Hey folks, we’ve reached Part Four of our Spotter’s Guide to Parents on the School Run! If this is your first episode, I should explain what’s going on: I’m being snarky about loads of people in a really judgmental way, and it’s BRILLIANT FUN!!
Here are the other parts, to get you in the mood for today’s minor-league bitching:
DISCLAIMER: None of the examples in this series are people I know in real life. If you’re on the School Run, and feel you have been slighted, and you fancy getting cross with me about this series, just remember that none of this is about you. However, if you do insist on being all angry about it, and you get right up in my face, just know that I will listen to what you have to say, take on board your concerns and criticisms, and then scuttle off and write all about the encounter on a blog somewhere.
(Please Note: This is a guide to the UK species. Other locations in this incredible world of ours might see different behaviours, I dunno. Do other countries have School Runs? If you don’t in your location, feel free to write to me and tell me stuff. I like people telling me stuff).
PART FOUR:
The Fighty One
It’s never like this, dammit
Imagine the scenario: It’s a School Run morning in November. The usual stuff – Gossip with The Gang, harangued by The Organiser to help out at something or other, watching The Belligerent marching across the playground – when suddenly, you hear raised voices. Angry swearing. A slap, a punch, an ugly brawl. Screaming. Shouting. The Gang aghast. The Belligerent marching straight to the Headteacher demanding these fighting people get banned from the playground. The Organiser flapping their clipboard at the offending parties to get them to behave. Separation. Muttering. People shaking their heads. Someone shouting “You FUCKING CUNT!”. Children crying, and being rushed into the school in a hurry. Staff trying to calm everything down. Grown adults being escorted from the school premises. Small children now using the phrase “You fucking cunt!” in a gleeful fashion for the rest of the day.
A letter goes home the following day reminding the “whole school community” of the responsibility for all parents to behave appropriately (i.e. don’t be a dick on school grounds). Gossip, gossip, gossip. One or more of the participants is banned from school property and they become a glowering figure on the perimeter of the school. Repeat every six months or so.
There’s always the risk of a Fighty One being on your School Run. Carrying years of resentment, bitter, angry, doesn’t like being looked at. Has a long-running beef with another parent. Not just quick to anger, but quick to explode. Doesn’t care where they are, or who is watching, or how it affects all the children in the vicinity, just as long as they can get their shouty-shout on. Can be racist, sexist, disablist, homophobic, often uses incredibly crude language to describe the hapless person they are haranguing. Of course, if two Fighty Ones get fighty, then they’re both as bad as each other. The Fighty One needn’t necessarily be a man, and needn’t be a dodgy, Begbie-like character of poor education; there are plenty of wealthy, educated, intelligent people, who turn into aggressive wankers if their buttons are slightly pressed.
I’veseen it happen, and it’s not funny (no wait, IT SUPER IS! But only if you’re not the one being on the receiving end of Fighty One’s ire). First time I witnessed such a thing, and I’ve witnessed it more than once, I didn’t find it funny to watch a grown man screeching insults in a woman’s face and threatening her husband with a pounding. I went home quite shaken and rang my mum, and asked her if this sort of thing happened when she took me to school, just ten *cough* years ago. Of course not, she said. Why would anyone do such a thing? Maybe it’s a new thing. Like mobile phones.
Let’s blame this on mobile phones!
I’m not just talking about actual fisticuffs here. We all get into arguments from time to time – even The Gang has the potential to sometimes have a short little squabble, a hurried gossip, and then either a making-up, or a group-ostracizing of the offending party. My definition of ‘Fighty’ includes anyone who gets angry enough to lose control, shout loud enough for all to hear, and uses effing-and-jeffing in front of the children. In front of the flipping children, I ask you…
“…and it was on St Swithin’s Day that she sent me a letter proclaiming her love for Lord Tossington-Folder, and I knew then that she was a fucking slag”.
Plus Side: Adults on the School Run who fight in school playground with other parents, who swear vicious brutal insults in front of school children, who get physically aggressive with the teachers, who have to be escorted from the premises… there’s no plus side to them. They’re complete arseholes. Minus Side: Potential to be a violent, racist (etc), twat APPEARANCE: Furious, glaring, aggressive, makes eye contact with people then demands to know what the other person is looking at, CALL: Variations on “FUCK!/SHIT!/WANKER!/SLAG!/WHORE!/COME ON THEN!/KILL!/PERVERT!/CUNT!/QUEER!/PAEDO!/I KNOW WHERE YOU FUCKING LIVE!/GO BACK TO WHERE YOU CAME FROM!/WHAT ARE YOU ALL FUCKING LOOKING AT?” HABITAT: School perimeter fence, glaring a lot. Not being terribly friendly. Being hurriedly ushered into the Headteacher’s office. Being hurriedly ushered into a police car. In court. Front of the local newspaper with outraged article on page 4.
Everything about parenting is hard. I know this. I knew it before becoming a parent. Nothing is harder, or more important, than discipline.
Get discipline right, and you have a well-behaved, polite, organised, hard-working child.
Get it wrong, and your child will become extremely well-known. And your parenting will get talked about in slightly hushed tones by everyone you will ever meet from now on.
Trouble is, how to discipline? Victorian-style discipline is now seen as violently and emotionally abusive. Even the occasional smack is frowned upon. Fluffy, liberal, do-what-you-like (lack of) discipline never ends well either – you end up with absolute wankers for children: Spare the rod, and create the entitled little shit.
All along the parenting road we are told that our children need boundaries, that their behaviour is often a case of testing those boundaries, and we must be firm, fair, consistent, and understanding. Well, it all looks so easy when you write it down.
In actual fact, we learn how to, or how not to, discipline from our parents. In my case, it’s probably fairly standard, but with complications.
My Dad was a lovely guy, no doubt. He was kind, supportive, intelligent, interesting, occasionally silly, full of endless advice, was always on hand with some advice, and liked nothing more than to give me advice all the time. Advice was his thing. He loved advice.
He also hit. But in between the hitting was advice. Man, that guy loved his advice. He also lost his temper easily. But other than that, he was great. He loved me, and I genuinely loved him and still do 15 years after he passed away. There was lots about him to love. I didn’t love the hitting much, or the temper explosions, and I wouldn’t be surprised if deep down, he didn’t enjoy it much either. And sometimes I could’ve done without quite all that much advice, but still, top bloke.
The result of all this is I don’t hit. Ever. I do lose my temper though. That much I have picked up from Ol’ Pater. I mean, he could burst like a water balloon with very little provocation. Quite suddenly, and for the smallest of reasons, he’d be off, yelling away as if it was his natural resting-state. And sometimes, being a kid or even a teenager, I’d have a bit of a strop. If that got on Dad’s nerves, there would be the remarkable spectacle of him having a tantrum about me having a tantrum. Fun times.
Anger and me are complicated bedfellows. I can really do anger when the mood takes me. People have often accused me of being angry when I’m really not. I have a natural scowl. After a while, they annoy me with their anger accusations and find out what I’m actually like when I’m angry, which is to say, a bit explosive. Needless to say, I have to keep a lid on my anger.
It’s not something I’m proud of. And Sarah keeps a weather eye on this, and warns me if I’m being unreasonable or inconsistent – because if anger is anything, it’s not exactly predictable. She and I do everything we can to make punishments work without me losing control. My natural inclination when being having my patience tested is to blow up without warning, so between us, we’ve developed strategies. I’ve learned to give Alice calm declarations of caution before I get properly riled.
This is difficult when you are a parent, and your foe is a seven-year-old with an attitude. I don’t have much time for lots of well-meaning-but-totally-unrealistic articles about discipline on the internet and in the fluffier sections of the press, about how punishment is wrong for kids, and how parents need to learn less destructive methods of expressing rage. Yeah right, smart-arses, you’re all zen fuckers; but I bet you completely flip your shit when your kid draws all over your sofa with a marker pen. I bet you a bajillion dollars.
Oh, fuck OFF
For all my mistrust of smug-twat articles on parenting websites, I do see their point. And so did Philip Larkin. We really do fuck up our kids in many ways, and not just through draconian punishment. I’m all for positive reinforcement, but I’m also a bit lazy sometimes, and so we allow Alice a treat if she’s good. This means, we’re rewarding good behaviour with something that will contribute to her inevitable teenage obesity. Good show, Phnut!
So we reward with treats after school. So what? If Alice has been good at school and behaves on the walk home, she gets a treat, and everyone’s happy. I started this with the very best of intentions, and insisted that four out of every five days she gets fruit, and only has chocolate or a bag of nommy sweeties once a week.
Well, that lasted about a month, and that was nearly three years ago, although recently Alice has surprised me by going back to natural produce for her treat, although she has once again proved to be the Queen of Kook, and currently her idea of a non-sweetie, fresh fruit option is to have a whole cucumber all to herself.
I’ve seen shit parenting enough to know it when I see it, and also, to try and avoid it myself. Two of the shittest parentings I’ve seen were about 45 minutes apart from each other on the same day. Alice and I had gone out one afternoon when she was about three. We went to a local country park, complete with playsets, swings, trampolines, and various farm animals. Alice went on the trampoline and did her usual thing on trampolines, which isn’t so much to jump as to sort-of enthusiastically fall over. Another child of a similar age joined her on the trampoline, and he was clearly instantly upset, and wanted to get off. He didn’t like the wobbly floor, or that there was another person on already, and he clutched at the wire netting for support. His parents responded by whipping out their mobile phones, and filmed his distressed wailing and offered support by saying “Get off your arse, you fucking wimp! Hur-hur, look at him! Little twat! Hur-hur!”.
Of course I didn’t say anything. I am a coward.
Later on, we were looking at the chickens (“Look at the big one, Daddy!”. It’s a cockerel, Alice. “What a big cock, Daddy!” Ewfff…. yeah…) when I heard a scream. It was an outraged scream, not an ‘in-pain’ scream, but a ferocious child’s bellow of incandescent rage. I instinctively looked around. There was a mother with two kids, the younger being a furiously angry little boy, and he was raging, completely lost in his fury. He was doing something only young boys do; that weird mix of bellowing, screaming, and growling. The other kid, an older girl, was pretending nothing was happening, and following in his wake. The boy was really hitting the high notes. The mother was storming ahead in that ‘This-screeching-is-really-getting-to-me-but-I’ll-keep-a-lid-on-it-in-furious-silence’ mode. We’ve all done that. I was sympathetic at that point. Then, without warning, she whirled around, yanked him close to her, slapped him around the face (not hard, but it made the point, and me wince) and yelled “I’VE FUCKING HAD IT WITH YOU!!”. She then dragged the child back to her car (a Range Rover) pinned him to his seat and roared off.
Again, no intervention from me, and I’m still ashamed of it.
So those are my absolute rules. Don’t Hit, Don’t Humiliate, and Don’t Swear At My Kid. I will shout, though. I will shout, I’m happy to do so (except I’m not really happy when I’m shouting, but I’m happy and willing to shout, even though I don’t actually like losing my temper… accchhh, it’s complicated). And if you were to quote all those nicey-nicey articles, and forcibly demand that I stop getting angry, then frankly, you can prise my shouting from my cold dead hands.
Issues with discipline appear to come in waves. Alice can go for weeks and weeks without bothering the cobwebs in the naughty corner, and then suddenly she’ll have a spate of being possessed by demons. She’ll be in the corner a couple of times, and then she’s back to being sweet and hilarious. Apparently, this is called ‘being seven years old’.
