vomiting to start much earlier into the flight than normal. But at the time, her ‘caring’ father, who had not really thought this through, was ‘un-contactable’ in the grip of an alcohol-induced coma.
I maintained unpleasant eye contact with the woman across the aisle, my head still stuck on the tray table, trying to work out how I could get my body to straighten while hunched up in the cramped seat. She continued to stare at me no doubt assuming, perhaps correctly, that I was some drunken, pathetic, incompetent father. I finally managed to rouse myself, gasping in pain, and somehow achieved the feat of standing up while doing a fairly good impression of Quasimodo. Great start to my new life, I thought to myself.
Our holiday in the UK was a very emotional time for all of us. My dad wasn’t there, and for the girls their mum wasn’t there. But at least the conflict and tension that had blighted our last month wasn’t there either. It was a great environment for me to start bonding with my daughters. For the first time ever I was responsible for them twenty-four hours a day. We didn’t talk much about what we had been through or what was to come, we treated it as a holiday. I was amazed how happy my girls seemed. Sophie, my eldest, was, unusually, a little bit clingy. She became slightly anxious when I left her and Annabel at my sister’s house for a night while I went to my mum’s house to go through my dad’s financial affairs. She wanted to know how long I would be gone and when I would get back, and she called me a couple of times to make sure that everything was alright. Other than that, life seemed quite normal. Or perhaps it was just the calm before the storm.
When we got back to Australia three weeks later there was no one at the airport to meet us. The three of us stood waiting for a cab in the dark, rainy Melbourne morning. It was a quiet journey back to the house. Each of us was tired and lost in our own thoughts about the reality we would face when we got home and how our new lives were going to turn out. I was wondering how I would cope as a single father—and I have no doubt that the girls were thinking the same thing. I also had the vain hope my wife might have changed her mind and would be waiting for us at home and, again, I was sure that the girls were quietly hoping the same thing.
An hour later we pul ed into the driveway. The house was dark and quiet. It didn’t look as though anyone was home. I went into the bedroom and opened the wardrobes. It seemed impossible, but they were empty. Her clothes were gone. She had moved out. It was the beginning of my new life as a single dad.
I was happy my children had chosen to live with me, rather than my wife. I didn’t want to miss out on living with my daughters and their growing up just because my wife had decided that she wanted to live with someone else. And I wasn’t going to take the—supposedly—easy way out and become a weekend father. I was determined to fulfil my responsibilities 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
