Writing -- Role Reversal

The short story below was published in the 19 August 2003 edition of Woman's Way, Ireland's favourite weekly womens magazine.

"Daddy, that's not how Mummy does my toast…"

I sighed, my four-year-old daughter, Rebecca, looked up at me with disapproval. It was only toast and strawberry jam… how on earth could I have got that wrong?

"What's wrong with it?" I asked tentatively, not at all sure that I wanted to know the answer.

"It should be triangles silly… not squares. Everybody knows that," Rebecca rolled her eyes in an astonishingly accurate parody of her mother. I winced.

"It'll taste the same, Becks, trust me."

She looked at me quizzically, then at the piece of toast. You could almost see the debate going on behind her eyes. Finally she took the toast.

"Okay Daddy, but you'd better get it right the next time," she said, skipping into the living room where I'd left her little brother George watching cartoons.

Another crisis over, for now at least. I took the opportunity to make myself a congratulatory cup of coffee.

Three months… it had been three months already. I still couldn't believe it. I'd been flying high, project manager for a major software developer in Dublin, when the bottom fell out of the IT industry. Suddenly people were losing their jobs left, right and centre. Kate, that's my wife, had raised concerns about my job security at the time, but I'd scoffed at the idea. I was their star player, their trouble-shooter, their 'rabbit out of the hat' man. They couldn't get rid of me, I'd reassured her; the projects I worked on were the most important in the company.

That had been about a week before I was laid off. Kate had been right -- she usually is. Three months later and there was still no sign of improvement in the IT sector. Repayments on the car and the house were eating into our savings and emergency measures were called for. Kate, a qualified teacher, had volunteered to go back to work if I'd look after the children. It sounded like a good deal to me… I quite fancied the idea of spending some time with the nippers - after all, it had to be easier than working for a living. Right?

This was Kate's first day back, and I was on my own with the kids. It was still early, but the first big hurdle, breakfast, was over, and nobody was dead. There had been a few minor incidents, granted. Most notably when George, full of excitement at the sight of the coco pops turning his milk brown, decided to share them with his sister. He launched the bowl across the table giggling with that giddy exuberance exclusive to toddlers, and I spent the next half-hour picking sticky bits of chocolate puffed rice out of Rebecca's hair. That was when I resorted to toast… an easier option, or so I thought. And maybe it would have been if I'd remembered to cut and fold it the right way for Rebecca and left the jam off George's altogether. How do you get jam in your ear eating a piece of toast anyway?

I finished my coffee and looked at the clock. Just eight-thirty - another nine hours at least before Kate got home. I made myself another coffee, and headed for the living room.

George wasn't sitting on the sofa any more. He was standing behind the beanbag, which was open. My son was merrily throwing polystyrene beads all over the place.

"Daddy, Daddy - look, look," he shrieked when he saw me.

"Look Daddy, George found snow," Rebecca smiled up at me from the middle of the floor, throwing little white beads into the air and letting them cascade onto her upturned face.

"Stop it!" I said in a firm, even voice. They just giggled at each other and ignored me.

"Stop it, right NOW!" before I knew it my voice had risen involuntarily. I hadn't meant to shout. At least, I don't think I had.

George froze, a handful of polystyrene beads trickling slowly between his tiny fingers. I watched as the expression on his face changed from one of excitement to surprise, disbelief, and finally abject misery. His bottom lip quivered uncontrollably as he started to bawl. When George was a baby I swore he could wake the whole street with his crying, and that talent has endured: the noise was deafening.

"Daddy," Rebecca shouted above the din, almost in tears herself, "why did you shout so loud?"

I picked George up and gave him a cuddle.

"Hush, hush, there now, it's okay little one. Daddy's sorry for shouting, but you mustn't play with the beanbag, okay, it's not a toy." The bawling eased to an insistent sobbing, and I felt waves of guilt with every shudder of his little frame as he cried into my shoulder. How could a two-year-old possibly understand that it was wrong? I should have explained things instead of shouting. What a klutz!

"Daddy… are you still cross?" sniffed Rebecca. She had come over and was looking up at me, her eyes brimming with tears and… what else. Was that fear? Oh God this was just great. It wasn't even nine-o-clock yet and already I had my son in tears and my daughter scared stiff. Some father I was turning out to be! This was much harder than expected.

"No Sausage, I'm not cross…" I tried to sound reassuring. "It's just that Daddy needs to keep the house nice and tidy, and this game is making such a mess."

"But, Daddy, isn't that Mummy's job?" it's amazing how things are so simple to kids, so black and white.

