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Flew the kids to school in the space ship. A couple of the actors from the new, almost certainly terrible, Supermario movie were on the radio talking it up in the hope that kids on the way to school would badger their parents to go. Zoe Ball played the Taylor Swift song, “It’s me†which they amusingly interspersed with Mario saying “It’s a me, Mario!â€
As we came down the gangplank of the craft to walk the last few metres to school I, taken in by the hustle, kept saying “It’s a me, Mario†in a perfect Italian accent (of course). Ernie looked at me with genuine wonder. “How did you do that voice?†he asked. He couldn’t believe that Mario’s voice was coming out of my mouth. He was in awe. He didn’t know that he was essentially living with Mike Yarwood. Mainly because he didn’t know who Mike Yarwood was. He may not be alone, but if you were born after 1980 then you can at least google the reference.
It was sweet to see how impressed he was by this bog standard impression. It’s a very small window where a dad can do something that knocks the socks of his young children. The fact that any dad in the world could have a reasonable crack at saying “It’s a me, Mario†in a similar way to Mario made his wonder all the more amusing. He looked up at me and said, without a hint of sarcasm, “You’re the best dad in the world.â€
Which is a sweet and funny thing to happen in such unimpressive circumstances, but tinged with mild sadness as you realise that this little window of son/father adoration closes very quickly, that he will soon realise I am not even the funniest person in our family and soon won’t think even the genuinely impressive things that I might do are worthy of comment.
I told him that I wasn’t the best dad in the world, but was maybe in the top 5. Or maybe the top million (though even that would be an impressive placing). Before I became a dad I thought I would be a brilliant dad, always joking around, making the kids laugh, playing games with them all the time, really engaging. But I have not lived up to my own expectations, mainly because I didn’t anticipate how knackered I would be and so moments of wonder are very rare and I am liable to take things as easy as possible - for example I am writing this blog before school, while the kids play on their iPads. I am no fucking Bandit from Bluey. And yet tragically easily in the top 50% of dads in the world, maybe even 10%, because I do give a bit of a fuck and occasionally do an impression good enough to bamboozle a 5 year old.
Of course as much as I knew Ernie’s adoration was misguided, it still felt amazing to have received it and it was still incredibly gratifying for my son, even for an instant, to imagine that he had the best dad ever. I will do my best for these two (as long as it doesn’t require too much effort) and I am doing an OK job. But I doubt I will hear those words from their mouths again until maybe I am on my death bed. I certainly haven’t said them to my dad for half a century. And he’s in a different league.
But don’t tell him I said so.
