I am hop­ing my daugh­ter will be more Music” vir­tu­ous than The Sound Of

Sunday Herald Sun - Stellar - - Joe Hildebrand - Joe co-hosts Stu­dio 10, 8.30am week­days, on Net­work Ten.

The prob­lem with kids is that ev­ery­body once was one. I have just had a baby daugh­ter and as all the Hall­mark-card clichés fade from mem­ory, I have re­alised some­thing ter­ri­ble: sooner or later she is go­ing to grow up.

And if she grows up any­thing like I did, it’s not go­ing to be pretty.

The sad fact is I have dis­graced, de­based and hu­mil­i­ated my­self – and that’s just the stuff on national tele­vi­sion.

In my dark­ened past I have dab­bled with ev­ery drink and damsel the Good Lord saw fit to test me with. Je­sus with­stood 40 days of temp­ta­tion in the desert. I was lucky to last 40 sec­onds.

By con­trast, like most fa­thers, I ex­pect my daugh­ter to be a paragon of virtue. Com­pared to her I want Maria from The Sound Of Music to look like the girl be­hind the shel­ter sheds.

So what do I tell my sweet, wide-eyed off­spring when the in­evitable time arises? Do I tell my daugh­ter never to fall for guys like me, no mat­ter how many power bal­lads they’ve writ­ten? Do I tell my son that I too once had liq­uid hips, be­fore I set­tled into a mar­riage fu­elled only by dish­washer tablets and re­peat episodes of Grand De­signs? These are the ques­tions that keep me up at night. Well, that and the con­stant cry­ing – of­ten even from the baby. For this, as in all of life’s great ques­tions, one need only look to the stars. By which, nat­u­rally, I mean rock stars. Take, for ex­am­ple, The Rolling Stones. How do Mick and Keith teach their kids to con­cen­trate on their stud­ies and aim for a nice steady job in the law? How do they ex­plain all the sex, drugs and rock’n’roll? How do they even ex­plain Anita Pal­len­berg? I mean, sure, it’s The Rolling Stones, so most of their kids are prob­a­bly now ex­pe­ri­enc­ing their six­ties first­hand, but still it makes you won­der. Then there is that other lit­tle thing that the youth of to­day call “the in­ter­net”. Per­son­ally I don’t see a fu­ture in it, but from what I can gather it has sin­gle-hand­edly wiped out all

in­tel­lec­tual de­bate and re­placed it with need­lessly in­ti­mate pho­tos.

Granted, given the stan­dard of in­tel­lec­tual de­bate in the 1990s, this was a nat­u­ral pro­gres­sion, but we are now liv­ing in a world where it is al­most cer­tainly in­evitable that all of our wob­bly bits will end up on a server some­where.

The only con­so­la­tion there for my gen­er­a­tion is the wob­blier they get, the less likely any­one is to look at them. For the youth of to­mor­row, there is no such Dar­winian protection.

This raises the ques­tion of ge­net­ics, and of course any young per­son would have to be in­cred­i­bly stupid, crazy or drunk to ever post a nudie pic. The only prob­lem for my kids is their check­list would read as fol­lows: Tick. Tick. Tick.

So maybe we should all pro­tect our chil­dren from our sins. I’ll tell them I was a Pres­by­te­rian black­smith from the suburbs who met their mother on a ma­ture-age stu­dents’ Bi­ble camp.

Ei­ther that or I’ll con­fess all. It did work with the cops that time…

have dis­graced, de­based and hu­mil­i­ated my­self – and that’s just on TV”

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