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

by Roger McEwan

  We were ushered into the counsellor’s room and we sat on separate couches in a tense silence. The room looked like a cross between a rumpus room and a doctor’s waiting room. There were toys spread around the room and Woman’s Weekly-type magazines on a small table that was the focus of the room. There was no desk or computer; this room was clearly for counselling only. The counsellor’s credentials were proudly displayed on the walls.

  Pat was a qualified marriage guidance counsellor, family counsellor (which explained the room’s layout) and sex therapist (which didn’t explain the room’s layout). It was an interesting mix of qualifications but they were all related in a fashion. Then a sudden thought hit me. Pat? I was assuming Pat was a she. The name Pat could easily be a he. Patrick, a jovial Irishman with a massive red beard. I couldn’t imagine a sex therapist with a beard.

  She, or he, was taking their time, leaving Rose and I in an awkward quiet. My mind started to wander to how sex therapy sessions were conducted but thankfully that train of thought was interrupted by the arrival of Pat, who was to my relief a she. She looked exactly like what I imagined a counsellor and sex therapist should look like. I’ll leave the rest to your imagination.

  After the introductions, Pat told us that this session was focused on establishing the ground rules for the counselling and to identify what we were trying to achieve. We were then given the opportunity to express our thoughts and feelings. Rose went first and, I must confess, I wasn’t listening as I was busy trying to work out what I was going to say. When it was my turn I gave what I considered was an appropriate response as, sitting with a counsellor and sex therapist and my ex, nobody needed to hear what was in my head. It was lost on me at the time that that’s the entire point of counselling. Clearly some evolving was, and probably is, still needed.

  The focus then turned to the issues we were having – our difficulty in finding a middle ground for our parenting differences. We each expressed our opinion on these issues and what we thought was required for resolution. The specifics aren’t important, but suffice to say that we each thought the other should change, which wasn’t a major surprise.

  The session didn’t last long, about twenty minutes. Time flies when you’re having fun. We agreed to keep the conversation flowing if possible and to meet in a week’s time. We also agreed to keep a joint notebook which was to be held by the parent who had the children. If we noticed anything that we thought the other parent should know we were to jot it down. The notes were only to refer to matters concerning the children. So ‘Rog has been looking worried’ is fine but ‘You’ve put on weight you fat git’ wasn’t (that was just the example we used). The notebook was to be passed over at the Sunday handover. I thought that this was a sensible idea.

  Back in the car park I watched Rose drive away, sunglasses on in her new snazzy red car. I was left with mixed feelings regarding counselling. I felt we could have achieved as much via email but, on the whole, it seemed useful and certainly harmless. It was going to let us discuss our issues in an open and civilised manner. The alternative path promised protracted debate and stalemate. I didn’t dwell on it because I was still intrigued why she hadn’t bought a people mover.

  The next counselling session was, in my view, more productive. We descended quickly into the nitty-gritty and the areas of difference between us were openly debated. The counsellor, while remaining neutral, seemed to agree with my stance and hinted that Rose may need to make some modifications. Rose became … quiet. We bounced around the topic, as you do during counselling, and Rose agreed to take on board the feedback. I thought that this counselling lark wasn’t so bad after all. We were clearly making progress.

  That was our last counselling session. Rose informed me via email that I was right, counselling was a complete waste of time. The irony. Not that it mattered greatly as slowly, very slowly as I recollect, the issues resolved themselves. We kept the diary system running for a few months, and it proved valuable until things settled down.

  I’m not sure ‘until things settled down’ is an accurate reflection of that time. When you reflect from your comfortable position in the present it’s difficult to transport yourself back in time, especially at an emotional level. Memorable facts, events, dates and times are relatively easy to remember, like the time I found Liv crying in the cupboard. But the uneventful days and weeks merge into one amorphous blob and more recent memory gradually over-writes the images and feelings.

  When I take myself back to those early handovers, when the children must have been confused and unsettled, I see and feel today’s handovers. Happy, well-adjusted children with Rose and I having a cup of tea and chatting like old friends. It was nothing like that. It wasn’t nasty, but it was tense and it wasn’t fun. The exchanges were quick and functional and were conducted at the front door. Drop the children and gear off, exchange news in clipped sentences and away again. They took no more than a minute, leaving only mutual sighs of relief.

  It takes a lot of mental effort to recapture Rog and Liv as they were in those early exchanges. They were quiet and they watched our exchanges closely while looking uninterested. I would sweep them up and we would get stuck into something, anything. Distraction worked for me as well as I hope it did for them.

  That’s why, with the sharp edges of memory blunted by time, I’d love to write that it didn’t take long until the handovers became normal. Is six months long? Was it six months? What’s normal? When we stopped using the diary the handovers were becoming ordinary and I honestly believe that the children have adapted well to the week-on/week-off routine. Rose and I put in a lot of effort emotionally to make it work and it became simply the way it was. Day by day, week by week, month by month it continued to improve until …

  FLYING SOLO

  ‘Head Office has moved to Wellington and I have to move as well. It’s only two hours away and so we need to alter things,’ Rose repeated calmly.

