Ode to Smalls

All things wrinkled and cotton based
all pants of numerous shades
all shirts; school and otherwise,
they leave me in a daze

The ever towering mountain
of clothes to put in drawers,
neglected due to Face book
lie on my bedroom floor

Someone come and save me
and bring domestic bliss
to this exhausted mother
and her Clothing abyss?

The socks conspire against me
in endless hide and seek
school trousers knot like pythons
to ensure vagabond Chic!

All things found in PE bags
all crisp packets, tissues and gum
deeply hidden inside pockets
to guarantee tumble drier fun

The navy rugger shirt
the luminous leotard
sneak into the white cycle
to make my life more hard

Oh Oh oh

All things needed on Monday
last seen two months ago,
and mentioned on Sunday evening
they fill my heart with woe

I know there is a bottom
to the towering laundry pile
but I don't when I last saw it
it has been quite a while.

Oh Oh oh

All things made of silk or wool
have languished there so long
I m sorry I forgot you,
to you I pledge this song.

Largely about me

Obesity,

10 stone 2 is just a dream to me,

how I long for how I used to be,

Oh damn my own stupidity!



Obesity
I am twice the girl I used to be,
cakes and chocs kept calling out to me

and now I’ve become quite cuddly!



Why did
they invent Reeses Peanut butter treats?
If I d steered away I be able to see my feet,
oh deary!

Yesterday, mega stretch marks had not come to play,

Now it looks as though they're here to stay,

Oh, I wish it was yesterday.



Suddenly, the scales whizz round to 15,3,

There's a shadow hanging over me,

Oh someone hide my enormity?



Why I
Had to have a second helping at dinner today?
Now I
Have thighs like trees and I long for yesterday



Obesity
Love affair between my food and me,

treats me better than any man I see,

and never lies or cheats on me…



Yesterday,

Love was such an easy game to play,

Now I need a place to hide away,

Oh, I believe in yesterday.



Mm-mm-mm-mm-mm-mm-



(apologies to Paul McCartney)

Now we are not 7 any more.

Somehow without my knowledge, Middle age has snuck up upon me. I came face to face with it when brushing my hair the other day and discovered, at the age of 37, my first white hair. Long, wiry and stubborn; it took a yank to remove it, thus shattering any illusion that it was a stray dog hair that had accidentally found its way onto my head. I held it ,staring in fascinated disgust and marvelling at how long it was, amazed at how I had failed to notice before? It was so shocking, that I showed it to my children and friends and even my Mother who all tutted with sympathetic disinterest, clearly not realising how completely in denial I have been ageing?

Of course I d have to be a blind idiot, to have not noticed the other tell-tale signs of my diminishing youth; the steady descent of my boobs towards my navel, the fine crease lines on my neck and chest and the laughter lines around my eyes, stretching like afternoon shadows on the High Coral towards my hairline. But what no one seems to have realised least of all me, is that I have not significantly changed emotionally or mentally from the exuberant 2o something I once was? Or have I?

My passport has expired and I when I dug it out to renew it, I peered at the ten year old photo looking into the eyes of my 27 year old self. I am fresh faced and scruffy in a charmingly disorganised way but it is my eyes that tell a different story, not my obviously youthful complexion. I hadn't had my daughter and was a mother to two little boys and a loving wife to an aspiring young doctor. I had no idea of what the next ten years would bring; the love, the laughter, my first and only daughter, the end of my marriage and the beginning of my journey as a single parent. I feel strangely sorry for my previous self and it its now that I realised how I have changed rather than simply aged?

I went to the 40th Birthday Party of a very dear friend and we wined and dined and especially danced, until the very early hours of the morning. It was dawn when I returned home in a taxi, exhausted, elated and carrying my shoes. I was longing for a cup of tea and worrying about the dogs being left alone for so long. The evening had been memorable, hilarious and poignant as all mile stone birthdays are, but particularly because this friend and I have travelled a similar journey for the past few years. The gathering of all her female friends from her whole life, in one place, to celebrate her birthday, was a heady mixture of ferocious pleasure at how far she had come and how strong women are, when they stand together with their female friends but also an aching reminder and nostalgia for how much is passed and laid to rest. "Do you feel 40?" I asked her as we whirled around the dance floor and she smiled wryly and said "No I feel about 18!" and therein lies the dichotomy. In my teens and twenties I could have danced til daybreak and then gone to work with a stiff coffee and a handful of paracetamol because I simply couldn't imagine a time when I would feel so exhausted, or that I would really look forward to a "quiet night in" browsing the Internet for sprinkler attachments for my hosepipe and a nice parasol for the terrace? Yet my where my mind thinks I m still 25 and immortal ,my heart and body conspire to contradict me. It took me a week to recover from hedonistic indulgence of the fabulous party and I was struck with a particularly nasty cold, as if to reiterate the point that I am, getting older.

