Half arsed paren Parenting sure isn’t 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 baby’s 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 weren’t smart, nor were most parents, who didn’t yet have Google to help them with their kids’ 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 don’t wake up with hangovers, but it’s harder than ever to be a parent. Now lunchbox food has to be nude, Baa Baa is a rainbow sheep and we’re meant to ask permission from a baby before changing its nappy. Children used to be seen and not heard, now they’re noisy and everywhere. Kids today – even the bratty ones – are indulged and adored. ‘Look, he spoke a word. Whip out your iPhone and record it for posterity.’ ‘Look, he’s preciously pooing. Film it for his 21st.’ ‘Look, she finished last in a 50 metre walking race. Better give her a medal.’
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I’ve been a parent for 16 years now, but I’ve got more questions than ever. How can my elder son get an A in trigonometry but still think ‘verse’ is a verb? (As in, ‘Will the Sydney Swans verse Geelong today?’) 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? It’s 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. It’s not an invitation to give up and do a bad job across the board. It doesn’t mean giving kids less love, empathy or protection. It means releasing yourself from other people’s standards, expectations and rules. Half-arsed parents know that when it comes to raising kids, you don’t have to be perfect. Know your limits and set the bar low enough so you succeed. Near-enough is usually good enough. It’s okay that your child’s first word was Bluey or Elsa rather than Mama or Dadda. Because here’s the truth: No one cares as much as you about the way you’re bringing up your kids. They may act as if they do, but they don’t. Trust me. This means it’s okay to fake it until you make it. And if you don’t make it, no one will notice. The celebrities pretending to be perfect are faking it too. They spend their days posting inspirational phrases like ‘Be the best you #glow, #bless’ but only get out of bed thanks to a generous slug of vodka in their green goddess breakfast
