A Feedback Folly

There are numerous things that many British people have an instinctive and immediate dislike for and one of those is feedback: both the giving and receiving of it. In societies that prize directness and speaking one’s mind telling someone exactly what you think of them and their performance comes as naturally as the leaves on the trees. 

For the British, however, there is all the labour of circumlocution and its interpretation. The safest place to communicate these oblique messages is, of course, in writing. Face to face encounters require command of the body and voice so that they do not betray what the words are so carefully designed to conceal or merely imply. 

So it is that parent teacher meetings represent a peculiarly fraught rite of passage for new parents. Not just face to face feedback but a reckoning of parenting skill and endeavour. My wife, being German, had much less anxiety than I about how our inaugural post-Covid 5 minutes would go. 

Inevitably the anticipation proved far worse than the actuality although it takes a peculiarly Trunchbullish teacher to say anything unkind about a 6 year old. Instead, we were gratifyingly assured about how empathetic our eldest was. Indeed, we were told that if any other child was sad or the subject of unkind words or actions our lad was the first to tell teacher. 

‘So he’s a grass, you mean?’ I said. 

‘No that’s not what I mean’, replied the teacher with a forbearing smile, while my wife kicked me under the table. 

One thing I did note was that rather like a patient leaving a consultation the most important thing is said the moment they are walking out the G.P.’s door; it was the teacher’s parting words that really conveyed where we needed to be putting in extra work. 

Teachers are dispassionate judges of our children’s characters whose assessment helps wrest us from parental indulgence or, more rarely these days, severity. Sometimes teachers can be blessed with striking powers of foresight. Consider the Eton Master in College’s unyielding analysis of Boris Johnson’s character. 

Everything he became he already was. And by way of aside ask yourself this curious little question – how ever did that prescient critique of him make its way into the public domain? Surprisingly (or not) the answer seems to be that the family approved its publication. 

Anyway, back to feedback. It’s one of the features of reaching adulthood that feedback is delivered to the person and not the parent. This is a necessary evolution. The mere idea of your boss or, still more terrifyingly, your spouse providing feedback about you to your parents will likely seem completely and utterly bizarre although it would make for some very lively discussion around the Sunday roast. If you're feeling particularly provoking perhaps try it some time?

Father Christmas KC

 

My wife is from Berlin and German Kinder leave their boots out on 5th December to wake up to presents left in them by Saint Nikolaus for Nikolaustag. I'm a Brit and Santa's sleigh needs no explaining. My entire step-family are Italian and the bambini there await the arrival of La Befana on Epiphany Eve who is a benign witch like figure who, you guessed it, doles out gifts.

If my children have any wit at all it won't be long before they enthusiastically embrace their tripartite cultural heritage in legitimate expectation of a Trifecta of present receiving. What all of these visitations have in common is the threat of a sanction for bad behaviour, usually coal instead of sweets, although the Germans, as usual, take it to the next level by having some absolutely terrifying beast called Krampus turn up to frighten the living daylights out of little miscreants.

I suspect, in reality, vanishingly few children are in fact spirited away in a barrel rucksack by a devil bearing birch. There is though, to my mind at least, something infantile (and not in a good way) about the expression 'naughty or nice'. If Christmas and Santa specifically is about only receiving the whole thing becomes an exhausting exercise in entitlement.

As the above photograph demonstrates we gave into commercial and cultural pressures to arrange a visit TO rather than FROM Father Christmas. Being made to wait with a score of other families on hard chairs in a corridor as if for a visit to the dentist slightly detracted from the magic. That said I have to give this incarnation full points for his real beard. I want the reassurance of knowing that Santa has been in training since at least the start of October (although the magnolia walls were slightly more North Hampstead than North Pole).

Where I do feel that he really fell short was with his lack of rigour with my children. His examination of their conduct and exploits in 2022 would have embarrassed a first day Bar School student. No details, no dates. No more really than a completely unevidenced assertion that they had been good boys, elicited by a leading question too, for shame. And he didn't even call the best evidence of their conduct when I was standing right there.

