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Losing it

daddy diariesI’ve never been so scared in my life.

And let me put that in perspective. I’ve been shot at, had a knife held at my throat by someone who wanted me dead and been in riots. I’ve jumped out of planes, off towers and into misadventure frequently. I’ve regularly chased my curiosity passed the point most would.

But never have I ever felt as sick to the stomach as the moment I couldn’t find one of my children.

We were on a cruise liner on holidays. Twin A broke right, Twin B broke left. I chased the quicker one but the other had rounded a corner by the time I swooped the first up. I wasn’t concerned at this point: just irritated by their behaviour of the previous hour and this seemingly co-ordinated escape plan.

I set off down the corridor but no Gypsy. Rounding corner number 3 still no sign so I picked up the pace. Around the fourth corner and about to complete a rectangular journey I stopped cold. There in the middle of the corridor was the stuffed turtle she carries everywhere.

Everywhere. The one she wouldn’t even allow to go in her luggage. I feel a chill down my spine.

I scoop it up but my fast walk has become a run now. I complete the circuit to no avail and check into the lounge in the middle where the rest of the family is but she’s not there. I dump Rhapsody with grandma while I take off at a sprint: me one way, grand-dad the other. We meet without toddler.

I’m very calm in a crisis but this time I’m aware my heart-rate is higher than normal. The wife has checked in with a staff member who shows little concern with “It’s a ship – it’s not as if she can go far”.

I widen the search doing the entire level at a sprint. By the 15-minute mark I’m checking toilets as I pass them trying not to think about the why of my actions. One level of 14 searched. Corridors and toilets anyway.

By 25 minutes I’m almost frantic. In the face of gunfire calm, but here? I’m aware I’m starting to lose it. It’s at this point that I peer over the mezzanine and, luckily, spot my wandering daughter – perhaps determined to live up to her name – walking purposefully through the crowds two floors below.

I fly down two flights of stairs quicker then Usain Bolt and sweep her up in my arms. Surprisingly I have no anger in my system. Just relief and, oddly, I’m on the verge of tears.

Unlike her daddy, she was relatively calm and tells me she couldn’t find me so she was heading back to our cabin. She was almost there too (later I would marvel this was quite a feat for a three-year-old).

Later I would also wonder at how quickly my mind went to a bad place where I assumed the worst.

When did I go from fearless liver of life to vulnerable?

The day I became a parent.

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Fear Afloat

I’ve never been so scared in my life.

And let me put that in perspective. I’ve been shot at, had a knife held at my throat by someone who wanted me dead and been in riots. I’ve jumped out of planes, off towers and into misadventure frequently. I’ve often chased my curiosity passed the point most would. But never have I ever felt as sick to the stomach as the moment I couldn’t find one of my children.

We were on a cruise liner on holidays. Twin A broke right, Twin B broke left. I chased the quicker one but the other had rounded a corner by the time I swooped up the first. I wasn’t concerned at this point, just irritated by their behaviour of the previous hour and this seemingly co-ordinated escape plan.

I set off down the corridor, but no Gypsy. Rounding corner number three, still no sign, so I picked up the pace. Around the fourth corner and about to complete a rectangular journey, I stopped cold. There in the middle of the corridor was the stuffed turtle she carries everywhere. Everywhere. The one she wouldn’t even allow to go in her luggage.

I feel a chill down my spine. I scoop it up but my fast walk has become a run now. I complete the circuit to no avail and check into the lounge in the middle where the rest of the family is but she’s not there. I dump Rhapsody with grandma while I take off at a sprint: me one way, grand-dad the other. We meet without toddler.

I’m very calm in a crisis but I’m aware my heart-rate is higher than normal. The wife has checked in with a staff member who shows little concern, with an offhand: “It’s a ship – it’s not as if she can go far”. I widen the search doing the entire level at a sprint. By the 15-minute mark I’m checking toilets as I pass them trying not to think about the why of my actions. One level of 14 searched. Corridors and toilets anyway. By 25 minutes I’m almost frantic. In the face of gunfire calm, but here? I’m aware I’m starting to lose it. It’s at this point that I peer over the mezzanine and, luckily, spot my wandering daughter – perhaps determined to live up to her name – walking purposefully through the
crowds two floors below.