But inside me there is a day spring of youthful excitement and wonder and exuberance which cannot be assimilated with what I see in the mirror? I have a postcard in the kitchen that reads
" Life cannot be measured by how many breaths we take... but by how many moments take our breath away". I thought for a while about things that excite or enthrall me and had to think quite hard,about what took my breath away, other than the Parents race at Sports Day? I felt sad when I realised that, the moments of euphoric excitement are indeed fewer than they once were? I wondered if exchanging the rose-tinted spectacles of Youth, for the trifocals of Experience in some way lessens our susceptibility to raw, powerful feelings of pleasure, joy, passion and the sheer thrill of being alive?

But then I realised that perhaps it was just likely that my now slightly jaded and cynical feelings about Love,Life and relationships and reality was what was stemming the flow of excitement in my life. I decided that the key was spontaneity. I watched a delightful and ridiculous film called the "Yes man" and was inspired to challenge my own cautious and pessimistic behaviour.
Thankfully I don't feel the need to sky dive or bungee jump but I decided that "going with the flow" and to hell with the consequences could liberate my pent-up inner 18 year old again.
It would be nice to get excited about something other than the Boden Sale catalogue arriving, after all!

My newly 40 year old friend has grabbed Life by the horns and hit the ground running, by relentlessly trying new things; festivals, rock concerts and travel sans Children! As much as I want to indulge myself I found that the thing that gives me the most pleasure now in my life, is seeing firsthand the happiness and excitement of those I love. This is not so much of an cop out as it sounds. There is something enormously liberating in being happy for someone else but not wanting anything for yourself? I decided then and there, that that, was the defining feature of my ageing process; I am not simply growing older, I am growing up.

"Yet, getting old is a natural process where things are slowing down, and you'll begin to see that the sparkle in your heart and the twinkle in your eyes make you beautiful in a way that's not achievable in youth. "
Dorothy Parker

Big Pants and the emotional forecast

I am prepared to lay a bet there are probably very few men who aware that, women's pants can be a very reliable method of forecasting the mood and demeanour of their female better- halves in the hours and days ahead? Women have an extremely complex psychological relationship with their undergarments which cannot be underestimated! Whilst they are very likely to talk about what their underwear is covering, sisters and girlfriends' conversations about their knickers themselves are rarer than hen's teeth! This is not because the topic is boring but simply because a woman's choice of pants is incredibly private and we are rather sensitive about it and we wouldn't cope at all well if it were analysed!

When a girlfriend took me to M&S and shared the identity of her preferred cottons, it was a symbolic moment almost akin to becoming Blood Sisters. We solemnly collected up every single pair; black and white, in our respective sizes and marched to the till daring someone to challenge the fact we were wiping out the entire stock. A good pair of knickers is a friend for life; well at least until the elastic goes and sometimes for a good while after! Women attach sentimental meaning to the underwear. Many wives keep the basque knickers suspenders and garter, they wore on their wedding day if only to marvel at how on earth they fitted into them? And that is the key to our love affair. It is all about the right fit. Or at least the right fit for the right day.

Any man standing boss eyed with boredom while their beloved is handpicking their new knickers must surely be wondering why on earth their is such an infinite variety of cuts and fits of knicker? The men's department will only tend to stock perhaps five or six different makes of pants which concentrate mainly on the merits of airflow and containment. But for a woman, regardless of her age or dress size; her knickers can make or break an outfit! That dear menfolk is why a woman has to have new lingerie to go with the dress, shoes, bag etc etc. Of course the bottom line is modesty and draft exclusion but a good knicker maketh a woman.