Laboured legal assertions aside I do think it would be nice if Santas might think to enquire of children what generous thing they intend to do for another is before the inevitable superhero tat is handed over. Certainly that's what I intend to do when the salt has finally taken over from the pepper and the dad bod has been promoted to a granddad bod.

Wherever you are I wish you, your family and loved ones a very happy Christmas.

Not so hot on cool

I am a big fan of the unremarked milestones of childhood. When your children start singing the alternative lyrics to Christmas carols for example. Then there's the replication of things recalled from one's own childhood. I was enjoying a breakfast croissant this morning when the 6 year old came up to me with a mischievous grin:

'Give me 5'

'Up high'

'Down low'

'Too slow!' 

Followed by uproarious mocking laughter.

That one's so old I'm sure my parents were doing it in their playgrounds. 

On an unrelated note 'Give me 5' is very triggering for me as it reminds me of one of my most embarrassing courtroom moments. Some years ago I was defending a teenage girl in quite a serious case who was a complete newcomer to the criminal justice system. We got to the end of the court day, the judge had risen and I went to the back of court to explain what had taken place and what would be happening the next day. I raised my hand in parting and to my horror she mirrored me and went in for a high 5 and thus it was that I end up playing a feeble sort of a pat-a-cake with a 15 year old girl in court in full court dress.

Anyway, my morning humiliation got me thinking of the rituals and rites of childhood and in particular something that I am really not looking forward to. There is an indistinct but seminal moment in every child's progression when they suddenly become cognisant of cool. A demarcation: BC (Before Cool) and AD (Adolescent Development).

BC, much more than how babies are made, why Trump and Johnson got elected and how we are all going to live underwater, to me represents the real Eden of childhood. A state of blissful ignorance about how the rest of the world perceives you so that you can unabashedly dance like nobody's watching even when everybody is. The ingenuousness of children is their absolute number one charm without which their childishness would be completely insufferable. Seeing it give way to a self-conscious desire to fit in is like watching a beautifully plumed bird rolling in the dust so that nobody notices it.

And at the heart of this dismal process is the desire to be cool. The days, weeks, months and years that we waste in this fruitless and heartless endeavour. For me the real hallmark of full maturity is the realisation that being cool is having the courage to be true to oneself, one's interests and one's quirks. But before that moment comes there is surrender to peer pressure, concealment of identity and, worst of all, denial of passion; because nothing is less cool than being keen.

Obviously there is a balance to be struck and AD necessarily involves understanding when it's appropriate. essential even to run with the crowd but if you don't learn to be an individual you grow up to be nobody.There are many things I want my children to be: unabashed, curious, heartfelt, compassionate, genuine. Cool is definitely not one of them.

Of cabbages and kings

Amidst the super-abundance of commentary triggered by the epoch ending event at Balmoral is guidance about how to talk to your child about the Queen's death, by way of just one example here are the tips shared by Save the Children. It may be that my children are anomalously morbid but I've found that they already have an intense interest in death and it's a fascination completely shorn of the euphemism with which many adult Brits seek to blur the edges of death's finality. She is not asleep, she is not passed, she is dead. Speaking for myself, at least, this is not a difficult or hard conversation. A much more interesting conversation is how to talk to your child about the Queen. Or, to be more precise, how to talk to them about monarchy.

My 5 year old is very keen on dressing up as a pirate and wears his costume, eyepatch and plumed tricorn hat my mother bought in Venice many years ago, in public with exactly the unabashed lack of self-consciousness that is one of the chief delights of children. The pirate costume is matched only in popularity by his king outfit complete with sword, robe and a paper crown of his own design. I will forbear from observing that perhaps plunder is the theme that both costumes have in common.

Even very small children seem to get the concept of kings and there can't be many American kids that haven't watched the Lion King. To my mind one of the lessons and markers of adulthood is realising that there is no normal there is only your normal. And in Britain our normal is monarchy. It's hard to assess quite how many people would prefer that was not so but it would be idle to pretend that everyone here is content to be a subject.

