IT'S A DAD'S LIFE:There's no sense in pacificism when it comes to household spending, writes Adam Brophy.
WE'RE FIGHTING about money. Not me and the kids; they just take it and fight about anything else. Me and the missus. I say she spends it all, she says I'm a fool.
Either way, I'm mugging Peter and pick-pocketing Paul while paying neither at the moment. And, like, the shame, like oh my God, I'm wearing last season's jeans with a so-saggy arse while she's sashaying round in some label I can't bring myself to plug.
Apparently our relationship has entered the sibling phase. I don't know if there is such a phase or if anyone else experiences something similar, but we behave with each other much as brother and sister aged 10 and 12 might. Except with slightly more cash and better vocabularies with which to insult each other.
Well, for me to insult her with, as she is stoic in her refusal to slip into childish name calling. How are you supposed to have a good row if one side won't slag back? You wind up feeling like you've just battered the Dalai Lama.
She's well capable of engaging on the sniping level, where we throw loaded barbs of blame for every injustice we feel we have suffered, ever, whether they were a result of the other's actions or lack thereof. But when I crank it up to the next logical level, disregard whatever the content of the argument is and simply spit out "You're a tosser", the arms get folded, the chin comes out, one nostril rises and the disclaimer is levied: "I will not talk to you if you start calling me names."
Grrr. What does she expect me to do? Arguing without becoming irrational and personal is pointless, presuming, as it does, that there can be some progressive outcome. I don't want progress. I want her to tell me she's sorry, that it was all her fault and that she'll never do it again. And I want to get to that point by personally abusing her. Where's the harm in that?
Going back to the root of this problem, we are not rich. We would be in some developing countries but not in Ireland. Sometimes we get to the end of the month and we have spent more than we had available at the beginning of the month.
David Copperfield tells me this is no good: "Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure nineteen six, result happiness. Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure twenty pound ought and six, result misery."
A lot of the time, therefore, we're miserable. With a little bit of perspective I realise it's not all her fault, nor is it all mine; it's obviously the kids' fault. Why do they grow so fast that they need new shoes every four days? Why don't they appreciate the fact that their vegetables are organic, grown under the loving frown of a gnarly Wicklow farmer?
Once, as the elder moved potatoes and peas around her plate, I heard my father's voice come out of my own mouth: "Eat that up, there are starving children in Africa."
Then I recognised her uncomprehending stare as my own 30 years ago and resisted the urge to hold her down and funnel the food into her throat. In fairness to her, she ate about half of what was there before pushing the plate away dramatically and demanding chocolate.
As I come to terms with the children sucking the life blood out of my wallet, I read about "Celtic cubs" uncaringly eating into their Tiger parents' savings and equity, ie, the teenage and twentysomething children of relatively successful parents living in a blasé neverland where mum and dad support their label habits, social climbing, domestic and gastronomic situations, as well as a number of overseas holidays a year. This I don't get.
Maybe it's because the teen in me has never quite gone away (resulting in the enlightened argument technique mentioned above) but I have never had any trouble feeling less than sympathetic for adolescents, and my brats will be singing for their suppers just as soon as it's legal to ship them to McDonald's.
Right now there is no choice: they must be fed and clothed, they must be educated and kept warm. It is the law and, in this case, the law is no ass. However, if you are forking out hundreds or thousands of euro for your 14-year-old to maintain her nails, fake tan and supply of Ugg boots and Juicy Couture tracksuits, you probably are.
I know my kids haven't reached that stage yet and you may think I'm not qualified to comment, but if you want to take the opposing stance in this argument I have one thing to say to you: "You're a tosser."