Every morning, when I put on a fresh T-shirt, you can guarantee it will be stained within the hour owing to some parenting-related endeavour.  

The stain-causing candidates are many: bodily fluids, mud from exploring in the local park, flicked food that I swear contains dad-seeking technology in every wasted morsel, scuff marks from shoes carrying weary small humans, tyre stains from lifting the buggy in and out of the car, hot-drink spillage from reacting to a red-flag incident that’s moments away from a trip to the hospital – I could go on forever. 

They used to annoy me. The stains. But not any more. Now I see them for what they are: part of my uniform.  

Because it’s easy to identify an on-shift police officer, a doctor – heck, even a parking inspector.  

And it’s easy to identify a parent: the bags under their eyes, their often overstimulated manner and their always frantic rush to make the next appointment. And of course, the stains on their clothes. 

I welcome each stain like a stamp collector acquiring the latest addition to his collection. Well, almost all of them: blueberry juice dribbling down a white T-shirt sixty seconds before a team meeting is never ideal, but you take my point.