Speaking as a Parent
I love this one. Whenever you get someone on a talkshow, a panel-type round table discussion or even voxpops in the street on TV, you hear people say this phrase. I use it myself, because as all mums and dads know, if they start a sentence with “Speaking as a parent…” it entitles them to be as sadistic and cruel and uniformed as they like without sounding like extremists or ignorami.*
Example:
“Speaking as a parent, I think these people should not be given access to either spoons, tin foil or belts for a good five years. Then let’s see how easy it is for them to take drugs.”
I’ve got kids, and speaking as a parent, my views have changed.
One night this week a neighbour’s house alarm went off. His lights were on so it looked like someone was in the house. Within two minutes my shoes were on and I was on his lawn, standing there in the dark, like that poster for The Exorcist.
The alarm’s going off like crazy and there is no movement in the house. I step up to the front window, about 20 feet away from the house. The net curtains are drawn, so I can’t see in too clearly and I don’t want to get too close, because I think this could be the real thing, especially as the family who own the house were broken into 6 months ago.
Suddenly, I see some movements and two kids run down the stairs burst into the living room and disappeat into the kitchen. They are moving fast and my heart starts racing. I look back towards my own house see Wife in the door way. I put my arm out towards her, palm outstretched and look through the window. Neither of us understand what my gesture means, but when you’ve been married for 7 years you don’t dwell on it.
The kids haven’t come out of the kitchen and I sidestep and check the alley behind the house. Nothing’s happening apart from the alarm still going off. I walk back towards the house, faster now and get closer to the door, which flies open and the owner of the house is running towards me in that dark.
Despite having perfected the ninja footsave, in this instance I freeze and don’t know what to say, hoping he recognises me and doesn’t think I’m the burglar psycho and he is looking for his missing kids. I walk towards him quickly to get back into the light, hoping he doesn’t think I’m the burgalar. I hope my watch doesn’t catch the ligh and glint to make him think I have a knife. Maybe he has a knife. I hope he doesn’t think it’s wierd I’m looking into his house. I hope he doesn’t think I have been watching his kids. Which of course, I was. Oh shit. I think all these things, and still I don’t say anything. God, I’m an idiot. He gets within 5 feet of me, and he raises his hands, and keeps walking towards me.
“OK! OK! It’s OK!” He pats me on the shoulder.
“The alarm… I thought…”
“No, no, it’s fine. Bloody thing. Thanks very much.”
“You OK?” I say.
“Fine, fine, thank you.”
I told a neighbour about this today and they said they needed to get an alarm. She asked if what I would have done if it were a burglar.
“I don’t know,” I said, “but if someone came into my house I would come at them with all the fury of a parent with no relative disregard for my own safetly.” I actually talk like this sometimes.
But I think all parents are crazy - in the way that bears are crazy.
*this means “stupid people”, or, if you are reading this, you. It does not mean like when you fold paper into little animal shapes.