Not on the list of things to expect from a stag are: feel guilty, spend much of the time thinking about a baby, spend much of the time TALKING about a pair of babies.
The stag do I've been on this weekend was my brother's. We had a great time, me, him and eight other friends went to Bath (armed with a raft of suggestions for suitable drinking establishments from the wonderful people of Twitter, the first time I've used it for something other than advice on breastfeeding and banging on about how great my son is) to do all the above.
A note on stag dos: I didn't have one when I got married last year. That's because I didn't want to have to ask someone to kill all my friends after they strapped me, naked, to a lamp post using duct tape. Ritual humiliation holds no allure to me. If that makes me boring, I don't care. So ner.
Our fun stuffs were quad bike riding and Rage buggy driving. Both brilliant. Both incredibly muddy. Both potentially a bit dangerous (not properly dangerous, but broken legs and arms can happen if you're not paying attention). I've never paid too much attention to that sort of stuff before, but now I'm a dad and there's a squidgy little human in the world who I need to take care of. Self preservation is more of a concern than it was a month ago.
|A Rage buggy. I want one.|
When we went out drinking there was plenty of non-baby chat, but, between me and the other (even newer) dad, there was plenty of cooing and male broodiness. Even the South African who works on a building site was going all gooey. Babies win every time.
Of course, as great as the weekend was, it was the return home to Mrs L and The Creature which was the highlight. There's nothing like a cuddle to help with a hangover.