We can only imagine what normal is like for children in countries like North Korea or Russia. Countries without monarchs but the kind of leaders whose exercise of power would have been familiar to and even envied by some English kings past. As it happens I don't find it especially problematic explaining how British parliamentary democracy works to my children and the concept of a figurehead that symbolises power but can't wield it.

What is more nuanced and thorny is this. I believe that all humans are born alike in dignity and value and I want my children to believe that too. Money, beauty, power and celebrity all conspire to assail that belief and it is very, very easy to have one's head turned by any or all of those things. A king is only a king when sufficient people recognise him as such. One of the more entertaining and absurd Instagram accounts is Royals Without Throne (sic). Because a king without a crown or a throne isn't really a king he's just a person. But then a king with a crown and a throne is also just a person.

One of the things I have always wondered about the Queen is what it must be like to live an entire life in which every single person she met would be reconciling, sometimes not very successfully I am sure, her personhood with her status. And also what it must have been like never to have experienced that frisson of excitement that all but the most determined republicans felt upon getting to meet her. Better by birth is an abhorrent concept but there was a quality that the Queen possessed that was almost superhuman and that was her reticence and circumspection. Opinions are free and all should be free to share them but not her.

There's an ironic tension in the fact that so many were willing to accept and treat the Queen as special and yet had she exhibited a belief on her part that she was special that willingness would have withered long ago. You don't need to be a queen to have immaculate manners but we were fortunate in having a queen whose manners were absolutely beyond reproach. At the heart of good manners is the biblical maxim of treating others as you would wish to be treated.

So maybe the key to kinghood is don't consider yourself a king no matter how ardently and vociferously those around you insist upon it. Monarchy or not I have no problem in telling my children that nobody is better than them and they are better than nobody.

Parenting for the Here & Now

 

While it is obviously gratifying and reassuring that my 5 year old shares my abhorrence for 'Borrence Johnson' as he insists on calling the Prime Minister there is something quite disconcerting about hearing a Reception age child venturing a political opinion. It's our fault for having the radio on over the toast and jam. Given the state of the world at the moment I'm surprised Radio 4's Today programme doesn't come with a PG 13 rating.

That said, it is startling how quickly breakfast conversation progresses from 'Who is your favourite Power Ranger?' (the pink one obviously) to why Putin is such a very bad man. I know that absolutely none of this gets covered at school so this is all home influence. I thought it would be unalloyed pleasure as I got to foist all my metropolitan liberal elite bien pensantry onto the boy but now that the moment has come I find it's as much fun as a stale macaron from Maison Laduree (I'd put the acute accent in but have no idea how to do it).

I find if there was ever a time for arrested development it's right now when I have to explain that no it's not this hot all the time just because it's Summer and yes it's true that nobody in charge seems to be doing anything meaningful about it. Talking of people in charge it's supposed to be the sex talk that presages the end of childhood innocence but I find it's the explaining why some people think that Donald Trump and Boris Johnson should be in charge of running a fairground stall let alone whole countries.

Scrolling through my 1,001 photos of the children recently I saw one in which the 5 year old looked about 8 and was brought up short. I've been longing for so long for the end to random screaming and felt tips on the wall, on the bed, on my work, on the floor that now that it's here I'm somehow not ready.

Many people say that 6-12 is the purple patch of parenting. Reason (or enough of it) while retaining a glorious devotion to parents with feet of gold not of clay. Day by day more of the world than of the home. But it was looking at a photo of myself aged 14 in company with my father that made me realise that the days are not far off when sullen adolescence will supplant boyish silliness and bluntly I'm not looking forward to it at all.

The whole thing reminds me of the army saying 'Hurry up and wait'. Trying to speed through the tricky parts of parenting to the good bits; like fast forwarding your favourite film. What I'm learning, like all parents do, is it's best to focus on the here and now rather than hankering after a past that is gone or a future that will come in its own good time. As Mrs Roosevelt said that's why they call it the present.

How I wonder what you are

 

This week we have been blessed with the first images from the James Webb Space Telescope. I say blessed because for those of who are not astronomers it is only intermittently that our attention is drawn away from the day to day to deep space, what our ancestors would have called the heavens. When we see such images it is hard to escape the feeling that they serve as some kind of benediction from the unknown and unseen. 

