water. The Space Cadet says I’m being ‘harsh’—so falling in love with the word that he starts calling me ‘Mr Harsh’ and ‘Inspector Harsh’ and ‘Professor Harsh’ and ‘AA Harsh’ and ‘Mrs Harsh’. It’s a joke that lasts all fortnight. My new name, in some creative variant, greets my every parenting decision.
And if The Space Cadet thinks I’m harsh, Batboy believes I’m incompetent—blaming every household problem on the fact that I’m running the show. Bringing us to the rule: the further away the other parent is, the more wonderful they become.
For the last couple of months Batboy has been learning to referee soccer games in the belief that he’ll earn twice what they pay at Kmart. Already he’s been issued with his official red and yellow cards. ‘You’re gone, mate, gone,’ he says producing the yellow card with a flourish. ‘Mum’s been away for four days, and look—there’s no bread and there’s no milk.’ He seems delighted with this observation. I offer him cereal with a splash of water and mumble that things aren’t so bad. Batboy stares me down. ‘Are you telling me I’m wrong? That’s breach Y16. Dissent against the ref by word or deed. That’s a red carder.’ I take a silent vow. I will find the person who thought it was a good idea to give a high-school student a sense of power. Then I’ll kill him.
Jocasta, I notice, dropped large amounts of laundry into the basket just before her departure. She also did ‘a clean-out’ of the fridge—throwing out any food past its use-by date. This, of course, is precisely the sort of food that can sustain a family through a crisis. I conclude she has a hidden plan to make the house fall apart during my stewardship, thus proving her contention that she does all the housework and I do nothing. I resolve to defeat her.
By Friday, my head is pounding due to the constant alcohol abuse. Batboy notes that his soccer referee’s uniform is still in the wash, which is ‘conduct warranting a caution’. He waves a yellow card in my direction. There are now twenty-two dead cockroaches, their bodies arranged to spell out the phrase ‘He’s Losing It’. This is when Jocasta rings in, wondering how we’re all getting on. Before answering, I remind myself: if you admit you’re not coping, it’s just another way of confessing that she normally does more than her share of this stuff. ‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Absolute breeze. Gettinga lot of reading in, actually. Great to be able to cook every night. A real pleasure.’
The only problem with this barefaced lie is the chaos that surrounds me. The phone call ends and I set to work. In the days ahead, the illusion must be created that we coped effortlessly. I square my shoulders and order the children into action. I am Major-General Harsh and we shall have the house spotless. I start scrubbing at various surfaces and—to save time—cook all the family’s meals in one go: an army-sized quantity of bolognaise sauce, sufficient to last ten consecutive meals.
I tackle the ironing and by the second Wednesday every basket is empty, even the Too Hard Basket—the one full of the pleats and weird pockets. The kitchen, though, appears to be fighting back against my attempts to clean it. Spaghetti sauce is evident on most surfaces, and fifty-seven deceased cockroaches now litter the floor, their bodies spelling out ‘She’s Winning’.
By Monday, Batboy is growing suspicious. Spooning down his spaghetti bolognaise for the eighth successive night, an idea forms: ‘We’ve had this meal before, haven’t we?’
‘Maybe once or twice,’ I reply. Batboy says he feels sick. Weakly he slips his red card out of his pocket. ‘Repeated abuse of a ref,’ he says, his voice trembling.
Back in the kitchen, the cockroaches have reorganised themselves into a giant clock-face, counting down the minutes until Jocasta’s return. With the cockroach clock ticking, I work through the night, scrubbing and
And if The Space Cadet thinks I’m harsh, Batboy believes I’m incompetent—blaming every household problem on the fact that I’m running the show. Bringing us to the rule: the further away the other parent is, the more wonderful they become.
For the last couple of months Batboy has been learning to referee soccer games in the belief that he’ll earn twice what they pay at Kmart. Already he’s been issued with his official red and yellow cards. ‘You’re gone, mate, gone,’ he says producing the yellow card with a flourish. ‘Mum’s been away for four days, and look—there’s no bread and there’s no milk.’ He seems delighted with this observation. I offer him cereal with a splash of water and mumble that things aren’t so bad. Batboy stares me down. ‘Are you telling me I’m wrong? That’s breach Y16. Dissent against the ref by word or deed. That’s a red carder.’ I take a silent vow. I will find the person who thought it was a good idea to give a high-school student a sense of power. Then I’ll kill him.
Jocasta, I notice, dropped large amounts of laundry into the basket just before her departure. She also did ‘a clean-out’ of the fridge—throwing out any food past its use-by date. This, of course, is precisely the sort of food that can sustain a family through a crisis. I conclude she has a hidden plan to make the house fall apart during my stewardship, thus proving her contention that she does all the housework and I do nothing. I resolve to defeat her.
By Friday, my head is pounding due to the constant alcohol abuse. Batboy notes that his soccer referee’s uniform is still in the wash, which is ‘conduct warranting a caution’. He waves a yellow card in my direction. There are now twenty-two dead cockroaches, their bodies arranged to spell out the phrase ‘He’s Losing It’. This is when Jocasta rings in, wondering how we’re all getting on. Before answering, I remind myself: if you admit you’re not coping, it’s just another way of confessing that she normally does more than her share of this stuff. ‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Absolute breeze. Gettinga lot of reading in, actually. Great to be able to cook every night. A real pleasure.’
The only problem with this barefaced lie is the chaos that surrounds me. The phone call ends and I set to work. In the days ahead, the illusion must be created that we coped effortlessly. I square my shoulders and order the children into action. I am Major-General Harsh and we shall have the house spotless. I start scrubbing at various surfaces and—to save time—cook all the family’s meals in one go: an army-sized quantity of bolognaise sauce, sufficient to last ten consecutive meals.
I tackle the ironing and by the second Wednesday every basket is empty, even the Too Hard Basket—the one full of the pleats and weird pockets. The kitchen, though, appears to be fighting back against my attempts to clean it. Spaghetti sauce is evident on most surfaces, and fifty-seven deceased cockroaches now litter the floor, their bodies spelling out ‘She’s Winning’.
By Monday, Batboy is growing suspicious. Spooning down his spaghetti bolognaise for the eighth successive night, an idea forms: ‘We’ve had this meal before, haven’t we?’
‘Maybe once or twice,’ I reply. Batboy says he feels sick. Weakly he slips his red card out of his pocket. ‘Repeated abuse of a ref,’ he says, his voice trembling.
Back in the kitchen, the cockroaches have reorganised themselves into a giant clock-face, counting down the minutes until Jocasta’s return. With the cockroach clock ticking, I work through the night, scrubbing and
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