David O'Mahony: You know you're old when your daughter calls the 1980s 'the olden days'

I don’t think I had my daughter's level of confidence at seven. I don’t think I even have that level of confidence now

Recently, my daughter came home from taekwondo practice telling me they were going to start practising sparring soon. I explained it would be a bit more like practice fighting. This did not faze her. File picture

Few things will humble you like having a child.

Humble and, frankly, age you. Particularly daughters, which we will get to in a sec. Spoiler alert: I’m not actually complaining.

Now, to be fair, getting older is part of the territory. It’s in the contract when you come into the world, likely screaming as some spark within you realises what fresh horrors await. 

Maybe some prescient part of you has caught a glimpse of that hairstyle you’ll have in your 20s — you know the one, don’t pretend you don’t — or maybe baby you noticed you’re of Cork stock born in Dublin. For some, that’s generational trauma. For others, a business opportunity.

A certain acceleration to ageing comes with the parenting contract, although it’s deep down in the fine print and you might think to yourself, it’s alright, it doesn’t apply to me anyway. Sure that only happens to other people.

And then one of your sons, around the age of seven (now 12), asks something like “how did you get around in your day, were there, like, horses and stuff?” I mean, I recall using my feet an awful lot. I can also legitimately go back to where I grew up and say “I remember when all this was just fields”, like some relic from antiquity, but we got by.

And then your daughter starts referring to the 1980s as “the olden days”.

And then she asks: “Did you have electricity in the olden days?”. And then she says things to her brother like: “I don’t know how to change my password. How old do you think I am - 87?” Quickly followed with: “Daddy, do you know how to change a password?” 

I’d like to think it was because I was, as an allegedly grown-up adult, supposed to know such esoterica. Still, you wound me, madam. But do not speak to me of the deep magic. I was there when it was written. Or programmed. You get the point.

Her savageness shows no signs of relenting soon (why would I want that, anyway?).

My daughter's taekwondo

Recently, she came home from taekwondo practice telling me they were going to start practising sparring soon. 

She’d done a little before, with their old coach before he retired, but that was mostly mat wrestling so that’s what she knows it as. You will be shocked to learn she was quite good at winning.

This time, though, it will be a bit more disciplined. 

She didn’t quite recognise the word: I explained it would be a bit more like practice fighting.

This did not faze her. Instead, she wanted to know if, after she’d practised sparring, she would go “to fight in the octagon”. 

She’d probably win, too. Or at least go down swinging.

Did I tell you she’s seven? Though she be but little, she is fierce.

Now, just to be clear, she hasn’t seen any mixed martial arts fights and only knows about it from a couple of television shows. 

I was just marvelling at the absolute, dead certainty she had that she was going to level up, not at some remote point in the distant future, but imminently. 

There was no sense whatsoever that she was expecting, or even prepared, to wait beyond a couple of practice fights.

I don’t think I had that level of confidence at seven. I don’t think I even have that level of confidence now, when I’m … a bit older than seven.

And then there was the time she jumped out of the pool after a swimming lesson and, with the tiny philosophical head on her, asked: “Daddy, if God created everything, who created God?” 

It was one of those moments when you look around for an adult to give the answer and realise that, dammit, you’re the adult and it’s all up to you now.

I feel older right now than when I started writing this column, let me tell you. But life does that, and you adapt, and endure.

Rejigging our extension

We’re also at the planning stages of reconfiguring our extension, which was built originally as a playroom and was completed weeks before the covid lockdowns began. 

It’s still mostly a playroom, though one of our sons, who is autistic and prefers his own space, colonised what’s officially the living room, so the three smaller people in our house aren’t in the same area as we’d anticipated.

The small people are growing up, and maturing in their interests, and Beloved Wife is belovedly right in that we need a proper living room-type space in addition to a child-focused area. 

Although I do remind my three kids, from time to time, that they shouldn’t feel rushed to grow up. 

As it is, one of my sons has waded gaming, computing, and the like at the same age I did, so all we need now is for him to discover punk and metal and the circle will be complete. 

Quite what we’ll do if Daughter decides she needs an inhouse dojo or dance studio, I’m not so sure. We’ll burn that bridge when we come to it.

Actually, Daughter will probably break it down with a flying jump kick quickly followed by a pirouette. And do you know what? That’s okay too.

• David O’Mahony is the Irish Examiner’s assistant editor, a short story writer, and a novelist