Giving them what I didn't have.
Writing on my phone so please forgive errors.

My parents split before I turned 1 so I can only remember them disliking eachother. My dad was pretty good with us but usually only as prescribed by their divorce. He would pick us up from school once a week for tea and we'd stay over every other weekend. He was always on time with his child support payments and we would get xmas and birthday presents, usually a holiday too. From quite a young age though, I was aware of the lack of enthusiasm.

Despite fulfilling these obligations what I missed was seeing or talking to him when I needed to. That started to affect me around the age of 8 or 9. I began to refuse to go with him and between 13 and 20 we didn't see or speak to eachother at all.

Anyway, i'm 30 now and just fathered my second child this year. My kids are the most important thing in my life and I try to do something every day to make sure they know it. Often I only get to see them for an hour between coming home from work and them going to bed, but it's the best hour of my whole day (not counting occasional sexy tiem with mrs greencloud!)

So the summary must be that I had a decent dad, but I want my kids to have a great dad.

Will try to post again with some funnehs.
(Greencloud Wanted to go fishing on, Wed 1 Dec 2010, 9:12, Reply)

Seasonal I suppose..
My Dad's a bit eccentric, I've already posted the advice he gave me about men I should avoid.(Yorkshiremen, Salesmen, Musicians, Men in pink shirts, Men that keep their change in a purse, etc etc)
When I was little, he pretended to call the BBC to complain at their cancellation of Tom and Jerry, as he loved violent cartoons, and encouraged us to watch as well. He called his friend and got him to call back, to be shouted at whilst pretending to be the DG. Well, I believed it..

When I was 7, he told my two younger brothers and I that "Christmas is cancelled! I managed to shoot Santa!" "you'll thank me for this when you're older!"

He fessed up when my (4 year old) brother started to look really worried.
(Beer Elf Thought this was like a campfire, anyhow, on, Wed 1 Dec 2010, 7:07, Reply)

Mine's a pint
First post! This thread is fantastic. My dad is currently in hospital.

Last Thursday, he stopped off at the cash machine to get some beer tokens, and suffered a stroke. He came to and apparently ambled about the town centre for hours with no idea of who or where he was. His faithful dog Charlie cottoned on that something wasn't right, and led him to the pub, just as it was closing.

Apparently, as they were waiting for an ambulance, they poured him a pint (which he downed with relish) and he 'felt fine', in his own words.

That kind of sums up my dad, in a wonderful way.
(Barbellion, Wed 1 Dec 2010, 3:46, 5 replies)

My Dad ...
has just been deported from Thailand after his Thai slapper girlfriend bled him dry and kicked him out.

Here is what I wrote in his Father's Day card.

wavy lines

“Oh! You Bwitish! Me love you long time.” Well you didn’t think she was after your body, did you?

Never mind Dad. I’m sure you are in excellent company.

The “I’ve been bled dry and dumped by a Thai slapper” club is so large that its membership that would make any store loyalty scheme envious. There’s probably even a support club.

Dad, you never cease to embarrass me. At least you didn’t go postal in Cumbria. His Thai bird was called Hong too.

So Happy Father’s Day and Welcome home you old thoroughly incorrigible old rogue.

Oh and Dad, if you get a nasty rash, don’t just leave it. See a doctor.

Love from your long suffering daughter,

Que?

Yes really.
(Que?, Wed 1 Dec 2010, 3:18, Reply)

Smoking
My dad used to smoke about 40 fags a day, but when he turned 30 and was very much a parent he stopped smoking, given his responsibilities to his wife and children.

He maintains that on his 65th birthday (and his responsibilities end somewhat) he's going down the post-office, collecting his pension and spending it all on "lovely, lovely" Marlboro Lights.
(mrmonkfish yolo420weedwizard, Wed 1 Dec 2010, 2:26, 1 reply)

Miss his sense of humour
While I have been following the board on and off for a few months, this is my first post so please be gentle.

I miss my father very much. While everyone thought of him as a very hard man, he was always very kind and loving to his family.

His early life was very hard and something that he never talked about. I did find out that he never finished school as the entire village he lived in was razed to the ground during WWII for helping refugees fleeing through the Sudetenland. His family fled in every direction and he and my Grandfather went to Yugoslavia. I later learned from one of my surviving Aunts that my father, who was still very young at the time, was shot and captured for smuggling messages and food for the Yugoslavian underground. He had spent the rest of the war in a forced labor camp under very harsh conditions. He was liberated by the British Army where he spent years working in a worn torn country before he could escape to work in the steel mills and coal mines of South Wales before meeting my mother.

