An idea for this column popped into my head the other day. It was 3am and I was feeding my six-week old son. It was taking a while. He insisted on the steak being cooked very well done, that the potatoes be oven-baked rather than stuck in the microwave, and that the vegetables be sourced fresh from the nearest farm.
It was all proving to be a bit inconvenient. The restaurant manager kept pointing to his watch and muttering something about closing time being four hours ago.
The next morning I awoke with no recollection of the great idea for the column and with the leftovers of the peppercorn sauce causing my head to stick to the pillow.
Anyway.
Forgetfulness is just one small contributing factor to my overall wean-related rapid deterioration. Saying the first weeks of raising a child is a steep learning curve is a bit like surmising that ascending Mount Everest constitutes a bit of a brisk hike.
Coping with the tiredness is the worst part. The Sports Editor saw through my cunning plan to catch up with sleep at my desk by sharpening his pointy stick and regularly jabbing me in the ribs.
Making the boy go to sleep is another challenge. Initially subjecting him to 10 minutes of Robert Peston, the BBC's all-round harbinger of financial doom, would have him struggling to keep his eyes open.
That failed to work after a while. The boy started to worry about his share portfolio and was keen to debate the implications for the Icelandic banking sector instead of getting some much-needed shut-eye.
There is also a whole new vocabulary to learn. A muslin is not, apparently, an adherent of Islam but a very large hanky which parents use to mop up baby sick, also known as posset. It is barely English. Much like most of this column.
Multi-tasking is another necessity. Trying to eat a bowl of Rice Krispies with your left hand with someone conked out on your chest without getting milk or cereal all over them and you is a new challenge. Well, certainly since the student days.
Anyway.
These are the things as parents that we are powerless to control. Instead, we must take full advantage of the things that we can. Most importantly, it is every father's right to announce immediately after the birth, alongside intimating the sex, weight and any interesting facial features, what football team this new arrival will be forced to support, before conniving grandfathers or uncles try to get in there first.
Thus, the proclamation was made that Gudmunder Cockles Fitzpatrick Abercromby Yardley Macpherson would be a St Mirren fan. Whether he liked it or not. Which, based on overwhelming historical evidence, he almost certainly wouldn't.
The initial omens were good, though. Just two days after he was born, the Saints beat Dumbarton 7-0. It was surely a sign. The stars had aligned and the boy was the chosen one who would usher in a brave new world. St Mirren would become perennial SPL champions and eventual winners of the Champions League. Billy Mehmet would then apply for British citizenship and score the winning goal for Scotland in the World Cup Final. Easy.
Unsurprisingly it was not to last. The next rite of passage was to spend an afternoon together watching Jeff Stelling and the team from Sky Sport's Gillette Soccer Saturday. After scoring seven goals in the previous game, St Mirren lost 1-0 to Aberdeen. Unbelievable, Jeff. The boy sighed, no doubt wondering why he was being punished from such a young age.
Social Services, meanwhile, hovered intently outside. Victory over Inverness and a draw with Falkirk offered hope before the all-too familiar sight of defeat returned against Dunfermline and Aberdeen.
The boy was learning fast, howling any time the SPL table was shown on TV. We needed a miracle if we weren't to lose him forever to Rangers, Celtic or, God forbid, Morton. Stephen McGinn duly delivered.
Presumably because every shop in the west of Scotland was closed, or she had lost her purse, the wife offered to push the boy down to Love Street after the game. It seemed a bit cruel - using the pram would have been a lot easier.
It was a poignant moment.
St Mirren had beaten Rangers at home for the first time since the Middle Ages when Andy Millen was still in short trousers. Father and son were united outside the old stadium for the first and probably last time before it closes its doors next year.
Tears formed in my eyes. The wife was kicking me on the shins wanting to go home. As he rested on my shoulder the boy seemed to smile briefly. Then very quietly vomited down my back and fell asleep. No doubt dreaming of his next steak dinner. Hugh MacDonald is at large.
Or possibly extra large.
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