Women, if put under pressure, will grudgingly admit they have knickers lurking in that chest of drawers, not only for EVERY occasion but for EVERY emotion. For example, I accidentally bought some knickers in my size and took them home; taking silent pleasure in their pristine whiteness in my shopping bag. However on removing the packaging I realised that a MAXi BRIEF was not by any stretch of the imagination brief, in any respect? In fact, on examination, it was clear that I could comfortably shelter in them against storms, whilst camping on the north face of Everest. But despite my fleeting disappointment I decided to keep them because you never know when they might come in useful. A few days later and after a somewhat challenging week I woke this morning feeling completely mentally and physically exhausted. So after a bracing cup of strong tea I reached for the big pants. Why? simply because with big pants you cover every eventuality. No VPL (they practically hug the back of your knees), No Muffin Top over the waistband of your work trousers and absolutely no chance of the horror of Wendy's Wedge (the female equivalent of Builder's Bum see BOB the Builder for details).

These particular knickers rose snugly to just below my breast bone and I felt comforted that I could take on whatever the day could hold. So I threw caution to the wind and put on a pair of white linen trousers. To wear to work. To wear whilst making pizzas with a group of 2 and 3 year olds! Thus as I bent over to spread passata for one of the children there was a collective gasp from my female cohort! "Mel" my Boss asked hesitantly "Is everything all right ?" following her gaze in the direction of my XXL's I understood her anxiety. A large, glacial expanse of armpit hugging cotton was on view, not looking too dissimilar to a surgical brace although clearly not. The concern in the air was palpable. "Oh I m fine!" I replied breezily" Just bought some knickers in the wrong size but needed something anti-VPL under these trousers." My colleagues nodded sympathetically but clearly privately considering if this was a precursor to some kind of mental breakdown. As every woman knows, no girl puts on her XXLs unless her grip on reality is faltering or she is dealing with some MAJOR Fat Demons.

However there is the flip side of the coin.. the special occasion knicker. It is no coincidence that when women buy a new outfit they have to buy smalls as the icing on the cake because the lovely knicks will probably never see the light of day ; but they might and there's the rub! No self respecting woman gets married without glossy virginal whites or perhaps ivories to show she's second only to God at that moment? Likewise, when women want to impress in the boardroom, playground or bedroom, it is all about the right bra and knickers. I am not alone in having lucky knickers and I defy any woman to contradict that.? They are the silk and lace or for the minimalist among us, sporty cotton numbers that have got us EXACTLY what we wanted; WHEN we wanted it and HOW we wanted it. That set , speaks volumes about our inner Goddess and are testimony to the times when we are on top of our game. When discovered amid the greying elastic of the usual knicker drawer, they are an instant trip down memory lane rendering you breathless in way you probably haven't been since the last time your wore them! For every saggy every-day knicker, there will be a pair that shout "This is who I am supposed to be!"

Of course there will also be an eclectic collection of near misses; the red lace and black satin number that he thought you meant when you said sexy; much more top shelf "Loaded" than the Agent Provocateur that you had in mind. Then the eponymous thong. Whoever created the thong clearly hated women. Why would anyone combine a cheese slicer, a string vest and Lycra all in one design? They NEVER look good, rendering most women to look like they are doing a good impression of a rolled brisket of beef. Thongs are one of those items when the saying "Less is more" definitely doesn't apply. Apart from being excruciatingly uncomfortable they look utterly hideous if accidentally glimpsed over the waistband of your most expensive jeans. If God had meant women to wear thongs he would have put our reproductive parts on our shoulder to be nurtured and rendered us smooth as a Barbie underneath? Better to be bare than risk of feeling like a tightrope accident?

So, black, white, sporty ,stripey or floral, our knickers should be friends for life and when the stakes are raised and the going gets tough, you can guarantee that us girls will be quite literally be wearing something to cover our ass!

