I am back on what I call ‘Pittsburgh shift’. I am the sole daytime carer of my daughter for the next five weekdays. The weekend, which is slap right in the middle of my shift, offers little or no relief since – despite my best efforts – I cannot get my daughter to stay in a box for 48 hours. Even though (rather generously I think) I am willing to supply her with some water and stale bread.
If she would only be that little bit obliging, Barbara and I might have some kind of life together – even though I am technically dead.
The weekend is great for bringing a family together and giving them the opportunity to annoy the hell out of each other.
Our household is like a war zone because all the control I have exercised over my child in the preceding days goes out the window, as she allies herself to the much more relaxed leadership of my wife. Forget the “peace in our time” bit of paper. If confronted by Hitler, Barbara would probably offer him a cup of tea. Even as his tanks rolled over her body.
Okay, I exaggerate. My daughter is not Hitler – merely the enigmatic head of a crackpot regime that we call our household.