I fly down two flights of stairs quicker than Usain Bolt and sweep her up in my arms. Surprisingly, I have no anger in my system. Just relief and, oddly, I’m on the verge of tears.

Unlike her daddy, she is relatively calm and tells me she couldn’t find me so she was heading back to our cabin. She is almost there too (later I would marvel this was quite a feat for a three-year-old).

Later I would also wonder at how quickly my mind went to a bad place where I assumed the worst.

When did I go from fearless liver of life to vulnerable? The day I became a parent.

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Dispensing with the baby talk

A doctor’s surgery is a clinical place; professional, clean. A monument to science and learning. So I was a bit shocked during a recent visit when the new GP – a learned man of many years of education and practice – started talking in sing-song baby talk.

Granted it was to one of my three-year-old girls but does that really make it any better? Baby talk has always bugged me a little for some reason and I briefly considered saying something.

Turns out I didn’t need to. When he declared he was going to use his “magic listening thingy”, Gypsy looked at him and shook her head.

“It’s called a stethoscope,” she said helpfully. Politely. No hint of sarcasm or patronising which I probably wouldn’t have been able to keep out of my voice. he was surprised to say the least.

I’ve never really used baby talk. I can’t say it was a fully conscious decision but it never really occurred to me. Make no mistake – I talk to them with tremendous affection and playful tones: it’s just that I’ve never dumbed down my speech to them.

Why do so many people talk that way to our kids? It’s a bit like when people talk slowly and loudly to people who don’t speak their language. I’ve never been sure how repeating a message with a different speed and volume is expected to work but it’s a ritual that persists the world ‘round.

So is it genetically ingrained that – when faced with a baby – we exaggerate and put strange emphasis on words?

Well there are some studies that actually say yes. I recently read a paper that demonstrated mothers exaggerated the words “shooooooe”, “shaaaaaaark” and “sheeeeeep” with their babies but not to their pets with the same toys and words. This is apparently important and may explain why dogs and cats are yet to get their own radio drive show, but the paper’s authors instead chose to conclude that mothers shouldn’t feel bad about baby talk.

Strangely, all the research I found (in a whole 20 minute period) merely dealt with mothers, so maybe there’s an unrecognised gender divide at work here?

having said that, we’ve already had the tale of an extremely well-educated doctor doing his best kids- presenter impersonation so maybe it’s just me that’s weird?

I’ve also always answered their questions openly and honestly and – if I’m completely truthful – probably a little too scientifically at times. No “just because” or “it’s magic” (magic tricks excepted). Just breakdowns of the what and why.

Sometimes they get it, sometimes they don’t. over the years I’ve explained relativity, force lift, file transfers, the laws of physics, space travel and a slew of other topics. All instigated by them, not me. They retain some information, discard other data and often mix them up in confusing but entertaining ways.

I don’t think I’ve held back their development with this matter-of-fact approach. I certainly hope not. But if one day they come to me accusingly, at least I can explain the realistic likelihood of time travel and how we can’t change the past.

And they should understand.

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Who has all the answers? Daddy!

I grew up a very curious soul. And I’ve always actually looked forward to having curious kids. I couldn’t wait for them to start talking and asking questions so I could show them the world and how it works.

I wasn’t going to be a parent who used “just because”. I was going to educate and elucidate.

But it turns out that toddler questions aren’t the great learning exercise I expected. And while they do indeed have an insatiable curiosity, it’s often applied to mundane things.

“Daddy why does the moon change shape?” is interesting. “Daddy, why are cornflakes orange?” is not as interesting not to mention a lot harder to answer.

In fact it’s all too frequently a great challenge answering questions from those incapable of wiping their own bottom.

I’ve discovered there are roughly three ways to answer a toddler question. Take the following query for example:

“Why is my reflection upside down in a spoon Daddy?”

You really have three options.

a) Because concave surfaces reflect inversely
b) Because the spoon is curved.
c) Magic!

