A DAD'S LIFE:AS THE kids grow, I have encouraged a sense of competitiveness. I fanned those flames. Go in hard, I said, go in fast, and take no prisoners. The harder you hit the less chance you have of getting hurt.
This, by the way, was traditional advice given by all underage rugby trainers in the 1980s: the harder you stick your head into someone else, the less chance you have of feeling pain. How daft did they think we were?
My kids are many things but daft is not one. They’re not sticking their heads anywhere that might require fixing their hair afterwards. Motivating the girls invariably requires bribery over passion.
Fair enough, I think, they’re not killers. They’re not chest-thumping, steroid-driven future international prop forwards, but they don’t like to lose. I, for example, am never allowed to beat them. At the first hint of a familial head to head, my head is presumed to be there to take their kickings. Which is the way it should be. I mean, if I’m getting upset at not being able to gloat in victory over girls of eight and five I must be a rather sad individual.
So, the issue is whether to encourage them to be slavering warmongers, determined to win at all costs, or insist that all of life is a polite game and what’s important is that everyone feel included. I could try to feed them either line and know they’ll see them for the extremes they are, but inevitably, when the parent goggles are on, all reason goes out the window.
Parent goggles (PGs) are the grown-up equivalent of beer goggles (BGs), which got many of us into regular trouble in our late teens and 20s. In extreme cases, BGs led directly to PGs, usually resulting in the PGs being of prescription strength with a rose tint to distract from the fact that you shouldn’t be wearing them at all.
PGs are what have us ringing model agencies soon after our first child arrives, certain that they, too, will agree the offspring’s squashed mush should be gracing billboards across the land. A friend recently told me how, when her son was born, she used to nod sympathetically at other young mothers because she knew that they would be upset when they saw how beautiful her kid was. She didn’t want them to feel bad when they realised how pug ugly their own children appeared by comparison. This woman is rational in most other situations.
PGs have caused me to fork out for every piece of sports and music kit I can’t afford, certain as I am that my Nintendo-loving, couch-potato children are bursting to be the next Derval O’Rourke or Jean Butler.
I’m a full-time subscriber to PG syndrome and as such will continue to push the kids into every increasingly unlikely situation in the firm belief that they will eventually be recognised for their brilliance. This will continue until they either strike gold, or the personal reinvention goggles (PRGs) take over.
PRGs are the result of the adoption of a new sport or hobby in mid-life. Currently, distance running and triathlons are vying for supremacy in the mindsets of the newly reinvented middle-aged. I am guilty of becoming fixated on both, having fresh trainers, a bike and a wetsuit taking up space in my garage, despite the fact that I have never displayed any physical aptitude for swimming, cycling or running. I am reborn in the company of other old people convinced they can still make the next Olympics in a discipline they have only just discovered.
Problems arise when PRGs and PGs clash. How can I be expected to attend a guitar recital in a windy church hall when there’s a triathlon in Athy at the same time? I whisper to the missus that rhythm never ran in our genes, that it might be better for all concerned if we cut our losses and get the girl out early. She replies with a reminder that I was the one who bought the damn guitar and insisted on lessons.
I look her straight in the eye and inform her there’s a chance I could make the top 10 in my age-group in Athy, that the course suits me. But I won’t be able to do that and get to the church hall. I try to make it sound like this is my shot at the big time, and not a bunch of fortysomethings splashing in a river.
PRGs meet PGs and the only thing certain is that delusion is at the heart of both. Delusion and, it appears, an insatiable interest in goggles.