It's a Dad's Life:The Missus and I don't get away by ourselves very often, which is a pity. What is an even greater tragedy, and this may cause me great grief at home, is that I hardly ever get to fly the coop alone, writes Adam Brophy.
Back when the Elder was new, we tried hard to cling on to the things we had done casually before her arrival. I remember the Missus predicting she would be drinking celebratory champagne over dinner in her favourite restaurant three weeks after giving birth. That prediction unfortunately said more about her desire to live a champagne lifestyle on our cider income than her insight into the demands of a newborn.
I realised pretty fast that everything had changed, the debauched boys' weekends fading into dim memory as I wrestled with nappies and sterilisers. Only in the last couple of weeks have I discovered a viable alternative - running away running.
I'll track back a little further. Last year, realising my heart was feeling the strain of decades of bacon sandwiches countered by only the single physical effort of using the remote control, I decided to get fit. It was savage but I stuck at it and now run regularly to the point where I can take part in public races without suffering the ignominy of finishing a day or two after everyone else. I've even convinced a couple of others to do the same and we have developed something sociable to ease the pain.
Over the last bank holiday weekend a small group of us trekked to Bantry to take part in the west Cork half marathon, along with nearly 1,000 others. We ran, it was great, all had a good buzz and that was supposed to be the end of it. What I hadn't taken into account was that the majority of those 1,000 "athletes" would want to drink the town dry afterwards.
The place was banging and we were in the middle of it, lapping it up. The drive home the next day was exponentially more torturous due to the addition of sick heads to predictably sore limbs. But there was still a virtuous feeling in the hangover, knowing the abuse had been tempered with exercise.
Tell that to the kids. Whenever one of us goes away for more than a few hours they find ways to make us suffer. On arrival back in Dublin on the Monday, any sympathy the Missus may have had for my condition went south when she realised I was more sodden than stiff. She had managed for three days solo, so I was in no position to complain and got stuck into the game of tactical negotiation that is the kids' bedtime. It went smoothly and shortly afterwards I was snoring gently in my own pit.
Three hours later we were awoken to the Younger spray-painting her bedroom with vomit. We were sympathetic but suffering ourselves and I knew I had to attempt to deal with it on my own. They are the rules - I play, so I pay. I hosed down the sheets, wiped the walls and carpet, showered and consoled the sick child, and welcomed both offspring into our bed for a family night of "wrestle the duvet".
Since then we have had a week of "share the virus". Each of us has had a bout, but the kids have passed it back and forth to the point where we should have stakes in Dioralyte and Inversoft. Apparently the creche has been decimated, with everyone being treated to a dose and then gleefully sharing the symptoms at a later date.
The facts speak for themselves, there is a bug going around and there's nothing we can do about it. But I can't help but wonder if the monsters conjured it up themselves just because I had the cheek to disappear off and enjoy myself alone for a weekend.
