Dreaming of Lalya

Men dream of parenthood as much as women do but they’re not always open about it. Here, one would-be dad shares his hopes, and the lengths he’s going to, for a daughter.

Lalya. It’s a lovely, lyrical name that dances off the tongue. It’s a name that, for me, conjures up an image of a quaint, cute, quirky but grounded child… the child I have very much wanted to bring into this world for many years now. I first heard the name when I was about 21 and a university student. Ever since, I have had no doubt that I would one day father this child and that she would be my precious little friend, who I would guide through life and love dearly.

Unfortunately, I am yet to have her. Life has seen a succession of events conspire against my propagation of the species. At 21, I was dating a slew of girls whom I spent an inordinate amount of time and effort trying not to get pregnant. My youthful tastes ran to crazy, wild women, some of whom were required by their psychiatrists to take daily medication. Others were so unsuitable to childcare that they were not allowed within one hundred metres of suburban nursery schools.

So, in my earlier, most virile years, I had to put my fatherly ambitions on hold. Not, I imagine, that I was a prime specimen of healthy swimmer production. My diet consisted mainly of Tequila supplemented occasionally by Kentucky Fried Chicken. Add to that a penchant for tight leather trousers, and it is easy to understand that those years were never going to yield results on the Lalya front.

I drifted through my 20s and early 30s more preoccupied with partying than procreation. Then, one happy day, I met the love of my life – a tall, flaxen-haired beauty with a heart of gold… and the sexiest girl to ever grace a dance floor. We fell very much in love and still tell each other so every day.

Before we’d even tied the knot, we’d agreed that we wanted children and preferably sooner rather than later. I broached the name thing early. She, fortunately, loves the name Lalya and had a name of her own for a boy. Jack. Jack Cooper. A name with a rock‘n’roll edge to it. All looked on course for mother-pleasing speedy breeding.

That was, however, some eight years ago. It was just never the right time. First it was my career. Then it was, “let’s travel”. Then her career went into overdrive. Then we were “just not ready” and, suddenly, all those years went by and no Lalya or Jack.

We eventually came to the realisation, as all sensible wannabee parents must, that there is no “good time”, and that, unless I wanted to be an incontinent, drooling senior citizen by the time my child turned 20, we’d better get a move on.

So, on a long holiday in the Seychelles we decided we were up for it and threw the pills into the sea. We’ve been at it ever since, in a general, easygoing way. We’ve never done the “it’s ovulation time, better run home at lunch and fornicate for a family”. We’ve never been very scientific about it and have not resorted to building a pulley system into our bedroom to maximize the angles, if you know what I mean. We’ve stuck to the “if you do it, they will come” philosophy and have been romping along in the hope that it would just happen. However, two years of this has yielded no results.

It’s now time to get serious. Which is why I, much to the dismay of my nefarious friends, have not had a bloody drink in a month. It’s why my bedside table looks like a counter at Discem, stacked with bottles of Stamina Grow, zinc, iron, folic acid (whatever that is) and enough vitamins to keep an army on the march for a thousand days. It takes me about 25 minutes every morning just to get them down. I’m even, for the first time in my life, on a damned diet. No coffee for me, oh no. No booze, not too much red meat, regular exercise… I’ve even had to give up my tight whites and leather pants for pity’s sake.

I’m told that you have to keep this up for three months before it yields result, and that my wife and I are going to have to overcome the giggles and get to grips with some new and darn right strange positions and bedroom practices.

I am, however, committed to this. I really want my much-imagined children to become a crying, stinky, sleep-depriving, financially burdensome reality. Three months of deprivation pale in comparison to a life without little ones and I am prepared to go all the way, but please, whomever bestows the little miracle that is a child’s life, don’t make me do the walk of shame. You know, the one where you emerge from a little cubicle, apparently furnished with, well, encouraging magazines. The walk that ends with you handing over a slightly warm plastic cup to a matronly nurse. I’ll eat folic acid till the cows come home, but please, Lalya or Jack, don’t let it come to that.