This last week was a case in point. I can’t remember when she was previously in trouble much, but last week, she became a citizen of the naughty corner on three occasions.
Here’s an example:
Alice has an annoying habit. She doesn’t like tidying. I can sort of sympathise with that. I don’t like tidying much either. Sarah likes tidying only slightly more than I do, so she’s inevitably the cheerleader for tidying in our family, but in general we’d rather not. We find people whose houses are spotlessly, flawlessly clean are suspicious and weird. However, the division of labour in our house means that, for now, I am in charge of keeping the house clean and tidy. Haha, as many of my long-term friends and former housemates would say.
“Yeah, I’m on top of it…”
I’m of the opinion that Alice is now old enough to take some bloody responsibility, and not be waited on hand and foot. She has her own bedroom, and she’s now capable of picking up her crap. However, Alice feels she shouldn’t have to do this. Alice genuinely feels that asking her to tidy is a direct violation of the Geneva Convention on Human Rights. It’s unfair, apparently. She will do anything to avoid it. And arguments with her bounce back. I use my father’s old ‘do-you-want-to-live-in-a-pigsty?’ routine, and I get back “But I want to live like this!!”. Touché, kid.
However, there is a limit. Her bedroom floor has become but a distant memory, covered in Alice’s seemingly vast wardrobe, her ‘art gallery’, and a variety of stuffed chums. And she was refusing to pick up one sock of it. And last weekend, I wasn’t having any of it from her. I asked her repeatedly to tidy her room, and she refused. When I actually dragged her upstairs to do it, she started procrastinating for the nation, and then demanding a rest because she was tired. This really was the limit. I gave her the quiet caution, the direct warning, the threats to withold treats. Nope. Still obstinate.
The broadcast from this year’s Glastonbury Festival was on the television. Every year, when Glastonbury is on, we put all our cushions on the living room floor, erect the Ikea playtent, make lots of ‘street food’ recipes, and watch the festival from the comfort of our sitting room. Sigur Rós were on.
I gave her a countdown from 5. At 2, I told her she was going in the naughty corner. She went in the naughty corner. After the allotted time in the corner, I told her to get back upstairs to tidy the bedroom again. Still, she refused. So back in the corner she went. Enraged and howling unfairness (at least it’s training for when she’s 14 and EVERY BLOODY THING will be unfair) gave way to pretending to be asleep and refusing to acknowledge anything I said. Sigur Rós played their own version of the Dies Irae in the background. What’s more, she made loud snoring noises and smirked to herself. I gave her one final warning, one Achtung! of impending danger, I was close to losing my temper. I could feel it. That irrational, unstoppable wall of white-hot rage that I despise in myself, bubbling up and up. I calmly told her she had five seconds. Sigur Rós burst into one of their cacophonic moments. She responded – still pretending to be asleep – with a snorting snore, and a muffled giggle.
I’m sure they heard me next door. Fuck, I’m 100% positive they could hear me across the street. From indoors. Even Sigur Rós paused for a moment, or one of their interminable soundscapes of loveliness had come to an end, it was hard to tell.
The look on Alice’s face was of pure horror. She knew she’d gone too far. I don’t like that expression. Everything in my instinct tells me to hold her, and protect her from this terrifying monster. It’s heartbreaking. And yet, I gave her all the guns. Maximum phasers. I was the Death Star.
So I bellowed. I bellowed with Sigur Rós soundtracking my bellowing. I normally like Sigur Rós, with their volcano-in-the-distance-across-an-ice-field-while-in-the-sky-Jupiter-collides-with-Saturn-as-the-Northern-Lights-dance-across-the-heavens-while-dawn-breaks-over-a-crystal-world-aaaah-aaaaaaaah-open-mouthed dronescape, but at the back of my mind, with herself being an intransigent little madam, and those crazy Icelanders wailing away, all I could think of was “Shut up, Sigur Rós. Write some proper bloody songs, FFS.”
Guys, seriously, not right now.
When she comes out of the naughty corner, we usually sit down and discuss how and why she ended up in there, she apologises calmly, we hug and it’s all forgiven and forgotten. On this occasion, we struck one of our ‘deals’. She had 30 minutes to do as much tidying in her room. If she cleared the room, she’d get a treat. And so, she blasted her room. Every corner, every fluffy toy, every book, and yea, even the socks. She emerged triumphant: “That was easy!”, she yelped. I smiled and concealed the ‘For fuck’s sake, kid…’ in my beard and happy laughter. And thus, she happily chomped on a cucumber.
Because she says it’s ‘so easy’ and (slightly teeth-grinding but actually quite rewarding) that tidying is ‘so much fun!!’, we’ve now made a subsequent deal. Every Sunday, we’ll blitz the house for one hour. Hoovering, tidying, clearing, even dusting. It’s June now; let’s see if it’ll still be working this way in October, or if this agreement lies in tatters.
In Sarah’s case, it’s to have a presentable, ordered house that looks and feels nice to be in. For me, it’s not so much for a tidy house, in case visitors come over (because fuck ’em, especially the weird tidy ones who, I bet, judge us), but because I want Alice to get into the habit of having an ordered space. I can live in my own pigsty quite happily (yeah, Dad), but I’m embuggered if Alice is going to.
So this is discipline. It’s the making of Alice. When Alice gets up in the morning, she gets herself out of bed at 7:30am with only the slightest of urgings from us. She gets dressed. She eats her breakfast. She finds her shoes herself. We’ve had all the arguments over the years so that now, she does these things without making a fuss. It has taken a lot of yelling and stomping around angrily from me in the past, but now, the pre-school ritual is pretty smooth and rarely causes a ruckus. I know people for whom it is a daily battle. Parenting is fucking hard.
“Do not fuck with me, Hugo…“
As I’m writing this, I’m realising that discipline is not necessarily about getting your kid to behave well, and do stuff; discipline is a bit like sculpture. You start with a block, and through chipping away, sometimes in adversity, the person within emerges. Get discipline wrong, and the sculpture will be disproportionate, rough, with spikes and jagged edges, and the limbs will be spindly and eventually drop off.
Get discipline right, and the sculpture looks agreeably human. Go too far, and you have a polished specimen, but it is frozen and immobile. In my case, the sculpture of Alice is looking pretty good. I’ve been chipping away with the spirit of my dear old father over my shoulder.
A few weeks ago, I was discussing this blog with Sarah. I was all puffed and proud about having done one hundred posts (champagne, bunting, cheers, tickertape parade, concert held in my name with artists from many nations, etc)
“OK, how about next week, you do a 101st post about parenthood stuff that can go into Room 101?”
(in this case, rather than the Orwellian version of Room 101, being a place for your worst fears; Room 101 for Parents is basically all the stuff that parenting involves that, in no uncertain terms, can fuck right off)
Well, I didn’t manage to make it the 101st post, because lazy, but it’s not a bad idea. In fact, it’s an excellent idea. It’s reasons like that why she’s my wife and I love her, plus boobs.
And lo, fellow parents, this is a list of over 50 things that can go into Parenthood Room 101. Feel free to tell me yours!
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1. Early mornings. The mornings on precious weekends when you NEED another two hours’ sleep, but your offspring decides that this is the perfect moment to wake up the entire house by singing Uptown Funk.
“‘cos Uptown Funk’s gonna give to ya, Mummy…”
2. Early mornings #2. The mornings when you NEED to get up early – for school, for a day trip, to get to the airport to catch the only reasonably-priced flight you could book. Nope. That’s the time your blessed five-year-old child decides to age by 10 years and become a teenager, growling at you when you fling open the curtains. Should small children growl like that? Is that normal??
3. The battle of wills over food. It’s FOOD, child. You need it to SURVIVE. Don’t you UNDERSTAND?? (no wait, you’re a kid, you understand nothing).
4. Clothes. There is ice on the inside of your eyelids. It is a perilously cold day. The wind is gusting from the planet Hoth, and your kid has just insisted on being dressed in her sleeveless summer dress that is two sizes too small, and made of material thinner than paper.
5. Clothes #2. We are in the summer and even the UK is basking in freakish, roasting-hot weather (25°C). It is a day for summer dresses, and the daughter comes downstairs in a jumper, leggings, trousers over the leggings, a bodywarmer made from wool, and wrapped in a squirrel onesie.
Alice, get changed, or you will cook.
“Hmmm. What will I taste like?”
6. Clothes #3. It’s school photo day. “I’ll wear my best school dress and school shirt!”, she says. You trust her to get ready in her school uniform. She comes downstairs in a Harry Potter costume, complete with Gryffindor tie.
That’s not your school uniform, Alice.
“It’s the best school uniform I’ve got!” she snaps.
You really shouldn’t trust her to get ready in her school uniform unattended.
“But Daddy, I waaaaant toooooo…!” You can’t. “Why?” Because you’re going to the school Easter service at the church today… “But you said we were athe… aseithith… that we don’t believe in God…” Fair point.
7. Clothes #4. You haven’t learned from your mistakes, and still you trust her to get dressed in her school uniform. It is only on the walk to school that you realise her shirt is COVERED in stains from last night’s curry. This happened to me only just this morning.
8. Handling toxic, biohazardous waste with your bare hands. I once – years ago, during toilet training (not mine, Alice’s) – attempted to find the source of an unpleasant smell, reached blindly under the sofa to pull out whatever was making that smell, assuming it was a rancid piece of food that had fallen under there, and my hands closed around a semi-firm poo. The mystery of how it got 18 inches under a sofa has never been solved. And yet, the stuff keeps on coming: urine, vomit, occasional blood, used tissues, food that has been cached somewhere, as though she’s a semi-tame hyena.
9. Fighting your child’s irrationality with reason and logic… and losing. Arguing with a child is like arguing with an implacable religious fundamentalist. You’re not going to change their mind, despite them not being aware of the fountain of bullshit that comes spewing out of their mouths.
10. Bed time. Bedtime is when your child realises they haven’t used up every ounce of energy today and so they try to cram it all into the last ten minutes (usually by bouncing up and down, running around, and doing the opposite of what you tell them what to do, all the while giggling insanely). It also coincides with the time of day (apart from 3am) when I least want to wrestle an insane giggler into pyjamas.
11. Soft play. Soft play is a Godsend when it’s wet out, and your child is climbing the walls. However, it is also an echoing 4th circle of Hell full of screaming monsters and beaten-down parents drinking over-priced dishwater coffee. No childless couple would ever willingly go to soft play, unless it was late at night and they were on drugs. It’s the part of Dante’s Inferno reserved solely for parents.
“Can I go in the ball-pit, Daddy?”
12. When your child is resisting being taken by the hand, and they go limp, and you have to drag them. This is fun, especially when crossing busy roads.
13. When your child unexpectedly grabs you by the arms, and lifts their feet off the ground, thus forcing you to pick them up. Hello slipped disc!
14. Having to answer the same questions over the course of many years.
15. Having to repeat every single instruction many times over the course of many more years.
Don’t do that thing!!
“AAAAOOOWWWW!!!”
What am I waiting for you to say?
[grumpily] “Sorry”
How many times must I tell you not to do it?
“Errr… just once?”
Do I ever have to tell you again?