Of all events in history that I would have liked to have lived through the moon landing comes at the top of the list. Of course it was an American achievement and it occurred as a prestige event in the Space Race against their sworn foes the USSR. But the fact that it was the Stars & Stripes that was planted on the moon's surface was irrelevant. This was an achievement for and by all humankind. Everybody everywhere connected in a moment of wonder that we had transcended our planet's limits.

Many people are highly proficient at describing, exploring and understanding human instincts, motives, urges and actions. I reserve my highest admiration for those that try to understand and communicate that which is not human. How and when the universe began. That is an endeavour of such unfathomable complexity to me, and I am sure to many others, that I feel there is something almost heroic about those that try.

There is much yet to be understood and discovered on our own planet but its age of exploration feels a thing of the past. Even though parts of the world remain remote and inhospitable there is not the sense of inaccessibility that for the vast majority of human history represented the limit of mankind's ambition.

I have written before about how much I want to nurture and inculcate a sense of wonder in my children because wonder for me represents the antidote to so many modern ills. The narrowness of perception, experience and ambition that is brought about by social me-me-media is completely exploded by a visual reminder of the almost limitless nature of the universe.

I hope against hope that the cultural hegemony exerted by the super-hero movies of the last couple of decades may finally be coming to an end when the people that should properly be celebrated on the big screen are those testing the absolute limits of human ingenuity and technology. For me there is nothing wondrous about super powers but there is everything wondrous about striving to see the beginning of time armed only with what our brains and hands can conceive and create.

The other thing that I find profoundly moving about innovations like the Space Telescope is acknowledging the phenomenal amount of collaboration and teamwork required to make them happen. We are so used to thinking of teamwork in the context of opposition. Soldiers fighting against an enemy. Sportsmen seeking to defeat their opponents. Companies trying to outperform their competitors. Strong ties are forged in all those circumstances. But the purity of teamwork in the name of science is something truly inspiring and humbling. A common goal which is not victory against other humans but victory for all humans.

I know I will do a terrible job of explaining to my sons what the image above shows but I hope at the very least I can communicate to them that this is what happens when human beings come together in connection, in wonder and in furtherance of the eternal desire to know.

Glorious Glorious Giffords

 

Perhaps I'm getting sentimental in my middle age, perhaps I had a little too much whisky last night and a little too little sleep or perhaps it was something else all together but I did not expect 5 minutes into a trip to the circus this morning with wife and children to be bawling my eyes out (and not because the clowns were hilarious (they were)). But there I was, glad to be in the back row and the dark of the Big Top, with the boys thankfully oblivious by my side. I say thankfully because I would have had a hell of a job explaining why I was crying when everyone else was laughing.

Sure, part of it was Covid, war, wrong weather everywhere, work and too much of it. But mostly it was the magic. I've written before about how becoming a parent completely changes your outlook on things. You spend your whole life gazing out of a window and suddenly you're looking in. Experiencing the things of childhood as an adult but with your own child telescopes time and feelings in a way that can completely floor you.

I have been to many circuses, Chinese, Russian, Canadian, saucy, basic and brilliant. But this one has heart like nothing I've ever felt. Something else I've written about before is wonder and how important it is to find it, live it and share it. And wonder is something that most circuses are aiming for and unless the performers are really not up to it they usually achieve it. But there's a massive difference between a succession of atomised turns, however well polished and the all embracing hug of absolute joy which is the magic of Giffords.

Many children dream of running away with the circus but this is a circus that runs away with you. You can just tell that the 'one big family' truism is not just that, here it's a lived experience for these performers and I can only begin to imagine the fun they have when the sawdust gets swept away.

It's worth remembering, when sometimes it seems the world is falling prey to people making terrible demonstration of themselves, that there are people practising day in and out with the sole aim of making a magnificent or extraordinary or a really bloody funny demonstration of themselves.