While he never did get a chance to go back to school, he always prized a good education. He spoke several languages fluently but his English was broken and heavily accented. I have many fond memories of him always taking us kids to the used book stores and the public library anytime we wanted. His passion was reading books on philosophy, science, and politics.

When I was a teenager and a full of my own conceit, I remember the time he sat me down for "The Talk". He told me that for a man to achieve contentment in life, he must always follow the "Three Most Important Rules". I remember rolling my eyes, thinking childish thoughts and being such a know-it-all. He gave me a that look that said that he knew what I was thinking. While holding up each of his thick, calloused fingers, he counted.

"One, a man must never guess a woman's age."

Huh? What is he talking about?

"Two, a man must never guess a woman's weight."

Ok, now I'm really confused here. Where are the birds in the story?

"And three, a man must never upset his Urologist". With that said he had the biggest grin on his face while I stood there looking like the some confused idiot.

"Of these three most important rules", he continued, “Breaking the first two will cause you the most misery in life".

It has been many years since he passed. I wish that he was still alive today so that I could tell him that I have tried to live by these simple rules and that I would ask him if he would consider adding to the list "Never ask a woman if she is pregnant" just to see his funny grin.

As a side note. I did ask a woman if she was pregnant. She wasn't and I had the bloody nose to prove it.
(Sapience Free I have the mind and IQ of a sponge, Wed 1 Dec 2010, 1:56, 3 replies)

Dads share their crap jokes with their offspring
because of the implied "laugh, or no food."
(roysin, Tue 30 Nov 2010, 22:34, 2 replies)

weird breakfasts
dad was the one who would get us up for school in the mornings, giving mum a break, as she would be the one to sort out tea/baths/bed.
dad never really understood the concept of a normal breakfast. toast was only served if time was short. many a happy morning, we'd toddle off to school smelling of leftover curry and rice.
it was always fun to watch other kids' faces when talking about breakfasts: "i had cereal" "i had toast" "i haven't had breakfast". my part of the conversation would be "i had chip butties/fish finger butties/pizza/pasta and salad cream(a family favourite)/ curry."
it's no wonder we all have weight problems!
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Tue 30 Nov 2010, 21:03, Reply)

as a resonably well endowed lady
when I buy bras which are made of a less floppy fabric than lace or the like (t shirt bras I think they're called), they have a tendency to stand up on their own when on a flat surface.

I was tarting about getting ready for a night out whilst annoying my dad by doing the traditional woman thing of asking 'does this look good?', moaning about any criticism and wearing it anyway, when he popped into my bedroom to ask me some question.

He happened to notice one of the said bras flung upon the floor, and proceeded to point at it, then exclaim

'ooh look! hats!'

made me SNOT myself with laughter.

I love him. even though he plays Dido loudly whilst clearing up the kitchen.
(dragondracus, Tue 30 Nov 2010, 20:40, 12 replies)

My Dad cured me of what could have been a life long addiction...
...to sugar.
I used to put 7 spoons of sugar in my miniscule, bunny-rimmed, kiddy cup of tea. Obviously I had a problem.
This was solved the morning my Dad poured my tea straight into the sugar bowl 'to save me the trouble'.
Even at the tender age of 9, I took the hint and gave it up.
Can't abide sugar in my tea now and can only have one teaspoon in coffee.
Thanks Dad!
(Mediumsizedbear is trying to be littler., Tue 30 Nov 2010, 19:08, Reply)

Competitive dad, me ? (Pearoast alert from 'Narrow Escapes')
Managed to narrowly avoid disfiguring and/or killing the five year old Miss no. 5 with a cricket ball hit from a good fifty yards away. She was fielding and I wanted to involve her a bit more so hit what I thought was a fairly innocuous ball in her general direction. As it bounced twice and then pitched up off a large divot it caught her clean in the middle of the face only to be followed by the pre scream silence that every parent knows means that their child is genuinely in distress and a torrent of crimson. After I had managed to stem the bleeding we looked like we had both been involved in some sort of savage blood ritual. Thankfully no obvious breaks or fractures or death. Mrs No 5 not overly impressed.