“Err…nope”
[five minutes later…]
You’re doing it again! ARE YOU FUC-LIPPING DEAF, CHILD?? WHAT DID I TELL YOU NOT TO DO BARELY A NANOSECOND AGO??
16. Having your child suddenly, and without any provocation, spout an opinion that Hitler would deem a bit much e.g. all bullies should have their eyes torn out, and pushed into a volcano while their parents have their limbs cut off. All this just because some twatty little boy says to her that girls can’t play football.
“Kids with glasses are imperfect specimens, Daddy…”
17. The controlling of your child in public. Feel the hot sensation of embarrassment creep up your neck as your child suddenly bursts into singing ‘That’s What Makes You Beautiful‘ in a church during your uncle’s funeral. The sound of adults tutting at you has the same physical sensation on you as bullets from machine guns, as your child gets fractious and bored in a quiet restaurant known for its supreme poshness (top tip: don’t take your kid to a posh restaurant, you ninny. That’s what fast food chains are for). The sudden rush of shame as a child comments on someone’s facial deformity in a loud and penetrating voice.
18. Parents’ evening at school. Just parents’ evening alone can get into the fucking sea.
19. Parents’ evening at school when the teacher tells you about your child’s poor behaviour and you realise that it is behaviour inspired by you e.g. giving other kids a Vulcan Nerve Pinch because you encouraged your child to watch Star Trek. What’s more, the teacher knows that you know that you are responsible, because they’re giving you a very hard look.
20. Realising that your child has very nearly had a serious, and possibly life-threatening accident, and you spend the rest of the day wondering if, in a parallel universe, the outcome had not been OK.
Example: This actually happened. The other day, I was walking through a supermarket car park, and Alice was about 15 feet in front of me, skipping along. Normally, she holds my hand in a car park, and we walk together, but on that day I wasn’t really paying attention. Alice was walking past the back of a parked car, when it suddenly roared into life, and backed straight out. It missed Alice by a tiny margin. Alice yelped and dodged out of the way, the car stopped, and for a brief moment, Alice looked terrified at me, the driver looked at us both in horror, and I realised I was glaring at both of them in shock. Thing is, if Alice had been only 13 feet in front of me, the car would have backed straight into her and would have probably knocked us over. It was everyone’s fault at once. The driver clearly didn’t check behind them until after they had pulled out; Alice knows better than to walk separately from me in a car park (it has been a strict rule ever since she could walk), and I really should have been paying attention. It was sheer luck that there was no accident. And that has provided me with all sorts of nightmare images my brain ensures I can watch every time I close my eyes at night, and it’s another parenting moment I could well do without.
21. Watching your child bully another child. That’s a moment of parenting that could fuck right off, followed by…
22. Having to tell your child off in public after your child has just bullied another child, all the while knowing that bullied child’s parent is watching you, and you have to assess whether you tell off your own child in a forceful way, but not too forceful, in case the other parent judges you for bullying your own child.
23. Telling your kid off in public, and realising halfway through that you’re being unreasonable, but having to go through with it anyway (because stopping what you’re doing, and saying “hang on, I’m being unfair and unreasonable”, and apologising to your child is not the sort of thing you think of doing in public). It’s one of those out-of-body moments you wish you could never have.
HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I TOLD YOU NOT TO STOP AND LISTEN TO BUSKERS??!! I’m a MUCH better guitarist than him anyway and… now I can see you’re crying, and everyone’s judging me, and I’ve taken this too far BUT I’M IN TOO DEEP NOW AND I’M ON A SHOUTY ROLL…
24. Having another parent tell your child off for some infraction or other. How do you react? Do you agree with them because your child actually deserved it? Do you get cross at them for telling your child off, because only you should tell your kid off? Are you reacting out of bruised ego? What the fuck are you supposed to do??!!
25. Being obliged to sit through hours of tediously awful and cloying television aimed at pre-schoolers.
26. Then, after a few years, being obliged to sit through hours of shouty, gooey, hectic, screeching, strobing television that is one big animated commercial for a crappy series of toys aimed at primary school kids, featuring kung-fu cyborg mice with mystic powers, and a weekly moral message.
27. Television programmes for kids; particularly a shouty, gooey, hectic, screeching, strobing live-action Saturday-morning television programme which is some sort of activity/quiz thing hosted by a team of mixed-gender presenters who yell at you down the television which is subjected to you after #1 has taken place.
28. Television programmes #2; being obliged to watch a programme where the main character is actually a massive arsehole (e.g. Horrid Henry, Dennis the Menace, Bing, Hannah Montana). A shit so massive that if it was a child in the same class as yours, you’d encourage your own child to not associate with. You realise, with dawning horror, that this appalling character is somehow both appealing and inspiring to kids.
My biggest problem I can’t change the title of this book (and the subsequent TV show and movie) to “Absolutely Staggering Hateful Shit-filled Repulsocunt”
29. Realising that your reaction to #28 could possibly mean you are now one of those parents that gets shrill and complains a lot about stuff that most people would deem unimportant. OK, so it’s about positive vs negative role models, and it affects your child (and possibly other children), but it’s the same reasoning that causes idiots to force schools to ban Of Mice and Men from the shelves, or organises bonfires of Roald Dahl books because he worships Satan, or something.
30. Television programmes #3; watching a programme where the implied message is at odds with your fluffy Liberal ideals e.g. boys must marry girls; girls must look thin and pretty at all times; the programme is actually a subtle pro-gun Christian thing; the programme encourages an obsession with frivolous material goods; the programme is full of white kids spending obscene amounts of money in a gated community; and so on…
31. Listening to pop music and realising that you have finally lost all remaining instinct over what is deemed hip, cool and current, because even though the song is in English, you understand less than 32% of the lyrics
32. Listening to your child’s favourite pop song and realising how grossly inappropriate it is, and then having to decide whether or not to just let the kid listen to it, or whether or not to be a total square and be all draconian and refuse to let your child listen to it any more (see also #29)
33. Going to a party with your child, have your child insist that you dance with them, so you get up and shuffle awkwardly around, and you catch the DJs eye, and they look at you slightly pityingly, and then you catch a glimpse of yourself dancing reflected in a window or mirror, and you realise that you dance like a bell-end.
Imma gonna unleash my moves on you, kids…
34. Being forced to entertain a child in a lively and physical way which involves standing up and possibly running/jumping/dancing, when all you want to do is read a good book.
35. Watching the news, and having one fascinating news story interrupted by a child having a screaming melt-down because they’re bored and they want to watch Horrid Henry.
36. Watching a really interesting programme and then realising you have to change channel because it is not child-appropriate.
37. Having your child really upset by something tiny and trivial, and having to explain to your child that they’re being a bit unreasonable, but your kid doesn’t understand, and they’re still upset. And then you get frustrated, and they get more upset.
38. Being asked about sex, and having to explain it to your kid, only for your kid to repeat what you’ve told to her classmates during show-and-tell the following day, and hope that they don’t use the word “boner”.
39. Reading the Harry Potter books, and attempting to avoid all spoilers (which is hard when peers of your child watch the films first, out of sequence, and then blab all), read up to book five, only to have a character in a TV programme you’re all watching as a family say that Snape kills Dumbledore at the end of book six.
40. Not being able to listen to Led Zeppelin in the car, and instead having to listen to I Am A Gummy Bear on repeat. Putting on the Zep would risk the enraging your child (frankly, it’s a risk I’m more than happy to take).
Squeeze me baby, ’til the juice runs down my leg…
41. Having had a bad day at work, only to find your kid has had a much worse day at school and needs a lot of comforting
42. Having had a bad day at work, but your kid has a motherfucker of a flip-out over something tiny, and you need to bury your shit deep inside you, because first and foremost, you have to calm a screeching dervish before you tend to your own needs.
43. Your child having a shit birthday, especially if the shiteness of the birthday being in some way your fault
44. When playing a computer game, have your child loudly demand a go, reluctantly pass the controls over to your child, and then watch your child make your avatar walk into walls, jump up and down 481 times (“but it makes a nice sound!”), and spin around on the spot for 12 minutes. And then your child kills your avatar through incompetence, and it ruins your savegame and your stats.
45. Going out for a big family day out, end up going to a place that you and your spouse might really enjoy (art gallery, big country house), only to have a whining, complaining voice follow you around all day saying what a rubbish time they’re having .
46. Child being ill. That’s just horrid. Not just the bodily fluids, the smell, and the need for constant attention, but also the feeling of utter helplessness as your child whimpers. Yeah, that shit can get to fuck.
47. Spending weeks on a Big Important Thing at work (presentation, meeting, report, big project, etc), and then on the day when it has to culminate, and many people are relying on you, your kid is very ill. And when you ring in to excuse yourself, there is a slightly sceptical tone in your boss’s voice, as if to suggest you’re just buying time.
48. Talking to an old and dear friend who you haven’t seen in years, and having your child interrupt you repeatedly and rudely because they’re bored of adults talking to each other and you’re not paying enough attention: “I’ve made a thing from this mud LOOK DADDY LOOK!”
49. Introducing your child to a book or film from your own childhood, that was a crucially inspiring and important work to you, and have your child dismiss it as being rubbish.
How can this be classed as “rubbish, Daddy”. How? TELL ME HOW?? Anyway, you’re six. You like Alvin & the Chipmunks 4. You have NO critical faculties whatsoever…
50. Having your child commit to something vitally important (e.g. swimming lessons) only for them to demand to quit two months, and a lot of money later, because “It’s hard and I can’t do it”
51. Not being able to have any privacy whatsoever. Visiting the toilet is NOT a team effort. Why can’t you understand this? Why do you want to watch me poo?
52. Your body is no longer yours. Any time you take clothes off and a child is nearby, you suddenly find a tiny finger poking bits of your body to see if it wobbles like jelly. And then it gets laughed at for being wobbly. Thanks kid, I’ll make sure to laugh at your puberty awkwardness in about ten years time.
53. Your rude bits are sensitive at the best of times. Add a curious child into the mix, and it’s both sensitive and ewwwwwww. Your breasts get prodded (not easy to come to terms with when you’re a man, trust me), and your crotch is questioned. Why is it hairy? Why does it dangle? Those look like marbles in a bag; are they marbles Daddy? Can I tou-
No. No no no no no no NO NOOOO NO NO NO NO NO NO.
54. When you, as a proud Dad, take pride in your parenting role (take the kid to school, be primary carer, do the housework, cook the meals, do the shopping, have your wife or girlfriend be the primary earner, be a Stay-At-Home-Dad), and then see an article in the newspaper about Stay-At-Home-Dads and primary-carer Dads… and the accompanying picture is of a man wielding a vacuum cleaner and wearing an apron.
Because the only things Stay-At-Home-Dads do is clean and cook, yeah? Yeah, fuck off
55. Having to put your child first ALL THE TIME
And here’s just 0.5 of a thing:
Realising that parenting lasts the rest of your life. Once you become a parent, you are a parent forever, and you cannot get out of it. Being a parent forever is fine – brilliant, even. But that moment of realisation, when you have a flash-vision of parenting defining you for the rest of your natural life, that selfish, horrible “oh… shit” moment BEFORE you go “and that’s… OK. Yeah, it is definitely OK. I’m well up for this!”. That brief moment of selfish doubt and fear can be dumped into the shittiest of sewers. What comes afterwards, I’ll happily take.