There is a hole in my bush and other horticultural Farce

The Weather although hardly subtropical, has turned Spring like and my mother decided the time had come to face the horror that is my garden. Two years of thorough neglect and the unfettered destruction wrought by two hairy canine berserkers, has made eighty foot of gravel and turf come to resemble the battlefields of the Somme.
So armed with steely determination, extra thick garden waste bags and rusty secateurs, my Mum took on the garden and managed to prune, hack, scoop and shovel it back into some semblance of order. However she got a bit snip- happy with the privet hedge and now there are tempting holes through which the furry terrorists have been hurdling into next door's garden.
There they have made merry; liberally fertilising my elderly neighbour's lawn, digging crater size holes and burying their terrifyingly prehistoric- looking bones that the local butcher gives us, under her prize petunias!
Mortified, I tried to block the holes with garden chairs but to no avail, as with ears flying and tongues lolling in derision the dogs simply used the garden furniture to vault the obstructions and carry on their nasty playtime with glee! So my Mother and I conceded defeat and decided it was time to "Call a Man in".
After admiring my friend's immaculate ,velvety new turf and woven willow fences, I rang her gardener who, after a few near misses (him turning up to view the garden whilst we were sitting in A&E with the walking wounded) finally agreed to come and assess the problem, on a sunny Tuesday evening. Simultaneously my Mother phoned another chap who had popped his card through the door, to come and "Quote us happy" for fencing the boundary between the two houses. However due to a breakdown in communication, neither of us realised we had arranged for both Gardeners to come at the same time, on the same evening?
Already slightly lacking focus from a glass of wine with Supper, my Mother answered a knock at the Door and greeted a small, dishevelled man covered in bits of mown grass, who said he had come to see the garden. Assuming that he was the chap she'd arranged to come and quote for a fence and calling him by the wrong name, she led him up the garden to look at the boundary. Then came another knock at the door and I opened it to Tall, handsome "Quote me happy". Realising my Mother's error and that Tall handsome was here to quote for the fence and Small dishevelled was here to quote for the turf, I tried to interrupt my mum who was in full flow explaining what height fence posts we would need. Small dishevelled was looking suitably bemused, as his strengths clearly lay in shovelling, weeding and turfing rather than bevelled panels and concrete posts, but he was far too polite (or confused) to interrupt her and even responded to her calling him Matt when he was really called Alan! Meanwhile Tall handsome (you obviously can't be small or ugly and deal in large panels and gravel boards) was trying discreetly not to laugh at my discomfiture.
Mortified that it appeared that I had invited them both to engage in a quote off for the job I decided to engage Tall handsome in a muted conversation about the best way to erect a good barrier. Now I have been out of the game for a while and the farcical situation had thrown me off my guard. Tall handsome fixed me with his cornflower blues with a smile playing around his lips and asked me what the problem was? Unused from lack of practice, to being flirted with overtly and slightly overcome by this unexpected upsurge of testosterone in my back garden I replied that I had a very big hole in my bush and I needed something big and strong to fill it! (OMG OMG OMG!!) Rising to the occasion he said he had exactly the right thing for the job and could fill my hole very quickly with no problem and that the thing for the job came in six inch increments! Then.. and I swear on my life this is true... he added "Fnah Fnah!"
Well at that point my inner teenager took to the fore and I fell about laughing, scarlet with embarrassment squeaking something about it having been a very long day and that wasn't meant to sound quite the way it did?
At this point my Mother came over suspiciously to make sure I wasn't being won over by his earthy charms and demanded what he was going to do about my turf because it was looking a moth eaten and could do with fertilising adding that it hadn't been seen to in a while!
Spluttering incoherently I tried to explain that Tall handsome was the fencing man and that Small dishevelled was in fact the gardener and wouldn't know about a good solid upright if it jumped up and bit him? Meanwhile the two men eyed each other competitively vying to out quote each other, while the dogs circled sniffing their crotches enthusiastically!
Eventually I managed to give the correct attention to each chap and explain the confusion and apologising profusely for the chaos.
Sadly it seems that Small dishevelled will come in at the right price for the work and so will have to be the man for the job . But both my Mother and I agreed, that although more expensive, it would be churlish not to invite Tall handsome back for a little monthly maintenance of this Lady's garden!

