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The Headless Chickens

The Headless Chickens

This week Molly’s blogger Desperate Dad tries to find five minutes to catch his breath.  Don’t think he’s doing very well, do you…?

Running around like a fly with a blue backside seems to be my lot in life these days.

The weeks just fall away and time is rarely on my side. 

Before I know it, it's Wednesday and the next thing I'm setting the alarm on a Sunday night for another full-on week ahead.

The excitement never ends. 

Full-time work, with the odd school run duty thrown in amongst more extra-curricular activities than can feasibly be managed by even the most seasoned scholarly scoundrel.

Football, swimming, aikido and drama group are all on the continuous calendar - it was never like this in my day.

A spinning top and a piece of chalk was about all I had to keep me occupied as a nipper.

Ok that's perhaps slightly over-egging things, but I never seem to catch my breath at the moment - charging headlong into the next adventure like a far from match fit Indiana Jones.

And if ever I do get chance to take stock for a second, it's well past Coronation Street and bedtime, with a doze on the couch about the only guaranteed thing you'll get out of this desperate dad.

But thinking about it sensibly for a second, I often wonder what life would be like (for all of us) without these many manic movements throughout the week.

Take swimming for example. Something both boys have done since they were just a few weeks old.  

Nowadays it’s a Sunday morning melee as we dash around, left, right and centre, grasping goggles and too tight trunks in a bid to be poolside and present for 10am.

Afterwards can be even more touch and go when I realise we’ve left the towel in the hallway.  #EpicFail

Then there’s football.  Not for my youngest I might add who although has dabbled, has never really been bitten by the bug.

That was squarely caught by my eldest, who ever since the 2014 World Cup has carried England’s brightest hope for a tournament victory in the future.

A clear natural, his talent was spotted by his local non-league club who soon invited him to join their advanced player development squad.

Now he trains on Thursday nights after school and also on Saturday mornings with a lovely little local team, with matches most Sundays to boot.

Proud just isn’t the word.

If football isn’t fancied by the young’un then he more than makes up for it at his weekly drama group.

What started as an interest in street dance has now grown into a fully-fledged passion for singing, acting and movement, topped off with biannual performances live on stage for family and friends.

There’s never a dry eye in the house.

Finally, and if there’s any energy ever left to use up, their aikido classes usually take care of it.

To Sensei they offer almost complete respect, the dodge ball and foam swords playing more than a key role here, but a fabulous release it is for them nevertheless.

A Zen-like state they are yet to fully achieve but it’s on its way soon – Ihope at least.

On reflection I don’t suppose any of this will really calm down at all as the years unfold, they grow ever older and I ever greyer, as unbearable that is to consider.

These shuttle runs to activities will no doubt transform into taxi services to infinity and beyond, with late night collections from many godforsaken nightspots I’ll wager.

So as I slump down on the couch with another small(ish) glass of wine, left breathless at the thought of yet another hectic week, I better damn well make the most of it.

Because although I often feel like a headless chicken charging aimlessly into the great unknown, we always have a ‘clucking’ good time along the way.  

Barry Wood is an ex journalist now working for the NHS in Lincolnshire.  A father of two boys and husband to one Portuguese wife, he blogs regularly as Desperate Dad. Read more adventures: www.barrylwood.wordpress.com

Facebook: Desperate Dad

Twitter: @Dad_Desperate

Instagram: daddesperate

 

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