My nephew is now six months old, and I'm finding it impossible to be objective about him. Of course, I planned not to project characteristics onto him, not to extrapolate from imperfect people new and perfected traits. I found this infuriating when I was growing up: my brother was labelled the scientific one while I was the creative one. I felt outraged that we would be reduced in this way, especially as it was because – of course – each us was following in an Uncle So and So's footsteps. Still, my nephew does have a cheeky smile, which obviously bodes cheekiness (just like his dad) in later life.

He's also got a firm left-hand grip, which means he must be left handed, which means he'll be artistic and musical, and probably write his first novel while he's in his twenties – just like his uncle wanted to. In fact, he can do it instead of me.

And that's it. However hard we try not to project ideas, characteristics and futures onto our children, children are in some sense there to atone for our mistakes and to be better versions of us. We think that they are clean slates, and we bring them up determined not to repeat our parents' errors – because if we don't then they will be better people than us. It's all about us and our own dreams. If we can't manage to fulfil them, perhaps our better, more perfect, children can. But the problem is, each child wants to be their own person, and rebels against being pigeonholed, just as we did.

Perhaps the safest way to bring up children – to ensure a certain awareness of our dubious parental motives – is to always keep in mind Philip Larkin's words:

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

Well, that's if you've already disregarded the last line of the poem.

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