybe he will combine many talents and become a modern renaissance man, furthering the whole technical, psychological and ethical frontiers of the human race, blowing apart our currently entrenched mindsets and forming new paradigms with which we can operate a fairer, brighter future! He might not even have to Google the word "renaissance" to see if he's spelt it right.

The possibilities are endless!

His mother, however, pointed out the following photo, which reveals he might be a builder:


Actually, as long as he's happy and I get a garage out of it, I'm good with that.