IT'S A DAD'S LIFE:Kids should be able to belt out the door and return home to refuel. I shouldn't have to be Coco the Clown, writes Adam Brophy
WE ARE running out of entertainment options. I can't let the younger watch Snow White anymore, she's developing a phobia about the witch which extends to all old women she encounters on the street, and the elder, at six, is showing internet addiction symptoms. She has a persona on Club Penguin (like a social networking site for under-10s where everyone's a penguin) and is becoming obsessed with earning enough gold coins online to upgrade her igloo. At least her hard, capitalist core is shining through.
If you disregard the weather, there's no shortage of outdoor things to do. We've got parks and playgrounds and beaches and stately homes and circuses and farms, all within touching distance. We've also got Victor Meldrew in my head.
We put together a picnic last week. Went the whole hog - a selection of cold cuts, salads, cheeses, cold drinks and flasks of tea, and took off to the park. All fine, dandy and Enid Blyton. A rendezvous with another adult and her pair was made, the afternoon was set. Everything, incredibly, ran smoothly. The kids even ate healthily before hitting the E numbers, and nobody skewered themselves on the jungle gym. The place was mobbed, as the sun had got his hat on, with mothers and kids. I was the one blip of testosterone in the vicinity.
Victor was particularly harsh in my ear that day. "You're over-feminised, but you'll never be one of them, ye nonsensical, non-sexual fool," he says. "Hanging round these places is knocking the boy out of ye. You'll find yourself talking about diet plans and matching throw cushions in the boozer one of these nights. You'll be shunned, shunned I tell you."
It was a mother and child vista. I scanned 360 degrees and found myself alone in the crowd. Babies sucking bottles, kids racing and kicking ball, and mothers, lots and lots of pregnant mothers. The urge to discuss Dublin's chances for Sam this year came on strong and I began to panic. There was nowhere to turn.
It passed, of course, but the lingering sense remains. The kids need entertaining and more often than not I don't feel cut out for the task. I just don't have the patience - or should that be chromosomes?
We finished up and headed home. I fed the brood and chucked them in a bath. Wife arrived in, flustered and heavy from a day in the office. Whether she meant it or not, everything she said I interpreted as a snide remark on my parenting skills. Victor continued to poke me and I began to unravel, rearing up at her. I wanted her to tell me how good a job I was doing, something to make it all worthwhile, anything to acknowledge that my job is difficult. She, not unreasonably, wanted me to shut up whining and give her a minute.
It had been a good day, pretty close to a great one. But the part of me that has never quite come to terms with being at home was working overtime to spoil it.
Afterwards, in a fit of proactivity and in an attempt to alleviate my guilt, I scoured the web for suggestions to entertain children and found many. The thought of doing any of them exhausted me: activities are something the elderly are encouraged to do in retirement homes, right? Shouldn't kids entertain themselves? Am I Coco the Clown?
This affects everything. They should be able to belt out the door and spend the days, from morning to night, playing with their friends in safety, returning only to fuel up and finally crash into their beds. Summer holidays should be about freedom and neverending days, marauding on the street like rabid dogs, roaming and discovering, not suffering the controlling structure of supervised activities. They need to know I'm there, but they don't need me involved. I need to be sure they're okay, but want to let them cut loose.
The sign on our house has changed to "Sale Agreed". If the path of house moving runs smoothly we will be homeless shortly. Rather than base our criteria solely on adult requirements, we are choosing our next home based on the needs of the little people. It is a daunting prospect but this summer has proved, if it needed any proving, that they make the rules now. I want them out there, living the life, so they can leave me alone for a minute or two to live mine. Me and Victor and the lads.