Now I know most of you are thinking option b) but that is a trap. Because their immediate follow-up question will be “why?” and you will probably have to resort to a) or c) anyway.

Nothing is straight forward and “Why?” is currently the bane of my existence. Those three letters often leave me exasperated. Not because they’re being asked but because they’re being asked beyond the point of being able to provide an answer.

You can explain how things fly (lift force) and why they fall (gravity) but how do you respond when they ask WHY gravity sucks things down? Or WHY solids can’t pass through solids?

You get to a point where where they’re asking the why about principles/theories/laws that we simply accept. It’s also – scientifically speaking – the point at which your mind just explodes.

One of these days they’re going to ask “why are you hitting your head against the wall Daddy?”

Just because honey. Just because.

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When Memory lane turns out to be in the bad part of town

IT’S SAFE TO SAY DAUGHTERS OF STAY-AT-HOME DADS EXPERIENCE A FEW THINGS DIFFERENTLY. IT’S NOT NECESSARILY BETTER OR WORSE, BUT IT CAN BE QUITE NOTICEABLE.

For example there might be a little less disney and octonauts and a little more Ghostbusters and Nightmare Before Christmas.

And – talking about no family in particular of course – perhaps they were exposed to Star Wars at a younger age than most. And yes, they might recognise the Dr. Who theme song. And they love Superman, Supergirl and Blackman (actually Batman but, because he wears black, the toddler logic will not tolerate backchat).

Okay so my twins might not be typical little three-year-old girls at this stage, but recently i dec ided it was time to expose them to the ultimate childhood classics: The original old-school disney movies.

I have wonderful memories of robin hood as a fox, the moral lessons of a wooden boy whose nose grew with dishonesty and those amazing dancing broomsticks, so it seemed a no-brainer that the girls’ cinematic education include the films from the
magic Kingdom. They’d already seen the Little mermaid and the Lion

King and even though I had some doubts about those (graphic death scenes and disturbing themes in both) the older movies were from a purer age right? Boy, i was in for a shock. Those sweet movies with the catchy ditties? Not so sweet and good.
Let’s start with dumbo. I remembered a vague story about a cute little elephant who finds his place in the world with a special talent. But the reality is a movie full of bullying, racism and general negativity. And, to make matters worse,
dumbo only flies in the last ten minutes.

Snow White and the Seven dwarfs? Lovely animation but full of plotholes and Snow White treats the animals like second-class citizens/slaves. Not to mention, she has the most annoying shrill voice of all time. And the prince goes looking for a beautiful princess he’s heard is dead but preserved in the forest? Soooo inappropriate.

I love Peter Pan but the stereotyping of Native Americans beggars belief. The song even says they have red skin because in the past a Native American blushed at a girl implying they were originally the ‘normal’ white skin. And misogyny? Don’t start me…

Cinderella does nothing but wish for stuff. And everything gets handed to her on a platter.

Beauty and the Beast supposedly teaches us to not judge a book by its cover (though I notice Belle is pretty attractive for some reason) but the message that actually shines through is that it’s okay to stay with abusive, temperamental men because eventually they’ll magically change.

Bambi’s mother’s death scene traumatised me when I was young. No way are my girls seeing that one.

Step-mothers are pretty evil across the board and most disney characters are missing at least one parent. And whether they have one or two parents there’s a recurring theme of “it’s okay to disobey your parents as long as it’s for love”.

It goes on and on and this is even without touching on the underlying disney messages of girls having to be pretty.

Seriously, what the hell was wrong with these people? I know it was another age but that still doesn’t make it okay for my girls today.

Thankfully we have one or two recent depictions of strong, fully independent women in the Princess and the Frog and Tangled (the modern Rapunzel is awesome) but as for those so-called classics? Well, I think we’ll stick to Star Wars and Supergirl thanks.

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Party Politics

Even though they’re not quite four yet, my girls are already on the party circuit. Not the fashion, champagne and snootiness circuit but the much more cut-throat Birthday Party circuit.

It started off innocuously with their first invite to a friend’s party. I struggled with what to buy for a (then) two-year-old but eventually I had a present and two nicely dressed girls as I held their hands as we walked around the corner, all set for a few games of pass the parcel and fairy bread… and stopped.

