You can look at parenting in two ways. There’s this way. And then there’s that way. One’s a picture book of butterflies and giggles and puppy dog tails, all filmed in slo-mo soft focus. The other is a whirlwind of decibels and tantrums and counting to ten. The whole experience is a mindset of contradiction and compromise and inconsequential battles for the moral high ground. No wonder the worst of the enfant terrible turn to politics for a crust.

We enter parenthood having absorbed the lessons of friends and family, picking up tips and pointers along the way, determined not to travel the same path. Nope, we quietly insist, we’ll do it our way. The proper way. And that’s just fine, until the cooey GaGas and Mamas evolve into a more pithy spirit of language, imbued with unforseen linguistic hurdles and blocking tactics. Like “No” and “Why” and “Cat hit me”. So let’s be honest about it. Most new parents are about as effective at childhood diplomacy as Italian bakers in a menagerie. Inevitably it spirals into a melting pot of bribery and bun throwing just to keep the peace. When in Rome…

But there are of course some golden rules which are never to be broken. The ones you set down during pregnancy and in the first quiet days of the little one’s life. I had three. I say had. Only two of the rules remain intact. They’re bound to tumble before long. The first crumbled nearly a year ago. In fact, another is showing significant cracks. It will take a family move to the plains of the Serengeti to keep the other in play.

They’re simple rules really. Nothing too adventurous and really quite acceptable in my book. What are they? They’re this:

Rule One: bedtime is at 7pm. Mummy and Daddy need time to consume a senses-dulling Chateau Neuf de Pape each night before passing out. Reading bedtime stories as the little hand closes in on Number Eight is a no-no.

Rule Two: no spider-man outfits. Allowing a 3 year-old boy to think he can inherit gravity-defying powers by donning an ill-fitting polyester cat suit with web jets sends the wrong message in my book. Anyway, it looks utterly ridiculous. And if you think I’m simply being mean and shallow, tell me honestly how many teenagers are going to thank you for dressing them up like a super-hero stick insect when they didn’t know better. It’s embarrassing.

Rule Three: No Wiggles. As far as I was concerned, Postman Pat, Bob the Builder, Thomas the Tank Engine and Trumpton (Google it) are quite adequate and do not involve four aging men dancing with giant toys called Dorothy the Dinosaur, Wags the Dog and Henry the Octopus. More’s the point, The Wiggles write songs that are so infectious that they ruin your sleep pattern as you wake up at some ungodly hour singing, “Fruit Salad, Yummy Yummy”

All of which I reminded myself of on the eve of Christmas past when Humbug Rumsby et al took their seats at The Wiggles concert in Sydney. I had caved again.

Going to a Wiggles concert is a logistical nightmare and a parental nemesis. Everything you (read, I) ever thought about children get-togethers was sunk in a sea of colour and excitement and one-upmanship. Some twenty thousand kids under the age of 6 caused gridlock in Sydney CBD at 10 o’clock that morning. The police would have coped better with the Second Coming.

Cars came to an abrupt halt as children dragged dumbstruck parents across roads and footpaths to get to the Arena. Music played from the bushes and stray balloons peppered the summer blue sky. The only thing that could quell the masses was the prospect of mid-morning tea, something that most Mums and Dads began to copycat in quick succession, dragging melted biscuits and sticky drinks from redundant Captain FeatherSword rucksacks.

Of course, with the excitement of it all, that was like feeding scrambled eggs to a bulimic hippo. Shortly before the final bell went, kids were belching like billeo before charging off to spoil some unsuspecting tourist’s breakfast with a mouth full of fresh toothpaste and raw guff.

The Wiggles are a phenomenon. Street buskers 15 years ago, Australia’s largest grossing entertainers in 2007 and world record holders for DVD sales to this day. Eat your heart out Kylie. And yet they continue to perform three shows a day during peak season and spend much of their year touring the US and Asia. Their work ethic is legendary.

For those who have no idea who the Wiggles are, I suggest the following. Take your three favourite popstars, add your five favourite filmstars, put them in a band and send them out on tour. I guarantee you they would fail to create the wow and wonder and spectacle that greets The Wiggles when they hit the stage. The reaction is extraordinary. And that’s not just the children.

There’s a rather awkward condition known as Stendhal’s syndrome. If you ever watch a newcomer from Illinois or Wisconsin step into the Uffizi or the Louvre for the very first time, you’ll know what it is: a complete loss of emotional stamina in the face of cultural overload. Sobbing. Endless sobbing and hugging and Lordy-Lordy, o-Mys, Honey it’s just like the History Channel. It’s really rather disturbing.

Shamed that I am, I got side-swiped by a corner of the Stendhal baton when The Wiggles began to get into their stride. It was the most unexpected reaction of all. All tingly in the chest as my oldest, Will, (3) jumped up and down and sang and whooped and hollered and kept looking sideways to ensure Mummy and Daddy were OK.

But Mummy and Daddy weren’t OK. You see, they were completely bowled over by the weight of happiness that filled the place and couldn’t stop smiling like teenage sweethearts. If you thought the first airing of the Cars’ “Drive” video at Band Aid was a tear-jerker, you’ve seen nothing. Hell, even Wham!’s last concert couldn’t top this. To be witness to a child’s unbridled excitement and enthusiasm and happiness is to see what parenting is really all about. Fun, fun, fun with no caveats.

Of course The Wiggles can wear a little thin. How many times can you sing Rock-a-by-Your Bear (with all the actions) without beginning to loose your sanity? But they are the epitome of children’s entertainment and, I have to say, a lot more engaging that Mary, Mungo and Midge ever were. There’s no denying it, Christmas 07 was a Wiggly Christmas at the Rumsby’s. I’m now hoping that Spiderman IV is not scheduled for release in December 08.