IT'S A DAD'S LIFE:I'm going all American sales guy and getting the positivity back in my soul, writes ADAM BROPHY
‘SO, WHAT’LL I write about then? Any ideas?” It’s good, they’re at an age now I can probe them directly for material.
“How I want a pony? How you never give me anything I want?” suggests the elder, pouting. Already done it I tell her.
“Nora,” says the younger. Nora is her best mate. She calls everything from her dolls to her icepops “Nora” so deep is her love.
I tell her Nora’s parents mightn’t be too happy at the invasion of privacy. The younger’s finger is in her nose up past the first knuckle. “Nora,” she says again, except it’s pronounced “No-wa”, staring vacantly into middle distance, lost in her fondness.
The finger has exited and is making its way towards mouth. I catch it in time and she shoots me a nasty. I wipe offending finger with always-to-hand kitchen roll as she assaults alternative nostril with alternative finger.
“Come on, you two have to liven up! Do something for Gawd’s sake.”
They’re not happy. The younger slinks away with some portion of paw in mouth. Elder retorts, jaw clenched, “If you bought me a pony I’d do something. I’m not doing anything until then.”
I am being held to ransom. Friends come to stay. Their kids’ ages match ours, their boys to our girls. Apart from the occasional outbreak of boy bloodlust or female attention to fashion, they all get on well. As do their parents.
Other dad catches me with a wistful comment the first night. He says he works so hard that he constantly thinks he’s missing something with the kids. Then he takes a holiday and within a weekend he needs to get away from them.
Hardly news – I remember the dads in my old office wanting to work the days between Christmas and New Year. How my old footloose self laughed at their pained expressions as they discussed the pressures of present buying and forced family togetherness.
All those days meant to me was the opportunity to sip afternoon pints by the old gas fire in Kehoe’s. It comes back to bite you.
Other dad wasn’t unhappy to be with the nippers, he was delighted, just worn down, unused to 24-hour exposure. We get the four kids to bed and settle into an adult dinner, a selection of cheeses even, wines and cold beers, the type of evening that in the past would stretch late, possibly see a crack of sunrise. We are all snoozing in our beds by midnight.
As a result the morning is manageable, the demands of four hyped-up ruggers roaring through the house with a complement of noise-making utensils bearable.
We sit around discussing how we were sensible to go to bed, how awful it would have been, on us and them, to face into this assault with heads in slings. Things are manageable and bearable. I look at all our faces and suddenly we seem not just old, but half dead.
I’m not having it. I’m fed up with tolerating the kids, looking at them and thinking how we’ll ‘manage’ the day with them. I’m going all American sales guy on this and getting the positivity back in my soul.
They are, of course, bloody marvellous. The elder is at school as I write. I left her at the gates as she was attempting to figure out how many car lengths the blue whale which had been run over by an oil tanker off the Californian coastline was.
She was mouthing to herself and counting fingers. Her last question: “If that whale swallowed you, daddy, would you be able to stand up in his belly?” Marvellous.
The younger is standing watching Scooby Doo, absent-mindedly swinging a tennis ball on a string. Every second rotation results in the ball hitting her head. Each one seems to take her by surprise. Marvellous. Even better, no fingers are engaged with facial orifices.
The day of the visiting tired friends we went fishing. The father-in-law, who would give Ray Mears a run for his money in the survival stakes, came up trumps with a boat and lines.
We picnicked on a secluded beach, the kids saw a 30 foot basking shark, I swam. The water was shocking. I was born again. You couldn’t buy this stuff.
Grandad, in Dr Livingstone mode, dragged the kids off on the boat alone. They found a hidden lagoon and came back squealing about jellyfish island. They climbed rocks and ran around in the buff.
Nobody burned in the sun, no skin tore nor bones broke. What a day.
They managed us well.
abrophy@irishtimes.com