The alternative gift guide for exasperated parents

With nary a lie-in in sight…

Photo by erin mckenna

’Tis the giving season, but if you were expecting an actual present simply for being a parent, you’ve been deceived. Because – didn’t you know? – your child is your gift. That’s right. Be grateful, or else someone will say, ‘It was your choice to have kids so stop complaining.’ Expressing dismay about the cost of childcare/the exhaustion/the mental load/the impossibility of having-it-all is often considered gauche and ungrateful and possibly insensitive by a significant proportion of the public (many of whom have children themselves). Don't ever forget, it is your fault for wanting too much – if you are a woman, this usually means the bare minimum of support/more than four hours sleep/a chance for a career. It doesn’t matter that any frustrations you have with The System can coexist with loving your child more than you ever thought it possible to love another person. Mostly, you’re expected to stay quiet. Appear as though you’re managing. Befriend those constant feelings of failure and judgement. Subsequently, screaming into the abyss is often the only solution to this complicated side of parenthood. Fortunately, the abyss is free and available wherever you go, no sign-up fees involved, so go wild.

For times when the abyss won’t do, however, what we often need is the simple act of solidarity. The sense that we are not alone. The sense that we are not imagining things. The sense that everyone struggles, too. Sometimes we all need reassurance that while your child may be annoying, at least someone else’s child is being a bigger asshole*.

For times like these, I present five gifts of solidarity. (Plus, oh, OK, some actual present ideas too.)

1 For the parent whose child is having a tantrum in public

I have many times felt the rapid descent of sweat upon my upper lip as something as basic as walking down the street becomes fraught with tantrums. A highlight from this year took place at Heathrow Airport when my at-the-time two-year-old son screamed relentlessly in the check-in queue. Why? Because he wanted to go on the escalator, on his own, of course. Then he screamed all the way through security, attempting to dash past the metal detectors without waiting our turn. This brazen nappy-clad disregard for national security clearly seemed suspect because airport staff then insisted I take him aside so they could frisk him.

‘But he’s two,’ I said.

‘Make him hold up his arms and stand still on this spot,’ they ordered.

The words ‘stand still’ seemed like some cruel taunt given he was lashing about like a rabid octopus. Thus, in that moment, not only was my face red from stress like a baboon’s bottom, but I wanted to vanish on the spot – do a Wicked Witch of the West speedy getaway and melt from the deluge of my own sweat. I felt powerless, inconvenient, useless, judged and panicked. It goes without saying that it really killed the holiday vibes.

Nothing special worked to calm him down – we tried snacks, songs, games, desperate displays of idiocy and distraction, plus endless reassurance and cuddles. In the end, we just had to ride it out. Time, that pesky healer.

In those moments, whether wrestling a child who refuses to move from the floor or attempting to placate a child screeching like a banshee during brunch, it is helpful to remember that not all eyes on you are unkind. I remember reading a column by the journalist Giles Coren who wrote that he didn’t mind children crying in restaurants because he was just relieved they weren’t his children. I can guarantee that this is what most parents feel when they see a child screaming in public. A sense of relief, as well as empathy – because in a matter of minutes, it could so easily be them.

Fantasy gift: The power of teleportation

Real gift: Neal’s Yard Remedies Calming Temple Salve

2 For the parent whose child says ‘I hate you’

Look, I don’t have teenagers (my boys are only five and three), so I can’t guarantee this works forever, but here’s an approach that seems to be effective so far. My five-year-old son – a kid with a big brain and even bigger feelings – has started to lob the occasional ‘I hate you’ at me when frustrated or angry. The first time he said it, the wound felt deep. But of course, it wasn’t personal – it was just available ammunition.

So I replied, softly and calmly: ‘Well, I love you.’

Huh. He looked at me confused. Clearly not expecting that. A pause. Then:

‘I hate you,’ he said again.

‘And I love you,’ I replied.

‘I hate you.’

‘I love you.’

‘I… love you,’ he said (AH HA HA GOTCHA! I thought), then he crumpled onto me for a perfect cuddle.

I now say ‘I love you’ most times he tries to insult me. 1. Because it’s true. And 2. Because he’s goading me and I like to show I can be stubborn and annoying too (FYI, remaining stubbornly calm works for angry adults too, I’ve noticed).

If you want, you can imagine yourself as a disciple of Robin Williams in Good Will Hunting. Repeating the truth they really need to hear in their moment of pain. Reminding them that even when they say the worst thing, when they try to push you away, you will still be there, loving them regardless.

