by Roger McEwan
Generally I behave like a typical male, and I’m somewhat proud of it. For example, I don’t try on dozens of items in different shops when clothes shopping. I know what I like and once I see it it’s then merely a matter of fit. It’s a similar story with cars. In my life I’ve taken around five cars for test drives and have bought around five cars. I do my homework, sometimes well, and then I buy. The test drive is simply to confirm that the wheels stay on and the car doesn’t drive like a lemon.
Buying a house is different and I was aware I needed to be thorough. Even though I was hunting by myself, because houses are listed online, it meant that when I found one of interest I was able to send the link to Cathy so we could discuss its features. After employing this process for a few weeks I had been through about ten houses, both online and in person, and they were okay, but only okay. None of them had a wow factor, or if they did they had an equivalent ouch factor in terms of price or location. Just as my enthusiasm was waning, an attractive house, ideally situated, came onto market. It was literally around the corner from the children’s new school and zoned for the future schools Rose and I had discussed. It seemed perfect.
I missed the open home the following Sunday as I was playing golf, maybe getting my priorities wrong, and so I did a dangerous thing. I contacted the realtors directly and expressed my interest – which is the equivalent of kicking a hungry crocodile to get his/her attention. A time to view the house was hurriedly organised and the next day I was met at the gate by a blonde, well-dressed, attractive, presumably single (I just happened to notice) real-estate agent. As we introduced ourselves I felt a sense of disappointment from Ms/Miss Realtor. I often facilitate groups in work situations and I’ve become experienced at reading people’s body language. Ms Realtor looked nonplussed which I found strange as I was dressed in a suit doing what I considered to be a decent impression of a well-healed, motivated buyer.
‘Is anyone else coming?’ She asked politely but coolly.
‘No, there isn’t,’ I said, trying to mask my wariness with enthusiasm.
‘Oh right. Let’s get started then.’
We went on the usual tour-de-house, which is inevitably an awkward affair. It feels like being the only person in a shop with the entire focus of the bored sales force on you. I prefer the freedom to roam and kick things at will but we dutifully wandered from room to room mainly in silence. Occasionally Ms Realtor pointed out a feature – that’s where the fridge goes. I’m not sure what she thought I’d put in an empty rectangular-shaped hole in the kitchen wall – a coffin? The house felt cosy and appeared solid both inside and out. Not that I have a clue about anything structural: if I was intending to go further I would obtain a builder’s report.
I discovered it was a 1920s house, and it had a dignified and stately feel. It was easily spacious enough for three and, vitally, it had a backyard big enough for growing vegetables and playing games. Many houses that I’d viewed were on recently subdivided sections and had little garden and sod all grass (excuse the awful pun). When you have smaller children, six and eight, the last thing you want is to have to take them to the park when they want to play outside, as I was doing currently.
When we completed the grand tour Ms Realtor politely inquired, ‘When do you think your partner will be able to view the house?’ The penny dropped. On my own with no wife, girlfriend, partner or significant other she thought I had the authority to do nothing. I was a mere scout. Ms Realtor clearly expected that she would have to repeat the tour when the real decision maker turned up. I know this sounds like stereotyping, but this must be what she encounters on a day-to-day basis. It seems the women are the decision makers and males go along to keep the peace. ‘Anything for a quiet life,’ my Dad was known to mutter, mainly under his breath.
When I related this story to Cathy she agreed instantly. Apparently the houses she’d been involved in purchasing had the ‘correct’ decision made before a male, her ex in this case, was even starting to contemplate the indoor-outdoor flow and where to position his drinks cabinet.
’Not any time soon,’ I said. ‘I’m separated.’ I elected not to explain the international nature of my current situation as I thought it would only add confusion.
’I’m sorry to hear that.’
Yeah, right, I thought. Separations must be like fuel for the real-estate industry.
‘Who are you using to sell your current home?’
