The day we brought Andrew, our first-born, home from the Rotunda was a Wednesday in early November, 2009. We were busy. We lit a fire. Kept the room at the right temperature for the little guy.
The two sets of Grandparents came over to visit. Family and friends called around. Neighbours dropped in. All to dote on our new arrival. We were so happy. So much love, we could barely stop our hearts from bursting.
Night came, the visitors left, we ate something (Corn Flakes, I think) and we headed upstairs. We were utterly exhausted so very quickly, we were asleep. Very quickly, we were awake again. Is he breathing? What's that noise? Did he burp after that last feed?
We woke up a lot that night. Maybe the tiredness from that contributed to what was to follow. As the sun rose, a new sensation kicked in. Concern and worry have way to anxiety and panic and, eventually, terror! We are in charge of a human. Eh, hello?!? Did you hear me? WE ARE IN CHARGE OF A HUMAN!!!
There are no nurses, doctors or midwives around to answer questions, smile knowingly and to reassure and correct us. It's just us. And him. Lying there. Waiting for US to do the right thing. To look after him. To help him grow. For the rest of his life. Waaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh!
To illustrate just how panicked I became, allow me to tell you a story about that morning. I wanted to talk to someone. Someone who could do all that reassurance thing that would make me stay in the house and not just run away to Madagascar, or Vanuatu, or Crumlin. Just somewhere where I wasn't in charge any more.
So, who could I call? My Dad? He had three kids. We were all adults. I could ask him anything. And he lives 30 seconds away. Nope. Never entered my head. I know! Dermot, my radio BFF! He's had two boys at this stage. He knows more than enough to get me through this. I have him saved as a favourite in my phone. Easy. Nah. Didn't think of him.
My best friend, Daniel, also a Dad of two, would be the right man for the job. Thoughtful and calm, he'd give me all the reassurance I need and I could stop freaking out and start being a father. No. It didn't occur to me to call him.
Instead, a thought sheared through my mind like a hot fork through Dairygold! I know EXACTLY who I should call! Except I don’t have his number. I’ll tweet him.
So, I went onto Twitter, in a tizzy, and sent Rick O'Shea a private message. A fellow DJ and a Dad, Rick was the name that popped into my head. Is Rick one of my closest friends? No. Did I have many previous conversations with Rick about parenthood? No. Was Rick expecting a panicked tweet from me that day? Absolutely not.
I still, to this day, don't know why I picked Rick. I'm sure he must have found it a little strange at the time. But, being the gentleman that he is, he replied to my tweet, gave me his number and we spoke on the phone. And guess what? Rick did reassure me. He passed on lots of fatherly wisdom in the few minutes we spoke and I will be forever indebted to him for his help and patience with the panicked, fellow broadcaster on the other end of the phone.
The first day at home with Andrew began in a blind panic but quickly calmed itself into a normal day; the same normal day we've been having ever since. Sure, we've four kids now. We don't have time for panic any more!
Thank you, Rick.
I am David Zachary John Moore. I am married to Tracy (who used to be Velcro Girl on 2Phat). We have four kids: Andrew is six, Samuel is three, Nina and Anna, the twins, are one. We have a dog called Lorna, a lurcher we rescued in 2005. She can leap a nine-foot wall in one go. I am tired. 
