I’m not a fan of labels. Unless, that is, they’re on gorgeous handbags and come with the tantalising promise of a bargaintastic eighty per cent off in the sale.
Once upon a time, I had the shoulder pads and mullet of a YUPPIE, but, sadly, not the bank balance. Husband and I were DINKYs for a while (Double Income, No Kids Yet), but then our little darlings came along and made us KNACKERED. Please note, that last one isn’t an acronym.
My general aversion to group terms was exacerbated this week, when I experienced an identity crisis after reading research on parenting labels, some of which I didn’t even know existed.
I am, of course, familiar with the concept of the Tiger Mother: controlling dictators who enforce a strict regime that demands success. We’ve all met them. Their children speak six languages and can play Liszt’s ‘Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2’ on the piano while reciting trigonometry equations and memorising the fundamentals of nuclear physics. At age six.
Then there’s the Helicopter Parent. Nope, not Prince Andrew. It’s the uptight, ultra-vigilant control freak that hovers at the edge of the ball crawl, giving stares of warning to any child that comes within three feet of their little prodigy. Similarly, the Drone Parent also indulges in relentless surveillance, but does it in a silent manner.
It’s easy to be confused by the traits of the Snowplough Parent. It doesn’t mean someone who is funded by the council, difficult to manoeuver and only comes out in inclement weather. It actually refers to manipulative elders who remove any obstacle from their offspring’s path, thereby ensuring they always get where they want to go.
On the other end of the overbearing scale is the Free-Range Parent, who encourages their kid to explore the world, thereby fostering independence and confidence. Fair enough. But if a seven-year-old gets on the Megabus clutching a suitcase and two weeks’ pocket money, it’s only reasonable to expect a free-range call from social services.
The Submarine Parent keeps a low profile, only surfacing in times of trouble. I wouldn’t mind being one of those, if, like the latest MoD deal, it came with a government investment of £205 billion.
Jellyfish Parents can cause prolonged irritation. These are the pushovers that refuse to discipline their precious angel, and believe that if Princess Rainbow Trixielullah is running around a restaurant squealing at a decibel level that cracks the glass on prawn cocktail bowls, it’s perfectly fine because it means she is ‘expressing herself’.
At first glance, I wondered if I was a member of the Lighthouse Parenting gang, thanks to my unfortunate, accidental flashing of the holy Spanx in windy situations. But no. The intended meaning of this terminology is far more poetic. The lighthouse mother is a guiding ‘beacon of light’, allowing her youths to safely navigate the world and ride the waves of life. It’s close, but not quite applicable to me. The last time my sons rode the waves of life it involved a pedalo, cost ten euros for half an hour and I pulled a hamstring.
So, after much consideration, I’ve realised that I don’t conform to any of the existing labels, and decided to invent one of my own.
Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Shari and I’m a Wellie Boot Maw. I like to think I’m warm, reliable and protect my brood from the worst of life’s storms.
I’m also a bit old-fashioned, slightly cumbersome, occasionally embarrassing and out of place in posh company.
But, hey, I can always be dressed up with a gorgeous handbag that was a bargaintastic eighty per cent off in a sale.