The Single Dad's Guide to the Galaxy: Parenting in the real world

by Roger McEwan

  I’m generally relaxed about toilet etiquette, especially leaving the seat down, but flushing is mandatory and not optional. Speed or time of night is no excuse.

  The children and I enjoy our chats about the toilet because we can’t take it that seriously. And while the messages about cleanliness have been getting through of late, the toilet roll remains a mystery for them. I sense a conspiracy as they delight in the reaction the toilet roll brings. It is usually a couple of minutes of impromptu MacBeth.

  Is this a toilet roll which I see before me? Come, let me replace thee. I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Chuck it hither, Banquo.

  CHORES

  In this environment I hope you’re wondering how a single dad copes and stays sane. Maybe you’re wondering how you cope and stay sane. Speaking for myself, I’ve put some measures in place that have allowed me to remain in the general population.

  Through the course of this book you’ll see that I’m quick to use financial incentives to reward the children for behaviour that I want to encourage. This comes straight from my management experience and let me assure you it works. There’s a classic business article from the seventies by Stephen Kerr called ‘On the folly of rewarding A, while hoping for B’. It’s well worth a read, and unlike most academic articles it’s very readable. The main point is that people, including children, do what’s rewarded over what isn’t rewarded. For example, in business we pay directors a fee for attending meetings, rewarding A. But what we really want is engaged and dynamic directors, hoping for B. What do we get? Exactly what we pay for. High attendance – but do they add value? When you look at it in those terms it isn’t rocket science.

  With regard to my children, I was giving out pocket money for nothing but hoping they kept their rooms tidy and helped with chores. I was rewarding doing nothing and hoping for action. It was one of those ‘Hang on, how dumb am I?’ moments. So I started a system in which pocket money was linked to chores. I’m sure lots of parents do this.

  To receive the maximum weekly payout, the children currently have to make breakfast and dinner once and have their room and computer area spotless at the end of the week. It’s worked well. A warning, though – you have to be careful what you reward or you’ll encourage behaviour you don’t want. If I paid the children for changing the toilet roll, I’m sure the toilet roll would be changed alright – but multiple times a day. Children aren’t mugs and I’d end up buying enough toilet paper for a family of nine.

  To get action in other areas I had to do some lateral thinking. My children were using an incredible number of glasses on a daily basis. I found them in their rooms, on their desks, on the coffee table, on the mantelpiece and even near the dishwasher – though rarely in the dishwasher. To change this behaviour I bought them their very own glass, red for Rog and green for Liv. I have seen them rinsing and reusing those glasses. I ticked that off as a success, but it seems to have lapsed.

  To keep on top of my domestic duties I treat them like the work they are and schedule them in my diary. I vacuum every Sunday, which is a simple task that makes a big difference to how the house looks. It’s like mowing the grass, not that I mow the grass (see below for why). The toilets and bathrooms get cleaned once a month, which could be too much or too little but it seems to work. Dusting occurs when it’s obvious or on the rare occasions when non-family visitors are expected.

  The diary system works in the main but it’s easy to ignore the reminders, often for weeks. For me it’s usually a hangover that inspires a house-wide cleaning session. It’s my way of trying to make the outside world look harmonious, countering what I feel like internally. I used to have cleaners come once a fortnight and they did a great job, but I needed them on post-children Monday when everyone else wanted them too. They came on Thursdays when I was solo and I found myself, like every other lunatic with cleaners, rushing around tidying the house before they came. I let them go, saved some money and made Thursdays less hectic at the same time.

  Maintaining the section and garden became easy after I did the math. I totalled the cost of a lawn-mower, petrol and maintenance, weed eater and the various gardening tools and sprays required. Then I added in my time and lack of gardening knowledge and the decision to hire a lawn-mowing service and a gardener becomes obvious. They save me time and money, and the outside of my house has never looked better. It’s good for local businesses too.

