You know, I like to think I'm OK at this parenting lark.
That is, taking everything into consideration, all in all, I'm quite sure I do a reasonable job more often than not.
There have been some things I've not been too good at en route, but then, some fundamental anatomical restrictions don't make it simple for men in certain regards.
Then there's the other stuff. The stuff that The W does that much better.
It might just be me, but I suspect it might just be a man thing.
Take eye colour, for instance.
Nothing more humiliating than, having changed GP, getting to the part on the registration form that says 'colour of child's eyes'.
The receptionist is looking on.
I'm ashamed to admit that I haven't a clue.
I tell her I'm not certain what colour my own eyes are, let alone theirs.
She isn't impressed.
There are other examples to be found on the stuff-you're-supposed-to-know list.
Height and weight?
Right-handed or left?
The latter topic came up the other afternoon, me and The G collecting The B from nursery, his group having been talking about their first words.
"Daddy, what was your first word?" he asked.
I thought for a moment and admitted I had no clue.
"Mine was bubble," he announced.
News to me, it's true, but then, given that I have no recollection, I didn't argue.
I asked him about his peers and their first words.
One little boy's, he said, had been blue.
It sounded plausible, I thought.
Then he told me about the girl whose first word had been pineapple.
I might not do the stuff-you're-supposed-to-know all that well, but even I can see straight through that one.
I feared The G had developed some challenging musical tastes last night.
Post-bath, scheduled to put on her pyjamas, she could be found lying on the floor repeating the same thing over and over again.
"ZZ Top, ZZ Top, ZZ Top," it went, or at least, so I thought.
I listened a while longer and still it continued.
"ZZ Top, ZZ Top, ZZ Top."
She paused for a breath.
"What were you just saying?" I asked.
She looked at me, a little annoyed, as though I hadn't been listening.
"ZZ Top," she said, not pleased at having to repeat herself.
So it continued, until at last I realised she'd been asking me to pass her a pyjama top, the one that features Upsy Daisy, her favourite character from In the Night Garden.
It had been Daisy top, not ZZ Top.