Edited by Jim McCrory, Friday, 27 June 2025, 20:04
Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot
Parents: Who Would Have Them?
It’s the 1970s. I’m up during the night, half-asleep, checking on our firstborn. The newspapers are full of stories about cot deaths, and sleep doesn’t come easy when you’re watching for the rise and fall of your baby’s little chest in the quiet hours. She’s in the cot beside our bed, wrapped in peace, happy in her own little world.
We take out an endowment policy to ensure she has a gift waiting for her when she turns eighteen. A token of love, a whisper from the past saying, “We were thinking of you, even then.”
But this isn’t about us. It’s about her.
Daughter number two has a sparkle in her eyes whenever a musical plays. One day she asks, “Can we go on the Sound of Music tour in Austria?” And so, we go—no hesitation. A thousand-mile drive, the car filled with the laughter with my daughter, mum, and my daughter’s friend. And we listen to the banjo-picking, knee slapping uplifting blue grass music of Alison Krauss and Union Station ringing through the speakers. “Play the CD again, “they say. We pause in Innsbruck for the night, buy pizza, then on to Salzburg for the tour do the thousand miles back again. Pewww!
But this isn’t about the mileage, or the cost, or the weariness. It’s about her. We want her to be happy.
It’s the Christmas holidays. Our son is flying to visit friends in Sweden. I take him to the airport with my usual mix of excitement and fatherly worry. I give him instructions, go over every detail. Hours later, we get the call—he never arrived. Panic sets in. The airline doesn’t know where he is. Finally, we find out he’s stuck in Amsterdam without a passport. He left it in the glove compartment and he was not allowed to return and get it.
I arrange for a flight back—Newcastle is the only option. I’m on the four hour road trip to collect him. We stay the night with friends, and when I see the look in his eyes, I book another flight the next day. This time, he gets there.
But this isn't about us. It’s about him. We want our children safe. We want them happy. At any cost.
If I’ve learned anything through the years, it’s that parenthood is full of moments no one sees. Quiet sacrifices. Unseen miles. Sleepless nights. Heart-in-mouth phone calls. And yet, we wouldn’t change a thing.
Parents: Who Would Have Them?
Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot
Parents: Who Would Have Them?
It’s the 1970s. I’m up during the night, half-asleep, checking on our firstborn. The newspapers are full of stories about cot deaths, and sleep doesn’t come easy when you’re watching for the rise and fall of your baby’s little chest in the quiet hours. She’s in the cot beside our bed, wrapped in peace, happy in her own little world.
We take out an endowment policy to ensure she has a gift waiting for her when she turns eighteen. A token of love, a whisper from the past saying, “We were thinking of you, even then.”
But this isn’t about us.
It’s about her.
Daughter number two has a sparkle in her eyes whenever a musical plays. One day she asks, “Can we go on the Sound of Music tour in Austria?” And so, we go—no hesitation. A thousand-mile drive, the car filled with the laughter with my daughter, mum, and my daughter’s friend. And we listen to the banjo-picking, knee slapping uplifting blue grass music of Alison Krauss and Union Station ringing through the speakers. “Play the CD again, “they say. We pause in Innsbruck for the night, buy pizza, then on to Salzburg for the tour do the thousand miles back again. Pewww!
But this isn’t about the mileage, or the cost, or the weariness.
It’s about her.
We want her to be happy.
It’s the Christmas holidays. Our son is flying to visit friends in Sweden. I take him to the airport with my usual mix of excitement and fatherly worry. I give him instructions, go over every detail. Hours later, we get the call—he never arrived. Panic sets in. The airline doesn’t know where he is. Finally, we find out he’s stuck in Amsterdam without a passport. He left it in the glove compartment and he was not allowed to return and get it.
I arrange for a flight back—Newcastle is the only option. I’m on the four hour road trip to collect him. We stay the night with friends, and when I see the look in his eyes, I book another flight the next day. This time, he gets there.
But this isn't about us.
It’s about him.
We want our children safe. We want them happy. At any cost.
If I’ve learned anything through the years, it’s that parenthood is full of moments no one sees. Quiet sacrifices. Unseen miles. Sleepless nights. Heart-in-mouth phone calls. And yet, we wouldn’t change a thing.
Because this isn’t about us.
It’s about you—our children.