‘It’s not being sold. My wife, ex-wife,’ I corrected myself, ‘is keeping it.’ It seemed an innocent question but I realised that I was playing my cards poorly. She now knew I had cash. I’d inadvertently spilt some of my blood in the water.
‘I see. It’s a tough time, so much change. When I separated, it all got so messy.’
‘I guess it’s always tough,’ I said. ‘Can I see the master bedroom again?’
‘Sure, follow me,’ she said, slinking back into the house.
Okay that’s not how the exchange finished at all, that’s just me flexing my artistic licence. Probably inadvisably. This isn’t, maybe unfortunately, the confessions of a single dad or real-estate agent. It would make an interesting variation on real-estate-based reality TV shows like Escape to the Country. It would certainly push up their ratings somewhat.
Back to the story.
The house was perfect and after a brief negotiation I agreed to buy at the house’s rateable value which was in line with what houses were currently fetching. My blonde, well-dressed, attractive, single and now richer real-estate agent said I owed her a ‘decent’ bottle of wine for talking the seller down. I may have but, given the commission she just earned, the wine didn’t happen.
So in November 2008, four months after I became single, Rog, Liv and I moved into the first house I had owned by myself. I completed all the necessary paperwork the school required and, as the children were now ‘in zone’, they were accepted for the upcoming year. Summer was knocking on the door, though it doesn’t always turn up on time in Palmerston North. Everything seemed to be falling into place.
Reflections
If you’re left with the money and not the house, don’t make the mistake of thinking it will last forever. It won’t.
House hunting is difficult, so find a friend whose opinion you value to help. You’ll get a valuable second opinion and, if you appear as a couple, it’s likely you’ll be taken more seriously.
If you can, discuss the future schools your children might attend with your ex. House buying can be a strategic decision and being in the appropriate school zones can remove future stress.
Maintain respectable working relationships with real-estate agents …
5. Muddling Through
Muddle through – to succeed in some undertaking in spite of lack of organisation.
Collins English Dictionary
I pride myself on being a big-picture person – someone who doesn’t get lost in the detail. This is a valuable attribute in my working life, but I quickly learnt that it doesn’t translate well to home life when there’s no one to make sure everything’s organised. In the weeks and months after my separation, my lack of attention to detail was highlighted to me on a regular basis.
Excursions with the children resulted in us getting to the venue with the children clothed in the required kit but with nothing else. Cold days at hockey: ‘Sorry darling, I forgot to bring you a jacket. And some water.’ Hot days at cricket: ‘Sorry mate, I forgot to pack a hat and sunscreen. And some water.’
My road-to-Damascus moment came when I took Liv, six at the time, to hockey. I had Liv and her hockey stick and we were heading to Manawaroa Park on time. So far so good. Hockey, like many sports involving small children, is an all-in brawl. You can’t see the hockey ball for enthusiastic bodies and wildly swinging sticks. Given the mayhem that takes place, the rule was, quite rightly: no mouthguard, no game.
In the car Liv sat sile
ntly chewing her gum. She wasn’t her usual chatterbox self and I thought she may not be feeling well. But when we arrived she perked up, bolted out of the car and took off at a gallop to warm up with her team mates. I was left to carry her gear which, I discovered, wasn’t that onerous as there was nothing to carry. Not even water.
It was an exciting game and Liv was, as usual, in the thick of the action. She managed to get her fair share of hits and the occasional kick, and triumphantly scored a goal. After the game, as we strolled back to the car, she was back to her chatty self.
‘I whacked it hard, did you see?’
‘You were awesome.’
‘I’m thirsty.’
‘I’ll get you a drink on the way home. And hot chips,’ I hastily added to sweeten the deal.
‘Yay! I’m cold, where’s my jacket?’
‘The car’s just over there. We’ll get your boots off and you’ll soon warm up inside.’ I would like to think that this exchange was the origin of my awakening but I wasn’t on the road to Damascus yet. Liv sat on the bumper chatting away about the game and her heroics while I took her boots off.
‘Right, throw your stick in the boot and give me your mouthguard.’
