Читать книгу Single Father, Better Dad - Mark Tucker - Страница 10

Saturday morning. My first weekend as a single father had arrived. I woke up on my own, collected the newspaper from the end of the driveway, fed the dogs, made a cup of tea and got back into bed. On a ‘normal’ Saturday I would have followed this routine with my wife and we would have talked about our plans for the weekend. She was the weekend organiser so, in reality, it would typically have been a case of her telling me what she had planned.

As I finished my cup of tea I realised that I didn’t actually have any plans. I wasn’t going anywhere on Saturday night and I didn’t have anyone dropping round over the weekend. This didn’t worry me. I am not an unduly sociable person so I thought a quiet weekend would be quite nice and would give me the chance to record some overnight Premier League soccer to watch at my convenience on Sunday. No more trying to squeeze my own interests into a busy weekend, there would be plenty of ‘me time’ I thought (rather naively as it turned out). More evidence that a good cup of tea does, in fact, make everything seem better.

I started a mental list of the things that I vaguely imagined I would need to do over the weekend.

Firstly, I had to get the girls to and from dance. That was straightforward as it had been my responsibility on most weekends.

Sophie would probably be going to a ‘gathering’ in the evening. I should briefly explain the three key forms of weekend entertainment available to twelve- to fourteen-year-olds for the benefit of those without teenage children. Apparently these are formal definitions and will shortly appear in all good dictionaries:

1 Having friends over (verb—passive): involves less than ten kids; no loud music, alcohol or making out. The preferred option of parents.

2 Gathering (noun): one step up from having friends over but one step down from a party; involves ten to twenty kids; maybe some dancing; potential for limited amounts of smuggled alcohol; opportunities for making out—but this is generally frowned upon.

3 Party (verb—active): more than thirty kids; definitely dancing; potential for officially provided alcohol; most likely making out. High stress event—a parent’s nightmare.

But, regardless of the specifics of the event, I normally did the weekend evening running around so that should be manageable as well. So far so good. My mental list got longer:

1 The lawn needed mowing. I was used to doing that every couple of weeks so I should be able to fit it in. It would require an hour or so.

2 The dogs needed to be walked. They hadn’t been exercised all week so it had to be done. This used to be a shared responsibility, which was now exclusively mine, and would require around forty-five minutes.

3 I would need to make dinner. Not sure exactly what that involved as it wasn’t my domain. I decided to allow thirty to forty five minutes for cooking and cleaning up.

4 Making dinner meant getting some food. I dimly recalled that my wife used to go to the fruit shop during the week. This was completely new territory for me, but I would need to fit it in today because I was short of fruit and veg. Then probably a stop at the butcher to get some meat. Again, not too bad, as they were both just up the road so I could probably manage that in between the afternoon dance runs.

5 Mustn’t forget the washing and ironing. I would need to get my work shirts done. I used to do the ironing when I was originally single. It was a boring job but do-able. Maybe I could iron them while I watched the soccer? Sunday job—allow thirty minutes.

6 Thinking about washing—did the kids have things that needed to be washed and ironed? School dresses and blouses? How many had they got and did they wear a clean one each day (if they did they wouldn’t for much longer). What about bed sheets? When was the last time mine were washed? And did I need to wash them if I was the only one in them? I had a quick look. They appeared to be clean and so I felt they could skip a wash.

7 Speaking of cleaning—did I need to clean the house this weekend? Vacuuming I could do, but what about the toilets, sinks, bath and kitchen? Was that a weekly thing? Did it take long?

My mental list was quite daunting and I was starting to feel a little bit depressed. My cup of tea had gone cold and I didn’t think another one would suddenly make everything seem better. I looked at the clock—it was 8.30am. I reckoned that if I had got up at 6.30am I might have had a chance of getting everything done. Fortunately, my management consulting training kicked in—what I needed was a plan—and I also thought that dividing the day into thirds would be helpful. My plan went something like this:

Morning—put washing on; vacuum; walk dogs. Home for coffee by 11 o’clock—read the paper for a bit and relax.

Afternoon—dance drop off; fruit shop; butcher; dance pick up.

Evening—make dinner; deliver girls to social event(s) as required; glass of wine (hold back because I’m driving); bit of TV; collect girls from social event(s) as required. Bed.

That left lawn mowing, cleaning, ironing and a potential second dog walk for Sunday.

Unfortunately, my plan had the unintended consequence of making me even more depressed. It wasn’t really the recipe for a great weekend. But anyway, there was no time to waste. I managed to get the washing on and start the vacuuming. Sophie appeared and made breakfast—and a mess. Cereals and margarine left out, bowl and plate on top of the dishwasher but not in it.

“Can you put your things in the dishwasher?” I shouted over the vacuum cleaner.

“I can’t because it’s full of clean stuff,” she replied, as she disappeared back upstairs to the pleasures of Facebook.