I blinked a few times to make sure I wasn’t imagining things, but no. There really was a giant castle standing right in front of us. Inflatable of course, but still.

Fairies and clowns roved around the garden charming children with their magic and glitter dust. There were pony rides and puppies. Smells of exotic food wafter through the air and was that a waiter? And did he have a cocktail?!?

I rifled through my bag to check the invitation because unless I was mistaken I was pretty sure we had accidentally stumbled into the tent of the Moscow Circus or a movie set.

But no, we were at the right place and the next few hours were a parade of entertainment, games where everyone won prizes and full catering for both parents and kids.

I was stunned but it wasn’t over yet. As we left – thanking the host effusively – the girls had goody bags thrust into their hands. Bags that had more in them than Ekka showbags. What? Wait, it’s her birthday but my kids get presents? What is this madness?

When I was a kid we turned up, handed over a present (sometimes reluctantly), played in the backyard, had cake and went home. Everyone was happy.

Nowadays it’s an event to rival The Great Gatsby for decadence.

Admittedly the next party wasn’t quite as over-the-top but it still wasn’t anywhere near the cheap gathering of people I expected. And the goody bags were once again, to my way of thinking, extravagant.

So I asked around and discovered this was normal. Large parties were expected and the pressure to match or overshadow previous parties was immense. In the US you can have a sleepover at a toy store for $30,000. Some parties see toddlers picked up in limos. And don’t even start me on the intricate detail of cakes today.

Somewhere along the line between making it a special day for their child and playing one-up-person-ship with their peers, birthday parties have become An Event (note capitalisation).

I was going to make fun of the fact that we’d no doubt be seeing professional party planners doing kids birthday parties soon. But they already exist. I checked. And they’re not cheap if you want to put on a memorable party. Forget the fact that most of these kids at two and three won’t remember these parties, it’s all about style and some of them don’t even appear to be about the children.

Not that I’m immune. We’ve had two parties for the girls (at two and three) and they started out as small affairs but ended up ‘going big’. The first was just supposed to be a gathering in the park. Firstly I invited everyone from their daycare because I didn’t want any kid to feel left out (I hate the thought of a kid feeling sad). Then the grandparents got a big jumping castle for next-to-nothing.

And I did big goody bags partly because everyone else did it and partly because I felt guilty that most parents purchased two presents (twins remember) even though I actively said to not worry about gifts.

And for their third birthday we had a joint party with their best friend (who shares their birthday). It was at a farm and run by a wonderful  charity named Harmony Hooves who put the profits into sharing the animals with less fortunate and disabled children. And they put on a show that far exceeded my expectations and I suddenly realised – amidst the pony rides, fairies (yes multiple) and swings and castle – that I’d inadvertently become a big party parent. Lots of kids. Amazing amount of entertainment.

So I guess parents who party in castles shouldn’t throw goody bags full of… wait, this metaphor got away from me. Just like my sense of perspective on birthday parties.

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A truly hairy problem

I’m not someone who scares easily but I recently felt my blood turn to ice. No, it wasn’t the twins using my DVDs as frisbees or finding them precariously perched somewhere. It was a simple sentence delivered by their dance teacher.

“Anthony, you need to put their hair up into buns each week.”

Now I can do a lot of things. I’m flexible, curious and my already large skillset has expanded enormously since becoming a stay-at-home dad. But one skill that eludes me is the hair.

For starters I have large, thick fingers. Secondly, unlike most of the fairer gender I haven’t been playing with hair my whole life. My curls mean I’ve always just kept it short. So no personal experience.

But Anthony I hear you cry: you’ve been home for years with the girls. Surely you’ve picked a thing or two up by now.

Um… no. Not with hair.

You see they both had short hair for ages. And even when it grew I’ve had a great support network (you rock grandma!) not to mention a routine that sees Mummy Time before work in the morning include doing the hair.

It wasn’t something I actively avoided but the few times I’ve tried haven’t been successful. And when I say unsuccessful, think Hindenberg.

