So, here I am, sitting by the Corsican mountains, a glass of red wine from the vineyards at the bottom of my villa’s drive, the outdoor lights glistening across the pool as the sun sets with it’s gentle, breath taking colour show. Moo is asleep and my wife is reading her book. There’s even my favourite soundtrack on the speaker system playing my favourite variety of ‘stop and think’ tunes and finally there is my Corsican wild boar stew bubbling in the oven preparing itself to be eaten after 24 hours of bathing in delicious vin rouge and hand picked herbs. Perfect serenity. Two things spring to mind from this: 1. Blimey I’m lucky. 2. Blimey I’m a pretentious wanker.

It truly is wonderful here. It will probably be our last family holiday for a while though, what with a possible home move coming up, a shiny new baby on the horizon and some unbelievable fuck-tard stealing my brand new motorbike. Yes, that happened. I don’t wanna talk about it though.

Ooo yes, didn’t I mention? Moo is gaining a ‘sib’! Her world is quite literally about to be ‘thrown out of her pram’. The flavour of this new arrival will be of the male variety; we know this because of the unbelievable size of his knob evident on the 20 week scan. Proud doesn’t even cut it – him and me. I mean, I’ve never felt such smug satisfaction IN MY LIFE. I even made one of my now famous quips at the all too regular inappropriate time. Cue attractive sonographer lady moving pointy scan stick thing over my wife’s tummy to highlight mini Fitzpea’s not-so-mini Fitzpea and, after I had got over my initial shock of him being a boy, I raised my hands in the air and said, (much to my own twatty grin delight)

“Ladies of the world, hear me now. YOU. ARE. WELCOME”

OK, slow down. I can hear your tutting from here. It’s so loud even horses are starting to move faster. Yes, yes, yes  I too can point out my utter hypocrisy in making that joke to my wife and our phenomenally unamused sonographer. You are absolutely right in that I would never have said a similar thing about finding out I was having a daughter. Absolutely not. And so begins a whole new mind fuck chapter on how I approach everything and think about everything. It’s a good job I love reexamining all this I guess.

Skip forward and here we are a week or so later on holiday with Moo. She has been a delight on this trip. Heartbreakingly so. She’s a tiny ball of fire and at 19 months is speaking in good sentences, is potty trained and has me completely and utterly wrapped around her tiny pinky. Quite right. She was wonderful on the delayed flight over. Much better than the miserable old lady next to us who tutted when she saw us coming down the aisle. Mind you, that may have been directed at me with my Hawaiian shirt, travel potty, and irritating chuckle at my own bad joke I had just made to the air steward. Fair dos  for the old lady really.

I have loved watching my wife spend loads of time with Moo and I have struggled to contain my heart in my chest upon watching Moo delight in lapping up every ounce of time with her Mum. The two of them are gorgeous together and it’s so evident how much Moo idolises her. She copies her gestures, wants to try her makeup and creams, follows her around, delights in telling her she has done a poo on the toilet… That usually happens at ‘Moo volume’ (a hither to undiscovered impressive audible level) in a café. There’s that lovely parent quandary wherein you simultaneously apologise to the angry French patrons and praise your miniature tousled haired self to the hilt. It’s an art form.

The holiday has also highlighted how close I am to Moo and how special my relationship is with her. I am supremely lucky as a man to have such a strong relationship with my daughter so early on. Now, I’m not saying others don’t. I’m sure they do. But I know that we have a ‘thick as thieves’ nature with each other that is more precious to me than the stars above my head right now.

So I’m left here, on this glorious evening, on this beautiful island, surrounded by so many of my favourite things, but still fretting about the future. The future of me. The future of Moo. The future of her Mum and the future of all of us with mini male Fitzpea… What the hell does that look like? How can there be more room in my heart? I would die for my wife. I would die with a smile on my face for Moo. How the hell can I fit any one else in? There’s only so many times I can die; I’m not a bloody cat!

Everything I have done in my life has had an element of risk to it. An element of trust that it will all work out. I am an improvisor. I jump way before I look. In fact I tend to jump, land, splat all over the place and only then say, “Oh. Whoops. Perhaps I should wait?”. And so it will be in the future. I shall jump into this new adventure and not even mind if I splat everywhere like a Moo rejected spaghetti Bolognese, because this is the best thing in the world. Right now, shit doesn’t get any better. I. Am. Having. A. Son.

Oh hell…





One thought on “The times they are a changin’…

  1. Congratulations Gav! I’m so happy for you (aside from shitty bike incident).
    I think Moo and my Daisy sound like very similar wonderful whirlwinds! She will be an excellent big sister x


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