IT'S A DAD'S LIFE: Parents will compete over everything, including parties, writes ADAM BROPHY
ARE YOU competitive? Do you march out on a pitch every Sunday and draw a line in the sand? Do you stand toe-to-toe and inform your adversary, in no uncertain terms, that this line shall not be crossed? Do you, at quiet moments, work on the set of your jaw, using a sidelong mirror to develop the most combative profile possible?
Or are you at peace? Do you breathe to the centre of your being and embrace your inner essence? Does a constant half-smile play on your face to inform others of your spiritual elevation and a disdain for unnecessary human confrontation?
If you are a parent you may have adopted the latter approach in a bid to retain sanity. But, as a parent, you know this is the thinnest of veiled disguises, one not designed to raise you closer to God, but to raise you a little above other parents so you can connect better with blows to the head. For there is no other sphere where the competition is more subtle or as vicious.
Take the birthday party. Ostensibly, these are to celebrate the anniversary of a child’s birth, but in reality they are ways to demonstrate the brilliance of your parenting techniques and philosophy in an arena where there can’t be much backlash. You may, if you wish, show off your down-home, earthy skills by catering the event with granola- related products and provide entertainment in the form of Constance, a non-sexual/sexist PC clown with a strong line on non-aggressive play techniques.
Or you can fire the brats into LeisurePlex and have them fend for themselves for three hours fuelled only on cake filling. Either way, as in politics, you will have your supporters and detractors, but this is a far more sinister playing field than the bastion of fair play that is the Dáil.
In a recent blog on kids’ birthday parties, Sara Ebner raised one parent’s dilemma about whether to invite the whole class to her six year old’s celebration. Fair enough query, common enough dilemma. Here’s a brief selection of comments left by the Great British Anonymous Public on both the original article and previously submitted comments:
“I’ve never minded the southern, upper-middle class tone to this blog before, but ‘never less than £300’? What planet are you on?”
“You EITHER invite the WHOLE class, OR you invite a FEW. What you NEVER EVER DO is invite NEARLY all the class, but leave out just a few.”
“Many of you lot seem to inhabit a different planet to me. We are full-time working parents on a tight budget in a two-bed flat: the idea of throwing a party for 30 kids has just never been an option.”
“Still not learnt to say ‘no’ to your child? Never mind, keep practising and when eventually you become an adult yourself you’ll probably manage it.”
So, there you are. One choice request into cyberspace to gauge protocol on party invitations and you’re branded an indolent, an imbecile, debauched and immature. I’m sure the unwitting mother who started the whole debacle is currently hosting her soirée somewhere in Mayfair from the safety of a nuclear bunker. Her only solace is the obvious fact that her detractors learned their written skills and grammar on an “Angry Texting” course.
Of course, we could just blame it on the madness inherent in the British, but who here would risk their position in society and take a stance on the, “To communion or not to communion” debate?
I’ll hold my hands up and say I took the soft route. Had the kids baptised and sent them off to school knowing that they’d at least be eligible for the big bash when the day arrived.
Worse than the wrath of God was the fear of a nagging eight year old who couldn’t go begging door-to-door in a white frock with her buddies because daddy didn’t believe.
Load up your arrows and shoot me down for my loose morals, but how many of you really care? How many of you have done exactly the same?
Most interesting, how many of you took a stance at the outset, keeping the brats strictly atheistic, but caved as soon as pressure came on from either school or child? Each stance, and each crumble from a profound world view, met with increasing levels of disdain from your parenting peers.
Even more dangerous is to wander into the vicinity of medical policy. How you treat your children’s ailments and your opinions on how other people treat theirs is a topic so laced with poison I’m surprised Shakespeare never used it as a plot device.
Parenting is like a Le Carré novel. Tread carefully, button your lip and, when the opportunity arises, strike like a cobra.
abrophy@irishtimes.com