A DAD'S LIFE:Fears begin to mount as we realise what day tomorrow is, writes ADAM BROPHY
SUNDAYS. HOMEWORK undone. Glenroe and the school fear. Move on a few years. Hung over and the work fear. A few more. A drink would be a fine thing, long walks in park to “get them out” and burn up some energy. Combination of their school fear and your work fear. Sundays.
The papers are bought and partly read. Rashers, eggs, coffee fermenting their way through system. It feels like home, a partial glimpse of a previous life, but the first squalls have descended, the first bump of fist on flesh and accusations made. Time is of the essence. Before Sunday can turn into a solitary WWF cage match, plans must be made.
Today, I’m extravagant. “Who wants to go swimming?” Yay. “Then back here for lunch. With cakes.” Yay. “And after, we’ll drive to Mahon Point, popcorn, movie. Dinner in Mackers?” Oh Yay. I am the man. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: there’s nothing wrong with buying a little love.
Even before the smiles have dissolved in anticipation there is some furore. I should have researched the movie in advance and announced it rather than just “cinema”. You can’t leave a window for discrepancy. “I want Wimpy Kid 2,” says the elder. “No,” counters the younger, “Rio!”
It’s obvious either child would go to either movie, but the dispute is now in motion. The younger is more easily distracted and bought into compromise with the promise of jellies. Now to move them to the pool before further decisions can be happened upon. Even with a minor kerfuffle due to goggle envy, we move to having bags packed at a smoothish pace. And then, just as Sunday bliss is about to commence, Sunday shudders rise up in the younger.
Standing with her togs visible under T-shirt and shorts, kitbag in hand, hair tied in a pool-specific pony, she shivers and slumps. “Tomorrow’s Monday. We’ve got school.” It sounds like nothing, but you know how she felt. We’ve all been there. No matter how good things are right now, tomorrow’s still Monday. It’ll always be Monday.
I resist the urge to let her know that this never goes away, that it intensifies to the pitch of a dog whistle in your late 20s before reducing to a general hubbub at some time later, mainly because it is drowned out by the endless patter of your own children. She may not get that just yet, she is after all only six. But already the sense of Monday doom is on her. I look at her and know she’s mine.
In steps the missus. At times like this her hippy credentials rise to the surface. My cynicism and sneering over the years has done little to impact on her ability to pull out a positivity cliché at short notice. Her only concession is not to warble them at me, for fear I will spontaneously vomit, but this has not paused her quest to have the kids focus on the upbeat. I can’t see the point. They’ll be teenagers soon and I for one, am looking forward to revisiting The Smiths with them. With renewed depression.
The missus takes the younger by the shoulders and looks in her eyes. Deep in her soul. Seeks out the spark of hope. I feel the mindfulness speech well up from deep inside the mother as the daughter wonders what nugget is coming. “Present moment, wonderful moment,” she whispers. Then repeats, “Present moment, wonderful moment.”
It works. The younger replies, “I have present moments at Christmas and at my birthday but now we’re going swimming and I don’t have any presents, but that’s okay because we’re going to the cinema later and that’ll be great, and Daddy said we could have popcorn and jellies and Wimpy Kid 2 looks good even though I don’t remember the first one . . . ”
She’s gabbling and gone. All hint of Monday fear removed, we’re back in the game. The missus walks away with that job-done expression on her face and I know she’s thinking if this works, soon I’ll be able to convince them that homeopathy is real medicine and you can get whatever you want by asking your angel for it.
The missus is their yin to my yang. No matter how much I poison them with pop culture, E-numbers and Calpol, she’s there reminding them to appreciate what they have at any given moment, with a tube of Arnica gel in hand. I may scoff but if this can save them from a life of Sunday fear, well I’ll accept that. I may even ask my angel to do the same for me.