From a very early age, I knew that if I were to be a parent, I’d have to confront an issue I’ve always had. It was something that I was dreading, and yet, it was an inevitable stage of development I’d have to endure. I knew it. Rather like we all have to accept that one day, each one of us will die.
And that’s how much I was looking forward to tackling this thing, this beast, this towering issue, this nightmare monster that sat in the middle of parenting, leering and beckoning at me.
No, I’m not talking about discipline.
No, I’m not talking about nappy changing or toilet training.
I am, of course, talking about trying to stop any child of mine from eating with their mouth open.
There’s the old jazz musician joke that hell is a room full of banjo players and accordionists playing together. My hell would have a room where people eat with their mouths open, chewing their food slowly and noisily.
It’s disgusting. I wish people wouldn’t do it. But they do, and they really do their best to eat this way near me. I hate that wet, chewy, dripping, moist sound of people eating. I hate it so much that as I’m writing this, my heart rate increases, my palms start tingling and my jaw clenches. StopitstopitstopitstopitstopitSTOP IT! URGH, I hate the IDEA of it. I hate it more than I hate racism, and I hate racism a lot.
I only recently discovered this issue of hating a sound actually has a name: Misophonia. It’s a real thing, and it is quite common. It appears to be prevalent in people who suffer from depression (hello!), and it’s not pleasant at all. The effect is a bit like being on the receiving end of the classic nails-down-the-blackboard sound. Nobody likes that sound.
Well, I say “nobody”… I bet there’s a masochist somewhere that gets some sort of transgressive thrill from it. I suppose you’d have to be a particularly odd kind of masochist (“squeak my blackboard, mistress…“), but hey, it if floats your boat, who am I to call it unattractive?
Anyway, the reaction you have on hearing a blackboard screech? That instinctive tightening of the shoulders, the clenching of the buttocks, the wincing, the outraged squawk of “Christ, will you STOP THAT?!”? That’s me if someone eats with their mouths open. AARGH fucking stop it now!
Someone give me a needle and thread, and I swear to God, I will sew this fucker’s mouth shut.
This was what awaited me the moment my wife and I decided to have a family. Sooner or later, I’d have to tackle it, but boy howdy, was I not looking forward to it. No child instinctively eats with their mouth closed. It takes patient training to learn how to do it. The problem with misophonia is, you are robbed of all patience. Therefore, I am left with the problem that when I hear people eating with their mouths open, I want to push them through a plate-glass window. How can I be a good, patient, and instructive father, teaching my kid table manners, without wanting to defenestrate them?
I must confess that I haven’t found many techniques that work. Asking my child nicely (“please darling, can you not eat with your mouth open? Daddy doesn’t like hearing the noise of people eating. It makes me go all stabby…”) never prevents it. Before long, she forgets herself and she starts open-mouth chewing again, and then the impatience segues into rage. Shouting at Alice is a very tempting short-term solution, but doesn’t solve the problem, and it causes tears and rage, and the permanent resentment and fear of me. Ignoring it, and hoping Alice realises what she’s doing, or wait until she grows out of it, does not work for me. It just won’t. Sadly, more often than not, I Hulk-out when it happens.
When I’m at a restaurant or bistro, and I’m like, “Which one of you cunts is eating noisily?”
Poor Alice is bewildered by this, and I don’t blame her. She’s still learning how to put t-shirts on by herself in the mornings, so what chance has she got of noticing when her lips open too far apart while chewing? And on top of this, she’s learning all the other table manners at the same time (Eat properly. Sit down. Eat with a knife and fork. Don’t use your fingers. Keep your napkin on. Don’t leave the table while dinner is still happening. Don’t just eat the meaty bits. Wipe your mouth with the napkin, not your shirt. Stop smearing food around your mouth. Eat the vegetables as well. No, you can’t have pudding as your main course. That’s too much ketchup, it doesn’t count as a vegetable. No, ketchup is not “soup”. Why are you singing? Stop spilling everything. Oh look, you’ve got rice on the FLOOR now! Don’t get up, dance around the room, and then come back to eat… And so on), so it’s no wonder that it’s horribly unfair that a seemingly-minor issue causes Daddy a confusing ragestorm, when she’s got already got plenty on her mind to deal with.
Then there’s the fact that we rarely eat at a proper table, at my own insistence (I know, I’m worse than Hitler), and instead eat most of our dinners on trays in front of the TV, with Alice sitting at and eating from an old side-table. Hey, at least we have our meals as a family together!
“Hey kids, it’s the Red Wedding episode!”
There are some deep-seated psychological reasons why we don’t eat at a dining table much, and I won’t bore you with them (massive trauma from my childhood, nothing interesting – certainly nothing that would make for bizarre and fascinating reading anyway). Suffice to say, we have tried. Sarah has repeatedly attempted to get us eating our evening meals around the table, using a whole variety of distraction techniques, bribes, entertainments, and cajoling (remember, these distraction techniques are for MY benefit). Unfortunately, so far none of these tactics has worked. It’s pretty awful. Alice seems to like the novelty of eating at the table, and Sarah enjoys it. I flee away from it. Adulthood fail #32.
And because the drilling of table manners into children has been the parenting job I love least, I’ve completely avoided it for the most part. The only time table-training comes into play by me is if we’re eating away from home – at someone’s house, in a child-friendly restaurant, at the grandparents’… at which point I become all “Father” and instruct Alice on how to hold her knife and fork properly.
“Wrists off the table, you little prick, or this salad will be served to you as an enema”
Each time this happens, I must come across like the fussiest parent ever. Sometimes I’m impressed that Alice does actually cope with this rather well, but to be honest, the unwillingness to tackle table manners properly is perhaps my biggest failing as a parent. That, on observance of her peers, Alice is no worse and no better than any other child of her age, is possibly down to a combination of both her and Sarah working independently, rather than anything to do with me. And, shamefully, I rather think the bulk of her table manners come from her teachers guiding her and her classmates at school all eating lunch together. I used to scoff at news reports of children attending school not being able to eat at a table properly. The idea that some kids attend school before they know how to handle knives and forks was something I used to chortle at. What stupid parents! What failures they must be that their children have no table manners!
And yet, here I am, worried that I have been one of those parents. None of this makes me look good. I know this. Thing is, I’m so entrenched in not eating at the table, and finding the sound of open-mouthed chewing to be so revolting, I don’t really know what to do about it. It is my hell: The person I love the most, doing the thing I hate above nearly all things.
P.S. I also really hate the sound of liquid being poured into a glass or a cup. It’s on every single advert and television show ever, and it’s usually a sound that cuts through dialogue. Actually, humans, can you please stop doing it so much all the fucking time? You absolute bastards…
No no no no nonononononononoNO NO NO NOOO AAARGH FUCK OFF WITH THAT SHIT NOW YOU FUCKING WANKER STOP IT IMMEDIATELY OR I’LL KILL YOU ALL
“And we’re going live now to the live finals of the 2015 Competitive Mum Championship, with your commentators Matt Baconphwoooar and NationaltreasureClareBalding…”
And you join us here for the live finals of the 2014 Competitive Mum Championships, hello, I’m NationaltreasureClareBalding. It’s been a good season for both of our finalists, who are looking sharp today, and ready for a good fight. How do you rate their chances, Matt?
“Yes, well, I think the reigning champion Sue Bibble has done well this year to keep her form going. She lost a little bit of ground around Christmas when she didn’t get the accessory pack for the new Wii console, but she knuckled down, concentrated on her technique, and now she’s looking pretty unstoppable”.
And how about her opponent, Mary Plasmascreen?
“Well, she’s come out of nowhere, hasn’t she? Remember, last year she finished 26th in the regional heats! This year she’s really worked incredibly hard and showed extraordinary determination. I think we’re in for a good one today. The crowd are definitely feeling the tension, and they’ve both got strong support. We could be in for a historic match”.
Thank you Matt. Now, you all know the rules by now, the contest ends when the winner has destroyed the opponents’ self-confidence as a parent. As you know, this is the 10-minute sprint Mum-off. The Long Distance 24-hour match ended in some controversy last week when the winner, Alison Grottle, felled her opponent, Natasha Swindon, with a low blow concerning home-schooling. As you may recall, Swindon did lose points for brooding over the argument on the way home in the car, and was still cross about it when she was kept awake at 3am the following morning replaying the argument over in her head. Grottle subsequently lost on a technicality, because the judges noticed her leaving the arena with a self-satisfied smirk on her face, and last years’ rule changes on magnanimous victories mean they’re coming down hard on gloating. The judges have been very strict on that. Isn’t that right, Matt?
“Yes, it’s been quite a change for the regulars on the professional circuit, and some of them have struggled. Grottle, particularly, hasn’t quite adapted to the change, and there’s some heated discussion on the judging forums about Swindon’s lucky victory.”
Yes, times are changing and we… yes! We can see this years’ finalists emerging from the waiting area now. The arena today is Holly’s 6th birthday party, and it’s a good pitch.
“I really like what you’ve done with your nostrils…”
“Indeed it is, NationaltreasureClare. Not too hard, and with a good action to it. They’ve had the covers on all week, so the rain from Monday hasn’t affected the playing surface. It’s good to steady.”
The judges are just preparing the stage. Aside from the other children at the party, Sue’s children are Polly and Ollie, and Mary’s children are Milly and Billy; they will all be playing on a playmat today, the semi-finals had a Playstation of course, but the playmat offers more scope for distracting conflict and sharing issues to put the mums off. Also, Billy is only a one-year-old, and Ollie is 10 years old, so he’s far too big to be given such childish toys, and to have to mix with such young children. And girls too! There’s gonna be fireworks on the mat!
“Yeah, the dads are well positioned in the mock garden, ready to intercede and back the mums up should voices get raised. They’re looking fairly relaxed and amicable. I know Sue’s husband, Bob, can be a bit opinionated about immigrants, and he does have a tendency to come in too early if things get fractious, which would be bad for Sue. In fact I think that could be her biggest weakness.”
Indeed! The men are usually the ones to call a Mum-Off to an end, unfortunately. We’ll see if Bob’s nerve will hold today. If it doesn’t, Sue will probably give him an absolute telling-off on the way home. Mary’s partner Jon is, of course, her second husband, so he’s less confrontational if the women get a bit carried away. She has that advantage of being a single mum for a while, which is a bit of a handicap with regards to self-esteem issues, but she’s got a strong self-righteousness parry, which can be devastating.
So a quick recap of the rules: no biting, hair-pulling, no mentions of class inferiority or political allegiances to score points. The match ends on a knockout – first one to draw tears; or if the dads have to come in and calm things down, or if the kids start crying for mummy to stop arguing. If there’s a draw, we’ll have to go to extra time and the winner will be judged on the basis of the seething resentful bitching later on, and any accusations of the male partners “taking sides” in the car on the way home.
They’re entering the arena now, the kids have the toys in their hands, and the dads have lit up a cheeky cigarette and are hoping nobody notices. The referee blows the whistle and… It’s MUM-OFF ON!!
Mary: Hi! How are you?
Sue: Fine! How are you? You’re looking well.
Straight in there from Sue!
M: Yeah, been on the diet since Christmas.
S: I joined Zumba in January. Knackering! But I love it, you know. I’ve always enjoyed that sort of high-energy workout.
