Welcome to Mother’s Gonna Work it Out – a newsletter not just for mothers with children, but for everyone who cares for anyone.
On the last weekend of August, my partner and I booked a babysitter so we could go to a music festival. I was nervous, not just because we’d bought the cheap tickets for an early arrival and there was no way we would make it on time, but because this was the longest we’d be leaving Dexter with someone he didn’t know very well.
It’d been at least half a year since Oz looked after Dexter so, over lunch, I showed him the introductory video she posted on the childcare app we use. On the third watch, he side-eyed me and requested more banana and melon. I gave him both.
Oz arrived while Dexter slept. She was so excited to see him again, and ushered us gently out of the house. We sat in the taxi in silence, watching London’s suburbs melt into the Essex countryside.
No issues getting in and, before we knew it, we’d located our friend and were a good few cans of overpriced pale ale down. Our fellow festival-goers basked in the late-afternoon glow, the atmosphere buffed smooth by a glorious summer of parties.
Soon we were standing before Detroit techno titan – and ordained minister – Robert Hood, under a sky smudged with fluffy clouds. He was playing the sunset slot with his daughter, Lyric, who’s a producer and DJ in her own right. Together they’re Floorplan, and it was gospel and it was disco and it was gorgeous.
Through the thicket of raised hands I spied a girl beaming so hard I thought her face might crack. Our eyes met and she leaned over to tell me how much she loved Robert Hood, and how amazing it was that he travelled the world playing music with his daughter.
If there’s anyone I’d like to talk to about parenting, it’s Robert Hood. In an interview with Mixmag, he said this about performing with Lyric at some rowdy festivals: ‘She’s going to see lots of crazy things in this world. She’s going to see debauchery and transgression, and my role is to help her navigate through it.’
From the sight of them together in the DJ booth, him proudly applauding when she dropped one of her own productions, which he’s released on his record label, and her giving him a coy nod in return, it looks like they’ve found their language.
‘Been to many festivals this summer?’ my dancefloor friend asked, as we raised two arms each to a feisty remix of Patrice Rushen’s Haven’t You Heard.
‘No,’ I shouted back, explaining that we have an almost-two-year old, so it’s not as simple these days.
Just when I thought her expression couldn’t get more joyous, it did.
‘Oh my god, cool parents!’
She gestured to Robert and his daughter having the time of their lives.
‘If you’re happy, they’ll be happy.’
We lost each other shortly afterwards, but her words have stayed with me.
We made our way home after a blinder from Jeff Mills, another Detroit legend we both adore, to find Oz bursting with stories from her time spent with Dexter. We’d heard from her just once while we were out – she’d sent us a photo of him after his bath, with his hair combed into a side parting like a dapper gent, but that was it. We knew she’d get in touch if she needed to.
Of course there are those who can’t bear to leave their children, and I totally respect that. And for those who don’t think they should; that their role as a parent precludes certain joys from before, I’d suggest heeding the wise words of my dancefloor friend. Editing out parts of your life, rather than expanding to accommodate all the best bits, is unlikely to make anyone happy.
The following morning, Dexter slept until 10am. We’ve booked the cheap tickets for next year.