And should I have been surprised? The girls had never been responsible for chores before, after all, they had been used to having two parents to keep the house running. I didn’t want to be too tough on day one, so I stopped vacuuming to unstack the dishwasher in the vain hope that it might result in the girls putting their dirty dishes in it—it made no difference initially, but we got there in the end.

Back to the vacuuming. Annabel appeared.

“Dad, I need to get some new ballet shoes before dance this afternoon.”

“Okay, after I’ve finished the vacuuming,” I said. “Don’t forget to put your dirty stuff in the dishwasher.”

It sounded more like a plea than a firm instruction.

Time check: 10.30am. According to my plan I was supposed to be back from the dog walk by 11 o’clock and having a coffee. In reality I was way behind schedule and starting to feel a bit stressed.

But, again, no time to waste, we jumped in the car and set off to Camberwell to get the ballet shoes. Do you know what Saturday traffic is like? It’s a disaster—and finding somewhere to park was a nightmare. I was continually out-foxed by little old ladies. I would drive round and round looking for a parking space, while they would slowly follow someone who was walking along carrying shopping bags until they got to their car, and then sit blocking off the lane with their indicator flashing. But, eventually, I found a space—joy! Looked at the sign—P10 and not 2P—bollocks! Ten minutes—we would have to run.

Got the shoes. Annabel wanted a Boost juice on the way back to the car. No time. Let’s go. Argument. Stress. Why are kids so unreasonable? Please don’t cry. I stopped in my tracks. Who was being unreasonable here? It was me. The poor girl was going through the trauma of a family break-up for God’s sake, was no doubt missing her mother, and I was being an unreasonable parent by rushing her back to the car when what she needed was some time out with a Boost. It wasn’t all about me and my schedule.

So we both got a Boost and, rather than running back to the car, sat on a bench to drink them. Maybe I would get a parking ticket, but it was more important right now to spend some time with my daughter. I apologised to her for being so mean. I explained that I had to learn how to run the house properly, that it was going to be hard work until I got used to it and, if I got cranky, it would be because I was frustrated with myself, and not because I was cross with her or her sister. She didn’t say much apart from “I love you Dad”. I felt my heart break and wished that I had my shades with me because I could feel my eyes welling up (and I can still feel the tears all these years later as I write this).

We walked back to the car hand-in-hand. This had been the first real conversation I’d had with my daughter for a long time. It wasn’t just my world that had been turned on its head—her world was also on its head. What she needed most of all was not a clean house and a nicely mown lawn, but some time with me where we could talk or just sit together sharing a Boost. Come to think of it, that was what I needed too. As we walked I resolved that the girls would come first, before anything else, and that my prime purpose as a father would be to make sure they had as normal and as happy a childhood as I could possibly give them. It put everything into perspective—and I didn’t even get a parking ticket. I took this as a sign that God was on my side.

Back home. Time check: Lunchtime. Where had the morning gone? Rethink required. The three of us had lunch together. I couldn’t remember the last time we had done this, and it was fun. We made toasted sandwiches, trying to outdo each other with the number of fillings we could fit in and the most imaginative mess that we could make. The girls even put their dirty plates in the dishwasher, unfortunately in a slightly disorganised way that required some significant re-packing, but it was a start.

A quick cup of tea and I was ready for the big afternoon push. I loaded the entire family of girls and dogs into the car; dropped off the two-legged members at dance; walked the four-legged members in the park; got back home; checked the fridge and set off to the fruit shop and butcher. Very efficient. I rewarded myself with a small, Tim Henman-esq, fist pump.

“You miserable, lazy bastard,” I heard myself muttering, not loudly but not quietly enough. I was standing outside the butcher’s shop looking at his sign that informed me that his Saturday opening hours were 8.30am to 12.30pm. Why? Did he think that he was doing the community a favour by sacrificing part of his weekend and deigning to open on a Saturday morning? What about all the poor sods who only got the chance to do their shopping at the weekend? This was Saturday afternoon, peak time—why not think of the customer and close on Monday instead, you selfish bugger?

Down the street to the fruit shop. Same story. Shutters drawn, no official opening hours displayed, but obviously the greengrocer had had enough of today as well and was probably now having a nice sit down and a well-earned beer with the butcher.

A little old lady walked past me towing a fat Corgi. She had obviously overheard my muttering about the selfishness of my local purveyors of fresh meat and vegetables and gave me a look that seemed to say “young people today”. For a moment I actually thought I was going to have a major melt down and apply my right foot to the rear end of her waddling pooch.

But there was no point taking out my frustration on a geriatric dog or its geriatric owner, I had work to do, and besides, I had two dogs that I could kick later in the privacy of my own home if I needed to. There was an hour before dance pick up. Could I get to Coles, shop, unpack and be at dance within an hour? It would be tight, but if I didn’t go now there was a real danger that I was going to run into dinnertime.

