Alien Invaders?

By Joe Barker

Maybe I'm just going through a difficult phase or perhaps I've not been eating enough chocolate, but recently I have been thinking of my children less as adorable, cute creatures and more as parasitic life forms that threaten to steal my last drops of energy and enthusiasm before leaving me a dry hollow husk of a man as they move on to seek new prey.

However, after careful consideration, I‘ve decided that comparing my children to parasites isn't a nice thing to do and probably isn't encouraged by parenting experts. Much better, surely, to compare them to an alien invasion, so that's what I've done. Naturally, I'm thinking more horror, along the lines of Alien, and Predator, rather than cute and cuddly like ET. 

Now, for aficionados of horror movies, I must apologize if I'm about to completely misrepresent the main characteristics of these popular film franchises. The truth is that as someone who frequently has to watch PG movies from behind the couch with my hands over my eyes, I'm far too much of a scaredy cat to have ever actually seen either of these movies. 

Nonetheless, the broad premises are, as I understand them, that Alien consumes its host from the inside before ripping its way out in a sickening and bloodthirsty manner. Meanwhile, Predator is a creature of boundless energy and unbelievable speed, who remorselessly hunts down his prey no matter where they hide, leaving even the few survivors too exhausted to function as useful or productive members of society. The parallels to parenthood are uncanny, I think you'd agree. 

First contact 

The similarity between Alien and pregnancy is clear. Having successfully invaded their host—henceforth referred to as their mother—our cherished aliens gradually increased in size. Incidentally, I've previously expressed my heartfelt gratitude for the fact that pregnancy is primarily a female affliction, and I can confirm that my relief remains just as sincere today. Undoubtedly, men have it very, very easy during pregnancy. So apart from providing chocolate, I was largely a helpless spectator as my wife's energy and good cheer were consumed by her alien invaders, leaving her lying on the couch an ever larger and grumpier shadow of her former fun-filled self. 

As a sensitive and squeamish man I shall draw a veil over the horrifying process by which these creatures finally burst into the light of day. Suffice it to say that it was everything that I've tried to avoid in horror movies, and that I can only imagine it was worse from where my wife was lying. 

Our new overlords

I believe Alien escapes its host and disappears in search of fresh prey. Here our analogy somewhat breaks down as our little monsters showed no inclination to leave and we found that the hospital was bizarrely keen on us keeping and cherishing these strange new creatures. So, reluctantly, we took them home with us. From the beginning, they made it clear that they were our superiors and overlords. We were tolerated only for our role in sustaining and nurturing them, and were expected to respond instantly to their commands. Any tardiness or perceived failings on our part were, and continue to be, loudly reprimanded. 

A draining experience

Our beloved little aliens seem to thrive on our physical and intellectual energy. As they learn to run and think, we seem to become ever less capable of either. 

Hard though it is to believe, looking at me now, but I was once well-read with an interest in current affairs. I could talk intelligently on a wide range of topics and had opinions on all the important issues. Now if it doesn't have pictures, I've not read it, and the only thing I have strong opinions about is the importance of child-free time. Even when the children are in bed I'm far more likely to pick up a Julia Donaldson book than anything more age-appropriate. Only once they're asleep do I get to enjoy the plot and the pictures at my leisure and satisfy my curiosity as to how Stickman got home. Is it just Marty, or do all children get two-thirds of the way through a book, and then, just as the plot is getting gripping, decide it's time to stop reading and play trains? 

Where once I had, at my fingertips, the names of the current cabinet and the averages of all the England cricket team, now I know all the words to “Goodnight Moon” and “Peepo” and can recite them while half-asleep. Not very useful in a pub quiz, but essential when Alice wakes up at 2am. Given that I've had several impassioned arguments about children's books with formerly politically knowledgeable friends, it could be argued that this represents a change of intellectual direction rather than a child-induced decline. However, there is other evidence that the child-aliens have been devouring our mental acuity.

Mailing a letter should not be a challenge, yet it recently took my wife and I three attempts to get a letter in the post. My wife had the first go—she has a solid track record of success in letter mailing and we assumed all would go well. She got Marty on his bike, with helmet and shoes on, and set off for the post office, which, given what subsequently unfolded, is fortunately not far from our house. She had successfully reached the post office—Marty fell off his bike en route, but since he refuses to look where he's going, this is not an uncommon occurrence—and handed over the letter, before realizing that she'd forgotten to take any money with her. So they and the letter returned home. 

I made the second attempt. Mindful of my wife's failure, I stuffed my pockets with money before battling Marty into his bike helmet and shoes, escaped a tearful Alice who didn't understand why she wasn't coming too, and boldly set course for the post office. Shortly after Marty fell off his bike, I realized that while I had plenty of money, I was short of letters. So back home we went to fetch the letter. 

The third attempt was a roaring success: Marty didn't even fall off his bike, and our letter was soon on its way. Not our finest hour, but emblematic of the challenges that the simplest tasks pose when you have children.

Physical decline

It's not just mentally that children seem to have knocked us from the top of our game. Where once my wife and I were both keen, if slow, runners, we now barely have the energy for an occasional jog. Games of chase and bike rides, pushing strollers, and carrying children use the energy and enthusiasm we once had for sport. Meanwhile, Marty and Alice are ever more energetic. Wherever we go, Marty wants to ride his bike while Alice disdains her stroller in favor of walking, which at least she does nice and slowly, for now. At thirteen months she is already determinedly trying to join in with every game of chase and is clearly bursting with enthusiasm to start making us run ever farther and faster. 

A hunted existence 

Like any good predators, Alice and Marty are always alert to their prey, and as their primary prey I can assure you that it is a wearing existence to be continually hunted. Desperate for a few minutes’ peace and quiet, I'll notice that Marty is deeply engaged with a book and sneak upstairs for a quick lie down and email check. Just as I reach the sanctuary of the second floor, I’ll hear a cry of, “Daddy, where are you going? I'm coming too.” Then a blur comes hurtling up the stairs and a hot little hand clutches mine, so rather than peace and quiet, I get a monologue about an imminent dinosaur attack. Meanwhile, Alice has now noticed that something exciting is happening above her head and is rattling the stair gate and loudly demanding that she gets to come and play too. With as good a grace as I can muster, I accept that my bid for freedom will have to wait and return a reluctant prisoner of these remorseless hunters.

But us hunted animals are always developing our tactics, and if I do escape, I no longer make the mistake of resting in my room—oh no, that's the first place Marty will look. Instead I'll hide in Alice's room, possibly under the bed. I certainly don't make the mistake of going back to fetch anything I need; once I've escaped, returning to fetch my laptop or find food is simply asking for trouble. No matter how happily Marty and Alice are playing, if they see me, those hunting instincts cut in and they'll sink their metaphorical talons into me and won't let go. 

Of course, come bedtime, all the horrors of the hunt are forgotten, and as they splash happily in the bath, they're as cute as ET ever was. As they drift off to sleep, my heart warms to them and I start to wonder if I’ve maybe got these little aliens all wrong and they're actually here to fill my life with love rather than terror and exhaustion?

About the Author 

Joe and his wife Diane moved to Thailand in 2018. Since the arrival of their son Martin in 2021 and daughter Alice in 2024, Joe has been a stay-at-home father. The whole family enjoys BAMBI playgroups and Thai beach holidays. Find Joe on SubStack: BangkokDad bangkokdad.substack.com/