by Roger McEwan
‘I lost my hot chocolate and muffin,’ she sadly lamented.
It took an hour for the catamaran to make the crossing and then, feeling like the intrepid adventurers we were, we stepped a little unsteadily onto Stewart Island. It had taken eight days but it was worth it from so many angles.
It’s a familiar theme through this book that if you put in the hard yards you reap the rewards. Rose and I made travel fun – well, let’s say usually as I have recollections of a few tense moments – and now the children are great travellers. That makes the absence of a second pair of adult eyes less of an issue. I love travelling with my children – they pass Mark Twain’s test easily.
Reflections
Plan your holidays with your children as they are and not how you would like them to be.
Make travelling for your children a part of the holiday, a part of the adventure and not something to be endured.
Children get bored when travelling, so think through what you can take to counter this. Simple fun, like cards, can be a great way to kill time.
It doesn’t matter where you take your children on holiday, it’s how you holiday that makes it an adventure or not.
Quercus robur is an English oak. That knowledge may help you win a million dollars one day, even if it’s only to impress your children when flying.
19. Money
If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to.
Dorothy Parker (writer, 1893-1967)
Children are expensive and the costs escalate as they grow. The worst time seems to be the start of a new school year: the bills seem endless. There are clothes to buy as I discover how much my children have sprouted over the summer holidays. Rog, in particular, shows what the 1920s would have considered an obscene amount of ankle and his T-shirts have turned into muscle shirts. At least they would if he had muscles and so they’re more rib shirts. Their shoes go from dainty and cute to clown-sized seemingly overnight and seem to last for shorter and shorter periods.
Then there are the school-related costs: activity fees, donations, camp fees and new stationery even though we now own more felts, coloured pencils and crayons than most preschools. Add extra-curricular activities such as cricket, tennis, piano and swimming, which all have fees and equipment costs and in Blackadder pelican style, no matter which way I look there’s an enormous bill in front of me.
Apart from the costs children incur solely by their presence, there’s also the list of things they want. It used to be toys and games, but now it’s electronic game consoles, the latest phones and trendy clothes that are needed so they can blend in with their friends. It’s not surprising children act the way they do considering how adults act. For grown-ups it’s the same except it’s cars, espresso machines, sandwich presses, golf clubs and the latest phones and trendy clothes. I like the sentiment expressed in Fight Club – we buy things we don’t need, with money we don’t have, to impress people we don’t like.
Marketing firms have become stealthier than government spy agencies – although that doesn’t appear much to beat – at targeting children and creating an ever-increasing demand for products. Companies have been taken to court for using a programme of planned obsolescence to ensure a constant demand for their products. I would love to write how I haven’t succumbed to the rampant consumer world, and how my children only play outside in the healthy fresh air. But this book is based on reality and we aren’t part of an Amish community. We’ve all developed a flair for spending money and it’s usually the bank’s money.
While I’ve developed a healthy aversion to accounting, I cannot escape its principles. The equation is simple: income is required to balance expenditure and I need to earn sufficient money to keep the children in the style to which they’re accustomed. Although it’s an unhealthy basis for staying in a relationship, I sorely miss being in the dual-income category – financially they were the good old days. In fact they were great. Rose and I probably wasted more money than we should have as your lifestyle tends to expand to hoover up any spare cash, but a dual-income situation has a snug feeling of security.
Coming back to my single-income reality, being self-employed has many advantages – flexibility, variety, control and, invaluable for a single dad, the ability to fit work around life. The major factor on the disadvantage side is the lack of certainty of income. My cashflow can best be described as irregular and I’ve learnt to ride the roller coaster not only financially but mentally. For over a decade and a half I’ve not had certainty of income outside a couple of months and becoming a SITCOM made me acutely aware of the delicateness of this situation. But consulting work usually materialises and, thankfully, this has been the case for me although it’s not a comfortable situation. If you want a visual image of my situation, I liken it to being a tightrope walker without a safety net followed by a psychopathic, knife-wielding tax inspector. Disaster is waiting if I stop or fall.
JOINT COSTS
One of the complexities after a separation is working out how to contribute fairly to the children’s costs. These costs are a joint responsibility, or they should be, and the quicker this is sorted out the better. Money, as evidenced throughout human history, has the capacity to be a dinosaur-sized bone of contention.
In theory, when you’re a couple all costs associated with your children are a joint responsibility. My logic says that this situation should be mirrored if you separate. This will take different forms based on the working circumstances of both parents. Ideally this can be worked out fairly without the need for the authorities to become involved. In New Zealand the Inland Revenue Department decides on childcare payments if parents can’t agree, though early in a separation this may present difficulties.
As a couple Rose and I put all our money into a joint account and that made sense when we were together. It didn’t matter who earned the most, it was a principle. I would like to think that’s what most couples do but it seems many couples run individual accounts with some way of ensuring that each contributes to the collective bills, including those associated with their children. This is a weird way to operate unless there is a legal requirement to do so. That’s exactly what Rose and I do now because we’re separated!