  ‘WHAT?’ I said, far less calmly.

  Rose having to shift with her company derailed our period of glasnost and plunged us back to the cold war. It had been nearly two years since we separated and over that time there’d been a lot of bridge building. Things were running smoothly, at least that’s what I thought, and the past was being slowly buried. Rose’s move lobbed a grenade under the bridge.

  I’d taken the significant step of starting a PhD programme while still running my consulting business. The decision was based on our week-on/week-off arrangement, as every other week I had time and space to schedule lots of work, study and out-of-town travel.

  Rose and I discussed possible options, mainly via email. Rose was keen to explore the idea of everyone moving to Wellington. I wasn’t. It would mean that the children and I would be starting anew. With this option sidelined, we were left with one viable way forward. The children would live with me in the week and Rose would pick them up Friday evening, have them for the weekend and drop them back on Sunday evening. As I loved watching the children’s sporting exploits on Saturdays, this meant that I would become a full-time dad with time off for good, or bad, behaviour on Friday and Saturday nights.

  I was torn. As much as I loved the idea of more time as a trio, I realised that my plans for work and study would suffer. I decided that if it had to be this way – and it appeared a fait accompli – then changes were needed so not only would I cope, I’d enjoy the change. The last thing the children needed was a grumpy dad around all the time.

  First, my nanny, Sam, as a poor student, was more than happy to double her income and nanny on both weeks allowing me to retain full work days. My mum was available, including the odd overnight, if required. This proved to be invaluable when Rog or Liv were sick or I had to travel. Bit by bit the logistics fell into place and I started to believe that this might turn out exciting. At least I think that’s what I thought – or maybe that last sentence is another example of the present colouring the past. If I’m honest, I was prob
ably still quite dark about everything.

  Cathy also had concerns about the new arrangements. In particular she was anxious that I make sure Rose kept to the agreed times and arrived each Friday at 6pm as agreed. Much of Cathy’s concern came from her own hard-earned lessons. For her, pick-up times were often unilaterally pushed back or sometimes completely missed to suit last-minute changes in her ex’s social calendar. It meant she was unable to plan with any certainty. She was concerned that what happened to her would happen to me.

  She was right to be concerned. The scheduled Friday pick-up was regularly delayed due to meetings, traffic or both. The new arrangements meant I was, in theory, off-duty at 6pm, but Sam finished at six and I was having to cover this gap. I confess that this usually meant leaving the pub earlier than planned, but it was the principle involved that concerned me. I shouldn’t have to leave the pub early or miss a gym class.

  I gave Rose some ‘feedback’ and the situation was remedied by Rose organising her mum to pick up the children. While this worked for the adults involved, I noticed Rog and Liv both frowned when I explained the new situation. I guess they were looking forward to seeing their mum and in hindsight it may have been another case of getting the logistics right but missing the point.

  I must balance this episode as it wasn’t all one-way traffic. Some weeks Rose would leave early, so the children were delighted when they found Mum waiting for them after school. This did, however, usually happen only at the last minute and so Sam was delighted as well. She got a free paid afternoon as I felt I needed to give her more than a few hours’ warning that she wasn’t needed.

  TIGER

  The new childcare arrangements saw the number of occupants in my home increase by one making us a four, although it was not the definitive nuclear family. Two weeks before we were due to start the new arrangements Rose and I had an email exchange over the final details, which I have massaged into a conversation so you get the gist.

  ‘So that’s everything settled,’ I said. ‘We start in a fortnight.’

  ‘Yep,’ replied Rose. ‘I’ll drop the gear off on Sunday. You’ll have to organise for the piano to be shifted.’

  ‘The piano?’

  ‘It makes no sense leaving it my place. If it’s at your house Rog can practise.’

  ‘Good thinking.’ I thought the conversation was over until Rose said, almost as an afterthought, ‘And you need to take your cats.’

  ‘My cats?’

  Our separation agreement had made no mention of our two remaining cats, Tiger and Gnu. At one point we had five, mainly thanks to the litter our cat Tangles produced unexpectedly. My well-aimed shoe hadn’t been as effective as I’d thought in breaking up Tangles’ liaison with Eddie, the neighbour’s cat. As Rose kept the house and that’s where the cats were, she naturally kept them too. This had been fine right up until now.

  There’s a mandatory clause in all New Zealand separation agreements that roughly states that at the time the separation becomes official, all remaining property not specifically identified in the settlement is owned by whoever has possession. This makes sense as a clear split is achieved so arguments over who owns what can’t linger. Rose and I agreed we would share a range of items communally, such as the camping gear, but this had to be a ‘gentleman’s agreement’ – it couldn’t be legally recognised.

  Even though two years had passed, with Rose working out of town the cats had in her eyes reverted to being my cats. I may be doing Rose a discredit here (though I’m not sure), but she may have been subtly working on me for some time. She had mentioned, unsolicited, how sad Tiger had been lately and that he was missing me. And how the children talked about not having a cat at my house.