I think it can safely be added to the reports section of my file held no doubt by the government on the unusually high injury rate of my youngest and most bruisable of children.
( number5 has been fighting tramps and losing., Tue 30 Nov 2010, 18:54, Reply)

My Father Versus the Church of England
This tale was originally posted as a flabbergasted rant on /offtopic. I thought I'd share it with you as it involves my dad, as per this week's question. My mother reported the following a couple of months ago by email:

Mama and Papa Crow live next door to a church. The Crow family unit would be best described as "atheist," but we try to live and let live and let the god-botherers waste their Sunday mornings next door.

Unfortunately, said bible-bashers have a habit of parking their myriad cars (or, increasingly, unnecessary 4x4s) outside my folks' house. Not a problem, until they start parking in front of the driveway, which they have a habit of doing without a moment's thought - they have obviously decided that my folks will be in the same church at the same time as them, and will therefore not need to get the car in or out of the drive. Or just because they're inconsiderate cock-munchers.

On this particular Sunday morning, Mama Crow had to pop out to fetch some groceries, and returned to find that one such inconsiderate knobjockey had parked just over the side of the driveway. Just enough that when Mama Crow tried to squeeze her car around his, she realised there was not enough space, clipped the car on the wall and dented the door, at which point she had to give up, park the car at the other end of the road and carry a bootful of groceries to the house from there.

The generally more short-tempered Papa Crow was distinctly less than impressed by this turn of events. When he saw the owner of the obstruction, he stormed out of the house and demanded to know why the selfish arse couldn't park further up the road, i.e., not obstructing anybody else's driveway, and walk the remaining distance to the church. Mama Crow reports a lot of shouting. Apparently after pointing out that his wife has had to park at the other end of the road and carry the groceries back to the house from there, and that one of them will later have to go and retrieve the car from the other end of the road once these selfish gits have cleared enough space to allow access to the driveway, Papa Crow was met with the rebuttal of
"Well, at least I go to church."

At least I go to church. Jesus tittyfucking donkey-bumming christ, I shall remain eternally surprised that my father did not thump him. What kind of smug, patronising, sanctimonious, holier-than-fucking-thou logic is that? "I'm a good, godly little soul who goes to church on a Sunday and therefore it is right and proper that I should be an inconvenience to nasty sinners like yourselves"? How does going to church every week give you a divine right to behave like a selfish, inconsiderate baby-wipe-the-day-after-a-kebab-vindaloo? Is there a passage, buried somewhere in the depths of the bible, which says that all the good little believers must spread the word of the lord by seeking out the unbelievers, yea, and being unto them a nuisance? And then being as skin-crawlingly sanctimonious as possible when confronted about it?

I was tempted to ask my mother whether this pious little shit-frotter was driving a Honda Accord, but I don't think she'd have understood the reference.

/end rant
(LongJohnBaldry, Tue 30 Nov 2010, 18:14, 14 replies)

I just tried to call my Mom and Dad back home...
Mom was there, Dad wasnt. Why not?

He was out apparently, at a Playboy Party, with bunnies, celebs, photoshoots and free booze...

Last party I went involved pizza and X-factor, my old man hangs out with nude models... Class.
( zulu eh?, Tue 30 Nov 2010, 17:55, Reply)

Invictus
My dad was born to barely literate parents in the basement of a Chicago apartment building in 1927. For the first six months of his life I he was a fine, healthy baby, but after that it went quickly downhill.

He contracted polio.

As a result, he has never walked without pain or a pronounced limp. As a second result, his father rejected him out of ignorance, fear, and god knows what other character flaws. To say dad had a hard childhood is a colossal understatement. His father was merciless, and when a younger brother was born it was as though dad evaporated.

He became a teacher and put up with his parents' assinine statements like "since those who can't do, teach, that's perfect for him" and worse. He wound up specializing in teaching students in bad situations--criminal records, badly broken homes, behvioral or physical problems--and quite literally saved a few lives. To this day he still gets letters from his students thanking him for what he did.

On his first teaching assignment in 1951 he went running (such as it was) to tend to an injured kid. With his unsteady gait he planted his good leg wrong and proceeded to destroy his good knee, bending it completely backward. He narrowly avoided amputation (orthopaedic surgery was not so precise in those days) but was now very much crippled for life. Nine surgeries later they gave up and simply fused his knee joint--it doesn't bend anywhere between his hip and his ankle.

Still...he never gave up. He couldn't run, but he had a cannon for a pitching arm and could hit the ball out of the park with ease. And even though he couldn't play (American) football, he loved the game so much that he would go on to coach it, referee it, and when he could no longer do that, he became the broadcast voice of the local high school team on the radio.