M: I prefer doing a long walk. I don’t bother driving anymore, I just take the bus. It’s much quicker. And then I get off and walk. It’s so nice down the City Road, with all the cafes, you can just stop off with the kids and it’s so convenient. You can’t really drive in the city, can you?
Good recovery from Mary there. Putting in the stuff about trendy cafes on City Road…
“It’s good. Makes her look sociable. Good bluff too, considering she doesn’t actually do it, but spends many hours on the sofa watching Jeremy Kyle…”
S: Have you got much left on your maternity leave?
M: Two months, but I was thinking of taking a career break
[ripple of applause]
“Bitch, step back and recognise”
S: Really?
M: Yeah, well, Milly’s doing well in school, and Billy is coming up to 18 months old now, and I always think it is nicer for them for me to be around while they are very small!
S: Yeah, I suppose so.
[crowd goes “oooooh”, at the obvious miss]
Oh, that’s a poor response from Sue. She could’ve kept the rally going but she just… couldn’t…reach it!
M: How about you? Are you back full time yet?
S: No, not just yet, I’m still doing 20 hours.
M: Three days a week?
S: No, well, I thought about it, but in the end I’m working four hours a day. Gives me a chance to do the school run.
Nice recovery from Sue… she nearly lost it there
M: How is Polly doing at school? She’s, what, year 1 now?
S: Year 2!
M: Wow!
S: She’s doing fine, you know? We’re really pleased with her reading, she’s doing it without much help from us or the teacher, and she’s really quite adventurous. We’ve got her reading The BFG at the moment.
[crowd erupts]
Oh!! What a superb shot from Sue there! Got one in with a powerful blow, and you can see Mary’s feeling a bit envious because there’s all that stuff from the teacher that Milly might be dyslexic.
“Yeah, that was classic Sue there. What a performance! She’s not going to be out-manoeuvred by Mary. That’s a clear signal to her: ‘Step back: My kid can read impressively!’ “
Mary’s got to play more defensively now…
“Yes, she’s been dealt a blow with that one…”
M: Well, Milly has made superb progress. The school has been excellent with the material, because, you know, Milly has struggled a bit, particularly with reading… and Jon has done a bit of research and is finding more comics for her to read, because you know, it’s not what she’s reading that’s important, but that she’s reading in the first place!
S: Does she get frustrated at all?
M: She does, yeah, but we’ve got a deal that if she reads two of her books after school, she can have CBeebies until 6.
S: We don’t let Polly watch Cbeebies until after 5pm
M: Same with us. 5 ‘til 6 is all Milly gets most days.
Did you see that? That was a quick jab from Sue deflected well by Mary.
M: I do like Cbeebies though! That Mr. Bloom…
S: Oooh yeah! But I don’t like that Swashbuckle programme. I don’t like them glorifying pirates…
[shouts from the crowd]
Oh, that’s a foul and a miss from Sue! Yes… yes, the touchline judge has his flag up. Saying That Pirates Are NOT Awesome is a foul and Mary gets a Free Bitching!
M: I’m a size 12! I lost the baby weight just like *finger snap* that!
AND IT’S CONVERTED! Excellent strike by Mary, and Sue’s going back for the restart. She can’t be pleased at the moment.
“No, not at all. Excellent Drop-Gloat from Mary there. Sue badly let herself down by not allowing her children to have anything to do with pirates.”
Do you think she’s confused pirates with gypsies there?
“Haha! I think she has!”
“Snapped back into shape like a rubber band, after two kids! No Tena-Lady for me…”
S: I’m getting Polly into dance classes on Saturday now.
M: Oh good! Is she enjoying it?
S: Well, she’s a bit hot-and-cold on it. Some days she wants to do it, some days she doesn’t, but we’ve paid for the term now…
M: Yeah, but she does well at sports and games. And she’s not very girly with it, you know, she plays football and she gets on well with the boys in her class.
[crowd goes “oooooh!”]
S: Yeah, Polly’s quite sociable which is good. Some of the boys pick on her, because she’s quite small for her age…
M: …but she’s quite a character isn’t she?
S: Yeah, she’s my daughter! She’s imaginative, and she’s always singing and talking nine to the dozen. She’s quite selective about who she plays with, and we think that’s good. I mean some of the kids are a bit rough, and she needs to sort out for herself how to deal with certain people. Of course, she gets teased for having those thick lenses in her glasses. And some of the kids are from the estate. I just won’t let her play with Cameron in her class…
That’s a strong KatieHopkins right there, let’s see if it works…
M: Ah, we let Milly play with whoever she likes. It’s her choice, ultimately.
S: Did you invite the whole class to her birthday?
M: No, we had just a small thing in the local softplay
S: Oh, we hired that large place. You know? PlayReich?
Yes…
M: Is that the one with the laserballs and the excellent cappacinos?
S: Yes, that’s the one!
YES… YES…!
M: It’s always really full when I go there, and it’s really expensive…
S: Oh, we just hired it for the afternoon, we had it all to ourselves
[crowd roar]
YEEEESSSS! WHAT A BEAUTIFUL GOAL THERE!
“Absolutely Clare! The crowd are going wild”
That was a clever interception by Sue. Mary was being liberal and inclusive with her parenting and encouraging socialisation, and Sue could’ve fumbled that badly with her risky KatieHopkins, but she brought buying power and aspiration into it, and Mary just couldn’t compete!
“Well, that’s a veteran performance from Sue. It just shows that age and experience… oh, hang on!”
Child crying! Somebody won’t share!
“Yes, one of the children from the party has barged in and messed up things on the playmat. Yes, it’s Sam the ADHD kid in Milly’s class. Mary’s gonna have to step in and block Sue’s bonus here…”
It’s gonna be tight…!
M: Milly! Milly love, you’re just going to have to share it. Yes, I know he snatched. Use your words!
Milly: “Please give it back Sam. I was playing with it. Wait your turn!”
M: Good girl! Now, play nicely. Say thank you to Sam. That’s good.
Nice handling there. Sue gets the points, but Mary gets the XP ranking, especially for calmly resolving an issue with someone else’s kid, that’s always a very tricky situation.
“It’s a deserved score for Sue, though.”
Yes, absolutely.
S: Shall I get you some more tea?
M: No thanks
S: I do find myself getting through several cups a day…
[whistle]
“Oh, you like my aeroplane, yeah? Watch him fucking SOAR…”
Aaaaaand we’re into half time there. How do you think it’s going, Matt?
“I think it’s going well for Mary, considering. Sue is strong though, and experienced.”
She’s certainly on peak form at the moment.
“Yes, although remember she had to miss out on the championship two years ago due to injury, when she and Bob had a slightly less consistent sex life”
I remember that! She pulled her self-confidence and she needed time off to recover…
“That’s right. And her own feeling of attractiveness and self-worth took a knock, and that sort of thing could end the career of a less outgoing Mum…”
She’s a fighter though.
“Definitely, definitely. Mary’s looking tough despite her age though.”
Well, she’s in her late 20s, whereas Sue is 37 now.
“Things are definitely firmer for Mary!”
Body condition does play its part of course
“…Of course”
Yes, this’ll be a difficult second half. Mary needs to be less passive-aggressive and more openly hostile. Sue needs to show a bit more discipline. There they are, coming out now to rapturous applause!
“I must say, the atmosphere is ELECTRIC!”
This is what Mum-Off is all about! Here we go for the kick off…
M: Do you have a Playstation at home?
S: We have one of those Wii things. I use it for the Wii-fit, obviously, but Bob likes to play the kids at table tennis.
M: Jon bought an Xbox, which Milly doesn’t get much time on, and Billy just likes the pretty lights and colours.
S: You have three kids really, don’t you? Haha!
M: Haha!
S: Haha!
M: Haha!
S: HAHA!
M: Haha!
Aaaand the referee comes to break them apart. He’s just having a word with them about aggressive enforced jollity and insincere laughter… and… yes, he’s calling Bitch On!
HAHA!
S: The great thing about the Wii is that the whole family can play the games. Even Polly. It’s very intuitive…
M: Does Ollie play it much?
S: No, well, he’s much older of course. I think he finds it a bit childish, so he usually…
Yes. Gone into touch there. The ref is just reminding Mary that this is a Daughter-based Mum-Off, not a Son-orientated Mum-Off. It’ll be a throw-in for Sue…
S: We bought a new car last month
M: Really?
Hmmm, that’s a bold move, going into Competetive-Dad territory…
S: Yes, it’s one of those people carrier things. Not sure what make, but it carries the shopping well.
Oh, that’s a good save there.
“Yes, not knowing what make it is. Classic. And Mary concedes a penalty for not having a people-carrier, but just a little hatchback.”
S: Do you walk the kids to school?
M: Well, I walk. Milly rides on her scooter. I help her across the roads.
[applause]
S: In my day, I was just left to walk to school in all sorts of weather! A mile and a half away!
Slightly bittersweet nostalgia from Sue, ruminating on the changing attitudes of modern parenting. Good, good.
“And emphasised use of the word ‘my’. Nice touch!”
M: Milly gets a treat when she gets home, if she’s been good and done her reading at school.
S: What do you give her?
M: Kinder Egg, mostly. Some days she gets fruit.
S: I don’t really allow the kids chocolate. I don’t want them to take it for granted.
Ahhh, Sue’s bringing in one of her ‘weird progressive parenting’ tricks. Could go wrong for her…
M: I think it’s nice for Milly to get variety. Chocolate, fruit…
S: POLLY’S REALLY GOOD ON THE iPAD!!!!
[The crowd gives a massive “ooooh!” as the shot hits home]
M: Milly was potty-trained by the age of… ahhh shit!
OH! Bad luck, Mary! She’s been totally outmanoeuvred there! And she’s getting a warning from the umpire about bad language in front of the kids
S: Polly could programme the Tivo by the age of two, and she knows how to use the cable remote!
M: Er… Milly can play Angry Birds on the…
S: I’m quite happy to let Polly watch a Pixar DVD all by herself!
M: I took Milly to the museum last week!
Wow, it’s really hotting up now!
“Yeah, it’s totally gone up a gear, there’s some REALLY good tackling going on from Sue!”
S: Those teachers at Polly’s school don’t know what they’re doing!
M: I encourage Milly to recycle… er…
S: I had to speak to her class teacher last week because she wasn’t giving Polly enough credit for doing extra homework!
M: Milly painted this picture of me… er… really good nose…!
S: And they never send those notes home in Polly’s bag anymore! I have to find out stuff from…
M: MILLY GOT A GOLD STAR FOR HER PICTURE!
S: …AND I TOLD THE TEACHER THAT IF POLLY DIDN’T GET TREATED FAIRLY…
M: IT GOT PUT UP ON THE CLASSROOM WALL AND EVERYTHING!!!
S: …WE WERE GOING TO HOME-SCHOOL HER!
OH! I CAN’T BELIEVE IT!!
“Wow! Everybody is calling for a foul there. Sue pushed it just a bit too far and made a forced error and could well be offside. Mary is claiming a free kick from the ref! The kids have stopped playing and are clearly upset by the shouting!”
Has Sue done enough, do you think?
“No… wait… the ref is calling for the video replay… YES! IT’S A FREE KICK TO MARY!”
Yes, Sue has overplayed her hand there by saying she’s interfering with the teacher.
“Mary comes to take it…”
M: I have a good relationship with my ex-husband and he sees the kids regularly. He and Jon get on fine!
