It used to make me panic, but I’ve learned to love my friends having children - Alexander Brown

For the longest time, the news that my friends were having children would give me a deep sense of dread.

Sure, my first response was to be happy for them, a feeling that often lasted as long as seconds, before returning to how the impending extension of their family would impact me – which is what really matters.

It wasn’t resentful, more worried that my adult friendships, already so decided by geography and convenience, would dwindle as I saw less of them. Group holidays and football abandoned for the school run.

Reader, you may have children or know them, and I’m certainly not arguing against procreation or starting a family, even if it’s bad for a planet which is already overpopulated.

Alexander Brown has come round to the idea of his friends having children. Picture: Getty Images

They are also deeply boring to talk about.

“Oh look, my child made a mess.”

“You won’t believe what Artemis said this morning.”

“We’ve moved somewhere tiny because of the catchment area.”

And what do they offer? They’ve got nothing to say about current affairs, aren’t getting a round in, and don’t even pay tax. They are tiny little burdens incapable of rational thought, Descartes would argue they don’t even exist.

I also had, emphasis on had, little to no interest in seeing them, or the generic pictures parents take. Seen one baby seen them all. A giant bald head on a smaller body that at some point will be worth knowing.

It is safe to say I lacked a paternal instinct… or so I thought. Because something terrible has happened. I’ve started meeting my friends' children and I’m sorry to say, I’m really enjoying it.

Recently a friend from university visited, along with his fiancée and two children, one aged five, the other less than one. Taking them to dinner, we booked a table for 6:30pm, because, when you have a family, you eat in the afternoon.

I had brought a puzzle for the one-year-old, which a shop assistant assured me she’d grow into, and a book for his older daughter. I spent a veritable age looking for one, and in the end settled on “Fortunately the Milk” by Neil Gaiman, a book containing illustrations by Chris Riddell, whose work lit up the literature I grew up reading.

Handing it to her, I was nervous, with no real idea of her or what she liked, but the result was beyond beautiful. She loved it, showing me all her favourite illustrations before cuddling up to my partner and reading it to them, in a moment we’ll both treasure. In the meantime I made faces at the little one, who gripped my hand and smiled in between staring with eyes straight from a Pixar film.

The night ended with us walking them back home, the eldest on my back as I pretended to be a plane, spinning and jumping as she shouted “more turbulence”. It was magical, and as we hugged at the end of the night, or the end of theirs, I finally got it.My friend's family was an extension of them, more to love, an extra part of them to cherish and an addition to our dynamic, not a hindrance to it. Most kids still aren’t cute – but not my friend’s. You should see the photos.