The correct tone to adopt when talking about your children is a kind of detached, cynical, humorous resignation - as though you are moderately fond of them but nonetheless find them a bit of a bore and a nuisance. There are parents who break these unwritten rules, who show off and brag about their offspring's virtues and achievements, or gush sentimentally over them, but such behaviour is frowned upon as affected and pretentious, and such parents usually find themselves shunned and subtly excluded. Among family and close friends, English parents may express their real feelings about their children - whether bursting with love and pride or sick with worry - but among acquaintances at the school gates, or in other casual social chat, almost all of them assume the same air of mildly amused, critical detachment, and compete in bad-mouthing their hapless offspring.
But this typically English one-downmanship is not quite what it seems. The English, as I've said before, are no more naturally modest than any other nation, and although they obey the letter of the unwritten modesty laws, the spirit is another matter. Many of their derogatory comments about their children are in fact boasts in disguise, or at least highly disingenuous. Moaning about one's child's laziness and unwillingness to do homework indirectly conveys that he or she is bright enough to do well without trying. Complaining that one's 'impossible' children spend all their time on the telephone or out 'doing God knows what' with their friends is another way of saying how popular they are. A mother's eye-rolling mock-despair over her daughter's obsession with fashion and make-up reminds us that the child is exceptionally pretty. We respond with a one-down expression of exasperation at our own child's tedious obsession with sport - really a covert boast about her athletic prowess.
If you are genuinely distressed about your children's habits or behaviour, it is still vitally important to adopt the correct mock-despairing tone. Real despair can only be expressed among very close friends: at the school gates or at parties, even if you are truly feeling desperate, you must pretend to be only pretending to feel desperate. Listening to these conversations, I would occasionally detect an edge of genuine hopelessness creeping into a mother's tone as she described the transgressions of her 'hopeless' children. Her fellow moaners would start to look a little uncomfortable, avoiding eye contact with her and shifting uneasily about - their feet turning to point away from her, unconsciously signalling a desire to escape. Usually, the speaker would sense their discomfort, pull herself together and resume the proper tone of lighthearted, humorous, pretend distress. The unbearable lightness of being English.
The rules of the one-downmanship game also include a strict injunction against ever criticizing the other person's child. You can denigrate your own as much as you like, but you must never say a disparaging word about your moaning-companions' offspring (or at least never to their face). Expressions of sympathy are allowed, in response to parents' complaints about their children's misdeeds or inadequacies, but must be carefully phrased to avoid causing offence. A deliberately vague 'Oh, I know' or a bit of empathetic tutting and rueful head-shaking are the only truly safe responses, and should be immediately followed by a one-down grumble about your own children's failings.
None of this is as calculated or deliberately hypocritical as it might sound. Most English parents obey the one-downmanship rules automatically, without thinking. They instinctively adopt the cynical, mock-despairing tones and appropriate facial expressions. They just somehow know, without consciously reminding themselves, that it isn't done to boast or get emotional. Even the subtle, indirect boasting - the showing-off disguised as deprecation - is not the result of careful thought. English parents do not say to themselves, 'Hmmn, I'm not allowed to boast, so let me see, how can I bad-mouth my child while still somehow conveying that he/she is a genius?' This kind of indirectness just comes naturally to us. We are accustomed to not saying what we mean: irony, self-deprecation, understatement, obliqueness, ambiguity and polite pretence are all deeply ingrained, part of being English. This peculiar mindset is inculcated at an early age, and by the time our children go to primary school, they have usually already mastered the art of the indirect boast, and can do their own self-deprecatory trumpet-blowing.
The Invisible-puberty Rule
This is just as well, as our culture tends to regard children as something of a tiresome encumbrance, and adolescents as a positive nuisance. Adolescents are seen as somehow both vulnerable and dangerous: objects of concern, but also potentially threatening; in need of protection, but also in need of restraint - and just generally troublesome. It is perhaps not surprising, then, that only minority faiths celebrate the onset of puberty in any significant way. The advent of this awkward, embarrassing, hormonally challenged phase of life is not widely regarded as a matter for celebration. The English prefer to bury their heads in the sand and try to pretend that it isn't happening. The C of E does offer a 'Confirmation' ceremony at the appropriate age (traditionally between eleven and fourteen), but this is even less popular than christening, and there is no secular equivalent, so the vast majority of English children have no official rite of passage to mark their transition to adolescence.
Deprived of their rightful rites, English adolescents tend to invent their own unofficial initiation rituals - which usually involve getting into trouble for illegal drinking, experimenting with illicit recreational drugs, shoplifting, graffiti-spraying, joy-riding, etc. - or find other ways of drawing attention to their new sexual status: we have the highest rate of teenage pregnancy in Europe, for example.
But they are not formally 'welcomed' as fully-fledged members of our society until after they have struggled through puberty, when the next official rite of passage, the eighteenth-birthday celebration, marks their transition to adulthood. For some, there is a mini rite of passage at seventeen, when they pass their driving test and get a driving licence, but eighteen is the age at which the English are officially entitled to vote, get married without parental consent, have homosexual sex, watch X-rated films and, most importantly for many, buy alcoholic drinks. Most will have been unofficially drinking, having whatever kind of sex they choose and watching 'adult' films for some years; and many will have left school at sixteen and may be working full time, possibly even married or co-habiting, pregnant or with a baby of their own. But the eighteenth birthday is still regarded as an important landmark, and an excuse to have a big noisy party, or at least to get even more drunk than on an average Saturday night.