Excellent shot there! And it has hit the cross bar and we’re into a corner!
“Sue must step up her defence…”
“Yeah? Well my kids can whittle wood!”
M: I made cupcakes with Milly during half term…
S: We’re going on holiday to Centre Parcs this year…
M: We go birdwatching in Framlington Woods…
S: I want Polly to have guitar lessons next year…
M: Milly played the Angel Gabriel in the Nativity…
S: We might get a puppy…
M: We joined the kids group at the city farm…
S: My people carrier is really safe for the kids. It’s a Citroen Picasso!
M: I shared this thing about wonderful parenting from UpHuffFeed on my Facebook page, did you read it? Did you??!
S: We wait until the kids have gone to bed before having sex…
M: I have weekly sex!
S: SO DO I!
M: AND MY HUSBAND STILL FINDS ME ATTRACTIVE!!
S: YOUR SECOND BLOODY HUSBAND, YOU MEAN? I’VE STILL GOT THE FIRST ONE!
IT’S A FOUL!
“REF’S PLAYING ADVANTAGE MARY!!”
M: YEAH, BUT I RAISED TWO KIDS WITHOUT ANY HELP, WITHOUT RESORTING TO BENEFITS, AND I CROCHET’D THE KIDS’ JUMPERS LAST WINTER!
S: BIG DEAL! I USE CLOTH NAPPIES!
M: I BREASTFED MY KIDS UNTIL THEY WERE OVER 18 MONTHS OLD. I WAS TOLD BY LAURA THAT YOU CHEATED AND USED FORMULA!
S: I BUY STUFF FROM GAP KIDS!
M: WE BOYCOTT NESTLE, MCDONALDS, GLAXO-SMITHKLINE…
S: POLLY SLEEPS THROUGH THE NIGHT AND HASN’T WET THE BED IN TWO YEARS!!!
THE REF HAS CALLED THEM BACK TO THE FOUL POINT! It’s a scrum down! This is incredible!
“The crowd are on their feet!”
“Oh, you like my eye-makeup? Let me show you how to get the same effect for less…”
M: Milly can pick out a tune on the piano, but she’s never been taught! We’re thinking of getting her lessons!
S: I want Polly to have guitar lessons next… oh bugger!
M: YOU’VE ALREADY SAID THAT! MILLY AND I DANCE ROUND THE LIVING ROOM TO ABBA!
S: We play I-Spy in the car and listen to story-CDs rather than pop music… er…!
M: WE BUY ORGANIC FRUIT! PAPAYAS AND MANGOS!
S: WE DON’T LET POLLY PLAY WITH ANYTHING OTHER THAN HANDCRAFTED WOODEN TOYS!
M: WHAT ABOUT THE iPAD AND THE WII?
S: WE CAN AFFORD THAT!!
M: MILLY’S DOING REALLY WELL AT SCHOOL AND ALL THE TEACHERS LOVE HER AND SHE GETS INVITED TO ALL THE PARTIES
S: POLLY’S TEACHER IS… WELL, THEY DON’T GET ON… IT’S A CLASH OF PERSONALITIES!
M: POLLY’S GOT NO FRIENDS, SHE MESSES ABOUT IN CLASS, SHE WEARS STUPID GLASSES, AND SHE’S A WEIRD CHILD WHO TALKS TO HERSELF!!
S: MILLY CAN’T FUCKING READ, YOU FAILURE!!!
M: WE’VE GOT HER A SCHOLARSHIP TO GO TO ST.BURTHWAG’S TALENTED MUSICAL SPORT KIDS CLEVER-CLEVER ALTERNATIVE SCHOOL FOR TALENTED GIFTED KIDS LAST WEEK! DIDN’T KNOW THAT, DID YOU? YOU STUCK UP COW! YOUR HUSBAND DOESN’T SLEEP WITH YOU ANYMORE!!!
S: HOW DARE YOU, YOU HOPELESS BITCH!
AND IT’S MARY WITH A FINAL PUSH FOR THE LINE!!
M: DRINK LOADS OF TEA EVERY DAY, DO YOU? I BET YOU PISS LIKE A HORSE!
S: YOU JEGGINGS-WEARING THUNDERCUNT!!!
Bob [entering]: Oi! Calm it you two, what’s going on in here??!
IT’S ALL OVER !!! IT’S ALL OVER!!! BOB HAS COME IN TO CALM THINGS DOWN!!!
“OH I DON’T BELIEVE IT! SUE TOTALLY LOST IT AT THE LAST MOMENT! THAT WAS BRILLIANT PLAY BY MARY!!!”
Yes, Sue’s looking really upset and rattled. Bob is trying to calm them both down, whilst making excuses for Sue, and saying she’s really stressed from lack of sleep. Nonsense of course. Polly is looking like she wants to cry, Ollie has started putting his hands in his pockets and is staring at his shoes, the other kids and their parents have heard the shouting and are coming in to have a good look. It’s been a fractious party all right!
“Sue is looking defeated. Mary is looking exhausted but magnanimous. What a brilliant last-minute strike against Polly’s idiosyncracies!! Sue bore the brunt of that, but it’s Polly who will be feeling the shame for many years to come!”
It looks very much like Sue can’t… yes, YES! THE REF HAS COUNTED HER DOWN! SHE’S OUT! THE WHISTLE HAS BLOWN, SUE IS IN TEARS AND BOB IS SAYING THAT THEY SHOULD BETTER BE ON THEIR WAY!! Wow, what a match! And yes, Sue is looking furious at Bob, and I wouldn’t be surprised if there were a post-bitching argument where Sue accuses Bob of all sorts of things.
“And did you see Mummy telling the other Mummy how brilliant you are; and how shitly stupid her child is, in so many words? And did you see Daddy not back me up, as per usual?”
“Yes, I can see Sue has started jabbing her finger at Bob before they even got into the car! You have to hand it to Mary there, Sue was being properly self-righteous, but as so many mums discover, the self-righteousness can be a perilous moral high ground. Mary took great advantage of that and totally outflanked her with the scholarship news AND the digs at the sex life.”
Well, I’ve seen some spectacular bitching in my years of commentating this event but…
“I totally agree. We’ve seen a masterclass today. And… awww look at that, Milly has got up from the playmat and is applauding the crowd. That’s a lovely thing to see!”
That just sums up a good Mum-off, doesn’t it? It’s really all about the kids…
“Except we all know, it isn’t really”
Exactly! Well from us, thank you for watching. It’s been great, a real classic match that people will talk about in the pub for, well, days to come certainly. Now back to the studio for some play-by-play analysis from Fiona Bruce, Janet Ellis and Noel Gallagher.
I typed in “mothers falling out” into Google images, and I got this (whatever the fuck THIS is…)
We’re parents. We’ve got young children who we love and adore. We share this wonderful thing called parenting. And you know what? Because of that, we’re terrible, awful people.
I can see you’re a bit annoyed by this revelation already, but there’s no point denying it. Just stop and think for a moment how truly awful we are. And it’s our own fault, really. We made the decision to do this parenting thing, and as far as everyone else is concerned (whether they have kids or not), we’ve become pretty dreadful. If you don’t know this by now, you really should.
Just consider what we do: We have deliberately upset the natural equilibrium of our own lives by bringing into the world, and taken responsibility for one or more screaming creatures. These things disrupt our lives and everyone’s around us. We have changed our routines to suit, of course. But we expect others around us to act accordingly. Some of us demand that our own parents (who have already put in decades of servitude to ourselves) take care of our children when it’s only convenient to us, sometimes for no reward.
We expect our friends to accommodate us now that we have children, and to excuse our weird demands: “Oooh, we can’t stay too late…”, “Do you mind if we use your toilet…?”, “She can’t have that, we only allow chocolate at weekends…”, “Sorry for her being sick all over your rug, she’s not used to red meat…”, “We’d prefer it if you didn’t watch Ben 10, she gets over-excited. Can she watch Waybuloo instead…?”, “Please don’t swear…” and so on. If they have kids themselves, then there’s usually a lot of sympathy and understanding.
Our friends who don’t have children get treated appallingly. Their adult-only homes suddenly have to conform to a small, sticky child for a few hours if we visit. If our children don’t behave themselves in such places – and they generally don’t because they find themselves in unfamiliar, sometimes exciting new places with other grownups – we don’t admonish them properly for it. And we suddenly foist all sorts of bodily fluids, allergies, demands, noises and smells on dear people who have grown accustomed to no bodily fluids other than their own for many years.
“…the fuck am I doing??!”
Despicably, we treat our friends who don’t have children with a patronising mixture of pity and contempt (yes you have; you’ve done it to some poor childless friend at some point, don’t lie). We’re not very good at switching that “parent mode” off sometimes. Most of the time, our decent wonderful friends understand this, and indulge us, even if they feel excluded from the Parent Club. Every so often, it irritates them. Sometimes they tell us so. Sometimes we deserve to be told.
We treat other parents as our rival. We engage in passive/aggressive conversations where we each try and outdo each other on how bloody marvellous we are.
Ever sat in on a group of parents discussing the gynaecological details of childbirth? It’s like listening to a description of an early David Cronenberg movie. Ever sat in on a bunch of mums trying to outdo each other on their breastfeeding history? Ever sat in on a bunch of dads bleating on about how they’ve DIY’d their home to the extent they’ve put up some coathooks at a height which is easy for child access? It’s laughable how pleased we are with ourselves.
Everywhere we go, we expect special treatment from the rest of society: Specially created books and films purely for our own children, discounts for entertainment, discounts for tourist attractions, discounts on holidays, expensive facilities at theme parks and zoos for our own use, special areas of public ground set aside purely for the entertainment of children, modifications to our vehicles, modifications to public vehicles, the expectation that other people put up with our noise, mess and smell on planes and trains and boats and buses. We require help and assistance, and above all, courtesy in every public place.
We insist that strangers do not lean over and chastise our children when our children are being their most publicly obnoxious. We tell them to mind their own business, oblivious to the fact we’ve impinged on their own business and serenity. Above all, we expect strangers to not hit, abduct, or do unspeakable things to our children. The massive overwhelming majority of strangers do not do these things, and yet we return this accorded respect by treating all strangers (and even people we know) with suspicion and fear, to the point that we do not allow our children to interact with anyone outside of their family group.
“No Justin, you should just keep away from that boy…”
We keep our children indoors, away from other children, except in strictly controlled environments. We teach them to fear and suspect everything: traffic, the internet, the news, adverts, soap operas, teachers, figures of authority, failure, the naughty corner, falling over, heights, hard ground, rain, wind, snow, pain, bad language, and confrontation. Woe betide anyone who shouts at our kids (despite the fact that behind closed doors we yell, shout at, intimidate and force our children into being polite little conformatoids), even if our kids richly deserve it.
Our children grow up scared of the outside world, wary of strangers, devastated by any criticism, and easily upset by raised voices. We keep telling ourselves, each other, and the whole world, that we can’t wrap our kids in cotton wool, yet we hermetically seal them indoors, and raise them in a greenhouse environment.
