Love Unlimited

By Joe Barker

For Valentine's Day this year, I've decided to entirely ignore romance. So rather than wondering why my wife puts up with me, or pondering how I can persuade her to do so for another year, I'm going to focus on some of the things I love even though they're clearly not good for me. I don't mean chocolate, and I'm not yet ready to talk about the deep emotions that sausages or fish and chips stir in me. Instead, obviously, I refer to my children whom I dearly love, despite all the terrible things they've done to me. 

Looked at objectively, this love makes no sense. These fiends have left me a hollow shell of the energetic and sociable man I used to be. They've frequently inflicted bloody and painful injuries on me. Yet, despite the indignities and damages, I still love them. Now I'm sure some clever person could explain that this is all down to evolution and biological imperatives, rather than their inherent adorableness. But I'm not here to delve into science or attempt to understand things; I just want to use this as a thinly veiled excuse to moan about the worst things my children have done to me, so that when they one day read this they'll feel so guilty that they'll immediately forgive me for all the birthdays I've forgotten, the times I've embarrassed them, and all the other awful parenting faux pas I'm bound to have committed.

Now, all parents suffer at the hands of their children. There are the sleepless nights, the constant demands for attention, the hobbies and friends we abandon as caring for our offspring sucks up our time. There are the tantrums and monotonous, circular conversations that drive us to the brink of insanity. These, and many other trials of parenthood, I've touched on elsewhere in the Dad Diaries. Today, I want to focus on the actual physical injuries I’ve received from my children. 

Of course the sufferings of a mere father are nothing compared to what mothers endure through pregnancy, birth, and breastfeeding, but it would be a harsh judge who held that this suffering is intentionally inflicted by our children.

Blood and stitches

Whereas, when Marty split my chin open spraying blood across the hotel room, there was no doubt as to where the blame should lie. The undoubted villain of the piece was the vile four-year-old. Up until that moment, we'd had a lovely beach holiday with the waterslide proving just as thrilling as advertised. In fact, it was probably overexcitement from squeezing in a last few plunges into the pool before heading home that led to an irrepressibly bouncy Marty jumping into my chin. As I reeled back clutching my jaw, I saw flashing lights and wondered if I'd ever be able to eat again. Having staggered to a wall and waited for the room to stop dancing, I admired the bloody handprint on the wall and the trail of blood I'd left on the floor. With blood everywhere, even my normally sceptical wife had to admit that, for once, I didn't appear to be over-reacting.

Holding a bloody cloth to my chin I lurched downstairs whilst my wife sped to reception in search of ice and a first-aid kit. Marty was more curious than repentant, and finally tiring of answering his questions about whether or not it hurt, I sent him to find food at the breakfast buffet so that I could test my jaw. Relieved to discover that I could still eat, I was feeling much more sanguine by the time I'd mopped up most of the blood and stuck on a plaster. Although I still had an unfortunate tendency to drip blood, I vetoed any plans to head to hospital and finished packing the car.

Since I felt a bit sick, had a touch of a headache and there were flashing lights every time I moved, we agreed it would be best if my wife drove. By this time, Marty had lost interest in my chin and was engrossed in his Where's Wally travel book—possibly the greatest gift we've ever received for keeping a small boy busy during long journeys—so I was able to devote the trip home to trying not to bleed on anything and thinking of convincing reasons why I shouldn't go to hospital. Sadly, when texted pictures, my mother and sister totally failed to back me up, and so I was packed off to the doctor as soon as we got to Bangkok. He seemed pretty convinced that he could see bone and that stitches would be a good idea. Twenty stitches later, I was looking less of a mess and thinking that on the whole, despite the hospital visit, this wasn’t as bad as when Marty bit me in the testicles.

Avoiding siblings

Now if you have testicles and children, you are probably already aware of the almost magnetic, and extremely painful, attraction between the two. If you don't, you're probably, given what we've already discussed with regards to pregnancy, birth and breastfeeding, rolling your eyes in disgust about so much fuss over two little things, and I wouldn't presume to say you were wrong. Nonetheless those two little things loom large in the minds of fathers. I don't know if it's just Marty and Alice, but from the moment they could toddle, it seemed to be open season on my most sensitive parts. I imagine their inner dialogue goes something like this:

“Daddy's lying down, I wonder where I should stand/jump/belly flop? Hmm, right in the middle seems a good spot.” 

“Ooof!” I go as they land squarely just below my midsection.

“He's gone a strange purple color and is making funny noises, perhaps I should tell mummy. Now where is mummy?”

They turn round to see mummy crying with laughter. Briefly worried they think, ”Oh no, mummy's broken too!”

Before realizing, “Hang on it's okay she's laughing. But why's she laughing? Was it because I jumped on daddy? Oh, I think it was! I should definitely do that again, many, many times.”

And so, the assault has been repeated every time I've laid down for the last four years. Mummy shows no signs of laughing less, and Marty and Alice seem to think it's all good fun. As for me? Well, no one is interested in what I think.

Furthermore, they don't confine themselves to simply jumping on my unmentionables. When Alice lies on her changing table, she delights in bucking and kicking like a young horse, and naturally my groin is at a perfect tabletop height for kicking. If I neglect to turn sideways on and shield myself with my thigh I’ll find myself suddenly bent over and gasping for air mid-nappy change, whereupon Alice, sensing weakness, will redouble her efforts to wiggle free and escape the tyranny of the changing table. 

Groins also seem to be unfortunately positioned in relation to children's heads, so that every madcap run and excited leap towards daddy ends with a startling headbutt. “I'm pleased to see you too,” I gasp through clenched teeth. Given this proximity between children's heads and father's groins, and toddler Marty's tendency to bite, it probably shouldn't have come as a surprise when his headlong rush into my arms ended not with a painful headbutt, but instead with a vicious bite. Biting is never nice, but I would strongly recommend against being bitten on the testicles. It felt bad when it happened, and as I gingerly lowered my shorts and inspected the damage I thought I was going to need stitches. Fortunately, this proved not to be the case and it was to be another couple of years before Marty actually managed to hospitalize me. 

Yet despite these repeated and, I believe, premeditated assaults I still love my two little monsters, and I hope they love me—as something more than just the butt of their vicious sense of humor. Now I really must turn to the real business of Valentine's Day: convincing their mother to put up with me for another year. Wish me luck. 

About the Author 

Joe and his wife Diane moved to Thailand in 2018. Since the arrival of their son Martin in 2021 and daughter Alice in 2024, Joe has been a stay-at-home father. The whole family enjoys BAMBI playgroups and Thai beach holidays. Find Joe on SubStack: BangkokDad bangkokdad.substack.com/