Half-arsed paren Parenting sure isnât what it used to be. When I was growing up in the 70s, kids were freerange, like the underarm hair. Babies spent hours in the backyard, gazing at the clouds from their wooden gaols. Toddlers tottered around shopping centres on leashes like dogs. Mums switched to menthol cigarettes when they were pregnant, and dads dipped their babyâs dummies in whiskey to help them sleep through the night. By the 80s, parents continued to walk the fine line between neglect and indifference. Kids had latchkeys and let themselves in after school, rolled around unsecured in the back seats of cars and sat in the car park of the local pub. Their parents, who were inside drinking, occasionally brought them out packets of chips and lemonade. (Okay, that might have just been my sister and me.) In the 90s, mobile phones made their debut. But they werenât smart, nor were most parents, who didnât yet have Google to help them with their kidsâ homework. Back then, peanut-butter sandwiches were still sold in tuckshops, kids had lemonade stands without needing council permits, and internet connections dropped out when you picked up the landline. Things have improved. These days kids wear seatbelts, nuts are banned in schools and babies donât wake up with hangovers, but itâs harder than ever to be a parent. Now lunchbox food has to be nude, Baa Baa is a rainbow sheep and weâre meant to ask permission from a baby before changing its nappy. Children used to be seen and not heard, now theyâre noisy and everywhere. Kids today â even the bratty ones â are indulged and adored. âLook, he spoke a word. Whip out your iPhone and record it for posterity.â âLook, heâs preciously pooing. Film it for his 21st.â âLook, she finished last in a 50 metre walking race. Better give her a medal.â
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Iâve been a parent for 16 years now, but Iâve got more questions than ever. How can my elder son get an A in trigonometry but still think âverseâ is a verb? (As in, âWill the Sydney Swans verse Geelong today?â) And how does my 14-year-old know the difference between an infusion and a reduction, thanks to TV cooking shows, but not know how to grill us sausages for dinner? And why did they spend their time in Covid lockdown killing each other on video games instead of nurturing a sourdough starter like the kids of my Instagram friends? Itâs time to do things differently and embrace the half-arsed approach to raising kids that served our parents so well. We need to stop being hyper-parents, helicopter parents or hands-on parents and instead become halfarsed parents.
Half-arsed parenting is about doing half as much and knowing it is still more than enough. Itâs not an invitation to give up and do a bad job across the board. It doesnât mean giving kids less love, empathy or protection. It means releasing yourself from other peopleâs standards, expectations and rules. Half-arsed parents know that when it comes to raising kids, you donât have to be perfect. Know your limits and set the bar low enough so you succeed. Near-enough is usually good enough. Itâs okay that your childâs first word was Bluey or Elsa rather than Mama or Dadda. Because hereâs the truth: No one cares as much as you about the way youâre bringing up your kids. They may act as if they do, but they donât. Trust me. This means itâs okay to fake it until you make it. And if you donât make it, no one will notice. The celebrities pretending to be perfect are faking it too. They spend their days posting inspirational phrases like âBe the best you #glow, #blessâ but only get out of bed thanks to a generous slug of vodka in their green goddess breakfast
