Single Father, Better Dad. Mark Tucker
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to my children. It was what I wanted. There was just one small problem—I didn’t know how I was going to do it.
I would need to learn fast.
4
Welcome to the jungle
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