He married the girl he met in high school and had four kids with her, putting all of us through college on a teacher's salary. He and my mom took in more than a couple of strays, mostly students of his who were really on the edge. Some stayed a few weeks, others for years, and they even took custody of one to keep her out of jail. She went on to become a university professor.

He has been retired for almost 25 years, and his health has steadily gotten worse. Three months ago he fell in the middle of the night, resulting in a trip to the hospital, a surgical intervention, and a lengthy rehab--as of this writing, he's still not home yet but should be released any day. I saw him last weekend and he looks better than he has in years. I asked his rehab nurse how he was doing.

"You know," she said, "I have never worked with a patient who is more determined than he is. He keeps trying until he is exhausted. He never gives up."

I told my dad this, and he looked at me for a minute before his eyes got misty. "I can't give up. Trying is the only think I know. If I did quit, I'm not sure what would happen."

Invictus. Unconquerable. Unbowed. Unafraid. That's my dad. Though he never scaled a mountain or ascended the heights of society or business, he showed us what really counts--no matter the obstacle, never give up. Never.

So, Dad, here is your favorite poem.



There once was a man from Bombay
Who fashioned a cunt out of clay
But the heat from his prick
Turned the damn thing to brick
And it ripped all his foreskin away
(grundig Down goes Frazier! Down goes Frazier!, Tue 30 Nov 2010, 17:21, 10 replies)

How To Discipline Your Kids
A friend of mine, during his younger years, pilfered his Dad's cherry brandy, got drunk, but managed to avoid detection. The perfect crime, he thought.
The next morning, at the breakfast table, his Dad is reading the newspaper out aloud
"Have you read this, The Wife? A young lad in town was murdered by his parents."
"Why was that?"
"It says here his dad murdered him after he stole the cherry brandy."

Never mentioned again. Never happened again.
( rnuk http://flickr.com/rnuk, Tue 30 Nov 2010, 17:02, Reply)

Embarrassing Parent / Teacher evening shirt.
When I was ten or eleven my dad wore a bright red, huge-wing collared Tom Jones-esque shirt to my Parent / Teacher evening. I was so embarrassed the next year I begged him to wear something normal.

He put the same red shirt on, and continued to wear it to every school event from then, right through my A-levels, despite putting on about 5 stone in that period, so his hairy belly showed through the buttons.

Love him to bits. Can't wait to do the same to my kids.
(kidcamel is due to call your mum at, Tue 30 Nov 2010, 16:59, Reply)

The burden on my shoulders.
My first born must have been around eighteen months at the time, he was so into cars it was his first word. (Followed closely by 'ta' which was for motorbike. Good lad)
I had him on my shoulders as we went into a shop. Said seaside shop had one of those twenty pence ride on tractors out the front, and I usually let him have a go to see the joy on his face.
So as we went into the shop, he saw the tractor and called out in his little piercing voice,
"CA! CA!"
The bloke in front of me was just going through the door but instantly dropped to the floor like a stone, cowering and covering his head. He cautiously got up and turned around to look at me in disgust,
"Thought it was a seagull attacking me!"

Needless to say, my pride at his first jape was boundless.
( Blind Meach Cautiously optimistic, Tue 30 Nov 2010, 16:37, 1 reply)

The Bat Fort
My dad made me a fort for Christmas when I was a young 'un - it had a drop down drawbridge and everything - it was especially good as my corgi batmobile fitted through the door too! He would get home from work and go out to the shed and work on it for weeks, it must have been freezing. I'm hoping it still exists. I left it behind in the loft when I left my mental ex, she never got it out for the kids to play with.

He is slowly slipping away due to dementia that has come on since he had a breakdown a few years back - it's horrific to see the vacant looks and lack of ability to cope with anything unexpected. I sometimes think it would be better to go out quickly than fade away.

Not a funny story, but a fond memory of him creating one of my favourite childhood toys and note to enjoy what time you have with them while you can (as long as they’re not dicks!)
(Presto1903 oh am I supposed to put something witty here?, Tue 30 Nov 2010, 16:08, Reply)

The one time my dad came to watch me play cricket at school
I bowled four wickets in one over, and caught out their last man with a panicky fluke that appeared to the crowd as my bending down and casually sticking out my right hand (I'm a Southpaw) to stop the ball hitting the floor.

