Dawkins, meet 4chan

When Richard Dawkins first coined the word “meme”, he described it as “an idea, behavior or style that spreads from person to person within a culture.” The mental equivalent of a gene, it is something we pass from parent to child, though the mental rather than physical nature of the meme allows it to be passed from any person to any other person regardless of their parentage.

Of course, the internet has taken that word and twisted it somewhat, using “meme” to refer to viral pictures and video, things we might once have called “image macros”. A meme in the colloquial sense doesn’t seem to have much in common with a gene anymore.

But whenever my four-year-old son describes something as “epic”, or wants to see “the one with the cat that’s a Pop Tart in space”, or runs up to me and breathlessly informs me that “Daddy, daddy, there was a cat… and it was playing the keyboard!“, I begin to suspect that there isn’t that much of a difference after all. I have passed on to my son my eyes, my nose, the curl of my toes, and a thousand obscure pop-culture references that he has picked up on and gleefully spreads to others despite having no context for them whatsoever.

Failure to Organise

My parents were, if nothing else, organised at all times. I don’t recall at any point realising that they had no idea what was going on, or that they weren’t absolutely in charge of what we did. In contrast, Eric and I muddle through day-to-day, just about keeping it together — sometimes we forget to brush Joseph’s teeth, or can’t be bothered to wash up, or leave the laundry sitting in the washing machine for a bit too long.

Which is why the fact that Joseph is starting pre-school next week is all the more scary. We’re used to a life where, assuming it’s not a work day, what we do just doesn’t matter. If Joseph doesn’t wake up until 9am, no problem! If we can’t be bothered to get dressed before lunchtime, nobody cares!

But as of next week, Joseph has to be places. Regularly, on time, washed and breakfasted and bussed across town by the same time, three days a week. And picked up at a certain time, no matter what else might be happening. It’s a wee bit scary.

I wonder if having a school-age child will suddenly grant us powers of organisation — but I doubt it. I once hoped that having a child at all would do that, and clearly it hasn’t.

Hopefully being a disorganised parent is okay, because I don’t seem likely to turn into my parents anytime soon.