A DAD'S LIFE:I can't complain about the kids, they learned from me, writes ADAM BROPHY
I’VE BRUSHED teeth, harassed into bed, read a story, done the tuck-in, gone through the good nights, etc, rolled down the stairs and wallowed into armchair.
Cuppa and a couple of Jaffas to hand, it’s guilty pleasures hour, either The King of Queens or (not so guilty) Boardwalk Empire. Fire blazing, old man slippers on, thoughts turn to beer and fight the inevitable slight urge for a ciggie.
The body knows when it’s me time and wants to indulge.
Except it’s never really me time. “Da-ad!” The call comes from upstairs.
“What?” Grrr.
“I’m really thirsty. Can you bring me up a glass of water?”
I’ve got a couple of avenues here. Serfdom, fill the glass and perform task. Opposition, point out the fact that she’s 10 years old and walking downstairs to get a drink of water is not beyond her.
The latter option will result in a shouted dialogue across the house and probably end with me standing in the hall barking that she has to take some responsibility for herself, and her eventually storming past me and in to bed with the hump. The former option makes me a doormat.
I’ve chosen both, many times before. I’ve done both at the same time, brought up the drink and administered a lecture on not expecting your parents to do everything.
I’ve pre-empted the call and brought drinks up in advance and at other times have requested that they take drinks to bed with them. Whatever.
They never remember, and they always ask. The bedtime is only the most obvious example, they make the same requests over and over, forever expecting one of us to step in and perform the tasks they should be capable of.
Carry my schoolbag? I forgot my guitar, will you go home and get it? Where are my shoes? Get them for me. In fact, insert anything there in place of shoes.
The question isn’t where the object is, the question is there to disguise the statement that they don’t care where anything is, they just want objects brought to them. They want the world on a stick.
And I can’t see it changing. It’s highly unlikely they will become teenagers and develop consciences, spending their secondary school years as diligent students striving to make their parents’ lives easier. I’ve read somewhere that teens don’t work like that. No, things are set to get worse before they get better. If they get better. Ever.
My dear old mum arrived down at the weekend. Granny’s arrival is like sleigh bells ringing; it’s a wonder she doesn’t try to squeeze down the chimney. She can’t come without presents, and the brats know it. Always an item of clothing, and not just any old tat – granny likes the finer things and her grandchildren have acquired her tastes. Often too, something else, a book or a game maybe.
She has the granny cash pass down cold as well, the girls waiting, attempting to feign indifference, excited to see what colour the note will be.
It’s not like they ever get to spend it, we have it swiped and placed in “savings” before you can say lecky bill, but they buzz on the thrill of cash.
Granny doesn’t forget the grown-ups either. She arrives laden down with bags from Avoca Handweavers and we feast: fish patés, chicken curries, blue cheese quiches. We cope with the guilt of her being the provider by convincing ourselves this is what she wants.
Mmm, I wonder. The minute granny arrives, an unseen hand lifts and places me on the couch, unable to move unaided and fetch myself a thing. Granny starts to empty the dishwasher. “Leave that, Mum,” I say.
“Sit down,” she tells me. So I do, and figure it would be better not to offer again for fear I offend her. Over the course of a granny weekend, cups of tea miraculously secure themselves to my hand and disappear when emptied. The kitchen sparkles and I gain at least four pounds.
Not only do I lose the power of feet and hands, I become surly and malcontent. I head to the pub and barely acknowledge that I can only go so easily because it is assumed she will stay and mind the kids.
When I wake in the morning with dulled senses and a buzzsaw head, it’s her fault because, well, she’s my mum and I’m 16. It doesn’t matter, she pours the coffee and asks, “Porridge or eggs?”
I can’t complain about the kids, they learned skills from me. They just better grow up and love me half as much as I love my old dear.