Whose Prize Is It Anyway?

When parents skite about their kids’ achievements, is it really about the child, asks Deborah?

So proud! Cadence got the lead in the school play – again. And gosh, Juniper is such a social butterfly, and topped the school in running. Arlo’s band is a finalist of the battle of the bands… oops, zoned out for a minute there.

You know these parents? Or maybe seen them on Facebook? (Clue: their kids kick a ball better than Beckham and paint better than Michelangelo).

In the past these proud parents have pushed all my worst sneery and snarky buttons. (Shameful Inner Monologue: Just because they’re head boy or head girl now doesn’t mean in 20 years they won’t end up in a dead-end job.)

But I don’t want to be that mean-spirited person any more. Why do I get triggered by braggy monologues and other people’s perfect offspring? After all, don’t we need those bright sparks to lead the next generation and solve plastic in the oceans? Children need as much love as they can get. How can I get over my unseemly derision?

My issue is that sometimes boasting is not actually about the kids; it’s a kind of stealthy self-flattery by the parents. That’s my DNA right there! But so what? If the parents feel good giving themselves high fives for producing such gifted progeny, surely it shouldn’t matter.

However, we can all admit it is a little naff. Far cooler is the English eccentrics’ instinct for self deprecation. “Tuppy is mentally negligible but makes a stonking rice pudding” or “Stilton isn’t going to win the Nobel prize, bless him, but he’s good with the hounds.”