My Way

By Joe Barker

Mistakes, I’ve made a few, and what healthier way to start the new year than by mentioning them? Spending time dwelling on past parenting mistakes that I have resolutely failed to learn from must be a good idea, right?

Holiday horror 1

A weekend by the sea sounds idyllic: morning runs along the beach, lazing with a book and a cool drink while listening to the waves lapping, and romantic sunset dinners—but add babies and the idyll can swiftly turn bad. With children, any holiday has the potential to be a horrible mistake, as far from our nanny and familiar routines we must struggle unaided with our vile offspring. Broken by the early mornings and hard labor of sandcastle construction, we frequently return home early, only to discover that we have not yet realized the true extent of the holiday horror. 

After two days of sharing a hotel room, Marty has decided he cannot sleep alone. So begins three weeks of bedtime battles, as we gradually inch further away from his bed and into the hallway, until triumphantly comes the night when we shut the door and he falls asleep alone. After the month we've had, we agree it's time for a relaxing weekend break. And so the cycle begins again.

Holiday horror 2

Quick word of advice here: if you were planning to break your child's toe just before going on holiday, don't do it. Now just to clarify, I didn't set out to break Marty's toe, and technically it wasn't broken, just damaged enough to look revolting, although apparently not painful, until the nail finally fell off. 

While I stand by the theory of letting children take risks and discover the consequences of their actions, there is a time and a place for learning, and a service station on the way to the beach is neither the time nor the place. Furthermore, had I realized quite how heavy the chair was or quite how much damage it would do, I would've intervened before Marty flattened his toe with it. 

My wife was not amused on returning from the coffee shop to find Marty covered in blood while I hysterically flapped my hands and said it was too disgusting to look at. This remained my default response for much of the next two months—bloody, torn nails are yucky. Fortunately my wife, who is made of sterner stuff than me, did some basic first aid, but our holiday was in tatters before we even made it to the hotel. Swimming or walking with that toe was impossible. For the next two months, every shower was a battle as Marty fought to keep his socks on. As soon as he was out of the shower, his foot had to be immediately re-socked. Wracked with guilt as I was, what could I do but accept these sock laws?

Onesie woes

As a father with three years of experience you'd think I'd understand onesies. You'd think wrong. “This stupid outfit has an upside-down elephant on it and mittens, but no socks. I don't know why people design such stupid clothes for babies,” I complain. Gently, my wife suggests that maybe I’ve put it on upside down. Having spent a tough ten minutes twisting and contorting poor Alice into the outfit, this is a hard message to hear. I suspect Alice is none-too-happy at the thought of going through that again either.

A week later my wife is less gentle and more incredulous when I again hand her a baby in an apparently upside-down onesie. “Is this a cry for help or a deliberate attempt to get out of dressing Alice?” she wonders aloud. A needlessly hurtful question, I feel, from a lady who rarely gets Marty's shoes on the right feet. Although, naturally, I have too much sense to say this out loud.

Story time 

I remember well the day Alphonso first entered our lives; he was an intrepid little mouse intent on leaving the family oak tree in search of adventure, which he found as he defeated an evil fox while befriending a vegetarian, cheese-making dragon. At eighteen months Marty didn't care what you said as long as you talked until he was asleep. Fed up with straining my eyes reading him back issues of The Economist, I decided to make up a story. For a few weeks, Alphonso and Jeraphat the dragon swooped through our lives before being forgotten. 

Or so I thought, till one morning months later Marty demanded an Alphonso story. By now Alphonso had put dragons and adventures behind him, and morphed into a five-year-old boy. A boy whom Marty could not get enough of, as he befriended farmer Fred, evaded burglars, and explored digger world. 

Wonderful, I proudly thought, I’m a natural storyteller and Marty admires my ingenuity. Fast-forward two years and I’m thoroughly sick of Alphonso—nothing is as guaranteed to make me snap at Marty as much as an early-morning demand for an Alphonso story. While reading “Spot” for the umpteenth time might be tedious, it can be done with half a sleepy mind, whereas constructing or remembering an Alphonso story requires energy and imagination that I rarely have. How I wish I'd never said the name Alphonso and had just continued with those back issues of The Economist.

Rumpeta rumpeta rumpeta

“The Elephant and the Bad Baby” is one of our favorite books. One day, I had the bright idea to re-enact the story. I'd play the elephant and Marty the bad baby and we'd rumpeta around the living room visiting food stalls. Delightful fun with a twelve-kilo baby. Now, he's twenty plus kilos, and skipping round the house with him on my shoulders while reciting a children's story is less delightful and more hernia-inducing. 

The misery is compounded by my inability to adequately rumpeta, leading to loud recriminations and hair pulling as Marty attempts to discipline his wayward elephant. Never start anything with a child unless you want to do it thrice daily for eternity with an ever-heavier child. 

When will I be a grown-up?

You, dear readers, are probably all proper grown-ups who do proper grown-up things like carrying spare clothes, nappies, sun cream, food, and water whenever you leave the house. Naturally, I realize the importance of these things and I assumed that as a parent I'd carry them too. Instead, by the time I've got myself dressed, the children dressed, and one of them strapped into their stroller, left the house, returned to fetch the keys, and left again, I'm lucky if I have both children let alone any of the parenting essentials.

In theory, we have a nappy bag with all these things in, but on the rare occasions I remember it, it contains only an empty water bottle, two dirty nappies, five spare T-shirts—but no shorts—and a half-eaten biscuit, which I quickly finish. By the time I reach the park, my wife will have sent me a picture of the sun cream resting on a pile of sun hats and innocently asked if I'd meant to take them with me. 

You'd have thought that the first horrific poop incident in Lumpini Park would have been enough to teach me the importance of being prepared; it was not. Instead, I daily risk finding myself far from home smeared with poop while holding a poop-covered child with no spare clothes or baby wipes.

I could go on, but maybe my time would be better spent refilling the nappy bag and attempting to learn from my mistakes. Perhaps this will be the year I finally become one of those perfect, grown-up parents I see all around me.  

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.