We have become totally selfish to the needs of our offspring: We force the people who look after our kids into treating them with reverence. We ring up schools and nurseries at the slightest hint of bad news. We bully the teachers who do not favour our child with due respect, and expect them to show consideration to our precious snowflake’s every need. We use nasty, condescending phrases like “We pay your salary!!” to belittle the unimaginably hard job teachers do (why do we fling this in the faces of the teachers? They pay taxes too, you know), and we make unreasonable demands on their jobs. We demand them to provide more: More challenging homework, more letters home, more disciplined, more school trips. And then, when the kids are challenged, disciplined, taken out of school and we get more letters home, we march into the school to complain.
Sometimes we do so with nice smiles on our faces. Sometimes we do so incredibly rudely and aggressively.
“Succeed or be homeless. Your choice, Hugo.”
We drag our children to boring weddings, church services, shopping trips, museums, country houses, art galleries, family do’s, funerals, and public events, and expect them to behave like adults. We expect them to stand around obediently, talk politely, and not say in a loud voice how bored they are – hang on, aren’t we all about encouraging them to be honest and good at communicating their feelings? – and we prevent them from actually enjoying themselves on their own terms. And then, when they roll around on the floor we either ignore such terrible behaviour to everyone else’s tutting annoyance, or wonder why the kid’s acting up in the first place. Yes, a wedding is a sacred ritual, a wonderful, magical experience which families should share and exult in. They’re also, if you don’t know the context of the event, or how reverent it should be, incredibly dull events where people don’t do anything exciting, but everyone throughout expects you to shut up and sit still while you wear uncomfortable clothes. Imagine what a wedding is to a four year old: Blimey, it’s a tedious day out, innit?
“I can’t wait for the bit about ‘speak now or forever hold your peace’, because I am about to fuck this shit up”
We buy increasingly expensive gewgaws and blingy trinkets. This things are electronic and expensive and, were we in a post-apocalyptic world where our basic survival is paramount, these things would be utterly useless.
We buy them for all the wrong reasons. Partially it’s to shut the kids up, after months of nagging, pre-Christmas or birthdays. Partially, it’s for the benefit of how others see us: “Look at me, I can afford to buy a Shitendo Gamex2000. Not only does it display that I listen to my kids basic desire to remain cool in the eyes of their peers, but also I can demonstrate to other adults, that I’ve done well this year, and got my bonus”. So an expensive entertainment/procrastination device becomes less a declaration of love, but a gag to keep the kid happy, and a smug look to all the other parents on the first day back in January.
We pay to have our children’s talents broadened whether the child wants it or not. Dance lessons, drama clubs, music lessons, junior sports teams, and we leave our children in the care of someone we hope will be professional. And, as always, God help the professional who has the temerity to inflict any sense of discipline on our kid. If the kid comes home and says they feel miserable because coach/teacher/instructor tells them to keep their hands in the right position more, or tells them to practice, or not run around screaming all the time… well, would you march back in and tell the offending instructor off for making the kid do something the kid doesn’t want to do? I have it on very good authority that a lot of parents do exactly that: Bollock a mentor for doing their job properly. Is that good parenting? Is it good to basically tell our kids “don’t bother trying. If you’re made to do something you don’t want to (even though you’d benefit from it), let me know and I’ll go and intimidate, cajole, and bully the person we pay to do a difficult job into doing a completely different job tailored to our whims, according to your feelings”?
Some of these things are essential life skills (swimming lessons, cycling proficiency), some of them definitely are for our own puffed sense of importance (dance, drama, music, art), and some of them are because the child demands it, and we don’t want to deny their precious development.
“It’s an Eb there, not an E natural. Come on Georgia, you’re not making me look brilliant with your appalling technique…”
We treat our kids as though they are the reincarnation of Buddha, delighting in their every utterance, beholding their beauty with endless photos and videos, praising their every endeavour as if it’s an award-worthy performance, and showering them with gifts, tributes and sacrifices. We build little shrines to them on mantelpieces, or on Facebook. Have you ever listened to a parent drone on and on about how wonderful their child is? And have you ever thought “yeah it’s a nice kid… but he’s not a Nobel Prize winner. And probably won’t ever be, not with that father as a role model”? I know I have. And I can assure you, I’ve blithered on and on about my offspring to patient ears many a time. It’s a wonder they haven’t slapped me around my chops and told me to shut the heck up about my blessed loinfruit for a moment.
We’re terrified of our kids as well. Scared of what they’ll be traumatised by. Scared of their honesty and their perceptiveness. Scared they might be ill one day or have some sort of accident. Frightened out of our wits that our children – if they are imaginative or creative – might actually have trouble fitting in with their peers. So we teach them to be individuals, and be imaginative, and creative, and assertive, and be true to themselves… but not too true to themselves, not be weird or uncompromising, just be marginally different so that there is some distinctiveness and personality there.
CONFORM, HUMANS!
We’re scared they’ll eat the wrong thing, or grow up the wrong shape, or be unhappy with what they’ve got. We are frightened that one day, they’ll turn to us and say “You never gave me…” and so we give and give and give; and yet I promise you, they’ll still find some way to resent us, or show us no gratitude when they hit puberty. We’re scared that they might get bored (even though boredom can be immensely stimulating and encouraging to creativity, and getting off your lazy backside and doing, discovering, or enjoying something new), so we organise free time as if at any moment OFSTED are coming in to assess us. Say, would you like to be assessed as a parent, and have your parenting applied to a set of arbitrary standards?
I bet you’re afraid you’ll be found out – because we’re all terrified someone will say “you’re lacking as a parent” (ironically, we’re also petrified of insecurity – our own, as well as our kids’ feelings of inadequacy). And we’re so terrified that our children will have a miserable time at school (probably because we have fairly conflicted feelings about our own experiences in education), that we attack anyone who criticises our kids, or force their teachers to do things OUR WAY, or anyone doesn’t treat our beloved offspring with the respect we think they deserve.
Above all, we’re petrified that our kids will eventually reveal us to be incompetent, awful parents – with their behaviour, their language skills, their development, or through just telling someone “my Daddy is horrible to me because…”. And we’re really, really scared that our children will turn out to be just as flawed, just as capable of failure as we are.
We’re constantly being lied to, by the media, by pop songs, and by companies who rely on us to invest in their idea of happiness: Mattel, Disney, EA Games, Sony, Universal, etc. They make millions out of sending us the message that we should not listen to what people think of us, and yet when you’re a parent, it seems all we ever do is worry about what others may think. Sometimes, I’m even scared of raising my voice in anger in my own home in case the neighbours – who I imagine live their entire lives with an ear cocked to listen out for the noises of domestic abuse, child neglect, and excessive sex noise – think less of me. Isn’t that pathetic? As a result, I’m a permanently bottled-up sort of person, scared of what others think, and not really being true to myself. Failed by Disney.
And then we push our kids to do better. To do work when they really don’t want to. To win. To Run Faster. To Jump Higher. To Dance Better. To Beat The Others (the others being the other children and the other children’s parents). To take part. To not worry about winning, but try your best. To not worry about homework but try your best. No pressure, but come on. What we don’t want is our kids to lose, to fail, because it makes us look bad.
“Come on Jordan, you little shit! And beat all your pathetic classmates or you won’t get fuck all for your birthday. Do this for mummy’s self-esteem…!”
We only want our kids to be happy, right? But our quest for their happiness involves a lot of pressure, work, discipline and motivation. It’s fucking exhausting and a lot of stress trying to give our children a happy life.
We’re ruining our kids for the real world; we’re certainly not training them to cope with it. We cosset them and build them up and then when they’re let loose, we wonder why they have crappy relationships, or are unable to articulate their feelings properly, or not make the career progress we’ve always dreamed they would. When they fall down (metaphorically as well as literally), we berate them for not being able to get up, or we just let them wallow. Maybe we should learn to fall down ourselves, and teach our kids that getting up and walking away is the most valuable lesson ever. Maybe we’ve never learned to get ourselves up from a knock – although let’s face it, we all have to at some point, and the first time is always incredibly painful. Maybe we should be the ones who need to learn that falling over is OK in the first place.
Worst of all, we seem to enjoy doing all of this. And if we want to be seen as good parents, we inflict all of these demands on everyone around us, including our own children, because the alternative is to seen as a BAD PARENT, and there’s nothing in this world – nothing – worse than that.
1. We’re not friends, we’ve never met, but there you are, hairy charity mugger, asking me about my day and how I’m doing, like we’re tight buds. Leave me alone and GET LOST. Do I look like I have a welcoming face? I have a COMPLETE BASTARD FACE and I’m wearing black, I haven’t bathed or shaved for a while, and I have a natural glower. Do not approach me or engage in conversation unless you have prior permission. And get off your fucking bicycle when you’re talking to me. What is a charity mugger doing with a bicycle anyway?
2. Do not talk to my daughter. I really do not like that one little bit, and I’m feeling panicky if you do, like you’re about to abduct her, or something. Don’t ask her “Are you off on an adventure with Daddy, mate?”. We’re shopping, you hipster fuck. If it was an adventure, she’d be wearing her adventure hat.
3. Don’t address her as “mate”. DO NOT attempt to shake her hand in a friendly way. If you do, I demand that you stay exactly there for 40 minutes while I go home, fetch my big fuck-off Norwegian machete (I got it as an awesome wedding present; I knew it would come in handy!), come back and chop your fucking arm off at the elbow. Got that? Back away from my kid, motherfucker.
4. Do. Not. EVER. Call. Me. “Dude”. EVER. I hate being called ‘Dude’ by anyone over the age of 16, and particularly dislike being called it by you. Do not say “Have a good day, dude!”, and then ride off on your fucking bicycle. Come back here and give me some satisfaction. Do I look like a “dude” to you? Did I ask to be called “dude”? Do you have my consent?
Note to all, and especially you who is bothering me right now: Never fucking DARE to call me “dude”. Do it, and I will instantly hate you. Fucking prick, the IMPERTINENCE of you! I swear to God, I would happily spend years building a time machine, at the expense of my life, marriage, and sanity, so that I can go back in time and kill the first person to use the word so that it does not evolve into common usage. I HATE* that bastard Americanised word and everyone who uses it in my presence is a fucking BELLEND. If I could prevent cheerful, polite, friendly people such as yourself from polluting my day with such foetid, twatmungous phrases, I would be the happiest man on this wretched, miserable, crappy planet.
In other news, and possibly related, I’ve reached the end of my first week of being an all-day, every-day, stay-at-home Daddy, and it has been brilliant! Not stressful in any way at all!
*When I was very young, I read somewhere (I can’t remember where) that a “dude” was a phrase from the good ol’ cowboy days meaning someone who is inexperienced, naive, stupid, or foolish. A “greenhorn”. Hence, I have taken it very literally every since and it gives me an instinctive feeling of annoyance when I am addressed by someone in that way. I’m also annoyed that it is an Americanisation that has been appropriated since the mid-80s by British teenagers with skateboards, and people who work in media industries. And as such, I’m less annoyed when an American addresses it to me. See also: “Buddy”.
What were they: Job #1 = Fixing a shower head-holder onto the wall; Job #2 = Putting up a new row of coathooks by the front door
How long have these jobs been waiting to get done: Job #1 = 5 years; Job #2 = 1 week
How long was it expected for Job #1 to take: 1 hour
How long did it actually take: 4 hours
Yes, I have done the pretending-it’s-a-gun thing. “Pew-pew!”
