When I was twenty years old having kids was the furthest thing from my mind. Partly because at that age I could still easily remember my own childhood and how much of a shit I was. Sure it was good of my own parents to put up with me all those years but there was no way I wanted to risk having a kid like me and having to be its parent.
When I turned thirty my childhood was still fairly prominent in my mind but I had started to figure that maybe there was some hope, especially given that I had met the most amazing women who became my wife. For the first time in my life I started to think that there was more than enough good genes in the mix to out weight the bad genes of my own.
When my wife and I first found out we were expecting a child my head quickly filled with thoughts about having a miniature me running around the house. I still had some reservations because I had plenty of memories of the silly things I did as a child running through my mind. Above all I wondered just how I was going to cope with parenting if my own child did the same silly things I did. Of course by then it was too late our daughter was on the way and I couldn’t change things even if I wanted too.
When we found out we were expecting a second child the same thoughts about a miniature me turned up in my head. Having been a parent for a few years at that stage there was less concerns about a child of mine becoming the sort of terror I was but they were still there.
So eight years on what have I learnt? I’ve learnt that both my daughters have some of my traits, my temper and my silliness but neither of them will ever be considered a miniature me.
But the best news of all? Both girls have turned out to be Miniature versions of their mother!