203. ...no notice, no explanation, no handshake or carriage clock.

(morning thinking)

I’m moving through a treacle slow redundancy.

I’ve speed walked out on a few jobs without giving notice, or even telling anyone I wasn’t coming back. I had a call center sales job where up-selling pensioners who didn't want or need the latest flagship phone or maxed out contract package, felt borderline abusive. I left for lunch on the Wednesday of my second week, stopped briefly at Greggs the bakers, and then just kept on walking.

I’ve been sacked from a few jobs. A Pancake Place assistant manager told me I was the worst waiter they'd ever employed. Which sucked because my smiling ineptitude and polite apologies made me popular with the elderly clientele and I was taking decent tips.

I’ve been made officially redundant once. I worked for a very dear friend and his business, in a slow period, couldn't sustain my generous salary. Discussing my departure was painful and emotionally wrought, both of us cried.

None of those experiences prepared me for the slow dismissal I’m currently geting from the best job I’ve ever had. My son and his friends are phasing me out.

I used to be a cool dad, or “friend’s cool dad” to a whole gang of kids. In an unparalleled moment of awesome one of them once called me “stunt dad”. I was the one who skateboarded, mountain biked and surfed with them. I was strict on knife discipline, built fires and dug epic pits on the beach. I helped make hilarious videos, joined in the daftness. I had a role. A function. I was invited, even if only loosely, into their nonsense skibidi world. And now? I'm surplus to requirements. An ignorable irrelevance. It's not an openly hostile "get out of here, old man" thing. No one's spitting at the floor in front of my feet I'm just... gently, quietly, not needed anymore. Phased out.

It’s not like being fired, where you get to feel righteous indignation at being unjustly wronged. Even though you probably did pour a bucket of water on the floor and claim the pipes had burst so you could shut the shop early and go get high in Princes Street Gardens. It’s not like quitting, where you’ve had enough of exploiting pensioners, throw off your Madonna headset, reclaim your power and grab a Gregg’s sausage roll for an exultant freedom stroll. It’s not even like formal redundancy, where you get a kind letter, garden leave and a generous payoff. This is different. This is a blunt emotional redundancy with no notice, no explanation, no handshake or carriage clock. Just a slow fade out of the frame.

The worst part is that I helped build the frame. I deliberately set out to make the world fun and supportive so they could take risks and explore it. I handed over tools and taught the kids to use them. I took them to the skatepark and encouraged their independence. And now, having contributed to their confidence and self-sufficiency they no longer gravitate to my orbit.

I know it's right. I know it's natural. But it still hurts.

It would be churlish to resent them for this. And I don't. I don't. Not really. They're doing what they're supposed to do: growing up, pulling away, forming their own world. I wouldn’t want them clinging. I wouldn't want my boy to be the kid who never steps out into his own light. Doesn’t mean I don’t miss the way it was. I feel like I’ve lost something because I have.

There’s no farewell speech for this kind of goodbye. No ritual. Just a quiet stepping aside, while they run off down a path I’m no longer innvited to follow. I'm a background character now.

And I can see that it might be a while before the next stage, before I get another decent role.

So I have this ache, an invisible pink slip from the job I loved the most, wondering quietly to myself…

Can I sue for unfair dismissal?

I showed up early, stayed late, dished out snacks, provided a taxi service, learned memes. I overcame my halfpipe fear and learnt to drop in on a scooter! I worked hard to get over my scooter disdain. Still I got quietly replaced by bluetooth headphones (THAT I BOUGHT!) and boys who grunt. No notice, no consultation, not even a thank-you.

One minute I was a cool dad, the next I’m a background blur they occasionally step around. It’s not cruelty, just the slow, silent bureaucracy of growing up, but it feels like ageist restructuring all the same. I probably can’t take them to tribunal but I can at least file a grievance with the Substack arbitration board.

Thanks for reading. I'm good now.

---

I think i probably just need to step back and wait in the shadows in case I’m needed but if you have any advice I’d take it.

If you know anyone with pre-teen kids who might be feeling the same way as me please pass this post on. Maybe we’ll connect and form a support group.

Subscribes and Likes are the only thing keeping me afloat. Without some substack validation I’ll slip under this ignored-by-tweens quicksand. Actually, does anyone want to start a band called Ignored BY Tweens? I have some free time opening up.

Thanks for reading. It’s just you and me now. DON’T LEAVE ME!

Paul
(needy dad of a tween)