Down Time

I know that most parents find the school holidays a torturous experience which can leave them staring longingly at the bottle of Merlot at 11.30 in the morning, but oddly I find them quite liberating. Those who know me will confirm that my daily lot, is one of running harem scarem between one appointment and the next, desperately trying to keep all the balls in the air and the children out of A&E. So once bereft of the usual, frenetic routine the Hieatt household slows to the ambling pace of a senile tortoise. The key to surviving the holidays appears to be having absolutely no expectations whatsoever. This is not as easy as it sounds because it requires letting go of everything, to the extent that the children closely resemble amazonian cave dwellers who've been dressed by Oxfam! Hair is unbrushed, faces unwiped and their feet closely resemble those of Hobbits. Absence of any routine means breakfast can span several hours and can comprise of almost anything. This morning it was Pasta with Parmesan at half eleven. Friends and their offspring seek us out like a a Mecca for Lost Willpower and Disorganization, and join in whatever shenanigans might be underway. The washing machine grumbles contentedly all day long full of grass stained socks, in perfect harmony with the shudders of the dishwasher as it works its way through the continuous stream of plates, tea mugs and every knife in the drawer, liberally covered in Nutella. There are no plans until something happens, there is no shopping until some one's hungry and the house echoes with the noisy play off my offspring and most of the children in the neighbourhood.
I used to plan school holidays to be full of activity like a military manoeuvre, until I realised that it simply made the children tired and whingey and rendered me monosyllabic with exhaustion and red eyed with frustration. Now, the children usually spend the first three days of the holidays noisily protesting their boredom until the realization sinks in that their Mother is not actually going to do anything about it! Thus, left to their own devices they start to entertain themselves. Occasionally they ll query, more out of habit than necessity whether we are "going to do anything?" and ""Have we got any money?" and once informed that it is negative in both cases they amble off on increasingly grubby feet to find something to do.
We have now sustained this for ten days! All the neighbourhood children pass through every few hours, eating loaves of bread and jam, gossiping and leaving all the doors open. I follow after them picking up lost socks, trainers, sports caps and mobile phones to be left by the front door at the end of the day for collection. The dogs snuffle enthusiastically at any new arrivals and are rewarded with a near continuous supply of biscuits and toast crusts. It was at least an hour the other day before I realised that the labrador had his snout firmly wedged inside a jar of peanut butter that some generous visitor had given him.
But all of this is only possible due to the wonderful windswept Spring days we've been enjoying which means that the children can roam free range between each others houses until well into the evening. At that point whichever parent draws the short straw, gets their living room invaded by the tangle haired mob who commend ere the remote and demand endless popcorn refills. It has to be said that this is of course very slovenly, low maintenance parenting. But if one is willing to completely resign oneself to the possibility that your eight year old may be seen in the street looking like an Eastern European Street Walker after a morning experimenting with blue eyeshadow, or that your teenager may eat breakfast at two in the afternoon and that might well be left over pizza from lunch then you will find all is well with the world. If there is nothing to achieve then there is little possibility of disappointment?
Granted there may be the odd fleeting moment of anxiety when you realise that you can't actually remember where you last saw your offspring ,but then you simply remind yourself that they will home-in like pigeons when they are hungry. You will find yourself in a Zen like state of being, trailing aimlessly about with a dust pan and brush between the last departure and the next arrival occasionally muttering "I really should try and get some things done" only to find another day has passed and you are no nearer to achieving the slightest thing and yet painlessly, one step nearer to the holy grail of Back to School. So, as my teenage son would say, "Take a Chill Pill" sit back, stick the kettle on for your 14th cup of tea.. and ENJOY!

Beware the competitive Mother!

Browsing through the Sunday papers, I was musing over the insidious and pervasive pressure on Parents these days, to rise to the challenge of breeding the most beautiful, multi-talented and socially adept citizens of tomorrow. The pressure begins "in utero", as the expectant Mother is supposed to retain her size 6 figure throughout gestation, by living on edame beans and skinny non- caff lattes, whilst remaining at work until 40 plus weeks, with Mozart on ipod, strapped to her belly and Gina Ford on her spreadsheets.

Once the Child rearing project has commenced (either via elective non vagina-threatening C section at 38 weeks, or water birth with self hypnosis) the pressure continues to mount. Disciples of Ford will have their progeny sleeping through the night on 3oz of breast milk expressed whilst simultaneously organizing a years' worth of NCT coffee mornings/baby massage appointments/Nursery viewings .

The other mere mortals among us however, will be staggering around in our pajamas at eleven in the morning, knocking over piles of unopened post and leaving soggy breast pads lying about, like S.O.S missives to lost sanity.

But the Competitive mother will have vaulted back into her Boden Capri pants and will have hot- footed it to Baby Yoga, in a cloud of post natal smugness and Cath Kidston co ordination.

