I’m becoming a tad confused with all these fancy pants terms ‘the experts’ are bringing in to define parenting.
When I brought my kids up it was merely,
Parenting: Dodgy or Moderately Acceptable.
I mean, what the hell is a Helicopter Parent? Do they fly their kids to school in a helicopter like Tom Cruise does?
Is a Bubble-Wrap Parent one who orders Christmas presents from Etsy?
And a Lighthouse Parent???
Are they the ones who live on menacing rocky islands and have some dark, secretive, familial mystery entwined into their lives; like they’re actually brother and sister and sacrifice baby seals every full moon or something?
I strongly suspect I was a Drop Sheet Parent. I was like the old, dirty sheet lying around the skirting boards waiting for the careless tradies to drop their shit all over me and I’d have to catch it. You know what I mean, placate teachers, pay fines, smooth over holes punched in the walls after brotherly skirmishes etc.
Or maybe I was a Hamburger Parent; the meat that gave meaning to the two buns, the slice of cheese, the annoying pickle and the whimsical squirt of mayo. Without the meat it just didn’t work and the condiments would end up killing each other in a battle of sibling supremacy.
Possibly, my mode of parenting was the Donkey Style.
I mean, what the hell is a Helicopter Parent? Do they fly their kids to school in a helicopter like Tom Cruise does?
Is a Bubble-Wrap Parent one who orders Christmas presents from Etsy?
And a Lighthouse Parent???
Are they the ones who live on menacing rocky islands and have some dark, secretive, familial mystery entwined into their lives; like they’re actually brother and sister and sacrifice baby seals every full moon or something?
I strongly suspect I was a Drop Sheet Parent. I was like the old, dirty sheet lying around the skirting boards waiting for the careless tradies to drop their shit all over me and I’d have to catch it. You know what I mean, placate teachers, pay fines, smooth over holes punched in the walls after brotherly skirmishes etc.
Or maybe I was a Hamburger Parent; the meat that gave meaning to the two buns, the slice of cheese, the annoying pickle and the whimsical squirt of mayo. Without the meat it just didn’t work and the condiments would end up killing each other in a battle of sibling supremacy.
Possibly, my mode of parenting was the Donkey Style.
I allowed them to ride me and ride me until after being whipped and flogged for moving too slowly I eventually collapsed in the dust and they sold me to the glue factory.
Or perhaps I used The Kitchen Fridge parenting technique where I replenished the earthly needs of the family every day, stocking their sustenance supplies up regularly but living in a thankless, cold and clinical world where I was largely ignored unless someone needed something, whereupon they’d just front up, stare at me for a long time and complain that I was boring.
The truth is, I was probably utilising the Sherman Tank Parenting Technique. I’d lay prone in the mud as they gleaned pleasure at driving over the top of me repetitively, with their flag raised and hooting in joyous revolt.
The carry on about different parenting styles bores me to blood-streaked tears. Do people realise that this parenting thing has been going on for quite a while; like at least ten to fifteen years?
Fair enough, some parents have a lot to answer for.
There must have been some atrocious parents according to history.
Jack the Ripper’s Mum for instance: “Sorry little Jackie, but Mummy’s off to Cheap Tuesday so here’s a bag of lollies for dinner and keep yourself occupied with Carmageddon on Xbox while I’m out… and by the way don’t answer the door to strangers.”
Or perhaps I used The Kitchen Fridge parenting technique where I replenished the earthly needs of the family every day, stocking their sustenance supplies up regularly but living in a thankless, cold and clinical world where I was largely ignored unless someone needed something, whereupon they’d just front up, stare at me for a long time and complain that I was boring.
The truth is, I was probably utilising the Sherman Tank Parenting Technique. I’d lay prone in the mud as they gleaned pleasure at driving over the top of me repetitively, with their flag raised and hooting in joyous revolt.
The carry on about different parenting styles bores me to blood-streaked tears. Do people realise that this parenting thing has been going on for quite a while; like at least ten to fifteen years?
Fair enough, some parents have a lot to answer for.
There must have been some atrocious parents according to history.
Jack the Ripper’s Mum for instance: “Sorry little Jackie, but Mummy’s off to Cheap Tuesday so here’s a bag of lollies for dinner and keep yourself occupied with Carmageddon on Xbox while I’m out… and by the way don’t answer the door to strangers.”
But all this weasel word labelling, guilt-mongering and yawn-worthy claptrap is driving me nuts.
How would you define your parenting style?
