A DAD'S LIFE:A little blonde vision has changed my daughter's attitude, writes ADAM BROPHY
WHEN IS it okay to have the kids doing housework? I would, if possible, attach a broom to their nappies when they start to walk, or even shuffle, and encourage window cleaning as a social activity. I would even have bands of pre-schoolers waxing my car, but this is not something the missus has permitted.
Instead we have reached an age at which they are perfectly capable of working, but if I ask them to put their plates in the sink, they look at me like I’ve suggested they work in an Asian sweatshop for $1 dollar a day.
At least that was the case until now. But recent developments have caused me finally to accept that all influence on the elder child I thought I had has been shipped into the hands of her friends. At the moment, for good rather than evil, thankfully.
It’s one buddy in particular now, and she makes me laugh. She is the type of kid who could run power stations if there were a way to tap her into the grid. She’s not involved in girly popularity politics, she’s up for getting outside and trying everything. She bakes and she cleans. Every night she puts together the family’s packed lunches for the following day, checking in with them afterwards to see if that day’s innovations or new ingredients went down well and amending according to responses. Mornings are spent unloading the dishwasher and shooing everybody out the door to school on time. She’s nine.
Comparing this to the situation in our house had me depressed, but any suggestion to the elder to take a leaf out of her friend’s book was met with a stern slapdown from her mother. Comparisons are odious apparently. I dunno, I thought I was going places with my motivational stick entitled All the other Kids are pulling their Weight, Why aren’t You? but people tell me it may scar psychologically. Wusses.
I never bought into the whole “give every kid in the class a medal on sports day” ideology. Competition is important and we spend our whole lives comparing ourselves to other people. It’s being able to do it and not feel the urge to throw yourself off a high building that’s important. If you realise you are not the best sprinter in the class at six, fair enough. Figure out what you are good at, what you enjoy doing, and do it more. Simple.
Also, if you do happen to be the fastest out there, enjoy that feeling and run harder, get faster. You’ll need to, to stay out front.
Okay, I’m going off on a little fascist parent rant but my point is that through comparing herself with her dynamo friend, our little elder being has suddenly converted to the way of work. This is how it used to go. The alarm goes off every morning. I hit one snooze cycle and rise. I estimate the wife and children will have at least another snooze before they can be coaxed into mobility, grudgingly dragging their asses bathroomwards.
This has been the way of schooldays for two years and it inevitably leads to tension while we hunt for lost shoes and the clock ticks past nine. I tried bribery, ranting, coaxing and rationalising.
Eventually I resigned myself to dealing with their morning ennui in the knowledge that we always get where we’re going only a little late, with toast in hair and some tears.
That was the case until one morning when the elder appeared in my line of vision fully clothed as I prepared for daily negotiations. “You’re up,” I said, staggered and bemused. “Go on downstairs and get yourself some brekkie.”
“I have already, and the dishwasher is done. Can you tell me where my goggles are so I can have my swimbag ready at the door?”
Something is amiss. She has been abducted by aliens and replaced in the night by a humanoid tracking device. Still, a tracking device that moves things along is useful. I tell her to wake her sister and get her moving. Ten minutes later they are both downstairs, clothed, their mother on her third snooze. We have a spare half hour in the day when the sun is at an angle we are unfamiliar with. We watch each other across the kitchen table like strangers in a Twilight Zone repeat. I tell them to go play a while.
Younger vanishes but the elder checks if there’s anything she can do first. I nearly ask her for my daughter back but wave her away instead. She says tonight she’s going to get tuna and sweetcorn together for sandwiches tomorrow. I’ll have to teach her how to grill bacon, scramble eggs, brew coffee. Drive.
From now on, all parenting duties are handed over to a little blonde girl up the road.
She’s better at it than I am.