Vote for your children!

Rowan Clarke - 16 Jun 16

I remember the first time I voted like I remember a lot of things BC (Before Children); with gay abandon and general giddiness. In my memory the sun was shining, and we were all listening to Brit Pop. New Labour danced into Government to D-Ream on a red London bus, and we were the future.

It’s a bit different now. Far from thrill at putting my X in a box, I now eye other voters with suspicion, feeling anxious that not only could my political views not be represented, but also that my children’s future hinges on the choices being made in church halls across the UK.

The European Referendum is quite possibly the most nerve-wracking yet. Sensible reason seems to have given leave to some kind of jingoistic agenda led by power-hungry baddies from Scooby Doo, stirred up by a media that cites the presence of British potholes and a rather nice Greek bridge as evidence of EU injustice. It feels like we’re on a precipice and our children are the ones staring into the chasm.

It scares me. Not because I might have to pay more taxes, or get screwed over on my pension, but because it affects how my children will learn, work and live. This decision really matters to them. Becoming a parent gives voting a kind of raw, desperate edge, because we’re deciding their future.

Being scared for our children is a given. On some basic, biological level, we’re programmed to look out for danger to ensure their survival. But when that danger is perceived, abstract and existential, it’s a lot harder to get your head round. In the midst of baby fog, school runs or a nasty outbreak of D&V, you couldn’t be blamed for reacting as though a bear was breaking into your cave, and going into hiding.

Or by going into fight mode. I’m pretty sure the hairs on the back of my neck have literally stood up in reaction to opposing opinion. If I had a tail, it would have puffed up to show what a big, strong tiger mum I am. I’m slightly alarmed that I nearly shouted “xenophobe” at an old man tending his roses because he had a ‘leave’ banner in his garden, such is my rage.

That’s how I feel. I either want to gather up my offspring, and watch Big Hero 6 on the sofa under a blanket pretending nothing’s happening, or go round raging at people. I also kind of wish there wasn’t a vote. In much the same way as I let a financial adviser tell us which mortgage to get, I want the politicians and financial experts to just do what’s in our best interests.

It’s how I feel about much of being a parent. Like when one of my babies projectile vomited in my car, or when my eldest zipped his foreskin into his onesie, I wished there was a proper adult present so I could continue to be carefree. On the other hand, there was the time I ran up the slide at soft play to tell off the big boy who pinched my toddler, or the woman I scolded on the bus for tutting at my ostentatious breastfeeding.

But this is decision that can’t be unzipped or wiped up with Dettol. If we vote to leave the EU and it’s an economical, financial and cultural disaster, I can’t see how it’ll be rectified. The adults to whom we turned as children are among those wanting out, viewing British life as rose-tinted days of garden parties and football victories. Plus, they can’t be scolded.

That means it’s up to us. We need to be brave and step up to vote for the sake of our children. Behind my vote, are three little votes, and that’s why I’ll be at the polling station next Thursday. There won’t be a single drop of gay abandon in my actions, I’m telling you. But it has to be done.

After my first vote in 1997, I did an EU-subsidised University course on a campus built with EU money in a county recognised as one of the most impoverished in Europe. That’s the kind of future I want for my children, and I’m ready to fight for it. So I suppose while it’s less fun, voting certainly has more purpose.

And while I intended this blog to be about the importance of voting when you’re a parent, rather than my own political leaning, I do hope that after Thursday they’ll pull off Boris Johnson’s mask and he’ll say “and I would’ve gotten away with it if hadn’t been for you meddling kids.”

Rowan Clarke

In order of appearance my accomplishments are: woman, copywriter, mother, swimming teacher, open water swimmer, blogger. My blog is about the physical, practical and psychological aspects of taking up endurance swimming as a mid-thirties female with children. Rowan Clarke is an open-water-mother living near Bristol with her husband and three children Rufus (10), Betty (8) and Caspar (4).

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