Last night my
two-year-old son threw the mother of all tantrums. Usually playful and happy
Myles suddenly went ballistic: screaming, crying and clinging to me for dear
life. I tried to placate him with cuddles, treats and then decided an early hot
bath might calm him down; not the brightest move, as it turned out. First he
refused to get in. Then he refused to get out. In between, he just sat in the
bubbles and howled. His face grew red and snot flowed from his nose. He sobbed
with theatrical intensity. I felt sorry for the neighbours – serve them right
for banging around upstairs. When I gave him his favourite fish ‘Nini’ (he
can’t say Nemo) to play with he tossed the plastic toy onto the bathroom floor.
Since I had a bottle to heat, pyjamas to locate and other urgent chores I
had no choice to leave him crying in the bath, my heart torn and yet angry – at him, at myself, at the world.
After two weeks in charge
of Myles (my wife is overseas at a family funeral) I am learning a great deal
about life as a single parent. Indeed, I have a new respect for single mums and
dads who have do this on a permanent basis. I won’t be so shocked the next time
I see an exhausted mum giving young Shantil or Deezel* a bollocking in the
supermarket. In fact, I’ll probably give her a high-five. Losing your partner,
even temporarily, does not double your workload as a parent – it’s more like a
1000 per cent more pressure. The simplest things – like having a shower – become
a major logistical exercise. Some mornings I leave the house without cleaning my teeth.
Juggling a toddler in one hand and a toothbrush in the other is just too
difficult. Meals are always rushed affairs. Just as I sit down to eat Myles
thrusts a book in my face. “Animals, animals!” he pleads. After a couple of
mouthfuls, I succumb. My meal often goes cold on the sideboard.
Each day I wake up
promising to be a better dad, more organised and calmer. Then Myles spills
water down his freshly washed jumper or proceeds to fill his nappy just as
we’re leaving for childcare. The clothes need to come off, nappy changed, new
sweatshirt found. My daily resolution goes up in smoke. I can feel my blood
boiling. It’s hard not being able to share these frustrations with another
adult – or hand over Myles for a couple of minutes while you get yourself
showered, dressed and breakfasted. Harder still not to be able to share the
worries and the delights of parenthood – or laugh together when he starts
singing along with the Phil Collins CD in the car. Don’t get me wrong, I love
sharing this bonding time with Myles – especially when he gives me cuddles and kisses –
but I just wish I was so much better at everything.
None of this has come as
much of a surprise. With such a strong-willed and energetic child, I expected
to be stressed, exhausted and frustrated; at least some of the time. But I
really didn’t anticipate the loneliness and isolation associated with single
parenting. I often feel that Myles and I are the last people on earth. He clings to
me, but I also cling to him. They say it takes a village to raise a child, well
my village has been demolished and replaced by luxury
mansions surrounded by high walls. Sydney is a cold-hearted place these days.
Even the parents at the local playground seem reluctant to chat while our
children share the swings. People are fearful and suspicious. My close
friends are either single (and childless) or have grown-up kids. We have no
family in Australia. So a kind remark from a stranger, like the old lady at
Bondi Bondi who said “What a handsome grandson you have!” or the local newsagent
who gave Myles a toy drill, can turn my day around.
Although family members
in England have been wonderfully supportive, I don’t think I could have got
through the past couple of weeks without the brilliant teachers at Myles’
childcare in downtown Sydney. The Montessori Academy in King Street is Myles' second home where is nurtured, fed, inspired and truly loved. The people who
look after him are all remarkable: patient, affectionate, and highly
motivated. Myles really thrives in that environment and has learnt to turn on
the Chipperfield (or should that be Echeumuna) charm to get what he wants. I
leave him in the morning in complete confidence that he will be treated with
the greatest care. Montessori Academy King Street, I salute you!
My stint as a solo parent has taught me that there is nothing easy or
predictable about looking after a small child, that mothers deserve far more
respect than we give them and, lastly, that children produce an obscene
quantity of dirty clothes. I have never done as much washing, ironing and
folding in my life. Anyone want to come over and give me a hand? Thought not. Come back soon, Vina. A husband needs a wife.