Did the shower head-holder go on successfully first time, without any problems, and was it flush to the wall with no lateral movement: Yes
Does the shower head-holder successfully hold the shower head: No
Number of swear words used by Dan on discovering this: 4
Explain in two sentences the inherent flaw in the shower head + holder combination: It doesn’t fit, so you have to put the shower head in at a near-vertical angle, using a loop of the shower hose, thus creating a jet of water from the shower that, unimpeded by the opposite wall, could feasibly have a range of about 12 feet (length of bath: less than 6 feet). Plus, when the water is turned off, the resultant drop in water pressure causes the shower head to spring free from the shower head-holder (swift reflexes are therefore required at the conclusion of every shower).
Number of times Dan, almost in tears, rang Sarah The Wonderful Wife, and interrupted her at work to try and get support, encouragement and sympathy: 2
Number of times Wife made soothing noises, gave encouragement and sympathy: 1
Number of times Wife laughed like a drain: 1 (on discovering the shower head jumps off the wall, and that she’d have to stand 10 feet from the shower to get a decent wash)
What my wife thinks I’m doing
Number of times driven to B&Q in total in order to complete the job: 2
Amount of money Dan spent at B&Q to complete the jobs: Too fucking much
In the second attempt to fit a shower head-holder on the wall, did the new attachment (an adjustable shower rail!) go on successfully first time without any problems: No
How many attempts did it take: Lost count
Is there any lateral movement on the bracket after the second attempt: …Not really
How many swear words were used: 11
How many times was Dan tempted to fling the tools onto the bathroom floor, say “FUCK THE CUNTING THING!!”, and stomp off to have a strong cup of coffee and look at pictures of cats on Buzzfeed: 4
How many times did this actually happen: 2.5 (the third time, I realised I would have to pick my daughter up from school in one hour, and I might as well get on with it)
How many holes in the ceramic tiles were required to fit the attachment: 2
How many holes did Dan drill into the ceramic tiles: 2
Really??: …
…No
How many? Tell me honestly: Well, there are two holes that I’m using, and the others I filled in so nobody can see them unless you look very closely.
What I’m actually doing. “It’s more comfortable now that I’m on the floor. No, I’m fine. Just taking a rest. Yes, my legs ARE at an awkward angle, aren’t they…?”
Is the shower head now attached to the shower rail on the wall: Yes
Does it work: Yes
Does the shower head now spring free when water pressure is reduced?: Not often
Will it need re-doing at some point: Yes (probably)
How many CDs listened to in entirety: 2 (King Crimson’s “Red” & “The Best of Bollywood Funk”)
Lunches eaten: 0
Oh, remind me again, what career is Dan currently attempting to start at the moment: Property Development & Maintenance
Length of time estimated to do Job #2: 1 hour
Time left to do it before picking Alice up from school: 45 mins
Time actually taken to do it: 15 mins
Done first time without any problems: Yes
Is it perfect: Yes
Was Alice impressed: Yes, thank God (“Wow! Daddy! That’s BUH-RILLIANT!”)
The Tantrum is one of the many nausea-inducing tasks for any parent to endure; it is where you hone your skills and cut your teeth as a mum or dad. The Tantrum is where you sort out who exactly is boss (let’s be honest here – you’re at a disadvantage from the very start). Although tantrums are the preserve of the Toddler, in actual fact, you can expect a tantrum from a child of any age. The acceptable age range for tantrums is roughly similar to bed-wetting: Ages 0-4, 6-9, 13-16, 23-29, 35, 40-48, and 65+. Anything outside of those ages, and you’re doing something wrong (amongst all the other things you’re doing wrong). Knowing how to deal with a sudden eruption of infant emotion is part and parcel of the sport of parenting, and this list serves as a handy cut-out-and-keep guide to what to do when your toddler goes into nuclear meltdown.
And by cut-out-and-keep, I mean carry this list around with you at ALL TIMES and whip it out at the necessary moment. Nothing looks more professional than a parent going through a list of instructions in public whilst a child shrieks and complains about stuff. NOTHING.
IF THE TANTRUM IS AT HOME AND THERE’S NO RUSH
Make a coffee and sit down and wait for it all to blow over. You might as well have a bit of a sit-down while you’re dealing with it, and it’ll be all done in about 10 minutes, unless you’ve got one of those really weird kids with surprisingly endless reserves of stamina. Make sure the kid can’t injure themselves, pop the kettle on, relax, and watch them go nuts on the floor. Giggles a-plenty, I promise you.
IF YOU’RE AT HOME AND YOU’RE IN A RUSH
1. Patiently talk to the child in a calm voice. It won’t work, but at least you’ve ticked the box.
2. Make empty promises of ice-cream or Pixar films for when you get back. You never know, it might have an effect. Also, kids have zero memory, so you can always feign ignorance if – by some astonishing miracle – they remember your promises.
3. Shove the kid in the naughty corner for a bit. It’ll make you even more late for whatever it is, but “I’m really sorry, but the kid had a tantrum, and I had to put the them in the naughty corner before leaving the house” is a perfectly understandable excuse for being late, and the only people who won’t be sympathetic are people without children. And who gives a crap what they think?
4. Sod it. Just wrestle the child into submission. No-one’s looking. When they tap you twice, you can let them go.
5. Oh for heaven’s sake, you’re stronger than they are. Just strap them into the pushchair and get out the door ASAP. Yeah, they’ll be bawling like Bruce Dickinson, but that is some kids natural default setting, so nobody really minds, yeah?
Bloody typical
IF YOU’RE OUT AND ABOUT (Probably shopping, ‘cos let’s face it, pre-teen children hate shopping. Why do you put them through it? Selfish, consumerist parent; shame on you!) 1. Ignore them. Just drag them around screaming. You’ve got your shit to get on with. Don’t let the kid distract you.
2. If you must engage, start crying as well. You’ll feel tempted to do so anyway, so you might as well board the boo-hoo train.
3. Look around. Other people are looking at the fuss you’re both making and judging you. If they’re tutting and shaking their heads at your predicament, start a fight with them, or at least unleash a volley of swearing. Because their kids never pull this sort of crap in public, do they? And you’re good for at least one angry swearing towards a bystander in your life – especially if you’re a harassed mum. I’m cool with that.
4. Remember that most grown-ups are keener to criticise than to actually help. Just deal with it yourself, and growl like a rabid dog at anyone who offers an opinion.
5. That creeping sense of shame you’re feeling is probably because you know that they’re all dialling Social Services while witnessing your toddlers’ public rage. If you get the chance, shove the kid under your arm, drop the shopping, and leg it.
WHAT TO DO IF YOUR CHILD DOES THE “HOLDING BREATH” TRICK
Just sing this song in time with the changing shades of your furious kid’s face:
“Red and yellow and pink and green, Orange and purple and bluuuuuue I can hold my breath too Hold my breath too Hold my breath until I DIIIIEEEE”
If they do turn blue, for God’s sake call an ambulance. Up until that point, you might as well sing along.
POTENTIAL TANTRUM SITUATIONS
Whilst shopping
On car journeys (the longer the car journey, the bigger the tantrum)
When you’re about to go out
When you have to go home
When you want to go somewhere and you’ve been really looking forward to it
When you try and get them to do homework
“This homework is bullshit, Daddy. Fuck it to bollocks and back.”
When you’re trying to get them dressed in the morning
When you’re trying to get them to go to bed in the evening
When they have to go to school
When they’re coming home from school
When they’re going to see relatives
When you’re in a restaurant
When you’re in a theatre and you’re not watching a panto (if you’re the kind of nitwit who takes their kid to see an Ibsen play)
When you’re going on holiday
When you absolutely have to leave to catch the flight
In the airport waiting for the flight at the exact moment when there’s loads of people around
In the park
Going to the park
Coming home from the park
When you’re taking them to a party
At the party
At the point when the party is over
When they’re supposed to be doing an extra-curricular activity that they normally really enjoy (e.g. dance club, swimming, piano lesson, etc)
When they’re required to practice doing the thing the extra-curricular activity asks them to do (especially practicing a musical instrument)
When they want food
When they won’t eat the food that is actually good for them
“How dare you feed me nutritious and balanced meals and insist that I eat them politely and with good table manners, you selfish cunt!”
When they’re tired
When they’re tired and they absolutely, definitely, positively deny being tired whatsoever
When you’re running very late for something very important
When they’re in public
Whenever they’re on any form of public transport (planes, boats, trains, buses)
Precisely when you don’t want them to (weddings, funerals, etc)
Whenever it would most annoy you
When you least expect it
GENERAL DO’S AND DON’TS DON’T give in. When toddlers win, they can be awful gloaters, and you can’t handle the humiliation. You never could. Give them an inch, and they’ll take the next 18 years. Heck, I know some people in their mid-to-late-30s who still leech off their parents because of a moment of weakness in the late 1970s. DON’T try and reason with them. It’s pointless. They’re rolling around on the floor and screaming because you won’t let them eat dog food, so they’re hardly being reasonable. They’re not going to listen to reason anyway, they’re toddlers. And toddlers are essentially unreasonable idiots. Yes, even yours. DON’T lock them outside in the garden until they’re finished. What’s wrong with you?? Children aren’t allowed outside anymore! Every parent knows that, for heaven’s sake!
IMPORTANT:Hitting, slapping, kicking, biting, scratching, spitting, hair-pulling, punching, pinching are all unacceptable behaviour, and if you get caught doing it, you’ll be in big trouble.
DO blow lots of raspberries and pull silly faces. Fuck it – the kid’s looking stupid, you might as well join them. DO play music really loud, if you’re at home. You won’t hear your child anymore, and if you then start dancing around the living room, there’s always the chance the kid might join in and then you’re having a party! (The sight of a toddler crying and dancing at the same time is one of the underrated joys of parenting). DO make all sorts of empty promises. Kids believe in anything (unicorns, princesses, fairies, the inherent goodness of others, the infallibility of adults, that their toys are sentient beings, etc), so you might as well bribe them with nonsense and then totally renege on the deal. And anyway, it won’t be the last time you tell your kids massive lies. DO remind your child they’re being very silly. Because they are being silly. Silly, silly child. Hold them up to a mirror to show them their silly faces. DO copy what your child says, but in a whinier voice. They hate it, and they’ll break off from their rage to funnel all their anger at you instead. You’ll be patronising your kid, and it’s a low trick to play, but face it, they’re gonna be traumatised in far worse ways throughout their childhood (probably by you), and you might as well get a snarky giggle from the experience.
It’s awful at the time, but please remember that children eventually get over this obsession with getting their own way. Some manage it sooner rather than later. Eventually they’ll realise the futility of expressing their emotions. Not that they’ll ever thank you for teaching them this invaluable lesson, but then again they’ll rarely thank you for anything.
Good luck, HAVE FUN!!
It’s worth remembering that grown-ups are perfectly capable of tantrums as well. It’s just that… nah fuck it, drink wine.
(The very best response to a child losing their shit on a supermarket mission I’ve ever experienced was years ago, pre-parenthood. I witnessed a child screaming all the way round a massive Tescos, and the mum was a picture of composure. The child was screaming “LISTEN TO MEEEEE!” for a solid 10 minutes as she pushed the horrid fucking brat, attended to the sibling, and carried on with her shopping without once snapping back. To hear the child screech down a centre aisle that was about 250 yards long, for a solid five minutes at least, was to experience a very slow Doppler effect. That unknown mum remains a hero to me, and I hope to one day emulate her)
Daddy Burns the Salad 