"No darling, it's not Mummy's job, we all have to help. That's what we'll do now, okay, clean up this mess." It would take longer with them 'helping', but at least I could keep an eye on them. Between us we salvaged most of the beads and returned them to the beanbag. George had almost as much fun throwing the beads back in as he'd had distributing them around the room. I unleashed the hoover on the rest and finally the place looked spick and span.

"Right, who wants a video?" I asked, hoping to gain a bit of breathing space.

"Yes please Daddy," Rebecca was enthusiastic.

"Vidjo, vidjo!" George too… so far, so good.

"Okay, which one?"

"A hundred and one Dalmatians please," said Rebecca. It's her favourite.

"Let's see what George thinks Becks, okay?" I said, holding the box up to my son.

"Doggies, doggies, bow-wow, bow-wow!" I took that as a yes. Great! That would give me a bit of time to get organised before lunch.

Lunch was frozen pizza, something that even I couldn't mess up. I preheated the oven ahead of time, put the pizza on the right shelf, now all I had to do was wait and… there was a yelp from the living room, then a screech and then all-out pandemonium.

Rebecca and George were fighting. Rebecca was winning, of course, but George was doing a remarkable job of holding onto Rebecca's rag-doll while screaming blue-murder. Rebecca twisted and turned, attempting to wrench the doll free, but George just wouldn't let go. I was trying to decide on a course of action when Rebecca brought the heavy artillery into play, swinging her legs into kicking range. Just before she let fly I lunged in and grabbed her. She kicked and screamed; her left foot caught me in the midriff and the breath exploded from my lungs. Damn that hurt! Quickly I grabbed George under the other arm and bundled the two of them onto opposite sides of the sofa while I caught my breath.

"Becks, that's enough nonsense now. Stop it, or it's straight to your room! Understand?" Rebecca stopped kicking and sat on the sofa scowling, arms folded in her 'I'm not talking to anyone' pose. Well, that was fine with me for now. George was still howling for the doll, so I sat him on my knee and bounced him up and down until the whingeing turned to giggling. Superdad was back! Now, what was that smell?

Oh no… PIZZA!

I rushed to the oven and retrieved the charred remains of what had once been lunch. It went straight in the bin. Lunch was actually a subdued affair of tinned rice pudding and sulky four-year-old. George seemed to enjoy himself though… rice pudding is his favourite, so only half of it ended up decorating the room.

After lunch George went for a little sleep, thank God. He doesn't always go down, and I practically camped outside the bedroom door willing him to settle. Gradually his random chatting subsided and he drifted into a fitful slumber.

The next few hours were spent trying to draw Rebecca out of her sulk. We watched telly, drew pictures, played with blocks… I even danced to a West Life CD… thought the less people who know about that the better! Eventually she forgot to sulk and started enjoying herself.

Then George woke up!

I still hadn't had a minute to myself for the entire day, and it was beginning to tell. I was tired… more tired, I realised, than I ever remembered being in the office. Time for some fresh air, I thought. We live not far from an old canal, and the ducks and swans are always keen to dispose of our stale bread and scraps. The kids love it, and were delighted with the idea.

"Becks, not too close to the edge, you'll fall in," I could do without diving into the canal after an over-excited four-year-old. George, thankfully, was strapped into his buggy, so that was one less thing to worry about.

"But Daddy, I can't reach that little one at the back. He's starving!" Rebecca was pointing at a bedraggled looking duck that was always beaten to the bread by bigger rivals.

"Throw a bit harder then, but be careful, and don't stand so close to the edge."

"Okay Daddy," she said, and gave a chunk of bread an almighty throw. It sailed over the other ducks and landed squarely in front of her target -- followed closely by her glove. "Oops, Daddy, my glove, Daddy, my glove," oh God, there'd be waterworks any minute.

"Don't worry darling, Daddy'll get it," I'd have to be quick - the glove was sinking. I grabbed a nearby stick and inched my way down a small slipway at the edge of the canal. Just a bit further and I'd have it. I stretched and hooked the glove out of the water onto the bank, and slipped. Before I knew it I was up to my waist in water and foul-smelling muck.

"Thanks Daddy," said Rebecca retrieving her glove. "Ughh, its all wet and yucky!" What a revelation. I squelched my way out of the water. Time to go!

By the time we got home I was completely exhausted. I wasn't sure any more if this arrangement was such a good idea. The video went on until Mummy came home, and I dialled out for Chinese… no way was I cooking after the day I'd just had.

As soon as Kate arrived Rebecca ran up to her and rattled off a litany of my failures. "Mummy," she said thoughtfully, "Daddy really is rubbish at your job you know."

Kate just smiled a knowing smile, walked over and gave me a kiss.