You know it’s coming. When you’ve nurtured human shaped DNA clones from resembling a half eaten Mars Bar to a height close to their mums’, it’s only a matter of time before they cast you off for cooler things. And as a father there’s conflicted emotions polarised between a sense of sadness that they’ve escaped your parental orbit, and a naughty little voice shouting “C’MON, THAT’S WHAT WE WANT”

So it wasn’t unexpected, although the source was – it being the Random child who has only recently been rotated through eight planetary rotations*, and the jury is still out if she’s actually ever been made a member of this one. The venue for this perceived slight was the school Sports Day where – true to form – the cross country race saw our kids bringing up last, and second last place.

This is not only because they’ve inherited their father’s legendary athleticism, but almost as contributory is the phenomenal fitness of the other children. These genetically modified little humans clearly sprint twenty acres each day before a strength session juggling tractors. And that’s before breakfast.

Since our school refuses to saction the Dad’s race on the grounds it always ends up as mortal combat driven by fading testosterone and probable heart attacks, I channelled my competitive gland into encouraging my own offspring by running with them. On reflection, it seems that such fatherly concern for their welfare was deeply uncool, and downright embarrassing.

Although when I quizzed the Randomster on exactly what she meant, it became clear that her understanding of the word “embarrassed” was a little vague. I believe her third explanation somehow linked the emotion as being similar to a poorly lettuce. However, knowing her as I do, there’s probably some truth in there somewhere, hidden behind a view of the world which is as wonderful as it is exasperating.

Anyway, here it starts I guess. Skulking in shadows when their friends are in attendance, hiding behind lamposts on the taxi run, and being banished to a different room when a critical mass of not-so-smallness meets in the house.

I think NOT. There is much pleasure to be had embarrassing your kids. My only mistake was to put them in that situation accidentally. Now I’ve thought about it a little more, I see my opportunity as legion. So where’s that invite to the School Disco?

The time for the Dancing Trousers is upon us.

* I find Random’s eighth birthday was, in fact, some six months ago. I should worry less about my kids growing up, and spend significantly more time hunting down the time thief whose stolen half my year.