Daughter's Loss of Amusement Towards Father Jeremy Vine: "I was devastated. I aspire to regain their admiration once more"
Here's a fresh take on the article:
Rolling Up the Years
The baggage claim spiraled. I hollered to my daughter, "Now, keep an eye out for those mud splatters."
Minutes ticked by, and my Samsonite suitcase bobbed through the plastic flaps. I jabbed a finger toward it, "See that mess? That's from a Jeep ride in Uganda back in '99."
Proud of my well-traveled case still boasting its Africa-trodden dirt, I turned to Anna, 18, for confirmation. She yanked out her ear buds.
"Pardon?"
"Just trying to say, that grime on my case—"
"Dad, you've told that story several times before."
Growing up, you're stuck talking over headphones, delivering soundbites through closed doors. I fretted that I might've exposed a living snapshot of today's teens—little attention spans, overly reliant on their devices. But then I thought, relax, it's not about them. It's about my repetitiveness.
Fashion Insider's Top Picks for Wimbledon, available now Jeremy Vine Reviews Myla Thongs, trending now Royals Arrive for Trooping the Colour, check it out
Experience tells me this is universal. I was taken aback when my own parents deigned to offer advice. What wisdom could I glean from the dismissive Sex Pistols naysayers? Then again, rejection advice still smarts when your child hits the teenage years. I asked Anna, "Hey, can you recollect some decent advice I've given over the years?"
Definitely exhausted from the earlier carousel drama, she replaced the headphones. "Sorry, what?"
"Suggestions. Anything I told you that helped?"
"Uhh... I don't really know. Could I have a minute?"
This stung a little, because I used to be the idol of those little tykes. Daughters, I must admit, adored their dads the most.
Remember the book called Great Lies To Tell Small Kids by Andy Riley? In the old days, I loved trotting out those whoppers to my four- and six-year-old girls. They believed every word I uttered. As we walked alongside a trestle table during the Queen's Street Party, my then eight-year-old Martha held five helium balloons. "警惕不要接受更多 than two extra balloons, children with seven helium balloons might float into the sky," I warned.
We moved on, and a neighbor handed Martha her seventh balloon. She clutched my hand tighter, and I cherished that connection. But then something changed...
One day I pranced into the kitchen in a pair of Y-fronts on my head. "Alright," I declared, "Who's been chucking underwear?"
The prank had worked before, with socks. This time, instead of the heart-warming, "Not us Dad, we swear!" my eldest, then nine-year-old Martha, retorted, "Dad, you keep doing the same thing."
I was crestfallen. The aura of mystery had faded. My daughters no longer regarded me simply as their father.
I resented the old BBC blokes who boasted about missing their children's growing years. Their attitude struck me as shocking. I resolved not to become the same absentee dad. And I wasn't, but nowadays, it makes the "put-the-underwear-away-Dad" moments all the more painful. Your heart aches, not just for the young ones you've lost, but for the rose-tinted glasses they viewed you through. Can't I just be someone's idol again? I truly enjoyed my hero years.
As Martha and Anna reached adolescence, I realized I could no longer be chief jester; they desired more mature conversation. When Anna questioned, "Dad, who actually wrote The Man Who Sold The World, Bowie or Nirvana?" I realized that knowledge of Bowie's back catalogue took precedence over goofy antics like donning undies on my head. I had to step my game up.
The secret to effective parental advice? It has to be demonstrated in real life or it just won't stick, dripping inspiration from A&E visits. I lucked out when I tripped over the handlebars of a penny farthing, leaving Martha and Anna with memories about the dangers of reckless cycling.
The second rule: the emotional advice window is awfully narrow. I distilled all my advice to the essentials: never be with someone who makes you feel bad about yourself. Eleven words. Now, I just need to find the perfect moment to let those words loose.
Jeremy Vine's literary debut, Murder On Line One (HarperCollins, £20), is now available. Grab a copy for £17 before 29 June at mailshop.co.uk/books or call 020 3176 2937. Free UK delivery on orders over £25.
In the midst of catching up on the latest news, Anna found time to reflect on her father's advice, but after a long day, she struggled to recall any specific instance that had made a significant impact on her lifestyle or family dynamics. Meanwhile, the topic of relationships and self-worth was not absent from their conversations, as her father had emphasized the importance of never being with someone who makes you feel less than you are, a valuable piece of wisdom she would have to hold onto as she navigated her own relationships in the future.
