Eleven

Today is Dan's birthday.

Eleven years ago, I really wasn't ready to have a son. People would say to me "Hoping for a boy, this time?" and I'd be stuck for an answer because, after having four daughters, I was actually hoping for another girl.

At first, I suppose it wasn't really very different, except that the occasional wee related accident during nappy changes was a bit more of a challenge to contain and clear up.

But one thing did become apparent over time and that was that Dan was looking to me to be a role model, a pressure I'd never felt from my daughters. Suddenly, my lack of basic footballing knowledge and worse that rudimentary DIY skills, issues that have never really troubled me, started to make me worry that I was letting the little fellow down.

Of course, there has been the occasional score: I'm pretty sure none of the other dads in Kirkby Lonsdale knows quite so much about DC and Marvel comics, there's my slight but unarguable rock 'n' roll history, and I'm pretty good when it comes to technology.

Plus Dan knows that I love him to bits.

This evening, the bits of our large family that weren't busy being in Edinburgh or at Kendal college all congregated at The Royal, where those who were old enough to, drank Prosecco and the others drank lemonade. There were presents and then there was curry.

It's not the most orthodox of families, I know - and that's largely my fault - but there's still plenty of love and happiness, and I know Dan felt that today. And that makes me happy.

(Oh, and there's a Superman joke in the photo for those who care to look for it.)