A DAD'S LIFE:The methods change when I'm in charge, writes ADAM BROPHY
THE MISSUS hates me when I say the kids are easy when she goes away. She thinks I’m showing off. I am showing off, but I’m not lying.
They are easy when she goes away, just like they’re sweet for her when I take off for a few days. When I’m in charge, the methods change. I’m not saying I’m a pushover but I had to ask the seven year old to put out her cigar last night. Smoking in bed is dangerous.
My problem is saying no. The inability to deny, or even postpone gratification, has got me in trouble all my life. If something is there to be done or tried or tasted, do it, try it, taste it. Lots of times those particular things you want to do, try and taste are bad for you, which of course makes them all the tastier.
The kids know this streak, they’ve smelt it since before they could walk and exploited it at every possible opportunity.
I used to put up some sort of pretence about fighting it, but now I relish the opportunity to say yes to nearly everything for them, note the small proviso there, when the opportunity arises.
You notice the minor shocks they get when they realise they can have whatever it was they chanced their arm into asking. Yes, if you want to sit there like a lemon and watch nine episodes of iCarly in a row while chewing down a full bag of cola cubes, you go for it.
Really, dad?
What I like most is when they realise the illicit is not all it’s cracked up to be. This happens much faster than I expect it to, most of the time. I’ll leave them playing on Moshi Monsters and munching Tayto, which is not supposed to happen on weekdays, and a few minutes later wander by to check in. They’ll have departed, more often than not with crisps left behind in the bag.
I’ll find them outside on the trampoline, back flipping with whatever bandit mates are hanging in our house on that particular day. The illicit is no fun when it’s allowed. Ask the Dutch. I get to test these scenarios with the missus away and report my findings back on her return. She doesn’t approve, but I quite enjoy the research.
My other favourite technique for single parenting is to play the inept card. At all times, in all situations. I land it on them like a bumbling Forrest Gump dad creature. The process works like this: identify potential flashpoints in advance; highlight them; adopt pained expression and wonder aloud how you will cope with such difficulty; insist that they must assume responsibility for said event as you can’t be expected to manage on your own.
This works particularly well with the force of nature younger child. She loves her bed, burrowing into the pit and refusing point blank to emerge.
Anyone who has tried to get kids to school on time recognises the bed offensive when it is deployed against them and is aware of the damage it can cause both to family harmony and any scheduling to follow.
The natural instinct, at 7.30 in the morning, after a broken night’s kip and a day of deadlines to be missed and abuse to receive on the phone in front of you, is to melt down.
It may start with a cajoling attempt to extricate her from under the covers but at this time of day, cajoling is not a default setting. Psychosis is. Demands wind up being roared to get up, get out, get dressed.
The bump under the duvet shrinks deeper into the mattress. The clock ticks by, you haven’t eaten, the other child rolls her eyes, everything on this day will be late because of this one battle of wills.
Not when I’m by myself, gumping round the house unable to melt cheese on toast or figure out the remote control. I look the offender in the eye at bedtime and tell her I’m depending on her in the morning. She’s my go-to girl and I don’t know how I’ll cope if she doesn’t show me the way. All will be lost if she does not front up.
On mornings such as this I have woken to the sound of children up, dressed and getting their own breakfast, the dishwasher emptied and lunches prepared. They feel sorry for me. I wonder am I emotionally scarring? Then I roll over for a stolen 15 minutes, but not before shouting down for a cuppa, content in the knowledge that I have proved once again I can outwit a child. It’s easy when the missus is away.