  Rose and I debated the cat situation via email and, as much as I love cats, I was reluctant. When I travelled for work, study or on holiday I’d have the same problem Rose was now facing. In effect, she was making her problem my problem. In the end I agreed to take one, Tiger. My logic was that given his age, fifteen, which is good for a cat, and love of company I thought he may not survive without people around. Gnu, on the other hand, was younger and settled at Rose’s. The twist in this story was that ultimately Rose organised to have family members move into her house. After all the debate Tiger could have stayed put, but he settled in immediately at my place and it seemed to me he’d just been waiting for an invitation.

  It was lovely having Tiger around. He was one of Tangles’ litter and so had been with us since he was zero. He was an affectionate old thing too and I would find him waiting patiently in the driveway when I came home. That part was lovely, but he normally wouldn’t budge despite my leaning on the horn. I would get out of the car and pick him up. He would then nervously travel the last twenty metres up the drive on my lap. The children loved having him around too and even Cathy, who insisted she didn’t like pets, would open the door each morning during her visits excitedly calling ‘Poofy, Poofy, Poofy’.

  The only downside was Tiger’s age, seventy-seven in human years, which created the odd cleaning issue that demanded immediate attention.

  BACK TO THE FUTURE

  Even allowing for my blunted memory, it didn’t take long for Rog, Liv, Tiger and I to get used to the new world order. In many respects I found it much easier. I was now solely responsible for day-to-day life and so I knew everything that was going on at school and everything that needed to happen after school. The children’s things were at my house, meaning the often laborious Sunday swapping of clothes and equipment was a thing of the past. There was also less debate about what sports and activities they would attend. I got to call the shots, in consultation with Rose and the children of course. Everything was under control. That’s probably a massive over-statement, but that’s how it felt.

  My home became home and we became an extremely tight unit. Of course there was no ‘Mum’ figure during the week, though I found that this had an unexpected plus. It meant that the children and I became even closer as I had to work on developing my feminine side, which I don’t think is a bad thing. Especially as I achieved this without developing moobs.

  Being a near solo dad certainly changed the relationship trajectory for the children and me. It’s easy to take for granted our closeness but it doesn’t take much reflection to know how different the world could have been. Would Liv snuggle into me on the couch as much as she does? Or would Rog, even as a teenager, still sort of hug me as long as no one is looking? I know I’m a lot closer to my children than I was to my dad. It isn’t a criticism, as the world was a very different place forty years ago, and it’s not right to judge people using a different time’s perspective.

  To use a tired expression, the only constant is change. The children and I were the Three Musketeers, complete with Puss in Boots, for a year until Rose changed jobs, moved back to town and we reverted to week-on/week-off parenting. Although everything was going along splendidly, on reflection it had been a change that was best for everyone.

  In my case it was now nice not being on duty all the time. I have new-found respect for single parents who fly solo. It was, though, a wonderful and life-changing time for me. I learnt about what’s important in life and that being a parent isn’t a sacrifice. I stopped minding that there was lots to do and it was all down to me. Work, study, fly home, check homework while cooking dinner, clean up, supervise teeth and bed and then, maybe, sit-down time. I just got on with it and found I could enjoy it as well. You’re a long time dead so there’s no point in missing the world.

  Rose moving back meant work and study was going to be easier to organise and this had been a major concern. The reduced time meant I had taken on less consulting work and that resulted in less cash. It’s a truism in business that cash is king. It’s like blood, and bad things happen when there isn’t enough of it in your system. In addition, my study meant that I needed to travel more to interview business strategists as they were hardly likely to
come to me.

  Rog and Liv were thrilled because they were going to get more Mum time. And a more relaxed Mum too who wasn’t late and hassled after battling the Friday Wellington traffic. I know they loved being with me but it was at the expense of time with Mum in their own space and they needed that. Especially Liv, who occasionally became quite unsettled when Mum left on Sunday and required lots of hugs and even more chocolate. I had developed my feminine side but there was only so far I could go.

  The children told me much later that going back to week-on/week-off meant that they got more quality time with me. This confused me at first but they explained that we now hung out together more in the weekends and could just be together. I’d missed that point. Even though I had the children for more time, the children were missing out on some of the fun time.

  It delighted Rose as well. Apart from being liberated from a nasty commute, which must have been a curse, she’d been missing her time with the children. I can admit now that when she moved to Wellington I wondered if she was taking a backwards step and looking to enjoy more freedom in Wellington without the children. I was pleased to be wrong.

  And that’s where we are today. Two houses with similar but different flavours. I think it gives the children an opportunity to experience different ways of living and they’ll work out for themselves which aspects they prefer as they mature. My house tends to be quieter with less visitors while Rose’s frequently has friends and family staying over. Neither way is right or wrong, just different.

  I’m pleased I had the chance to sail solo, though I would never have done it by choice. The children and I have always been close, but that time strengthened those bonds and we’ll always be the Three Musketeers. It may not have been a far, far better thing that I did, than I have ever done; but it was pretty good.

  Reflections