I love talking to my husband about ‘when our baby girl is a teen…’. It gets him completely riled and I find it hysterical.
This morning I was watching last night’s X-Factor on playback, which provides a double dose of entertainment as my darling Warren bitches so well that he may as well have his own show. After an entire hour and a half on the lameness of the competition and its contestants, wannabe boy band One Direction made its entrance. Not even Wagner can make Warren bitch more than a boy band can. In the middle of Mr Comic’s tirade against the pretty boy teens who were wading their way through a useless version of “Kids in America”, I thought it apt to point out that Amelia (our 11-month-old daughter) would probably have One direction plastered all over her wall if she was 14.
Hilarious. For me at least.
Warren’s X-Factor tirade turned into the rant of an adoring daddy. It was a classic. Think: every film cliché featuring over-protective dads and their daughters, but the rant is somehow much funnier when coming from the mouth of the father of one’s own child. Warren ran me through a conversation that he would have with any of Amelia’s suitors, which included “Dude… have you been to an emergency room?” Warren told me how he would meet the would-be-suitor at the door with a shot gun in his hand, and behind him would be standing three of his scariest buddies (think tall, tattoos, muscles) with more shot guns – just to get the point across. When I asked him what point that would be, the answer I got was a contemplative “Actually, a shot gun wouldn’t be necessary, a baseball bat would do.”
Warren has even talked about moving to a desert island when Amelia is 12; then she will only have a lovely bunch of coconuts to befriend. I’d like to think that my husband was joking but I think not. What can I say? Dads and their daughters…