Hi (stands up), my name is Craig and I’m a recovering performance parent.
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(Readers): Hi Craig!
Phewww. That wasn’t as hard as I thought it was gonna be. It’s been 12 years, four months and three days since my last performance. I’m grateful for the opportunity to discuss it in a forum like this which, while a little uncomfortable, helps me stay on the straight and narrow.
Some of you instinctively know what I’m talking about; others are scratching your heads wondering what performance parenting is. In truth, if you don’t personally know a performance parent, chances are you’ve seen one.
The performance parent is a close genetic relative of the sideline parent, the helicopter parent and what the Chinese call tiger mums.
But instead of over-protectively hovering above junior, demanding perfection in an intense program of extracurricular activities or screaming instructions from the touchline, the performance parent wants all the attention to be on them.
Performance parents love their children as much as anyone else, but for one reason or another they need to be seen as the best parent ever (BPE). Parenting is literally all about them; they crave approval and need others to take notice of how much they adore their little creation. It's breathtaking the lengths some will go to in proving they are BPEs.
Once you know what to look for, they’re easy to spot. Take a trip to any local park or wander the supermarket aisles for long enough and you’ll encounter at least one performance parent. They come in all shapes and sizes and they exhibit all kinds of behaviour that's just a bit ... it's y'know ... just, yeah.
The most obvious sign is when they speak to their children; they do this at a volume that’s half as loud again as other adults in the vicinity. It’s a carefully calibrated stage-voice that’s designed to ensure everyone in the park can hear what the BPE is saying.
The next thing you'll notice is that performance parents refer to themselves strictly in the third person; it’s either “mummy” or “daddy” – never simply “I” or “me”. A typical example of some park dialogue might be: “Jaydon! Ja-a-a-a-a-ydon! Come down from there darling! Mummy doesn’t want you to do that - Mummy is worried you might get hurt!” Remember, this is spoken at 150 per cent of normal volume, even if Ja-a-a-a-a-a-ydon is two metres away.
Performance parents are also quick to ride on park equipment with their little one when it's completely unnecessary. This is often combined with whooping, faux-laughing and that gratingly braying voice: "Wheeee! Jaydon! Hold on tight darling! Mummy and Jaydon are spinning around and around! Wheeee!"
I have done all of the above. Long ago ...
My eldest is about to turn 18 but when she was between the ages of three and six and I was a single dad, I hammed it up at the park like you wouldn't believe. "Susie! So-o-o-o-o-o-sie. Wait there! Daddy will slide down with you! Whoohooo!"
I shared her with her mum after we divorced and I used to leave the nail polish that Susie had applied to my fingers on for the week she was away so I could continue performance parenting in her absence. "Oh, this nail polish? It's just Susie. She just likes to paint my nails." (Subtext: Aren't I just the BPE?)
Of course kids grow up and the loud-talking and wonky nail polish jobs become things of the past. It's a temporary condition. But the problem with performance parenting is you may not even realise you're doing it until you've driven everyone mad.
Susie was a teenager by the time my colleague Di first mentioned the term to me. "A f---ing performance parent has ruined my favourite cafe," she complained one day. "I can hardly bear to go there for breakfast anymore."
My ears pricked up. "Performance parent?"
The father in question started by taking his son - who always dressed in a tiger-print onesie with a tail and hood with little tiger ears - to Di's regular. "He's calling the kid 'Tiger' and virtually shouting every word so everyone can hear," she said through gritted teeth.
"Been there!" I thought, cringing.
One day Di came to work out of breath and almost speechless. "Look! LOOK!" she said, shoving her iPhone into my face. It was a picture of the little tiger boy at the cafe with his dad - WHO WAS WEARING A MATCHING TIGER ONESIE!
By then I'd remarried and this was right about the time my wife and I had welcomed a couple of little girls into the world. I swore then and there never to performance parent again. It's a slippery slope. In his quest to be BPE, this onesie-wearing Tiger-man had flushed away all his dignity.
Having been one, I'm not judging performance parents. I honestly want to help them. These days my radar is finely tuned and last week I even encountered a different species at our local park.
This BPE and his wife were looking after five kids - their own and some cousins. I was pushing my three-year-old on the swing when I noticed BPE coaching his charges from a central position, lying in the sun on a park bench.
Intermittently the kids would call to him. "Dad, can you give us a push?"
BPE (at 150 - 160 per cent volume): "No. You guys can figure it out. It's physics. You've gotta do some problem solving here guys. Every action has a positive or negative reaction. Think about it!"
And later: "Elly, put your shoes on, otherwise you can't have any ice-cream. So basically you have a decision to make. It's essentially a value judgement, so think about it Elly and let me know what you decide."
Elly was three. She decided to cry. Tragic.
So I'd like to invite all the performance parents and BPEs out there (you know who you are) to join me in reciting the Performance Parents Anonymous serenity prayer: "I am not the first person to have kids. My children do not make me special. When I speak at 150 per cent volume and in the third person it is profoundly annoying to others. I will never wear an animal onesie in public." Amen.