As for what to say to, ‘Why do your legs look like a cow’s?’ – one of my son’s greatest compliments to me – I am still finessing that reply.

Fantasy gift: Gabor Maté on speed dial

Real gift: Champagne to celebrate your moment of good parenting

3 For the parent whose child touches everything

While I’m sharing airport anecdotes, has your child ever pressed the emergency-stop button on an escalator at a major airport, causing everyone, including your own family, to have to cart luggage, buggies, toddler and a baby up steep metal stairs instead? In fairness to my then three-year-old son, the emergency stop button was a tantalising bright red – as enticing as Rudolph’s glowing nose. I can only imagine how enchanting it looked. And how would he have known a staff shortage meant it would take more than half an hour to get this single escalator moving again? How would he have known how inconvenient this would turn out to be for possibly hundreds of travellers?

In a gesture of parental schadenfreude, my dad reminded me that I too would touch everything when I was little. Especially when told not to. Whatever I saw, I touched, twisted and even chewed, if I could (including – according to family lore – the frayed edges of my bedroom carpet). Now, when I look at my son fingering all the fruit in the supermarket despite my pleas to keep his paws off, I aim to be more tolerant – not least because I likely have my own genetics to blame. Even more so, I try to understand his motivations – he’s not deliberately being annoying, he’s just one of those sensory-seeking kids. Which is why the greatest gift a parent can gift their household is a steady ever-present supply of fidget toys. Or Blu-Tack. Seriously, a blob of Blu-Tack is worth its weight in gold if you’re looking for a small and speedy solution to restless digits.

Fantasy gift: Parent-activated forcefields

Real gift: Some give-no-fucks sunglasses to help avoid eye contact

4 For the parent making a rod for their own back

I’ve written about the rod before. It has been brandished at me regularly for my multiple offences, including, but not limited to: breastfeeding, not sleep training, putting my babies in the sling, not spoon feeding, listening to my children too much, cuddling my children too much, picking up my children too much, especially when they cry… it goes on.

But here’s the thing: the rod is not real. It exists in the realm of bogey men and Santa (sorry to break it to you…). It has never once come and smacked me on the arse (though sometimes you do have to worry about those shopping centre Santas). Sure, it’s taken a few years to be certain I’ve evaded its ominous presence, and yes, it took me more than two years with my second child to have an unbroken night’s sleep, but I do not regret my choices. If anything, I feel vindicated that by simply trusting my gut and doing what I felt was right for my kids, it worked out OK for us. So trust your gut, too. You do you. It works.

Fantasy gift: Lightsaber to fend off interfering relatives and strangers

Real gift: Eye cream (Because sometimes those valid choices still cause tired eyes)

5 For the parent spinning too many plates (so, most of you)

I had a helpful realisation about motherhood. It’s so basic – so obvious! – that I can’t quite believe I’m going to write it down. But here we go.

I bumped into an old acquaintance in the park. She asked me how I was. I shrugged slightly.

‘Oh, you know,’ I said. ‘It’s hard enough looking after yourself sometimes – just one person! – now I’m responsible for two more.’

This woman nodded. She understood.

We walked our separate ways and I thought, wow, that is a bit bananas. When you step back from it all. Parenthood is so normalised in our society (and, you know, our species), but being responsible for two whole other people seems quite a lot to me. Having children is the greatest privilege. It was my dream of dreams, and I marvel at their faces every single day – my gratitude is infinite. But holy shit, no wonder I can’t get everything done.

Why are we made to think we can? Which is probably my roundabout way of saying that if I haven’t replied to your WhatsApp message or email, it’s definitely not personal.

Of course, this isn’t just the case for parents – all of us seem to be trying to do TOO MUCH, ALL THE TIME, caught up in the productivity hustle and always-on nature of Modern Society BCE (Broadband Common Era).

For 2025, why not pledge to spin fewer plates? Even allow yourself to drop some occasionally? What’s the worst that can happen? Probably less than you think. When it comes to the perfect present, gift yourself permission to rest and aim for less-than-perfect. You are worth the investment.

Fantasy gift: A fleet of staff, inc. personal assistant, chef, cleaner, entertainer

Real gift: Japanese Kintsugi Repair kit (the practice of mending broken objects with gold – perfect for dropped plates)

Or, hang on, even better… Babysitting vouchers on this flexible childcare app

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Me at the end of 2024. Photo by Tim De Pauw

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*By the way, I would never ever actually call a child an asshole… (to their face)