I remember quite vividly sitting in a baby clinic in south London with my son in his pram ,watching one of these Uber Mothers regaling the Health Visitor, with how clever little Oscar, could now roll over, smile and hold his head up at a mere three months old. My own son, however resembled little more than a rosy, weetabix- encrusted wittchity grub who would occasionally give me windy boss- eyed grins!

But that was only the beginning. For some women it seems, are driven by some inner demon to "Out Mother" every woman within a 20 mile radius?

At a coffee morning in a smart Brixton town house, as I stared bleary-eyed into a cup of strong tea (probably why my baby didn't sleep through the night, caffeine gets into the breast milk you know) the hostess coaxed her daughter Alana away from the Duplo, with an organic bread stick and thereafter got her daughter to perform her impressive repertoire of the Alphabet, Numbers up to one hundred and a nursery rhyme in Mandarin. As we sat agog, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that my son, not wishing to be outdone by his little playmate, had decided to run his tongue along the length the skirting board, up and over the chrome radiator paying particular attention to each groove, down the other side, round the BT phone socket and out the door into the sea- grassed lobby. His feat of endurance seemed to pale into insignificance in comparison to my Hostess's tiny progeny, so I kept quiet.

But beware, for now the competition steps up a pace as children reach school age. Having secured a place, by fair means or foul, at a catchment school with the an Outstanding OFSTED; the Competitive Mother really moves the goalposts ,catching out the complacent and rattling the nerve of even the most laid-back and self assured parent on the Playground.

Not even the smallest detail is overlooked from their child's Sigg water flask (no gender-bending phalates) to the recycled, bamboo t shirt in their child's PE kit. Every single second of the day is mapped out with military precision, in order to maximize productivity.

I used to screech to a halt in the school car park each morning, with my son bouncing around in the back of the car still clutching his breakfast toast and wearing his school tie Karate Kid style, around his shocking, unbrushed bed head. Every day, without fail, I would park next to the Mercedes containing the Yummy Mummy of my son's little classmate. Mother and daughter would be passing the time with Flashcards or Musical Times Tables on the CD player, waiting for the school bell to ring and offering sympathetic glances in my direction, as I rummaged frantically in the foot well of the car for the elusive missing school shoe, that my son would have kicked into the front of the car after escaping from his Britax car seat's five-point harness, like an infant Houdini!

But, competitive or not; every Parent hopes in their heart of hearts, that their child will have one special talent that makes them stand out amidst their peers. The early infant contenders wielding Suzuki violins, Kumon Maths certificates and swimming medals may have had a head start, but with six years of Primary school and the world debt spent on out -of -school activities, Parents always hope that their child will show some kind of sporting, artistic or intellectual ability that can be bragged about over lunch with other mothers or at the gym. However for those of us whose offspring's main talents lie in the field of excessive nose picking, Pokemon obsession and repetitive Simpsons impressions it can be a wilderness out there.

A friend recalled her feelings of inadequacy upon receiving a round robin letter inside a Christmas card from a friend . The letter skimmed briefly and insincerely over Best Wishes for the Holiday Season, before launching into a full- scale catalogue of their children's sporting and academic achievements. It left the reader in no doubt, as to the Olympic and Ox bridge potential of the couple's two children. Bored by his mother's absorption in the letter, my friend's son filled his mouth to overflowing with salad leaves so they hung down his chin like a cellulose beard, before clamoring " Mummy! Mummy! Mummy! MUMMY!! Look I can chew like a cow" as my friend looked on in resignation.

Whether it is the sweatband -wearing, Nike-clad Coach Dad on the field at Sports Day, or the Mother with a Carlucci picnic at a cricket match; the child whose Father emailed a Russian Space Station for the Year 2 project or the child who went to Norway to "really understand" icebergs in Geography; there is an impossible standard that most of us will fail to meet. Critically, the Wise and the Good, will understand the need to shield our children from any disappointment that we may feel regarding their accomplishments, for the sake of our children's precious self esteem. But there will always be the Parents who feel the need to fulfill their own frustrated ambitions through their children by ricocheting their offspring between tennis club and ballet lessons. How many though, whilst wallowing in the satisfaction of having plied their children with every opportunity to excel, will have completely failed to notice the tiny pearls of genius that their children might have been born with? Talents that never even required a standing order or eight months on a waiting list? Sometimes to lack ambition but to have strong belief and a sense of wonder in your child as in individual, is all that is needed. Parenting is for People, not for Players.