Bad father's day

A disturbing look into a day in the life of the dark recesses of my brain;

Sunday morning, get up, curse at last night's dishes and the fact that the kids have helped themselves to brekky and left a mess to add to the whole ordeal.

Sharon's off to a rehearsal at the Geelong Performing Arts centre for Becky's dance classes' big concert. Curse the fact that these pagans must schedule things on a Sunday morning when we should all be going to church. I tell Sam to do the dishes which he does. Then I tell him to do them again properly. Grizzle.

I take the remaining two kids to church. During the service, for some reason, they play Butterfly Kisses, that masterpiece song of Daddy's-little-girl cringy schmaltzness. I fail to see the prophetic purpose of it.

After church, get together with the usual clique and complain about the state of the world. Grizzle about the fact that Becky's dance concert is tonight at dinner time and going for 2 hours. On a Sunday night. School the next day. Who arranged that? Dear little Becky has been annoyingly going on about this concert for weeks now. How important can it be?

Take Omi to see her four-legged friend Opal. She's misbehaving today. So is Opal. Stop at the supermarket to get something which didn't make it onto Sharon's shopping list earlier in the week. I expect to be going back to the supermarket at some stage later that day.

V8 Supercars on today. Good. Sammy and I can relax and watch them. Just when the race gets interesting I gotta go and pick up Omi from Opal's paddock. Grizzle. Too many kids. Can't I just sell one?

Get home and the in-laws have arrived for Becky's dance concert. I forgot about that. They're always here when there's some motorsport on TV. Grizzle. They must think all I do most weekends is sit around watching car racing. Okay, so I do, but that's not the point.

We scoff down tea early and I get indigestion.

The two Vodafone Fords are leading but with a fast closing Tod Kelly it's getting exciting and...now we all have to pile into the SUV to go to Becky's concert. Grizzle.

I'm as tired as all buggery by this time, as we wait in the foyer of the Geelong Performing Arts Centre. I kill the time by grizzling about the scam of getting parents to pay for dance lessons and then charge them for a limited number of tickets to the end of year show AND not let them take pictures!

The show starts as I am mid-doze wondering whether Jamie Whincup snared the V8 title or not. The seniors are okay and I admire the courage of the intermediate boys dancing ballet-like in front of countless mates. Back in my day that would have earned a fatal beating.

Some of the juniors have the coordination of those people who go ice-skating for the very first time when they really shouldn't.

Then out come the preppies, and something happens.

There's my little Becky Boo, and she looks gorgeous. I can't take my eyes off her. My Becky is the sweetest looking, has the biggest smile, and has the rythym of a dancer. She's just the best. Don't argue with me. I couldn't care less if all the other cute little girls are channeling Shirley Temple. I'm hardly looking at them anyway. They're okay I suppose.

Moments before she began moving so beautifully to the tune of "A spoonful of sugar" (Julie Andrews in Mary Poppins), several years of neglectful parenting flashes before my eyes and in an instant it's all gone. For a second there I was too conscious of how unfair and horrid I've been to her, but then I suddenly can't remember anything else that happened that day. She is blowing us butterfly kisses.

Monday morning, go to work with a spoonful of sugar stuck in my head. It has a calming influence. That's odd- normally it would fill me with rage...



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