A DAD'S LIFE:If they are not being entertained, they want something, writes ADAM BROPHY
WE HAVE a nice little deal going with another family. One day a week after school, their kids come to ours, another day, ours go to theirs. One full day gets freed up, and on the day they’re all here I close my eyes and presume they’ll look after each other without getting too Lord of the Flies.
The mechanics of the arrangement are easy. It makes sense, saves time and money, and, because they all get along, they’re chuffed to have the company. When they’re happy, I’m happy, not least because the begging stops for a few minutes.
I don’t know if all kids are like this but mine have grown up with the idea that if they are not being entertained at any given moment, they are entitled to something. Anything. If, for example, I turn up at the school to collect the elder and she doesn’t have a mate returning with her, or isn’t being brought to an extra-curricular activity, I must therefore owe her.
“You mean we’re just going home?” Yes. “Just me and you?” Yes. This is usually followed by contortion of the features as she pulls herself into the back seat and mulls over the options. “Okay, we can stop at the coffee shop and I’ll have a hot chocolate. You can have a cappuccino.”
She has learnt two things from the master, her mother. The first is that when requesting something, insert the request in the form of a statement. If in any way fatigued or uncertain, the potential instigator of said request may just carry on as if following orders. I have been known to do this. Regularly. To my cost.
The second is to always include an upside for the instigator. In this case, I get to buy myself a cappuccino. She presumes I will clutch at this with a whoop. Again, I have been known to do this, usually as my pockets are being emptied.
However, she has not yet learnt the finesse of the master. The statement must be uttered with certainty and solemnity, so that the instigator feels they are being done a favour. Also, the hook, the cappuccino, must be mentioned before the prize, the hot chocolate, and not after. When mentioned after, even an idiot can see they are being baited. Most of the time.
On days that I pick up the kids by myself and bring them home unaccompanied, the missus has to provide a pep talk before I leave the house. Don’t give in, she warns, no matter what they say. I attempt to drive straight home but they work me. They bribe me with promises made on my own money and goodwill. They point out all the wonderful scenarios in which we can indulge rather than just going back to our mundane lives. Sometimes, I make it unscathed, more often I cave. They say you can’t buy love, but you might as well give it a lash.
Which all takes me away rather from my point which is related to having other people’s children in your house on a regular basis, not parties or social visits, when you are assumed to be in loco parentis. You are supposed to ensure their safety, enforce discipline and manage kiddy day-to-day activities: feeding, the completion of homework, etc.
All fine. Other people’s kids tend to do the things I ask them to do, which makes a pleasant change. I say, “Sit down.” They sit down. “Eat that.” They eat it. It’s rather novel. I only just managed to halt my testing how far this unusual obedience could be pushed as one child approached a socket with a fork in her hand.
The younger these visiting kids are, the quicker they rumble me. The six year old has started to pay me no mind, breezily continuing with her artwork derived from my shaving foam and shampoo as I admonish to the wind while, after three months, her 10-year-old brother will still bring his dishes to the sink on request.
I can live with that. What worries me is people beyond the family seeing me for what I am. These kids float around on a regular basis, so regular I occasionally forget my mask of humanity and they get a view of the beast my kids are familiar with. I’ll bark and scratch and fart and not keep up the genial dad routine that we all mimic when other kids appear.
They will go home and tell their parents about the pig. The grump. The slovenly, deranged lump that shuffles around inside the carcass I present as normal to the world.
Is this worth the free few hours the trade offers up? As long as no pictures are posted, why not?