In fact Rhapsody, who has inherited my curls, has registered a formal protest that she doesn’t want Daddy practicing on her anymore.

Gypsy has straight hair so I’ve been able to fashion one or two ponytail/pigtails that’ll do the job. Well as long as you don’t put it under too much stress such as exposing it to extreme exercise. Or perhaps mild exercise.

Or a light breeze.

Or movement in general.hairy

But never let it be said I’m not up for a challenge or ready to pick up a new skill. Off to youtube I went to learn how to pull hair back, where to put the clips, what to do with the pins and how to do a bun.

HOLY MOTHER OF GOD! WHAT IS THIS EVIL?!?

“It’s all quite simple” says the lady with a beaming smile before frantically contorting her arms, hands and fingers into something resembling a highly caffeinated jazz hands routine then pulling them back seconds later to reveal a perfect bun.

It was like a magic trick. Especially the part where I couldn’t work out how she did it.

I suspect trick photography or a deal with the devil.

Even a slow-motion watch didn’t help. I think making balloon animals would be easier than doing my childrens’ hair at this point. Heck, I think a fusion reactor is looking less complex.

Which is why we later turn up at grandma’s wearing our GAP hoodies. With the hoods up.

Okay so maybe they DID look like they were casing the joint but at least they were trendy clothes. That counts right?

This story doesn’t have a happy ending yet. I’m still trying to learn but I’m pulling more of my hair out than putting theirs in. I actually think swimming caps may become necessary for dance classes.

Actually there’s an idea. Take the girls out of dance class and enrol them in synchronised swimming. Dancing with swimming caps is still dancing right?

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Tasmanian torture

We’ve just has the strangest holiday. And that’s saying something. When you’ve travelled as much we have you tend to think you’ve seen it all and you’re prepared for anything. Heck we even checked the Australian government website for safety warnings because even though Tasmania isn’t another country, it certainly feels like it sometimes.

We were looking forward to peaceful meadows, lovely scenery, amazing food and giving thanks for David Boon. But instead this family getaway left me a fragile, mental wreck.

Not because Tasmanians drive in the middle of the road until they’re right on top of you like a modern day game of chicken (though they do).

Not because Tasmania has speed signs that say “End 80 zone” but don’t tell you what the new speed is so you’re unsure whether you need to speed up or slow down (though they do).

Not because there’s so much roadkill we saw more dead marsupials than live ones (though we did).

No, this trip was defined by screaming tantrums.

For some reason, Rhapsody’s trip across the Tasman transformed her into a monster. I know I sometimes make fun of my twins but they’re good girls most of the time. But suddenly drop-of-a-hat tantrums were the new thing. Especially when we jumped in the car. Distractions didn’t work (in fact they often made things worse). If they both had a toy or iPad then she wanted Gypsy’s – even if they were identical. She would scream, cry and sometimes start hitting and kicking her sister. Sometimes if she didn’t have a reason to scream, she’d make one up.

At one stage we were on a highway when she suddenly declared she wanted four pink socks. In the middle of nowhere. Of course we tried to calmly say we didn’t have any on us and reason with her but that just set off another explosion.

And the screaming just gets louder the longer it goes on. She was like some sort of crazed football commentator as one side is about to score: just getting louder and higher and louder and higher.

At one point I thought she’d stopped until I saw dogs on the side of the road in pain and realised she’d just gone up so high she’d exceeded the level of human hearing. Sadly for us – but happily for the local fauna – this octave didn’t last long.

My wife handled it pretty well for the most part. She has this ability to just tune out and not hear when she wants to. It’s like the next step of evolution. It would also explain some of our conversations around the house.

But I digress. Mostly because my traumatised brain doesn’t want to remember those Tasmanian road-trips. Which is a shame. Because once we reached our destinations they were amazing. Tasmania is simply stunning. We climbed down ancient caves, we found a platypus in the wild, we climbed mountains (if you accept ‘driving up’ as ‘climbing’), we saw Australia’s oldest bridge and what must be Australia’s longest public park slide, we fed giant salmon and trout, we visited old bakeries and chocolate factories, I saw the Brisbane Heat defeat the Hobart Hurricanes… Most of the touristy stuff. It was incredible in patches.

