Here’s our latest Parent Panel post from young father of 2 Ben.

You should see the look on peoples’ faces when they discover I have two kids at the age of 26. Some try their best to conceal their surprise but don’t quite manage it, like the expression you pull when suppressing a yawn. Others are slightly less restrained, gasping at me as if I’d just told them that I put cats in bins for a joke.

“Twenty-SIX?!” they exclaim. “When I was twenty-six…” And then they jabber on about their youth, recalling tales of drink and sex while looking wistfully into the middle distance. It’s at this point that I edge away, shuffling further and further out of their peripheral vision until I’m out of sight and can scurry off. By the time they’ve snapped out of their daydream, I’m long gone and they’ve been standing on their own talking to themselves for five minutes.

Yes, I know full well that most people my age are out every weekend, dressed in their flares and crop tops (people still wear those, right?), necking beers and tequilas and getting steadily more unsteady as the evening wears on. The night culminates in blowing chunks over the edge of a kerb as, in the background, shrieking girls lose their dignity and fall over, showing everyone within a few metres their best undies.

OK, so it’s not always like that, I know – and, believe it or not, I have been on the odd night out myself. But it’s not for me, which is why I’ve not found becoming a father a massive shock to the system. I can’t dance – in fact, strike that: I don’t dance. It’s more for other peoples’ sake than mine: on the scarce occasion that the alcohol has had enough effect to make me stumble onto the dance floor, I pretty much just stand there and swing my arms, becoming more and more self-conscious until – humiliated – I shuffle off the floor and slump in front of another beer, avoiding all eye contact.

Although we do still have the odd night away from the children, I’d much rather spend my evenings in front of the TV with my wife and the muffled static of the baby monitor, or sat with my laptop steadily cooking my thighs as I struggle through writer’s block. It’s nice to know that, on a Saturday morning, I won’t wake up to a pounding headache and a mouth that tastes like hair; instead, I can spend the day with my wife and boys, doing whatever the weather will allow us.

Perhaps I’m subconsciously going by the ‘life begins at 40’ rule, and as soon as the kids leave home I’ll be out on the tiles, strutting my stuff as people wince at what I think are ‘funky moves’ (when I actually just look like my dad). However, it is more likely than my wife and I will indulge ourselves in endless Saga holidays, reclining on a cruise liner somewhere in the Mediterranean and sniggering at all those our age whose days of childish freedom are over because they’ve become parents themselves. At least, that’s the plan. I’ll let you know in 14 years if it’s worked.

How old were you when you had your kids? Do you think there’s a ‘right’ age to become a parent. Share your views in a comment below and we’ll pick one person to win a Training Cup on Weds 1st December

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