He was well chuffed.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Tue 30 Nov 2010, 14:57, 3 replies)

My step dad
After my mum left my dad but before he died she got with a new guy, he is an amazing guy and more of a dad to me than my real dad ever was. Him and my mum only ever argued about one thing, he wouldn't marry her. He said he was just shy and didn't want all the ceremony and being in front of everyone and having all his relatives watching etc.

So two years ago imagine my surprise when he phoned me asking if I could help him book a surprise for my mum. I helped out with the bookings and got everything arranged and on the third day of their holiday to Vegas he took her to an Elvis Wedding chapel and made an honest woman of her. I have always hated the idea of these cheap and nasty weddings but in their case it was simply perfect. He got to show her that he wanted to be married to her even if he was too shy to do it in front of other people (except Elvis obviously) and she got her mind put at rest as she thought there was another reason he wasn't marrying her. Their mothers were really pissed off but most of us were really happy for them and the DVD is great!
( Peej, Tue 30 Nov 2010, 14:17, 4 replies)

I remember, some time ago...
I was having a chat with my Dad about how he met my Mum. I always felt sorry for him to be honest - he was always a bit timid, a bit of a geek. Never really fulfilled his dreams either - he had these grandeuse visions of being a writer, but, he never seemed to have the confidence to go through with it. Just a constant lack of confidence - one of the blokes he works with is always bearing down on him and making him do his work for him, then taking the credit. Its been that way for years.
Anyway, apparently (its a weird set of circumstances I know), my Mum's Dad hit my Dad with his car! Its certainly one way of meeting a future mate. Thing is not long after telling me this, a friend of mine (kind of a replacement father figure if you will), called me in the middle of the night because of some 'big project' he had. I got there and he started ranting and raving about a vision he had which led to him completely modifying his car.

Then the terrorists arrived and it kind of went down hill from there...
(Brighton RAWK at the tone, the time will be:, Tue 30 Nov 2010, 14:15, 5 replies)

Occasional beatings...
So yes, I was a battered child. Ok, not so much battered, but certainly disciplined when required. Examples of behaviour that elicited a swift "clip round the ear hole", as it was deigned in our house, were things such as making my sister cry by hiding her dolls and eating her supplies of sweets, throwing tennis balls at the dog while he was poo'ing and causing distress, attempting to operate the chain saw (at age 11), throwing eggs at the neighbours cars, shooting a runner going past our house with an air rifle, letting off fireworks in the toilet and swimming pool and partially shaving the cat. All standard stuff for a young boy growing up with time on his hands and pre-internet, x-box and satellite tv.

I suppose in retrospect dad deserves a medal for maintaining such a straight face while denying actually having any children at all when the irate runner turned up at the door. I was in the other room listening, "no, it's just me here. It must have been the kids across the street". The patience he showed in waiting for me to come home for my deserved hiding after I cracked the toilet bowl by letting off a cracker was also commendable. However, in my defence it does look awfully cool if you drop a cracker into the toilet and it hits the water at just the right moment. It creates a little mini tsunami!

I could tell his heart wasn't in it when he gave me a hiding for attempting to shave the cat. To be honest he was only doing it for mum who loved that cat like a child. Which, to be fair was probably easier than loving me given some of my behaviour in my early years. But hey, the thought was there and that's what counts as they say.
(The Archduke of South London I'm in your Girlfriend eating her organs, Tue 30 Nov 2010, 14:03, 1 reply)

Dad Strength
My dads a bit of a handyman around the house and he has pretty much decorated, plummed, wired, etc... the whole house on his own. He's never been too athletic but he was always working, rarely complaining about being tired or whatever.

Now I moved house a few months ago and he looked a little jaded from shifting sofas and boxes into the van and I just figured he was just having an off day.

The other day he asked if he could borrow my garage for a while to store a few sofas, so i obliged. We were lifting a couple of leather 2-seaters(one at a time) and he was really struggling, I was genuinly gutted for him but kept insisting we do it in little stages.

Now I've known it for a while but never seen evidence first hand, Im stronger than my dad. I felt a little empty inside when this dawned on me

:-(
(Monkeystrumpet monkey. Monkey, MONKEY!!!, Tue 30 Nov 2010, 13:57, 3 replies)

My Father the Francophone
I could only have been about ten years old. It was a family holiday, which meant we were going to get to our destination with the minimum expenditure possible. The destination was the South of France, and so this meant everybody bundling into the car at some ungodly hour, driving down to Dover, parking the car on a (cheap) ferry and driving from Calais down to the South.