However these amazing flashes of brilliance were bookended by the unending screams of a wailing banshee out of Dante’s Inferno. Seriously, it was like an ice pick in the brain and I started eyeing off the many, many vineyards we were passing wandering if they made/had hard spirits there too.

It’s not as if our girls haven’t travelled before. We had a white Christmas in Denmark and though the flight wasn’t great the holiday was. And like most people of the Western world, they’ve been to Las Vegas.

But this trip was insane. Every time we went somewhere it descended into chaos, leading me to one inescapable conclusion: Rhapsody has developed an allergy to cars.

Or Tasmania.

Or maybe she just REALLY loves pink socks.

And just FYI, the phrase “Daddy is like America – he doesn’t negotiate with terrorists” doesn’t work on three-year-olds.

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WANTED: recognition for parenting as a job

We all have friends who don’t understand how difficult parenting is. And even those friends who KNOW it’s not all Ellen/Oprah and tea often fail to appreciate just how intensive this 24-7 job is. And it is a job make no mistake. It’s just like no other job on the planet.

For a start there’s no paid overtime. Heck, sometimes you’re lucky if you get a lunch break. You have to organise your own health plan. You are on-call ALL THE TIME. There isn’t a point where you get to knock-off, just temporary relief if they sleep or you have an amazing partner (or hired help). There are no financial bonuses for a job well done. In fact there’s often no recognition of your amazing feats at all.

And intensive? It’s downright unrelenting. There are no holidays – just your job in different locations. And no, you don’t get sick days: you have to suck it up and work through.

Have you ever wondered what such a job would read like as an advertised position? What sort of Selection Criteria it would have?

SC1 PROVEN ABILITY TO PERFORM MULTIPLE DIFFICULT TASKS SIMULTANEOUSLY. ADDITIONALLY APPLICANT MUST BE VERY FLEXIBLE AND ADAPTABLE.

SC2 PROVEN ABILITY TO PERFORM UNDER PRESSURE. APPLICANT MUST BE ABLE TO BE PATIENT AND EVEN-TEMPERED, POSSIBLY FOR YEARS ON END. SLEEP DEPRIVATION EXPERIENCE WOULD BE SEEN AS ADVANTAGEOUS. DITTO TORTURE EXPERIENCE.

SC3 HIGH-LEVEL NEGOTIATION SKILLS. DEMONSTRATED ABILITY TO INTERACT WITH RIDICULOUSLY STUBBORN CHILDREN REQUIRED. MIGHT SUIT THOSE USED TO DEALING WITH AUSTRALIAN POLITICIANS.

SC4 SUPERHUMAN TIME MANAGEMENT SKILLS. THE APPLICANT MUST BE ABLE TO EFFICIENTLY UTILISE ALL 24 HOURS OF THE DAY. SLEEP OPTIONAL.

SC5 DEVELOPMENT PLANNING AND IMPLEMENTATION EXPERIENCE (VERY HIGH LEVEL) FOR EDUCATIONAL AND SOCIAL DEVELOPMENT PROJECT MANAGEMENT ON HIGHLY INFLUENTIAL SUBJECTS. MUST BE GOOD ROLE MODEL, GREAT TEACHER AND WISE ELDER. THE ABILITY TO ACCURATELY PREDICT THE FUTURE WILL ALSO BE LOOKED UPON POSITIVELY.

SC6 DEMONSTRATED ARTISTIC ABILITY. ARTS AND CRAFT PREFERABLE. CAPACITY FOR AMAZING IMAGINATION ESSENTIAL. PROFICIENCY FOR UTTERING SENTENCES SUCH AS “WHY YES, THAT *IS* A GIRAFFE WITH A SNOOGLEHORN AND NOT A ROCK AT ALL” A MUST. ACTING ABILITY OBVIOUSLY ALSO REQUIRED.

