Won't Somebody Think Of The Children?

A couple of years ago, I was asked to do some facilitator training with a well known Irish action group for one-parent families.

"Facilitator? No problem!" said I, grabbing my iron and hair straighteners.

"No no no, you don't understand, SwearyPerson. Facilitator. Not defibrillator!"

"Oh."

The point of the facilitator training was that at the end of it I would be able to lead groups, or, y'know, facilitate the meetings of like-minded single parents through something called a Moving On course. At least, that's what I think it was called. When I went looking for the handbook just now all I could find was The Swearing Gentleman's Advanced Driving Skills bible. The course was a kind of a get-started cheerathon, and it aimed to give single parents the confidence in themselves, the necessary information, and the skills to get off their arses and get a job.

Oh, I'm sure that wasn't the stated aim. But that seemed to be the implied suggestion: that single parents were dormice with attitude problems who couldn't type up a CV to save their Dutch Gold budget.

Now, perhaps the course was tailored for very young mums who had, maybe, stalled in the education system, I don't know. But in the Arse End, where the few young mums we have are as canny as genetically modified cat burglars and as single minded as the Taoiseach at a dinner party, the majority of one-parent families are lead by someone who has a career and possibly their own house.

The funny thing was that the course began with us facilitators-in-training reassessing what we "knew" about one-parent families; all of us had some really stupid notions of pity and visions of Vicky Pollard. We were reminded that a widower with teenage kids is as much a single parent as a Stella with a buggy and hoopy earrings. And then we were asked to consider leading these courses which featured, and I shit you not, sections on sexual responsibility.

Sexual responsibility.

There was no way on God's own patio that I was standing up in front of a bunch of people who were probably older than me to tell them that washing yer fanny out with Coca Cola after sex was not a viable method of birth control. And as a married person, would I not sound a bit fucking preachy telling them how to conduct their social lives? Granted, single parents take on a massive burden and deserve as much support as possible, and organising groups where people could bring the kids and sit and chat sounded grand. Going around the group and patting each shoulder sweetly while saying, "You are the world" just seemed like a bit of a cuntish way to spend my weeknights. Or telling them how to write a CV so they didn't fall into that poverty trap while I was at home with the bairn and supported by a working husband. Or asking them to cut out pictures from a magazine so we could make a little fucking map of their aspirations - "Ah, look, Jacinta cut out a wedding dress, isn't that only adorable that she wants to settle down?"... "Actually, I greatly admire Vera Wang..." "SHE WANTS TO SETTLE DOWN, EVERYONE! Good woman, 'Cinta, have a lollipop."

Now I duck out of the way whenever I see the director of the local resource centre. For fear he'd cajole me into that sinister philanthropy - once you're in, you're in for LIFE. Community work is like HEROIN, dammit.

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BY THE WAY... the nominations for the Irish Blog Awards on March de 3rd are open. If you're one of the Arse End readers who didn't send me a bit of Christmas cake, then now's your chance to beat those who did over the head with a blunt instrument. I don't like Christmas cake.

But seriously. Lend a hand, guv.