  DOMESTIC DETAILS

  With plans in place, covering off the well-known domestic tasks in a timely fashion is fairly straightforward. It’s the subtler areas I struggle with. I’m aware I risk eyeball rolling from more domestically able readers so I apologise in advance, but there are domesticity aspects which remain a mystery to me, despite the length of time I’ve been single. For example, when is it time to change the sheets? And why do people make such a big fuss about clean sheets? A female friend has a weekly ‘clean sheet’ day when everyone looks forward to the apparent joy of snuggling into them. Weekly feels at one end of the domestic diligence continuum – but should they be changed bi-weekly, or monthly? Obviously you should change them if you hope to have company and that can make it somewhat variable. If you’re an optimist, like me, then hope means they get changed more frequently than required. Probably a good thing.

  It’s the same problem for all the towels and mats dotted around the house. Tea towels and bath mats start to look manky, which is a convenient clue, but the rest of mine usually look pretty clean (a benefit of buying dark colours). I change them haphazardly, such as when I’m hungover, or when it feels that the items in questions are pushing the boundaries of decency.

  Washing clothes is a task I save for the weekend. In other words, I refuse to do it until the weekend. Rose used to keep me away from the washing machine, obviously valuing her clothes, but over the years I’ve progressed to at least competent. I separate the washing into piles of whites and colours and wash them with the same programme: slightly soiled whites and delicate colours. It seems to work. I’m smart enough, meaning I have paid the odd high-priced lesson, not to use this method on more expensive items such as suits and jackets. They go, on rare occasions, to the drycleaners.

  I have not time for, and deliberately ignore, the stupid washing instructions attached to many clothing items. Does anyone read those until the item is out of shape, faded or both? For a start, the writing is miniscule and, in the dim light of the laundry, it may as well be written in invisible ink. If I had a scanning electron microscope handy, they make each item sound like they’re from Louis Vuitton or Gucci. By way of example, there were six instructions that I was meant to observe on Liv’s low-cost sweatshirt:

  WASH WITH SIMILAR COLOURS. Okay, it took a few disasters but I now observe the whites versus colours law.

  GENTLE MACHINE WASH WARM. Nice grammar. Everything is washed in cold water because that’s what’s written on the packet of washing powder.

  DO NOT SOAK OR BLEACH. Liv’s jacket is no danger of proactive attention.

  RESHAPE WHILE DAMP. Into what? It entered in the shape of a jacket and I expect it to come out the shape of a jacket.

  COOL TUMBLE DRY ON LOW. I use the dryer only for socks and underwear because I don’t have enough clothes pegs, line space and patience.

  COOL IRON ON REVERSE IF NEEDED. Needed? Ironing is not needed, wanted or desired. Hung or folded are the only two actions that happen to washed clothes. I iron business shirts on an as-required basis.

  Washing instructions are as useful as the warning ‘Not dishwasher safe’. They shouldn’t be allowed to sell kitchen items with that warning. They may as well write ‘Use only once’. I know all the items in my kitchen are dishwasher safe because that’s been sorted out by my Darwinian dishwasher. Survival of the fittest.

  Less-frequent chores include cleaning the oven, which is a joyless task that can be avoided for years. If the light in the oven worked, which it doesn’t, it wou
ldn’t be any use and that alone tells me it’s due for a clean. The oven probably needs replacing and not solely to avoid cleaning it. The front gas element takes an age to light and then goes out at least twice before doing its job, causing bad language to emanate from the chef. The oven door doesn’t close properly either, although I have rigged a bungee cord that I wrap around the handle to keep it in place when cooking. It’s not an aesthetically pleasing solution, but it stops heat from escaping.

  The dishwasher needs replacing as well. The door catch has broken and the only way to get the dishwasher to recognise the door is closed and start is to jam it closed with a bamboo stake, borrowed from the tomatoes, that’s wedged into the floor. This works but doesn’t always stop water from leaking. An additional local hazard is that because the catch is broken, the door delights in crashing down of its own accord which is loud and extremely unsettling. This again causes the chef’s language to change. Especially when I slow the door’s speed with my leg.

