The Parent Gap
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published: Saturday March 15, 2014

It was the day before council rubbish collection. Clapped out washing machines and ruptured armchairs squatted on the edge of the road, homeless. Broken cots and grubby playpens joined the exodus, outgrown. I felt obliged to take part in the neighbourhood cleanse. I dragged the rusty skeletons of two tricycles from the verandah and dumped them on the verge.

Those trikes were once the pride of our fleet. As a toddler, my six-year-old son would choose between his mounts and we’d trek to the shops, his little feet pedalling frantically to keep up with my strides. When his legs gave out, I’d hitch his wagon to my waist with a rope. I’d wrap the free end several times around my wrist, take up the slack and tow him home. We went everywhere tethered together, he and I, with his trio of plastic wheels grinding noisily along the footpath.

And then my rose-coloured reminiscing came to a crashing halt. My memory served up a sudden and embarrassing reminder of parental neglectfulness… Somewhere between giving birth to his baby sister and showing him how to tie his shoelaces, I’d forgotten to teach my middle child how to ride a bike.

He didn’t even have a proper bike. He’d leapt straight onto his big brother’s cast-off scooter. We’d missed the two-wheeled stage altogether. I felt a jolt of mother-guilt.

That afternoon at the park, I got chatting to another mum as our tribes tore up and down the path on their scooters. “This’d be just the spot to learn to ride a bike!” I said. “Your little girl?” she asked. “’Fraid not!” I laughed, “my six-year-old.”

“Oh dear!” she said. “You’re a bit late! We just got our four-year-old a BMX.  We took off his trainer wheels when he was two. People would stop to ask us how old he was!”

I felt belittled, but clucked admiringly so this stranger could puff up with pride over her two-wheeled wunderkind.

On the walk home, I wondered if she realised how smug she sounded. Was her gloating a leg-up for her or a put-down for me? Parental one-upmanship, I decided. But that raised another uncertainty: Why aren’t all mothers on the same side?

I’ve spent many an hour agonising over my child-rearing. Am I too strict, or not strict enough? Should I stop trying to be my teenager’s friend and concentrate on being his parent? Will my children remember me as the  affectionate mum who served up crepes for breakfast and drove them to school when it rained? Or will they be scarred by my shrieks about unmade beds, misplaced shoes and wet towels staining the carpet?

It’s humiliating enough when their father pulls me aside to deliver a biting reproof: “Settle down, Blossom, shouting at them won’t get you out the door any faster.” But I’d like to think I could rely on the sisterhood for reassurance and a measure of compassion.

Perhaps being a kind and devoted mother is not enough any more. Parenting has become a competitive sport. Successful mothers must demand perfection of themselves and their children. I see mums who are exhausted from dragging children from piano lessons to acrobatics, from jazz ballet and swimming training to soccer practice and chess club. Forget trying to keep up with the Joneses – try keeping up with the Joneses’ kids!  

Motherhood is now a profession: over-scheduled, manic, stressful – much like the television job I put on hold to have some longed-for time-out with my children.

Twice now I’ve been asked why my pony-tailed three-year-old isn’t doing ballet or gymnastics. I try to look nonchalant: “Oh, you know, we’re just happy mucking about at home.” But right there, I’ve pegged myself as a non-competitive mum. Or worse – as a uninterested mum indifferent to her daughter’s potential stage career.

Here’s my quandary: What happens when our baby Einsteins and Shirley Temples grow too big to be coddled and coached? What if we’ve invested so much of ourselves in our children that their failures become our failures? How will our kids learn from their mistakes if we’ve engineered their childhoods so there aren’t any?  

As far as I can tell, my children are not gifted. Not one of the blighters has rewarded me by becoming a child prodigy. But they display all the genius required to dodge their mother’s requests to clean up their rooms, finish their homework and unpack the dishwasher. Who knows when they’ll discover their worthwhile talents?

In the meantime, I’ve committed myself to the park for the entire afternoon. I’m now determined to teach our six-year-old to ride a bike – because it’s fun. I don’t need a Cadel Evans in the family but I hope my youngster takes to cycling with gusto. I could do with something to brag about.