Liv looked at me wide-eyed. ‘I left my mouthguard at home.’
‘No you didn’t. You had it in during the game. I saw you were wearing it. Have you dropped it?’ My voice became accusing.
‘No it’s at home. I used my bubble gum.’
Liv had played the entire game with her bubble gum stuck between her top lip and teeth to make it look as if she was wearing a mouthguard. I was quietly impressed with her resourcefulness and, as it’s my responsibility to ensure she has everything she needs including her mouthguard, how could I be angry? I gave her a big hug and no more was said.
Later that evening when I relayed the story on the phone to Cathy. I considered it to be merely an amusing anecdote, so I expected her to burst out laughing. But instead I got a thorough dressing down for being a useless and careless parent. I was sternly reminded, over an extended period, how my forgetfulness could have resulted in Liv’s teeth being knocked out – all of them apparently. ‘How funny would that have been, hmmm?’
In the course of the conversation, as Cathy became less enraged, I discovered that her son had suffered damage to his teeth on a seesaw while under the relatively lazy and wandering eye of his father, hence the reaction. It was this conversation, and not the incident itself, that saw me take my first step towards Damascus.
TAKING CHARGE
The question that confronted me was – why was I hopeless at organising my children? On reflection, I think the following is what was happening. When you’re in a relationship you become overly reliant on the strengths of your partner and end up taking those strengths for granted. Ensuring the children had everything they needed, and everything they could possibly need, was Rose’s domain. She was brilliant at it.
An unfortunate side effect the arrival of children brings is the death of spontaneity, including travel. Driving off into the sunset on a whim was replaced by the need for Rose’s military-style planning. Going anywhere involved an expedition-sized load of equipment: pram, cot, nappies, toys, a change of clothes, formula, sterilising unit, bibs, more clothes, dummies, food, water, yet more clothes, all sorts of creams, etc. On top of that there was the equally sizable pile of necessities that Rose required for herself.
It may be stereotyping but females seem to need more ‘things’ than males by a factor of about ten. Armed with my wallet and keys, I feel in a position to cope for a few days no matter where I ended up. A change of underwear is nice, but not essential. Really! I might add a toothbrush to the list but I could always sneak Rose’s when she wasn’t looking.
It was only after I’d packed the car, Tetris style, with the children’s gear, Rose’s gear and my toothbrush that Rog and Liv were allowed on board. If there was room. All that planning, packing, unpacking to check if various items had been packed and swearing tends to dampen excitement and increase tension. That isn’t the ideal way to start a trip as the whole point of getting away is to reduce tension and increase excitement.
Cathy, I discovered, is also legendary at travel preparation which means her ex was probably as useless as I appear to be. When I visited her in England in the winter of 2010, she met me at Heathrow One as usual but I noticed she had unusually packed supplies of food, water, a radio, clothes for both of us, a shovel and sleeping bags.
‘In case we get stuck on the M25,’ she explained.
I was still jet lagged and I wondered if I had missed an ice age since leaving New Zealand. It seemed I had. The first clue I should have picked up on was the hour delay on the Heathrow tarmac. The plane couldn’t cover the 400 metres from the runway to the terminal because snow had blanketed the ground and the pilots couldn’t tell where the taxi-way was.
We drove a hundred or so metres onto the motorway before we encountered the first of what became many traffic jams. As we waited I didn’t miss the second clue because it isn’t every day you see a snow buggy cruising smoothly down the motorway.
In normal driving conditions it takes two hours to get to Canterbury from Heathrow, but that trip took nearly eight. If I’d been picking up Cathy, the only emergency supplies would be the mints I keep in the glove box.
Liv’s hockey episode made it clear that I was currently finding domestic organisation a challenge and quick improvement was required. My period of delegating responsibility to the children was over. Their constant and consistent forgetfulness told me I was barking up the wrong tree. They were playing their part perfectly – carefree and happy-go-lucky children. It was me who was missing in action.