If it's youth you're after, forget face creams or moisturisers, you walk into the Gifford's tent an adult you'll come out a child.

https://giffordscircus.com/

Parenting Children v Parenting Adults

Even the most disengaged parent is likely to know that there are four types of attachment: secure, anxious-ambivalent, disorganised and avoidant. It's pretty obvious which is the 'good' one. Bonding with one's children is an interesting thing to think about because the reality is usually so hugely more complicated than the Hallmark cards would have you believe.

I have a theory about parenting. With the exception of a few extremely evolved outliers most parents are good for parenting their children as children or good for parenting their children as adults. It is exceptionally difficult to excel at both.

Parents good for parenting their children as children are hardwired for the child's eye view. What is fun for children, how do children see the world, what are the limits of a child. They excel at throwing birthday parties for their children, organising games, they don't need playgrounds because they can turn the whole world into their child's playground. They have limitless reserves of imagination and patience. Basically I'm describing Julie Andrews in the Sound of Music.

Children of these parents are generally the fortunate beneficiaries of a secure parenting style. Their parent is reliable and can be relied upon. They will lead the singing of Say Hello to the Sun at baby sensory classes and know all the actions. Their homes will be a haven of finger paints and crafts. All is safe and all is sound.

Unfortunately the adult world is often not safe and it is rarely sound. This is where parents good at parenting their children as adults come into their own. Because they see the world with determinedly adult eyes they can be its guide to their children. When all must have prizes gives way to dog eats dog they ensure their children are ready for the fight not lying on the sofa waiting to have their tummies tickled.

When their children have adult problems they are offered adult advice. Autonomy and independence are cherished and if that means the parent doesn't often see the child that is because they are out in the world making their way and that's as it should be.

Ideas are more important than activities, conversation carries more weight than crafting. If we're sticking with the Sound of Music this is the kind of mother the Baroness would be. These parents are unsentimental about putting away the things of childhood because they were never very good at playing with them in the first place.

If you think this theory is far fetched just consider your friend whose mother is still doing his washing at 35 or that godchild whose father is trying to get him into debating aged 8 then you'll see what I mean.

Child's play isn't just for children

Few requests from my son are more of a lance in the side than the plaintive enquiry ‘Daddy, will you play me?’ He invariably asks this while I’m in the middle of an email to a solicitor or the CPS, a phone call to the clerks, drafting a skeleton argument or reviewing unused material. The inevitable reply is ‘later’ but later always seems to be tea time, bath time or bed time. 

One of the cruel ironies of the increase in working from home is that although my children see more of me that does not mean they get more of me. The obvious thing to observe here is that I shall resolve to carve out more time for the children because they’re only young once. 

Possibly less obvious is that for me sometimes playing with the children is, if not an intimidating prospect, then certainly an unsettling one. Truth is that I’m not very good at playing. Being occupied in the most ruly profession means that when the opportunity presents itself to let my imagination run riot I can’t even offer a lowly affray. 

My son’s school recently had a creative writing competition. They received well over 200 short stories and poems from the pupils which were turned into an impressively professional book. Reading this book has been like having a golden passport to the boundlessly bountiful territory of children’s imagination. A place so fertile precisely because it is unencumbered with rules and conventions and structure. 

I watched Hook with the children a few months back and while Robin Williams utterly convinces as an overgrown Peter Pan he makes the most improbable corporate lawyer. Nonetheless, the central message of the film hits pretty hard when you watch it in the thick of the competing demands of work and parenting. 

It is natural as a parent to worry about what and how we should teach our children but what should never be overlooked is what they teach us and chief among the lessons we must learn is that the imagination needs to be exercised as much as the brain and the heart. 

Children access their imagination in a completely uninhibited way. My 5 year old insists at the moment upon travelling around London wearing a robe and paper crown because every journey from home is a quest and it’s only a matter of time before the Holy Grail is found. I haven’t yet found the courage to accompany him as Lancelot but I feel that I really should. 

One thing I know in my bones is that if I do not give him this time now a time will undoubtedly come when I call him for company eliciting the certain reply ‘Sorry dad, took much on at work’.