I’ve been single-parenting. Not permanently, just a few days; she is coming back, I think. There have been occasions when I would have called Kathryn Mewes, The Three Day Nanny (Channel 4), if I’d had her number to hand. Like the time we went to the park, the park on the hill, the hill that three-and-a-bit-year-old – suddenly deaf, apparently – scooted down at speed, into the distance, towards the park gate, lorries, paedophiles. Meanwhile, one-and-a-bit-year-old lay in a howling heap on the ground. It’s hard to know what it was about; he only really says “duck”. I somehow managed to round them up and hang on to them – this time – and we just about made it home, although not without more tantrums and lots more tears, mostly mine.
There has been no actual physical abuse – by them on me, I mean. Which is what Laura Morrisen here gets from her three-and-a-bit-year-old, Frankie. He doesn’t just shout and tantrum; he hits and kicks and spits as well. Charming. And he can already say duck with an eff. From Frankie’s one-and-a-bit-year-old sister Willow, Laura’s fiance Luke gets … nothing. He’s never even had a cuddle from his own daughter. So, on top of the violence, the verbal abuse and the emotional abuse, here is a family torn in two along the gender line.
The weird thing is that Laura and Luke seem to be really great people and great parents – capable, reasonable, intelligent, patient, loving, calm and strong. If this happens to them, what hope is there for the rest of us?
Anyway, Mewes has been called in to sort the Morrisens out, with her miracle 72-hour fix. She arrives, not by umbrella, but on foot, striding purposefully down their Newbury street, with a silk scarf and something of an air stewardess about her. Beef, chicken or the naughty step?
She observes for a while, then sits Luke and Laura down. “I can guarantee you will understand Frankie in a very different way in 72 hours,” she tells them (Mewes is fond of a guarantee). “I don’t think you know the son you’ve got, if I’m honest; I think you’re missing it, both of you.” Oi! Out of order, I think. I could take being told I was doing everything wrong, but not that I didn’t even know my own son – not by a busybody in a silk scarf who’d met him all of five minutes ago.
Everything else kind of makes sense, though: Laura’s negativity (don’t do this, don’t do that) getting reflected back by Frankie; her taking comfort in her daughter Willow; Willow’s consequent over-dependence on Laura and rejection of Luke; Luke taking comfort in his son Frankie. I’m not just watching, I’m taking notes, because a lot of this applies here, and not just because the kids are the same age. I’m sure that I – like Laura – don’t praise enough. And I take comfort in whoever isn’t behaving badly (if there is one). Nor do ours properly feel the consequences of their actions. We don’t have the same gender divide, because there are three of us boys and only one of her, so we win, ha …Except that she’s away, and we’re all in tears, so actually she wins, boo hoo.
Maybe we should get Mewes in, there’s still just about time. But I’m not having her big teddy bear Maurice in the house, to show them how to get dressed, even if they do need him. And if she tells me that I don’t know my sons, she’s out – that’s a guarantee. Hell, I think 72 hours with Mewes will feel like a very long 72 hours. But if she makes things better … how much does she cost, I wonder, when she’s not doing it for television?
I’m getting more parenting tips, for when mine are a bit older, from Child Genius (Channel 4). Such as: I’ll need to spend at least an extra four hours a day on coaching, maybe playing ping-pong with them while drilling them on the mathematics of the ancient art of cryptography if they learn better like that, doing two things at once. Then I’ll put them into a TV competition, which almost literally shines a spotlight on their brains, puts them under immense pressure and makes them walk along the corridor, ridiculously, like mini-Apprentice tossers.
And the winner is … Thomas, 12, which, if you’ve been watching, is surprising, just as it will be surprising if next month turns out to be August. He knows all about cryptography, how to spell herniorrhaphy, probably how to do it, too, and just about everything else. Weirdly, he’s very likable, too. Well, a bit cocky maybe, but you would be, wouldn’t you? And he goes to a state school. Duck you, Eton.