After a couple of hours' driving, my father pulled into a layby and parked the car so he and my mother could have a nap before continuing to drive. Given the time of the morning, the car parking space was completely deserted, so rather than try to navigate into a gap between two of the white lines, my father just stopped the car lazily across three or four bays and went to sleep.

Unfortunately, whilst he slept, the car park began to fill up. My sister and I, being too young to require sleep to the same extent, could only sit and watch as cars pulled into the bays either side of us. By the time my parents awoke, we were boxed in.

My mother, as the member of the family who could speak French, went out to talk to the couple parked in front of us, explaining how they had got into this predicament and would they mind dreadfully moving their car so we could get out?

My mother returned, clearly affronted.
"What did they say?" my father asked, walrus moustache quivering in anticipation of indignation,
"They said that we were parked badly and they were having their coffee," my mother replied.
I didn't hear what my father muttered under his breath, but I could tell that this interchange had soured his mood somewhat. He flung the driver-side door open and looked around angrily for the snooty couple who'd been so rude to his wife, as said wife muttered "Don't..." before sighing resignedly.

The couple presumably caught sight of what must have resembled a livid, East-Midlands-version of Robert Winston clambering out of the car before this vision yelled at them,
"MONSIEUR! SHIFTEZ LE CAR!"

His French might have made no sense in comparison to my mother's, but at least they got the message and moved the car...
(LongJohnBaldry, Tue 30 Nov 2010, 13:47, 2 replies)

I'll never forget the noise my dad made
When he fell into the nettle patch wearing only shorts.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Tue 30 Nov 2010, 13:41, 2 replies)

The strawberry patch...
Dad would get up every day, stroll through the house naked and head out to the garden. He'd take a piss in the garden while loudly farting. Then he'd take a running jump and bomb drop into the pool. He'd stroll back through the house dripping wet while making yet another earth shattering fart and possibly a belch for good measure. He'd head off to the shower and start getting ready for work all the while proclaiming to no one in particular that the strawberries near the patch of garden he'd just pissed on where looking rather juicy and were almost ready to eat. I never ate the strawberries.
(The Archduke of South London I'm in your Girlfriend eating her organs, Tue 30 Nov 2010, 13:33, Reply)

My Dad's a lot like myself
in that I haven't talked to myself for about ten years.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Tue 30 Nov 2010, 13:32, Reply)

My Dad, the role model...
He never played things on the straight and narrow and this pretty much sums him up. He was storing some money from an ‘acquaintances’ bank job in the goat shed whilst things ‘cooled down’ but my dad could never keep money around for long without spending it so little by little, he’d dip into this seemingly bottomless pile of cash. One day, the ‘acquaintances’ popped by to collect said cash…
‘Ere, you got that cash handy?
‘No.’
‘Wot?’
And with a chuckle, my Dad replied ‘I spent it, what are you gonna do, go to the cops?’
Aw bless him… ;-)
( JamHamster My eyes, my beautiful eyes!, Tue 30 Nov 2010, 13:22, 9 replies)

Pearoast
When my dad felt the turtle's head, he just had to go - not for him the "I can't go unless I'm in my own house" stuff. This is fair enough for an office jockey like me (I've inherited the same habit), but for most of his working life he was a field sales rep. He'd have to take a dump wherever he was, whenever he needed to, but not so often that he'd remember to keep bogroll/tissue in his pockets.

His brother once told me that, while he still lived with his parents after leaving the Army in the early 60s, everyone knew when he'd been caught short while he was out because he'd come home wearing only one sock.
( shinyshinyscalp less a man, more a way of life, Tue 30 Nov 2010, 13:06, Reply)

To counter that sad story....
The first time I looked after my son was when he was crawling - my (now ex) wife went out and we started getting ready for bath and bed - he crawled up the stairs and I followed.

I went in to the bathroom and looked back at my son - now proudly sat at the top of the stairs. Stairgate open - he then toppled sideways down the stairs - all 14 of them..... He was ok - we were both as traumatised as the other though...

One of the first times I looked after my daughter, she didn't fall down the stairs, but I did drop her. On her head. True story....

I have, since then, opened the car door in to my son's face, shut his fingers in a door, dropped my daughter off the couch, nudged her in to a door... To name but a few.

I'm a great Dad me!
(james_tiger_woods is going to start his killing spree on the, Tue 30 Nov 2010, 12:23, 6 replies)