Isn’t the point of being together – whether you’re married, in a civil union or living in sin – is that you’re in it together, including money? Separate accounts seem close to pre-nuptial agreements, which for me signal defeat before you’ve started. A friend’s fiancé surprised her with a pre-nuptial agreement two weeks before her wedding. After deliberating for the next week, which included a lot of crying, she signed and went ahead with the marriage. She is, I’m pleased to report, very happy now that she’s divorced. I have little time for anyone who uses their financial superiority as leverage over their partner; it’s white-collar domestic violence and it’s starting to be recognised as such in the courts.
To make things simple Rose and I agreed to replicate our married financial arrangement and split the children’s costs fifty-fifty: school uniforms, fees, sports equipment, clothes, etc. Costs related to what you personally wanted to do with the children – for example when I took them to the UK – were your own. At the end of the month we send through a list of our respective costs and the required money is transferred by whoever is behind. We have upgraded this process and now use a shared Google sheet, very techie!
I need to stress that the reason why this works is that we trust each other to spend and claim money appropriately. If something crops up with a large dollar value then we discuss it first so that neither of us gets a nasty surprise when the costs come through.
Rose and I also maintained our practice of saving a small amount of money each fortnight in a jointly controlled account. We use this to smooth any lumps due to large expenses as well as creating a nest egg for the children’s education. This has built nicely over the years and when one of our children
had a recent medical issue we were able to use some of the money so neither of us suffered an abrupt cashflow issue. Again, this financial arrangement only works with trust.
Over time we’ve got shrewder from a financial perspective. At birthdays and Christmas we have stopped doubling up on presents, which is how we started and which the children loved for obvious reasons. We now jointly buy larger presents, like game consoles (if you can’t beat them, join them) or mobile phones. I appreciate that this, and the other financial arrangements discussed, may seem remote for many separated couples, but Rose and I have been apart for over seven years. To me, it would say something about us as adults if we hadn’t got to the point we are now.
MONEY AND TAXES
Keeping my books balanced while juggling the children-related money issues is one area but equally the children’s own financial wants need to be managed. As Rog and Liv have grown they’ve become aware of money and what it can be used to obtain, like toys and chocolate. It must give the wrong impression to young children to watch you hand over a small piece of plastic which is given back to you with chocolate. It looks like a painless transaction and the sooner you educate them about what is involved in earning and spending money, the sooner discussions involving money become easier. Easier for you.
Rog and Liv were around eight or nine when I decided that it was time to introduce money more formally into their world by paying them for chores. I do recognise that I may be indoctrinating my children in the capitalist system, but that debate is for another forum. The concept I set up was simple and common. I linked money with genuine effort and so when they came to spend it, they had an appreciation of the effort it had taken them to accumulate it. It works perfectly.
They’ll happily spend my money like water, which is understandable, but they’ve become far more careful how they spend their own. If we pop into a café for a weekend brunch, I’m happy to buy them hot chocolates. If they want a more expensive drink like a smoothie or a milkshake, then they have to make up the difference. It isn’t the value that’s significant – about two dollars – it’s the lesson in actions and consequences. A huge bonus is that it changes the situation from pleading ‘Please can I, Dad?’ to the children quietly thinking ‘Shall I or shan’t I?’ I find not being harangued in these situations is priceless. Rog usually chooses the hot chocolate and Liv the smoothie and both are happy.
The money-for-chores scheme also works well when it’s time to pay the children on Sunday. The children know that the money they receive is based on what they’ve done, and consequently there are few arguments. Sometimes I can be a softy but I have to be careful not to undermine the whole point of the exercise.
The use of financial incentives and penalties does create interesting situations that resemble social experiments. I was washing the dishes, which meant the dishwasher was either full or broken, and I enlisted the children’s help to dry them. There weren’t that many but as they toiled away – their words not mine – the muttering increased about who was drying the most dishes. The situation came to a head with only the frying pan left. Rog and Liv both felt that they had unjustly borne the brunt of the drying and so each steadfastly insisted it was the other’s duty to dry the frying pan. I watched and waited with researcher-like fascination for a resolution but a stubborn silence descended. In Dr Seuss fashion, the north-going and south-going Zax weren’t budging.
‘There’s one thing you can bet on,’ I said, breaking the silence. ‘I’m not drying it.’ And I was wrong. Both children instantly starting putting their case to me but, like a traffic cop on point duty, I stemmed the verbal traffic and ushered back the silence.
‘I don’t care,’ I said slowly. ‘You’ve both done half as far as I’m concerned. The question is, how you’re going to resolve this?’
Silence.
‘Here’s an outrageous suggestion,’ I said. ‘How about a willing volunteer?’
