Yup, Uncle Buck is Now a Parenting Style
Once Again the "Experts" Are Weighing in Again
The internet is abuzz with the scientific discovery of a new classification of parent: a Type C.
This disclosure adds to the existing parenting taxonomy, creatively named Type A (uber-structured) and Type B (uber laid-back). Type C is apparently in the middle. According to my research, all parent Types belong to the species Homo Parentus, which traditionally evolves quickly into Homo Exhaustus, then Homo Regrettus and finally Homo Godhelpus.
What remains unclear, however, is how these new Type C parents were identified and who made the breakthrough. Perhaps it was cultural archeologists looking to secure tenure. Or maybe it was DOGE. Those techbros hack your annual grocery basket, therapy bill, wifi load, streaming selections, multiply that by PTA attendance and presto, you’re a Type C.
I’ve summarized the Types less scientifically here:
News of the discovery has relieved those parents cataloged as Type C, who “never quite fit into” A or B and clearly prefer an Uncle Buck portrayal to Nurse Ratched or The Dude.
Which only leaves us with two issues, scientifically speaking. First, we parents should probably resist being classified like Hepatitis variants. Second, and more importantly, I think the whole Type concept may be, well, wrong.
Because anyone who’s been on the parenting roller-coaster for more than a long weekend understands that survival is about the mix. My teen daughter, M, needs some Uncle Buck, occasional short sharp exposure to Nurse Ratched and regular helpings of The Dude.
But to be honest, even three Types are too few to get me through an average Thursday: M banged her head hard on her bookshelf and then asked me if her hair got messed up, spent 5 minutes trying to pick up a tissue packet with the suction cup on her phone, and, following a teary session before a math final, asked me if she “gives off a ballerina vibe” (she’s never taken ballet). She blew a kiss to herself in the hallway mirror before she left for school, referred to herself in the third person in afternoon texts, and halfway through the evening’s Eurovision Song Contest she scolded one of the contestants, an opera singer, telling him to “just sing normal, amigo”.
Clearly, I need a bigger boat.
On top of A, B, and C, M needs periodic help from Type D’s Kevin and a sporadic dollop of Type E’s Ethan Hunt, especially before exams and soccer matches. And obviously, I only use Type F when someone swings by to pick her up on a date.
At least this range gives me the arsenal I need to be what M needs when she needs it. That, of course, depends heavily on how many days she “forgot” to shower, who pantsed her on the camping trip, and whether she agrees that hate is a strong word for chemistry seeing as how, with the exception of chemists and terrorists, it’s useless for everyone who isn’t in high school.
Maybe we can just agree that encouraging your kids to eat broccoli and discouraging them from eating mu’shrooms might require different “Types”.
Read more here: Hey Dads, Hope You’re Ready for Bras with Nipples or Kids Are Being Advised to ‘Be Yourself’. Have You Met My Daughter?
My Polish friend Stefan says that he used to challenge his daughter's girlfriends to a bare-chested wrestling match in the garden, while slathered in olive oil. What Type does that make him?
I would say I am between B- and a C+, if you stick with these categories. And I would definitely love to rent a type F for these special occasions which seem to occur quite often with a teenager :-) ... Fun read!!!