The trouble with all of the parenting books I own is that they were written for a world that no longer exists. And this world is changing so quickly that I barely developed a taste for strawberry matcha frappes before pistachio took over, so there’s no point in buying this year’s parenting books either. Imagine if I hosted a playdate and made berry-flavoured grass babycinos instead of the Dubai garbage everyone wants now? What if I handed out iPads instead of Meta glasses? According to Miss 11, six-seven is soooo 2025, and the new number is 14. I can’t keep up.

No, what we need is up-to-date information that is recalibrated hourly. Forget 'What to Expect When You’re Expecting'. I need 'What to Expect When Your Child Suddenly Announces That Side Parts, Emoji Laughing Faces and Skinny Jeans Are Signs of Cognitive Decline'. I need push notifications. Government alerts. A warning siren that sounds whenever the youths collectively decide something formerly acceptable is now deeply embarrassing.

Because apparently things can become cringeworthy in under six hours. One minute the girls are begging for Stanley cups and the next they’re rolling their eyes because “only Year Sevens” still carry them. I bought expensive skincare after hearing that every tween in Australia suddenly needed a twelve-step anti-ageing routine despite still possessing the collagen levels of newborn dolphins, only to discover we’ve already moved on to “clean girl makeup” which, from what I can tell, is just looking naturally pretty while your mother quietly transfers money from her savings account.

Even language is unstable. Last month everything was “slay”. Then it was “ate”. Now the kids just stare at each other and say “actually…” before delivering a devastating insult in complete emotional monotone. It’s like living with tiny performance artists who are always conscious of the fact someone might be recording a TikTok reel.

I thought I’d raise kids away from screens, and I spent the first nine or so years of parenting doing that rather triumphantly. My girls had a focused mud kitchen, nature craft area, and I spent nights reading them Mem Fox and Judy Blume classics. And all that achieved was children who were disjointed from their peers socially, technically impaired, and they once dug up all of my spring seedlings to adorn their mud pies with.

So I passed the baton onto YouTube, and I’m stepping into my role of financially supporting whatever the latest trend is so they can fit in. Our fun, dinosaur-print bento boxes have been replaced with an eco-tray made from recycled plastics that contains a heating element so that their bone broth is kept warm and their pistachio date balls are kept perfectly chilled.

I caved and let Miss 17 take a laptop to school each day because all the parenting books told me not to allow her to isolate herself with a screen and to never allow them to use screens without parental supervision, but all the other kids have a laptop and “mum, you’re the worst”. Unfortunately, the laptop she has is last year’s MacBook, and the shame she feels each day as she uses all of her breathing techniques to gather the emotional strength required to pull it out of her Frank Green backpack is tremendously harmful to her self-worth. You are so brave, my precious girl.

The only upside I can see from stepping away from the information overload that is parenting advice, is that nobody tells me how wrong I am (other than my children, but honestly I’ve seen the fringes they cut for themselves, and so I’m not taking criticism from them anymore). Miss 11 saw the dentist at school yesterday, who told the students that they should only eat junk food once per month, and their dinners should only consist of vegetables, grains, and protein. This was the same day we went straight from work to parent-teacher interviews at Miss 17’s school and didn’t get home until 6.45pm and immediately ordered pizza.

Great advice from the dentist. Not always practical in the world we live in.

And so, I’d settle for 'What to Expect When You Both Work Full-Time, Raise Children Without Any Family Help, Stifle Your Laughter When Your 11-Year-Old Cuts Herself Bangs After Watching YouTube and You Serve the Wrong Coffee at Playdates, But Honestly, You’re Doing Great'. I’d buy that.