Taking the Piss

Tired Mam believes there is some sort of conspiracy of silence surrounding young first-time mothers-to-be.

If there were not, the species would never propagate itself.

No young mother-to-be is told of the appalling mood swings. The violent rages against the entirely innocent. The irrationality. The sheer fucking unbelievableness of all the astounding things their bodies start to do, all of which are just fucking WEIRD beyond description. The likes of which would make any man go insane. I mean, we take a good few weeks to get over the horror of spunking-up for the first time. Now THAT is traumatic.

And the most dreadful indignity, agony and general expulsion of various things that are hard to fathom. Imagine pulling an Action Man out of your Japs eye. Followed by half a pound of liver. Proceeded by a lot of snot-type stuff, some blood and an awful lot of fish-water.

I have to agree with Tired Mam. If this were made clear from the outset, the abortion rate would be through the roof, no-one would have children anymore, the population would drop and we could afford to buy a house.

Young first-time Fathers-to-be are another matter.

We are informed in advance that EVERYTHING is our fucking fault. And to take it on the chin for nine months. And then the rest of your life.

But there is a conspiracy of silence regarding first-time fathers as well. Oh yes

No-one NO-ONE informs you that it is almost impossible to avoid urinating upon the head of your young child.

Once they learn to crawl/walk I mean.

It's perfectly avoidable otherwise: unless you are strange.

EXAMPLE.

Three years ago. I am on the first floor of the house we lived in at the time. I am playing with barely-one-year-old Favourite Daughter in her bedroom. I need a wee.

I leave her to her devices, and wander across the hall into our bathroom. Tired Mam is well out of the way, so I feel no need to shut or indeed lock the door. (I know, of course, that Tired Mam is aware of the fact that I possess a penis. This is clear. But she has not seen wee coming out of it nor never will. It is not THAT SORT of relationship.)

I am having a wee. I have forgotten that FD can now crawl. She thunders in, intrigued by this new noise. She grabs the toilet bowl so she can stand up.
There commences an awful lot of me gently shoving her with my thigh, but being careful enough to not knock her over. I must at all costs avoid her being visually exposed to my penis. It is large and hairy and unpleasant to look at. She is small and beautiful. And I must avoid urinating upon her.

I am successful on all counts.

A few days ago.

Me and Favourite Son are home alone.

I am on the sofa reading a book. Favourite Son staggers across the floor in his 'I am Godzilla, you are Japan' new walking style and clambers up beside me. Just before he sits, he does his 180-degree turn and sits down with the proper finality a man of his position deserves. Glances sideways at me and then gives the whole room a steely look as if to say DO NOT PANIC. Men are here now. Fear not. EVERYTHING IS UNDER CONTROL. And then glances back at me. As he always does.

He is a one-year old. Poor fucker. He's got a lot to learn.

I decide that, actually, this is a bit too much too young so play silly Aaaarrgh games with him for a bit. I can run like fuck when he does that. Scares the shit out of me.

I need a wee.

We are in the unfortunate position in our current house of having a ground-floor bathroom. Great in the evening, shite at the dead of night.

Anyway.

I go and have a wee.

I do not lock or indeed shut the door. Why would I? There are only MEN in the house.

And not the sort of men who stand next to you at the urinals in public houses and say things like 'Kinell. Busy tonight or what?' to which you can only reply 'I have got my cock in my hand. Why are you talking to me? Are you a bit strange? Because if you really want to spend your evening talking to men who have their cocks in their hands, then I suspect you are in the wrong place.'

I have a wee. With my legs appropriately wide. There is not a man on earth who has had a wee with his knees together. Because we have such large giblets you see.

The patter of feet. Attracted to this new noise. I have three-year flashback.

At this point, there is no chance of my stopping. And then closing the bathroom door.

He storms in. I am in full flow. I am ready to gently nudge him out of the way with a thigh/knee.
He is made of sterner stuff than his sister at his age. He has anticipated my every move.

I feel two small hands clasp the back of my knees.

He FUCKING STICKS HIS HEAD BETWEEN MY LEGS.

I liberally douse the top of his head in PISS.



It's all right at the end. Only a few drops, and he has an unreasonably healthy mop of (suspiciously) fair hair. Which bears the brunt. It looks like pale yellow dew on strawberry-blond grass.

Within a ¼ of a second I have him in the shower, out, dried, and dressed in original clothing.

Hahahahahha.

No-one will know otherwise. When Tired Mam gets home, it will be like nothing happened.

'Everyting O.K?' she asks in her hugeley patronising manner as if I could not go a couple of hours without, say, pissing on someone important.

'YES. FINE.' I will then say in the immensely capable manner of a person who has never accidently pissed on anyone.







Oh.


Next: Things They Never Told Prospective Fathers #2: You Become a Stone Cold Killer.