Dear SonMature

A father speaks to his newborn son - who lies at death's door.

You had better not die. Alright? Helen would be distraught, for one thing. Took us a good few months to make you, you know. I've had to put up with all her tantrums and her cravings. Had to miss Champions League football to bloody drive her down to the hospital. She doesn't understand football, mind. Thought a 4-5-1 was a post code, for God's sake.

All you've bloody done since you came out is cry and sleep. I don't want a bloody whinger for a son so you'd better man up soon, mate. The Doctors told me some medical mumbo jumbo about your heart or something but I don't have a fucking clue what's wrong with you, if I'm honest. All I know is that you're lying there with bloody wires stuck in you and you could die. I'd never hear the bloody end of it if you died. Helen spends half her time crying as it is. That's where your mother is now. Gone the bathroom to have a good cry. She twigged that it was annoying me, so she does it in private now. Can't get any bloody sleep because she's always sobbing. And you're still bloody alive. So, for my sake, try not to bloody die, alright? 

I don't know what I'm doing. Sat next to a bloody baby having a right old moan. You'll have me doing a stupid baby voice next. Helen says I talk to you wrong. Says I shouldn't swear. It's not as if you can understand a fucking word I'm saying. You just lie there and your tiny chest moves up and down and I have to make sure you're still bloody breathing every ten seconds. Bloody hell, you've got me worried, mate. You don't even have a bloody name. We've had nine fucking months and we can't agree what to call you. That's me and Helen, for you. Can't even agree on what to have for our tea. She wants to call you Colin. Colin, my arse. I told her, we're not bloody calling him Colin. We're naming him after someone in the United team. Wayne or Ryan or something. I said to her, if we were having a girl, you could call her whatever you like, but since it's a boy - I'm picking the name. Thank God you're a boy. I wouldn't know what to do with a girl. All that crying and make-up and Harry Styles concerts. Bloody hell. No, I'm having a son. And you'd better not fucking die cause next time I might not be so lucky. We're gonna play football together in the garden, once we put some grass on it. It's all paving stones at the moment. We've just moved in. Your room's only half finished. Helen wanted blue wallpaper. Fucking blue. We had a row over that, and in the end we went with blue because we couldn't find any red - plus I realised I wasn't gonna get any peace until I let her have her way.

Was that a smile, you cheeky bastard? It was, wasn't it? There you are, lying there with tubes up your nose, scaring your Mam and Dad half to death - having a laugh to yourself. Tell you what, you may be a right whinger, but you've got a sense of humour. Your Mam's coming back. I'm gonna have a kip while she watches you, alright? Look after yourself, and don't die. 

The End

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