Ever since I've had kids I'm almost perpetually scarlet. I have plenty of embarrassing stories, where my children managed to make me squirm so much I thought I might grow tentacles and become an octopus. If you've ever listened to my radio show (Dermot & Dave, 12pm-2:30pm, Monday to Friday on Today FM, ahem), you may have heard some of these stories. They're so cringeworthy, though, that I wager you won't mind reliving the horror. Sam's Snapchat This story stars my now three-year-old, then aged two, Samuel. He goes to Montessori and we are blessed that he has two amazing teachers in Ciara and Claire. When my wife, Tracy, was pregnant with the twins, Ciara would keep Sam after school, until she was ready to leave, and then drop him home. This lengthened Tracy's child-free time and saved her the waddle to the school to collect him. See? I told you they were sound. Anyway, while waiting on Ciara to finish up, Sam would play with her phone. He, like all kids, loves smartphones. On mine, he loves the Baby TV app. On Nana's, it's YouTube because Nana has all his favourite videos saved for him. On Ciara's, it's Snapchat. He likes the little ghost fella on the icon and he knows he can take pictures of his own face with it. So, one day, he did just that. And then he made a couple of decisions. The first was to write his name on the picture. He tried to write Sam but managed a slightly garbled, "Säp". The second was to send it to someone. To whom? To Ciara's ex, of course. Oh. My. God. The mortification of sending your ex a picture of a toddler's face with SAP written on it! I still get butterflies in my stomach when I think of it. Thankfully, Ciara and her ex have a decent relationship and they laughed it off. It wasn’t so easy for us. The Lollipop I’m sure plenty of parents will identify with this one. It was Andrew, this time, who induced the cringe. And it’s so simple. He was small. Maybe two. It was a Sunday afternoon. A friend was visiting and he brought a friend with him. She’s not a fit person. She’s big. I’m trying to be polite here. I’m an adult. That’s what we do, right? Can you guess where this is going? Anyway, she very kindly gave Andrew a lollipop and we did what you do with a toddler and prompted him, “what do you say, buddy?” Nothing. “Andrew. What do you say?” Nothing. “Come on, Andrew. What do you say?” “I say thank you, Daddy.” “Yes, but not to me. Who do you say thank you to? Who gave you the lollipop?” He points. “The lady with the big belly.” Oh. God. No. The Accidental Racist This time, we’re back to Sam. He was out with me and Tracy’s Dad. We went to a local hotel for a bite to eat. As we sat, waiting for our food to arrive, a couple of young Nigerian lads came and sat down at the next table. I know they’re from Nigeria because I got talking to them after Sam, effectively, introduced us. You see he sat there, staring. I told him to stop. He didn’t. I tried to distract him with my phone. It didn’t work. Grandad tried to ask him about superheroes. Nothing. He just kept staring. I knew it was coming. He started to talk. Oh, no. What is he going to say? “Dad?” Gulp. “Yes, Sam?” He pointed at one of the guys, a handsome fella with cool hair. “That’s Daniel Sturridge 101!” If you don’t know who that is or what the numbers mean, you don’t have young sons. Daniel Sturridge plays football for Liverpool FC and the 101 is a reference to Match Attax football cards that almost every boy under 10 collects. They’re like Top Trumps and each player has values on his card. Each year, one card is the most powerful of all. The 2014/15 season’s most powerful was Daniel Sturridge, who scored 101 in every category. While I wanted the ground to swallow me up, the two lads laughed, and “Daniel Sturridge” told Sam that he wasn’t him. He was, however, a massive Liverpool fan and the nicest man on earth, so he joked that he would love Daniel Sturridge’s salary, gave Sam a pat on the head and we got on with our meal. I’m Slightly Famous This is remarkable. My child, effectively, managed to mortify me before he was even born. It was November 2^nd, 2009. Tracy was in the Emergency Room in the Rotunda Hospital in Dublin. I had parked the car in a nearby multi-storey and run back over to the hospital. A few of the girls on reception had heard me on the radio, earlier that morning, mentioning that Tracy had gone into labour. They were excited for us and quickly directed me to the room, in which she was screaming. As I was having my hand crushed by the inhuman strength of a woman in a contraction, a nurse walked in. He was so nice. He got Tracy into a position that helped reduce the pain. He talked her through breathing. He made me do things that were simple but made me feel like I was more use than just a human stress ball. Finally, as Tracy was getting admitted, he turned around and asked me for my autograph. I was a bit embarrassed. I was a bit proud. The girls outside on reception knew who I was. This guy, obviously, knew who I was and was even more of a fan. “Ah”, I said, “you listen too, do you?” “Sorry? I just want your autograph.” “Ah, yeah, sure, the girls outside were listening this morning too.” “What? Can you just sign the admittance forms please?” The penny dropped. He’s not a fan. He has no idea what I’m talking about. He just wants me to sign forms. Leave it, Dave. Just drop it there. You’re mortified. Don’t try to explain what just happened. Sign the forms and let’s move on. No. No, I couldn’t do that, could I? “I’m sorry. I thought you actually wanted my autograph there. You see, I’m slightly famous.” As these words fell from my lips, I could not believe what I had just said. I wasn’t alone. My wife, racked with pain, became momentarily lucid, looked at me and said, “Are you serious?” Then, she fell back onto the bed and groaned. Could have been a groan at my pathetic life, could have been another contraction. The nurse was confused and handed me the forms to sign and left the room. My dignity left with him. A few hours later, Andrew came into the world, having already successfully mortified his father. That was nearly six years ago. Last week, someone I’ve never met before quoted the “I’m slightly famous” line at me. FML.