I took a leaf out of Cathy’s book and bought a small bag for the car and stocked it with emergency essentials such as wipes, tissues, hair ties, band aids, paracetamol and, unsurprisingly, a bottle of water. This was basically a range of items that might be required when we were out and about or to cover forgetful indiscretions. I also started taking more time before we left the house, asking myself questions such as: what do we need? What could go wrong? What would Rose or Cathy take?
It isn’t rocket science and my improvement was immediate. For sports, I made sure all the required kit plus food, drink, hat, sunscreen and whatever else may be required was packed. I was now able to stand tall and share knowing smiles with other like-minded parents when an ill-prepared parent was flapping about looking for a missing item. ‘Do you need to borrow some sun cream,’ I was able to helpfully, and smugly, offer.
To cover school I started checking with the children in the evening to see if anything special was required for the next day such as: money, equipment, forms completed or, heaven forbid, baking. Items required were then strategically positioned blocking the front door so we had to physically move them to leave the house.
Sadly it isn’t a perfect system. I’ve watched Liv kick her togs out of the way so she could open the door. Sometimes, on my return home, I find the needed kit, book, money or lunch patiently waiting having been hoofed out of the way. Ninety-five per cent of the time it’s Liv and the other time is usually Liv. With a resigned, but philosophical sigh, I stroll back to her classroom. I catch her eye and hold up the forgotten article and she charges over calling ‘Daddyyyyy’, which is payment enough.
I’ve continued to refine the way I organise and although I would like to think of myself as bloody organised, I’m probably still haphazard at best. After all, being well organised for a period of time just invites complacency. It’s like disaster prepping: unless you’re slightly neurotic, you drop your guard over time. After the tragic 2011 earthquake in Christchurch there was a sharp rise in the sale of torches, batteries and water containers. But, like my emergency car supplies, I bet they’re all under a layer of dust and will be useless if, and when, they’re needed. One day Rog wanted to wipe his hands when we were in the c
ar. With a certain amount of pride, I reminded him of the emergency kit. The wipes were bone dry, stiff as cardboard and disintegrated on touch. Unfortunately, when it comes to emergency supplies, it’s not the thought that counts!
I remain much better at keeping on top of the children’s events and I feel that’s more important than wiping hands. By way of example, as we were leaving the house for school, I had a sudden ‘something’s not quite right’ feeling and halted the procession.
‘Have we got everything?’
Rog and Liv stopped and assumed Homer-like poses, but I was far from reassured by their tentative and wholly unconfident reply of ‘Aaaah, yep’.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes,’ this time with eyes rolling and more than a hint of impatience.
‘Okay,’ I said reluctantly. ‘Let’s go.’
I couldn’t put my finger on it and everything seemed to be in order: two children, two bags with books and lunches in appropriate school clothes. Three steps later and the ‘Aha’ moment arrived – it was the school clothes.
‘Rog, isn’t it mufti-day today?’
Wordlessly he spun around and headed back inside. He emerged a couple of minutes later in mufti, smiling. He brushed my shoulder as he wandered past, which I took as a twelve-year-old’s equivalent of a pat on the back. I felt seven feet tall, organised, attentive, alert and generally ‘da bomb’. Although life has a way of bringing you quickly back to reality.
BACK TO EARTH
Sam, my nanny at the time (and I cover the joy of having a nanny soon), picked up the children from school and looked after them until around six o’clock. In theory, homework was done, chores attended to and games played, but I gratefully settled for alive and happy! This worked flawlessly as Sam, and after her Brooke, were as reliable as Swiss watches.
It was, therefore, puzzling to arrive home not long after my mufti-day save and find the front door locked as Sam didn’t usually do this. Thankfully in Palmerston North we don’t feel under siege during the day. I let myself in and was met by a pensive-looking Liv and no Sam. Rog, I noticed, seemed wholly unconcerned and was engrossed in his computer. Liv told me that Sam didn’t pick her or Rog up and that they walked home by themselves.
