I am suffering from an acute identity crisis. I am no longer a person in my own right. Instead I have become an appendage of my children. I first noticed this years ago when I was with Freya and Shaman at a toddlers' playgroup.

The woman who was in charge of the sessions, despite having seen me there for nearly three hours a week for over six months, still called me 'Shaman's Dad'.

One of the other mothers heard her call me this. 'Allan has a name,' she said with mock indignation.

'Yeah, but that doesn't matter' the woman flippantly replied. 'Here the only thing that counts is that he is Shaman's dad. Anyway, you can't expect me to memorise the names of all the children and their parents.'

Knowing this woman's slightly caustic sense of humour and the fact that I regularly think of people as so-and-so's mum or dad, I didn't even give this any more thought.

Lately, however, I've begun to notice just how widespread this subtle erosion of who I am really is.

It hit me with full force one morning after I took the children to school.

On the way back home I passed by one of Freya's classmates, who was late for school.

'Good morning,' I said cheerfully to her.

'Good morning Freya's daddy,' came her identity-eroding reply.

Later that afternoon when I went to get the children I walked by another girl and her mother.

'Look,' the mother said as she smiled down at her daughter. 'There's Shaman's dad.'

It's even become so bad that on those few occasions when I've been let out of the house to roam the streets on my own, it feels like something is missing. It seems so unnatural not having to harden my demeanour before going into a shop and yank a little arm along.

Not having to say 'no you cannot get a treat in here' -- or worse, feeling guilty because I went inside and actually bought myself a chocolate bar, knowing I wouldn't have done so if the children had been with me.

No whining, cajoling, begging or pleading. No having to justify any detours or changes in direction. Free to wander aimlessly about town.

Once I even caught myself patiently waiting for the green man at a traffic light before I crossed an empty street. The young rebel turned into a sad old conformist dad.

My children have fused themselves into my identity. I no longer feel like a person in my own right.

If I'm out alone and a child yells out 'daddy,' I instinctively turn my head. My kids now even have starring roles in my nightly dreams.

This doesn't give me much hope for the future.

What am I going to do when my children finally leave home?

Will I start acting like those middle-aged women who walk around the supermarket with a vacant look in their eyes?

Hesitantly picking up two or three apples, half a dozen eggs, and one very small carton of milk - while fighting the urge to fill my shopping trolley to the brim.

Will I constantly pester my unmarried children by asking them when they are going to get married?

And then when they do, push them even further away from me by repeatedly asking them when my grandchildren will finally arrive.

Of course, it might not be quite so bad.

Some years ago I remember reading a letter to the editor of a magazine about a story it had run dealing with the issue of abortion and when life really begins.

The writer firmly stated their grandmother's belief that life begins when the kids leave home and the dog dies.