it again, worse than before. It broke my heart, to be honest with you—and it broke Sharon’s heart, too. I was just so disappointed, y’know? But you can only do so much with your kids, then you’ve just got to let ’em get on with it. The thing is, everyone wants the perfect family—but it doesn’t exist. We all dream of our cozy little domestic get- togethers, where everyone says how much they love each other, everyone remembers the good times, and no-one gets angry or jealous or has any issues. As Dr. Ozzy, I’ve come to realise that all families are made up of human beings, and human beings are by their very nature messy and emotional and full of all kinds of fears and insecurities. If that sounds familiar to you, I recommend you read on, ’cos this chapter takes you through just about every issue you’re ever likely to face with your own flesh and blood, all the way from the womb to the nursing home.
I: BASIC PARENTING
Dear Dr. Ozzy:
I’ve heard lots of whacky theories about “gender swaying” over the years: do it standing on your head for a boy; keep your left sock on for a girl; drink lemon juice for a boy; cranberry juice for a girl… etc., etc. It’s all bollocks if you ask me, and the bottom line is, even if you want a girl and you get a boy, you ain’t gonna love him any less. And there’s something to be said for the surprise. When Sharon and I had our son, Jack, we had no idea what sex he was, ’cos he was lying in a funny position when they did the sonogram. In fact, we were convinced he was gonna be a girl, ’cos we had two daughters already, so when he popped out with a full set of tackle, our jaws hit the floor. If you want more certainty, a fertility clinic might be able to help—you can probably order a kid with purple hair and glow-in-the-dark eyes, never mind a girl—but if I were you, I’d stop worrying. The only thing that
Dear Dr. Ozzy:
From what I understand—which ain’t very much—babies grow inside a little watery sac thing, and when that bursts, the kid’s ready to pop out. That’s what it means when a pregnant woman’s “water breaks.” But there’s no need to get all paranoid about it: even if it happens in public, it doesn’t mean you have to deliver your son with a toilet plunger and wooden spoon, or whatever it is you’re imagining. All you need to do is drive your missus to the nearest hospital, sharpish. In fact, that’s exactly what I had to do when my first daughter, Jessica, was born. The only problem was, I didn’t know how to drive, and I’d been drinking all day. Apart from that, it was easy.
Dear Dr. Ozzy:
Catherine, Washington, UK
As a parent, you’ve just gotta accept that some kids play rougher than others. That’s all very well to say, mind you, until some brat whacks your little pumpkin over the back of the head with a wooden hammer. That happened to one of my own kids at a playground in Staffordshire once, and before I even had time to think, I just turned around and chinned the other kid’s dad. Looking back, I should have said something when the bullying first started—but I let it continue, getting worse and worse, until I finally blew my top. So I recommend you talk to your friend now—before she ain’t your friend any more.
Dear Dr. Ozzy:
I used to worry about the same thing. Basically, cats like sleeping in warm places—which is why they jump into cots—and people say they can smell the milk on a baby’s breath. But you don’t need to frog-march poor old Mr. Moggins outside at dawn and shoot him. Just keep the door to your baby’s room closed (as long as you’ve got a monitor) when the little one’s alseep. Problem solved.
¦ Remember, babies aren’t that much different from rock stars. They go crazy if they don’t get enough to drink. They feel a lot better after they’ve thrown up on your new carpet. And they crap their pants more than once a day. Basically, the same as me during the most of the eighties.
¦ Most strollers nowadays come with a beer holder and an ashtray. In an emergency, they can be also used to carry milk bottles and wet wipes.
¦ Don’t even
Dear Dr. Ozzy:
Never,
Dear Dr. Ozzy:
It sounds like he’s ready to become Prime Minister. I mean, how old is David Cameron—four-and-a-half? Seriously though, my advice would be to leave the kid alone. Buy him a cowboy suit. Get him a fucking Lego set. It’s your missus who should sign up for something—like therapy. A lot of parents these days just seem to be passing on all their insecurities onto their kids. I mean, piano lessons at two? Give me a break, man. What’s next? Pilot training