The stubborn silence was replaced with an incredulous silence. I had to at least try what I hoped was the obvious solution. It was clear that each child had retreated to a fixed position and it was now a matter of principle and pride. It reminded me of when they were much smaller and I had found them, surrounded by an ocean of toys, arguing over the ownership of a piece of scrunched-up sticky tape.
‘I could pay one of you to do it.’ Liv’s eyes lit up at this suggestion. ‘But that would be wrong.’ Her lights went out. ‘Paying you to do something you should do for nothing sets a bad precedent. So here’s the deal.’
The children remained stoic and I didn’t get the usual groans that accompanied my deals.
‘If I dry it, I’m going to charge you two dollars each. You can consider it Daddy tax.’
I hoped that one of them would realise the stupidity of their position and dry the pan, thus giving him or her the moral high ground in future disputes, at the very least. Neither moved.
‘Alright. Five dollars. Each.’
The more-than-doubled tax had no effect.
‘Let me get this straight. You’re both going to lose five dollars because neither of you is prepared to do a job that will take less than ten seconds?’
In the ensuing silence I felt my annoyance move towards anger, but I was wasn’t sure at what. Was it my inability to resolve the situation – or my children’s pig-headedness at something inconsequential? In my work interactions, and the majority of my personal ones, I try to be the calmest person in the room and so, with a long soothing breath, I let it go. I resorted to the dreaded F word.
‘Fine.’ At least I kept my eyes open.
I dried the pan slowly, making the task take three times longer than needed, and then I put it away with exaggerated care. The children were still standing in the kitchen, though now looking sheepish.
‘Can I help you?’ I said cynically.
‘Dessert?’ Liv said tentatively.
My look gave Liv her answer, although inside I smiled at her cheek. They trooped out of the kitchen, wisely without argument. I hoped they had learned a valuable lesson though I doubted it. I’ve learnt and relearnt lessons throughout my life, which means I never learnt them in the first place.
I include the children in decisions with a financial impact that directly affects them for two reasons. First, it teaches them that there are both costs and consequences to the things we do and that means we sometimes have to compromise or make trade-offs. Second, and probably more significantly, they are part of the decision and get to understand why it’s been made.
When we exceeded our internet data limit (which by the time you read this I hope is a historical notion) and suffered the cruelly named penalty of being throttled back, I had a decision to make. I say ‘we went over’, but it was when I had the children for two weeks in the summer holidays and the interactive games they play suck data like a runaway vacuum cleaner on maximum. Rog and Liv knew something was wrong long before I received the cheerful email informing me they had us by the throat.
‘What butts is this?’ Rog’s attractive new saying for expressing displeasure.
‘What butts is what?’ If you can’t beat them, or beat it out of them, join them.
‘The internet is taking forever.’
‘It’s probably a glitch, give it a minute or two.’
Much less than a minute or two later.
‘It’s still butts.’
‘My computer is really slow too,’ Liv said, taking out her earphones and joining the conversation.
‘Okay, don’t get out of your prams. Let me check.’
I went to an internet speed-check site and started the test. The needle on the dial, which looks like a car’s rev counter and usually soars magnificently near the danger zone, hardly managed to lever itself off the bottom; we were literally crawling. It was then that the news was confirmed via email that I paraphrased for the children.
‘Dear valued customer. Blah
, blah, blah. You’re out of data and we are choking you until the end of month because we can.’
‘End of the month!’ they exclaimed in unison.
‘End of our monthly cycle which, according to them, makes it until Monday. Four days.’
WTF, OMG, poo them and many other colourful phrases ensued before a thoughtful silence descended. I thought they had gone back to their games, slow as they were, but Rog had been thinking.
‘You can buy more data, Dad.’
‘Can I?’ I said slowly with emphasis on the ‘I’.
After some painfully slow searching online I learnt that my only option was to double our data for $30. It took us twenty-six days to use our 80 gigabit allowance and now I had to buy another 80 for four days, the majority of which would be wasted. I was outraged. If I could buy eight gigabits for $5, more than double the price per unit, I would have done it in a heartbeat, but this was a rort. It isn’t as if our delightful customer-focused internet provider has to do anything as it’s all automated. How to keep your customers 101: don’t bend them over the table just because you can.
I explained the situation to the children who looked both thoughtful and hopeful but stayed quiet. I had an idea.
‘Okay, here’s the deal.’
This time I got groans and rolling eyes.
‘I think that $30 for four days is completely over the top. As you two are the ones who really want the speed, I’m willing to split the costs three ways, $10 each. Otherwise we suffer.’
‘In silence,’ I added.
There were the usual questions, angling, protests and negotiations. When the dust settled, neither wanted to pay and so we surfed for the next four days at dial-up speed. There were no further complaints about the speed, though I was asked numerous times about the exact moment in time when we would be let loose again at warp speed. Although the house was limited to dial-up speed, I discreetly used my mobile phone’s personal hot spot feature when I needed speed. You do have to keep a step ahead of the rabble.