  The children are, I hope, impressed with my kitchen ingenuity, but that’s because they don’t have to use the oven or dishwasher on a regular basis. I can’t imagine a significant other would be either impressed or content. Rose wouldn’t have put up with it for very long.

  All in all it’s a mental effort rather than a physical one that’s required to keep on top of the domestic duties. I hope I haven’t given you the impression that my house is in a state. It isn’t. The kitchen, with its unique solutions, looks normal because the bungees and bamboo are hidden from view until required. And unless you’re actually using the towels or sheets, everything appears ordered and presentable. When I’m alone the mess I make is limited to a tiny footprint and when the children are with me I’m fastidious as I want them to be in a home that looks and feels clean. My logic is that if the house is kept clean, they will be encouraged to keep it clean as well. One day anyway.

  Reflections

  Children create mess. It’s a natural phenomenon.

  Don’t expect your children to notice your domestic accomplishments. They won’t thank you for doing the laundry, they simply want to know where you have put their underwear. It’s okay.

  Changing a toilet roll is too complex for anyone under the age of eighteen to understand. That’s okay too.

  Using money to focus your children’s attention on what chores you want them to do works brilliantly. Care is required to ensure what you reward is the behaviour you want to encourage.

  Change your sheets and towels when they need to be changed. That’s as much as I know about that.

  Scheduling domestic tasks in your diary is a handy way to make sure you don’t forget them. You can still ignore them.

  Washing instructions on clothes are designed to stop you demanding your money back when the washing goes bad!

  10. The Bachelor Week

  Bachelors should be heavily taxed. It is not fair that some men should be happier than others.

  Oscar Wilde (playwright, novelist and poet, 1854-1900)

  You may think that when I don’t have the children I spend my time in a frenzy of bachelor-related activity. Every second week as free as a bird. I can chase fast women and slow horses, drink as much as I like and abandon any thoughts of fashion decency, at least at home. I can watch TV with no negotiation: endless sport, no bloody cooking shows, soaps or worse, reality TV.

  I admit that bachelor weeks do probably sound like fun. When I was married, and Rog and Liv were babies, the concept of coming home to a quiet house, grabbing a beer and watching the News with my feet on the table felt similar in my mind to an overseas holiday. Work trips were fantastic for that reason, they gave me legitimate time out. ‘Of course I’d rather be home with you and the little darlings, hun, but I have to spend five days (and nights) in a hotel in Brisbane at a damned all-expenses-paid conference.’

  Karma is never far away, though.

  I was away for a night in Auckland when Rog was three and Liv one. I was looking forward to the trip with carefully concealed delight. That night, as I slept peacefully without the risk of young lungs demanding attention, I was violently woken around 3am by what sounded like a brick hitting the motel window. Violent noise in the wee small hours is never good news. I lay quiet and tense listening for further activity, contemplating what action to take. My fight-or-flight response was pounding blood in my ears but there was now a deathly silence. I slowly unstiffened and put the episode down to drunken hooligans walking through the carpark. Hoping they suffered a nasty fate, I went back to sleep.

  An hour later, boom, another brick-like attack occurred. I couldn’t believe it. Had I taken the wrong flight and landed in Syria? This time I was up. Every muscle was twitching. I stormed out the door to confront the perpetrators. I hadn’t entirely thought through what I was going to do against a pack of drunken hooligans, but I was saved from the dilemma because the car park was deserted. No hooligans, no bricks, no damage, no nothing. WTF? I retreated back inside mystified – and wide, wide awake. This time I struggled to fall asleep waiting for the next whatever, which never came. I woke in my usual sleep-deprived and dishevelled state.

  It was when I got the milk out of the fridge for breakfast that I discovered the cause of last night’s ‘attacks’. The fridge thermostat had broken, the motel owner confirmed this, turning the fridge into a freezer. As the temperature plummeted, two coke cans had exploded with such force they looked like the shredded remains of two explosive devices. The fridge, naturally in a motel room, was right next to the bed. Right next to my ear in fact. That’s karma in all its glory.

