Am I a Good Dad?

Am I a good dad? This question has been worrying me lately. So much so that I am hardly able to sleep in the afternoon. I suspect I am fantastic but how can I be sure as I have no reference points.

Mothers can meet up and compare notes but every time I attend one of these gatherings I am distracted by the amount of breast feeding going on. Everything starts out fine and dandy but invariably just as we are reaching the critical advice sharing stage a breast is whipped out without warning making it impossible to concentrate. All my mental energies are then devoted to maintaining eye contact and never letting my eyes drift south. After a few minutes of this staring the mother becomes uncomfortable and remembers she has something important to do on the other side of the room.

Of the few remaining Sunnymountain Street mothers who are still prepared to talk to me I suspect my stock has fallen of late due to one or two minor incidents. The first was when my daughter's friend came round to play. I left them to their own devices while I smoked a pipe of my favourite Old Scrotum's Jamaican Ready Rub on the terrace. Just before the mother was due to arrive to pick up her daughter the girls came down stairs and I saw that my little angel had drawn a clown face on her friend. The mother arrived and was enchanted by this display of infant face painting creativity. She wasn't so enchanted when she got home and found out it was permanent marker pen. Oh how we laughed when we looked at her daughters red raw blotchy little face some days later. I didn't point out that she had missed a bit and that you could still see the clowns mouth quite clearly.

To give her credit the mother did allow her daughter back to play. I decided to err on the side of caution and remove the marker pens. On collecting her daughter that evening the mother got a little hysterical when she noticed her daughter's new haircut. I could hardly see any difference and thought it was anyway quite modish. I have now also removed the scissors. The girl never came back.

Just yesterday, having finished my post lunch cigar and brandy, I decided I should go and see what my daughter was up to at the play ground. As I rounded the corner I saw the local Sunnymountain Street Mothers Mafia ranged on the benches keeping a beedy eye on their offspring. The head Capo said "Oh I really admire the fact that you allow your daughter to come down here on her own". I suspect she didn't admire it at all. They then all started breast feeding in a calculated act of intimidation. I collected my daughter, her pile of clothes and pen knife and made a tactical retreat. We spent the rest of the afternoon practicing cricket in the garden. And that is my life.