THE DAD BEAT

Harry de Quetteville’s tales from the fatherhood front line

New year, new rules. No1: no longer will I bend down to haul the Monsters out of the bath. Cosmic has the heft of a seal pup. Looks cute. Doesn’t seem too big. Weighs a ton, particularly when he laces his arms around my neck and simply draws his feet up off the floor. Baths are dangerous places for parents. Roger Federer incurred one of the few injuries of his career while running a bath for his twin girls. And I (it probably hasn’t escaped your notice) am no Roger Federer.

No2: the Monsters must take their plates to the dishwasher. This item is part of a general trend of “The Monsters must…”, now that they are strong and capable and we feel so haggard and old. Although that could just be the effects of the holidays. Since they have gone back to school, I feel a certain vigour return.

No3: there is no No3.

No2 almost read: “The Monsters must put their plates in the dishwasher”. But that would have disrupted the intricate dishwasher-loading system. And nothing can interfere with the DLS.

They seem to interpret ‘taking responsibility’ as ‘having a mind of their own’

Such is parenting. You try to get them to do things for themselves, but when they do, they insist on doing so in a way that does not meet your own, battily detailed criteria. Instead, they seem to interpret “taking responsibility” as “having a mind of their own”. Outrageous. Have they not realised that it means doing precisely as they are told, even without specifically being told it?

“Taking responsibility”, tragically enough, features on a list of four family values drawn up at my instigation. I know, I know. If you had told me a few years ago that I would be channelling worthy sentiments like some Californian podcast guru, I too would have been noisily sick in a bag. But there you go. That’s what desperation does to a man. The Monsters run rings around us. I’ll try anything.

The Four Commandments, as I like to think of them, are: Honesty, Listening, Responsibility and Trying (New Things). Yuck! The cynic inside me weeps as the boys chant them in unison. Then I see their plates stacked neatly by the dishwasher and I think: “What the hell? There could be a podcast in this. And a book. And a TV deal. I’m going to be rich.” And the inner cynic breathes a giant sigh of relief.