A single parent with double trouble

It's a Dad's Life/Adam Brophy: I am a single parent. Only for four days, but it feels like weeks. The Missus took off last weekend for her cousin's wedding in Rome.

We were all invited but, for some reason, we decided that it would make sense for me to stay home with the girls. While my wife is sipping spumante, I am changing nappies; while my wife is nibbling linguine with roasted pumpkin and avocado pesto, I am still changing nappies.

Incidentally, let this be a warning to all of you opting for the "private" wedding option abroad. This couple decided that autumn in Rome, romance and Cornettos, would be a sumptuous backdrop to their nuptials. And, I'm sure it was. The kicker came when everybody who received an invite decided to go (except nappy-changing me) and the "cosy gathering" turned into a party for 120. My in-laws will crawl naked over shards of glass for a party.

I had no worries. "Yeah," I said, "take off, enjoy yourself. Sure the kids practically mind themselves these days, maybe they'll make me dinner." I am some imbecile.

That was Sunday morning. By Monday afternoon I was on a ring-around for assistance. My nails were shredded, I was ratty.

We got to the park with my buddy and his nippers which eased the pain, but it ended in tears over a standoff on jumping into puddles and wiping muddy shoes on Dad's legs. Our chain of command was blurred, instructions were not hard and fast, objections were raised, mud landed on trousers. We went home to a cacophony of caterwauling.

Minding them isn't hard but it is relentless. With two adults and two children, it's a man-on-man marking game, but when you're by yourself you have to go for the blanket defence.

The Missus and I have our roles clearly defined, the problem is we don't acknowledge that the other is carrying half the load. So, when one goes away, we expect to be able to manage without a whole lot of extra input. In general, I look after food, bottles and bed, while she has total control of laundry and hygiene. She's been gone three days: we have no clean clothes and the monsters look like grubby orphans from Oliver Twist.

With two of us here, one can come up for air. When the demands for treats, toys, attention and/or consoling reach fever pitch we walk away and the other picks up the slack. It is that inability to leave the scene and catch my breath that has me in a state of nervous exhaustion.

They are normal, active rugrats. They love to play and chase, and the sound of them having a good time is one of the most heartening noises any parent can hear. But they are five and one, and the good times are constantly interspersed with bangs on heads, trips down stairs, and an unfailing desire to push large objects into small spaces. When the laws of physics exert their presence, the younger in particular takes it personally. Cue roars and gnashing of teeth.

By now, on the last day, I am beginning to find my feet. When one job is done I don't immediately settle smugly into the couch, remote in hand, instead I think about what I need to do next. I think I was a boy scout once, for a day or two. I am learning the virtues of preparation, learning to prioritise and re-learning that the top priority is enjoying my time with my children.

So what if the living room looks like it has been fire-bombed, we're reading stories upstairs.

So what if I'm tired, they won't be this age for long.

But come back Missus, we all realise now you do more than wash the clothes. You keep us clean too.

abrophy@irish-times.ie