With Mother in hospital, Dad does not seem to know what to do with himself. He is looking pale and drawn and bumbles through the house, creating a complicated new set of rules for how to carry out normally mundane domestic tasks. He hovers at my elbow while I do the washing up.
"I find if you soak all the plates for thirty-seven minutes before loading the dishwasher, they tend to come out cleaner," he tells me earnestly, watching as I hurl the breakfast things into the machine.
"But if you soak them, you may as well not put them in the machine," I point out.
Dad frowns. "I would rather do things properly," he says. He bends to unstack the dirty plates, fills the washing-up bowl with hot soapy water and lowers the crockery gently in, as though bathing a baby. "And wipe the grease out of the pan with kitchen paper before you scrub it," he directs, as I attack the grill pan with a Brillo pad.
I put down the pan and the pad, step away from the sink and say, "We'll get out of your way for a bit."
Not-So-Small Boy and I spend the morning in the pool, he inhaling as much chlorine as he can whilst teaching himself backwards somersaults, me thinking about Mother in hospital while Dad is left to hoover the inside of the washing machine.
We arrive back to find Dad marinading the entire contents of the fridge.
"Blimey, Dad! Have you invited the whole street for lunch?" I stare open-mouthed at the plates of food, neatly lined up on the kitchen surface.
"No, no. I just know that you both like different things and I'm going to do a barbecue, so I thought I would prepare a sort of smörgåsbord," he says, emphasising the Swedish word with his most authentic accent.
"Lovely," I say.
Not-So-Small Boy is preparing to pull a face at the feast laid out before him. Nothing is left in its recognisable state. Even the cucumber has been peeled, laced with vinegar, salt and pepper and arranged in a beautiful fan on the plate.
"Isn't there anything NORMAL to eat?" my son hisses. I shake my head firmly and suggest he goes on his Nintendo for a while.
"Dad," I say. "I know you're worried about Mum and everything, but she's going to be fine. Why don't you have a rest - you don't need to go to so much trouble for us. You'll wear yourself out. I'll finish preparing lunch. "
Dad looks at me doubtfully. "I'm not sure you know what to do," he says.
I think over the seventeen years of married life, the thirteen years of parenthood; I consider the forty-two years of being this man's daughter and take another look at the fifty-six plates of food in front of me. I conclude that nothing in my life experience has quite prepared me for seeing my Dad go into meltdown in quite such a manner.
"No, you're right," I say. "I'll leave you to it."
I never thought I'd say this, but maybe things were better with Mother at home.
"I find if you soak all the plates for thirty-seven minutes before loading the dishwasher, they tend to come out cleaner," he tells me earnestly, watching as I hurl the breakfast things into the machine.
"But if you soak them, you may as well not put them in the machine," I point out.
Dad frowns. "I would rather do things properly," he says. He bends to unstack the dirty plates, fills the washing-up bowl with hot soapy water and lowers the crockery gently in, as though bathing a baby. "And wipe the grease out of the pan with kitchen paper before you scrub it," he directs, as I attack the grill pan with a Brillo pad.
I put down the pan and the pad, step away from the sink and say, "We'll get out of your way for a bit."
Not-So-Small Boy and I spend the morning in the pool, he inhaling as much chlorine as he can whilst teaching himself backwards somersaults, me thinking about Mother in hospital while Dad is left to hoover the inside of the washing machine.
We arrive back to find Dad marinading the entire contents of the fridge.
"Blimey, Dad! Have you invited the whole street for lunch?" I stare open-mouthed at the plates of food, neatly lined up on the kitchen surface.
"No, no. I just know that you both like different things and I'm going to do a barbecue, so I thought I would prepare a sort of smörgåsbord," he says, emphasising the Swedish word with his most authentic accent.
"Lovely," I say.
Not-So-Small Boy is preparing to pull a face at the feast laid out before him. Nothing is left in its recognisable state. Even the cucumber has been peeled, laced with vinegar, salt and pepper and arranged in a beautiful fan on the plate.
"Isn't there anything NORMAL to eat?" my son hisses. I shake my head firmly and suggest he goes on his Nintendo for a while.
"Dad," I say. "I know you're worried about Mum and everything, but she's going to be fine. Why don't you have a rest - you don't need to go to so much trouble for us. You'll wear yourself out. I'll finish preparing lunch. "
Dad looks at me doubtfully. "I'm not sure you know what to do," he says.
I think over the seventeen years of married life, the thirteen years of parenthood; I consider the forty-two years of being this man's daughter and take another look at the fifty-six plates of food in front of me. I conclude that nothing in my life experience has quite prepared me for seeing my Dad go into meltdown in quite such a manner.
"No, you're right," I say. "I'll leave you to it."
I never thought I'd say this, but maybe things were better with Mother at home.