Back in the car and off to Coles. Saturday afternoon shopping is very different to the late night or Sunday morning dashes to pick up some milk or bread that I was used to. Normal y it’s easy to park at Coles—but not on a Saturday afternoon. Round and round I went looking for a space. Level 1, then Level 2, then Level 3—still no success. Time was running short. I was incapable of rational thought. Why did all these people have to shop now? Should the Government force people to shop in their own suburb? Why didn’t Coles have executive parking as they do at the airport? Why did people dawdle so much?

My frenzied thinking was interrupted by my sudden emergence from the darkness into the light, not metaphorically but literally, the top floor of the car park was in the open. I had never been this far up in the car park before and I was temporarily in awe of my discovery—wait ‘til I tell my friends about this, I thought.

Unfortunately, my brief moment of wonder was shattered by the realisation that the downside of being on the top of the car park was being further from the actual shop itself. I ran to the lift and pressed the button. A little old lady smiled at me. I pressed the button a few more times on the basis that this would make the lift come more quickly. The little old lady smiled at me again. Still no lift. Bugger it, I thought—time for the stairs. Down I ran. I was quite impressed by my ability to keep up a good pace and dodge all of the dawdlers who were making their way both up and down. Did they think I had lost it? Had I lost it? After all, I only needed to get some weekend groceries; it wasn’t a life-threatening event. I would have to do this on a regular basis so I couldn’t continue with the stress of my own version of extreme shopping forever.

Out of the stairwell. Dodged a few people studying lettuces at the market stall and on to Coles. At that moment I knew that, if I hadn’t lost it before, then I had now—officially—lost it. As I saw the neatly lined up shopping trolleys, I was certain that my chances of having a $1 or $2 coin to secure the release of one of their number were slim. I hate this system. We don’t have it in England and I was often caught out and annoyed by it in Australia, even when I was in a good mood. It doesn’t make any sense to me. Does it really stop drunken students from using a trolley to get one of their fallen comrades home after a hard night of active service? I knew that I didn’t have any change and I also knew that I didn’t really have time to go shopping anyway.

I felt tired and useless. The failure to get any shopping suddenly felt like a symbol for my failed life and took on a significance out of all proportion. Standing outside Coles I felt totally alone, and the despair of my situation washed over me. I felt like giving up. I hung my head, took a deep sigh and turned to go back to my car.

As I looked up, the little old lady from the roof top car park passed me, dragging her personal shopping trolley. She smiled at me. It was a sad smile, not like the look I’d received from the previous little old lady with her corgi outside the fruit shop. I smiled back. She knew that I knew, that she knew, that I was a tosser. I imagined that she was a widow, struggling with the recent loss of her husband, the onset of old age and the deterioration of her body. Life was probably hard for her yet she was still smiling, and it looked as though she was coping better than I was. I had to do better. If she could do it then I could do it—thank you, you inspirational little old lady! I went home for a nice cup of tea. I even managed a smile when I was charged a dollar for my five-minute use of the car park.

By the time I had picked up the girls from dance and got back home I was in no mood for a return trip to Coles. Shopping would have to be added to the Sunday list, along with the lawn mowing, cleaning, ironing and potential dog walk. Wasn’t Sunday supposed to be the day of rest?

The girls were hungry and it was now time for dinner, but because of my shopping failures the menu choices were a little limited. I remembered my wife used to knock up a tuna and pasta combination as a meal of last resort when she was back late from the gym or ‘somewhere’. I didn’t really want to think about the gym or the ‘somewhere’ but at least the memory had given me an idea for dinner. I wasn’t sure of the specifics but I reckoned that if I cooked some pasta, opened a tin of tuna and stuck the contents on top, I would be 80 per cent of the way there. Fifteen minutes later it was done. It didn’t look too flash to be fair but, fortunately, I had a creative MasterChef-style brainwave and added some grated cheese to the mix. Although this didn’t do too much for the presentation, at least it added an additional food group to the concoction.

Dinner was served! On the one hand I felt good that I was providing nourishment for my children, but on the other, I recognised that the combination of warm pasta topped with cold tuna and cheese did not make for a great meal. The girls said how much they enjoyed it—bless them. One even went beyond the call of duty and further demonstrated her enjoyment by having a second helping. But the sad truth was that my wife’s meal of last resort had become my Saturday night signature dish. I added cooking to the list of things that I needed to do better.

However, there was a glimmer of good news as far as the evening was concerned. Neither of the girls were going out, instead one of them was having a friend over. This gave me the opportunity to either catch up on some of my chores, or have a glass or two of wine. It had been a hard day so I went for the alcohol option. With the girls happy upstairs, I made myself comfy, poured a generous glass of red and thought back on the day. If I was going to survive I needed to manage my household chores far more efficiently. I realised two things. One, that I hadn’t given my wife enough credit for running the house while she too was working full-time, and the other that I was going to have to earn my leisure time. ‘Me time’ would be a reward for efficiency.