IT'S A DAD'S LIFE:MY MISSUS recently set up her own business. If she sells to the market anywhere near as well as she sells to me, we should be living in a gold-plated house soon, riding about in diamond-encrusted hovercrafts.
Her sister had a baby last month. The missus announced she was travelling to New York to see the new child. Another sister had already made the trip, so it was only fair that she went.
Right, see? Not only that, but she assured me we would save money through her trip. The euro is as strong as it has ever been against the dollar, so we would turn a profit by her flying to America, visiting her sister and shopping.
And so it was that she managed to swan out the door for a week-long solo break and, with a straight face, convince me that she was doing us all a favour. So what if it’s the busiest week of the year for me. That flu the kids have, she tells me, it’s not swine flu. It’s regular flu, they’ll be fine. And look, she says, I’ve washed their uniforms, sure that’s all you have to worry about.
Besides, don’t get hung up on the negatives man, think of the good stuff. I’ll bring you home new jeans and a top. Everything will be groovy.
New jeans and a top. After all these years together, that’s all she thinks she has to promise. They better be magic jeans, with wings and stuff.
It’s been a while since I had the kids all to myself. It reminds me I’m not a total buffoon. While, obviously, it’s a little easier when their mother is around, having free reign occasionally is quite nice. Imagine, feeding the kids anything they want, which handily coincides pretty much with what I want, is the new free gaff. Rock’n’roll.
Having them to myself also reminds me how much I enjoy their company. To a point. Total immersion will result in three-way psychosis, but they are gone out of the house to school every day, which gives me time to pretend to work and catch up on re-runs of Top Gear.
By the time they get home we only have a few hours before bed, into which we have to squeeze feeding, homework, ballet, horse riding, Irish dancing . . . everything the modern Irish small girl needs to make her a fully-rounded person. And rounded they will be.
It is tempting to land a bucket of popcorn on their laps, press play on the DVD and return to e-mails, but such behaviour tends to come back on you like bad karma. You wind up with little work done, a four year old and an eight year old punching lumps out of each other, kernels of corn spraypainting the room and The Wizard of Oztinkling incongruently in the background.
No, it’s better to immerse, admit they are your job for the foreseeable, and roll with it.
So, we do that, and for the most part things run smoothly. They’re not bad kids. They are socially acceptable.
Sometimes they do what they’re asked, sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they’re obnoxious wee brats, and sometimes they make me laugh in ways no one else can.
The younger disappeared last night while I was getting them ready for bed. The elder and I trawled the house, calling her, knowing she was hiding. After a while we gave up and settled in the bedroom to read stories.
She arrived in 10 minutes later, beaming from ear to ear, delighted with herself. I still don’t know where she was. She’s keeping shtum.
But this time round, there’s something different about them. Whenever I’ve had them by myself before, they’ve missed their mum but settled completely with me, secure in the knowledge that she’ll be back at some point. I don’t know if I’ve got meaner or their mother has raised her game in recent times, but this week they’re struggling without her.
They’re not moping round the place but, my God, they are sensitive. We’ve had flounces out of all proportions to the crimes committed. Eventually, the scales lifted from my eyes, I sat them on the couch and asked: “Are you missing mum?”
“Yessss,” came the tidal response. Cue much sadness and despair. It stems mainly from the older one, who seems to be entering a Brontë-esque phase.
She is full of dramatic pause, cause for concern, and wonder at her inner process. The younger doesn’t get this at all, but she realises her sister is making hay and wants some of the action.
We have three days to go. Those jeans better be good.