EXPERIENCE AT ANY/ALL OF THE FOLLOWING WOULD BE ADVANTAGEOUS: CHEF, PSYCHOLOGIST, DIPLOMAT, REFUSE HANDLER, NUTRITIONIST, INSOMNIAC, TEACHER, REFEREE, SAFETY OFFICER, SPORTS/MUSIC/DANCE COACH.

MUST BE WILLING TO FORGO – OR AT LEAST DOWNWARDLY PRIORITISE – HAVING YOUR OWN LIFE.

Is it any wonder there are no licensing law requirements to be a parent? Who could satisfy this sort of application? Hardly any of us at all. Well, maybe an anal retentive type-A sociopathic insomniac but even then only if they had experience.

A parent has so many responsibilities it’s not surprising that sometimes some of us have doubts about whether we’re doing a good job. We have to be so many things and it feels so very important to get it right. It’s our children’s future after all so the stakes are high.

But just how realistic is it for us to be so versatile? How many jobs in the real world would dare to ask for so much across so many spectrums?

This is why ancient civilisations raised children using the entire community. Less pressure, more specialisation and more support.

So if you’re feeling overwhelmed and having doubts about your ability as a parent, please don’t despair. No matter what the media tells you there is no such thing as a perfect parent. I don’t think any sane person reading this will be able to fulfil ALL the criteria. But if you do? Well then email me – I may have a position open for you.

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The Best Job in the World vs The Best Job in the World

Make no mistake, it is a job. It’s just like no other job on the planet. For a start there’s no paid overtime. Heck,
sometimes you’re lucky if you get a lunch break. You have to organise your own health plan. You are on-call ALL THE TIME. There isn’t a point where you get to knock-off, just temporary relief if they sleep, or if you have an amazing partner or supportive family (or hired help). There are no financial bonuses for a job well done. No chances
for promotion. In fact there’s often no recognition of your amazing feats at all.

And intensive? It’s downright unrelenting. There are no holidays – just your job in different locations. And no, you don’t get sick days: you have to suck it up and work through.

HOW WOULD YOU WRITE UP THIS ROLE AS AN ADVERTISED POSITION? WHAT SORT OF SELECTION CRITERIA WOULD IT HAVE?

SC1: Proven ability to perform multiple diffi cult tasks simultaneously. Additionally applicant must be very flexible and adaptable.

SC2: Proven ability to perform under pressure. Applicant must be able to use patient and even-tempered for years on end. Sleep deprivation experience is advantageous. Ditto torture experience.

SC3: High-level negotiation skills. Demonstrated ability to interact with ridiculously stubborn children. Will suit those used to dealing with politicians.

SC4: Superhuman time management skills. The Job oN the planEt. applicant must be able to effi ciently utilise all 24 hours of the day. Sleep optional.

SC5: Development planning and implementation experience (very high level) for educational and social development project management on highly influential subjects. Must be good role model, great teacher and wise elder. The ability to accurately
predict the future will be looked upon positively.

SC6: Demonstrated artistic ability. Arts and crafts preferable. Capacity for amazing imagination essential. Proficiency for uttering sentences such as “why yes, that *is* a giraffe with a snooglehorn and not a rock at all” a must. Acting ability obviously also required.

Experience at any/all of the following would be advantageous: chef, psychologist, diplomat, refuse handler, nutritionist, insomniac, teacher, referee, safety officer, sports/music/dance coach.

Is it any wonder there are no licensing law requirements to be a parent? Who could satisfy this sort of application? Hardly any of us at all.

Well, maybe an anal retentive type-A sociopathic insomniac but even then only if they had experience.

A parent has so many responsibilities it’s not surprising that sometimes some of us have doubts about whether we’re doing a good job. We have to be so many things and it feels so very important to get it right. It’s our children’s future after all so the stakes are high.

But just how realistic is it for us to be so versatile? How many jobs in the real world would dare to ask for so much across so many spectrums?

This is why ancient civilisations raised children using the entire community. Less pressure, more specialisation and more support.

So if you’re feeling overwhelmed and having doubts about your ability as a parent, please don’t despair. No matter what the media tells you there is no such thing as a perfect parent. I don’t think any sane person reading this will be able to fulfill ALL the criteria. But if you do? Well then email me – I may have a position open for you.