  I’m sure the odd week of freedom would be heaven for most parents. It would be like a holiday, but it loses its gloss when it’s the norm. Hotels are a great escape, a luxury, but on your own they quickly become mind-numbingly boring. The rooms are the size of a shoe box with a tiny bathroom, and after a few long hours I often feel the overwhelming desire to escape. Weeks by yourself have a tendency to feel similar.

  So let me wander you through one of my typical bachelor weeks. You can see if the grass is as green as you suspect, or hope for. First, a reminder: although I was alone I was in a relationship, so the pursuit of fast women wasn’t an option. Besides, wandering around bars in my forties is rather a depressing thought.

  Freedom starts after I drop the children off on Sunday at 6pm. Much of Sunday has been spent carrying out the exciting tasks of washing, folding clothes, tidying, organising and matching impossibly similar socks. Sorting the children’s clothes has got harder as they’ve grown and their clothes now look similar to each other’s and mine. I make sure everything’s in order for the handover as Monday morning and school are only a few hours away. At the handover Rose and I compare notes on the past week and what’s on in the coming week: events, sports, visits to the orthodontist for Liv, etc. I get big hugs, from Rog and Liv that is, and I’m gone. Free.

  I buy supplies on the way home to replenish the fridge and cupboards that the children have cleaned out locust-like. It doesn’t take long as I only need enough for one. I then arrive home to a stillness that has supplanted the lively atmosphere of an hour ago. I usually spend Sunday evening catching up on work, writing, watching TV and trying not to drink – at least too much. Alcohol relaxes and provides an escape but it gets the week off on the wrong foot.

  When I feel tired, which after a week with the children isn’t that late, I slope off to bed and read whatever novel I have on the go. I like authors such as Michael Connolly and Lee Child, as you can get through their books quickly. In a moment of classical inspiration I once started, but never finished, Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment. That was hard work for bedtime reading.

  WEEK DAYS

  Monday through Friday mornings are much of a muchness. I plan to start my days early so my alarm – Reggie singing ‘Better’, is set for 5am. This is an aspirational alarm which is immediately silenced. The reality alarm goes
off at 6.30am though I hit the snooze button a various number of times before reluctantly abandoning bed and turning on the jug for coffee. Cathy witnessed this on a visit and seemed appalled. I was confused because the jug was the focus of her disapproval.

  I discovered Cathy insists that the jug is filled freshly each morning as, in her words, ‘who knows what’s crawled in during the night?’ I’m less fussy – way less fussy – and that extended to boiling the jug when I returned from a three-week trip to the UK. It took a few cups of coffee to work out that the strange flavour of formic acid was coming from the boiled ants in the jug and not, as I had concluded, the hidden ants in the coffee jar. Just why I suspected the coffee jar, an airtight container, and not the jug on the bench I put down to jetlag. Unfortunately, I discovered the truth after I’d disposed of the coffee on suspicion. The bonus of Cathy’s fear – let’s not call it paranoia – was that she made the coffee in the morning. There were no complaints from me.

  I switch on a news channel and think about breakfast but usually settle for more coffee. I check emails and the internet to see what’s gone on in the world overnight and check what the upcoming day looks like. The most critical question I have to answer is – do I need to wear a suit? Image and brand are important in business and I wear a suit in business situations, but if my diary is clear of client appointments I dress casually. Once I’ve developed a plan of attack for the day, I quickly shower and head off with high hopes of productivity.

  I start in my office at the university, which is my base for work and study. I check emails and appointments again to make sure I’m on top of the day then delay starting by getting more coffee. I realise that my coffee intake is quite high and I try and avoid it past lunchtime. This was after a chat with a GP cricket friend who said that it could disturb sleep if taken later in the day. I haven’t noticed that coffee impacts on me often apart from the odd time when after a particularly strong brew I feel wired.