WHEN our children were growing up, and as Wanda and I were maturing as parents, there was always the dilemma: When would they be old enough to leave alone in the house?
I do recall leaving a 9-year-old in charge of our insured property on more than one occasion, but that was when Wanda had left me in control. I call it delegation.
Before you judge me, they probably didn’t even know I’d ducked down to the shops for a quick grocery run, or up to the corner for some takeaway. It wasn’t like I’d locked them in the cupboard.
The whole “home alone” thing came in two stages. The first was when the eldest was hitting teenage years.
They were in their first year of high school, there were signs of puberty, and first signs of real intelligence.
So we respected the calls for responsibility and left child number one with authority to oversee the siblings while Wanda and I ventured into the wild blue yonder for a quiet curry at the local diner.
Two hours might not seem like much, but we knew that arguments could flair in minutes. We also knew that “Mum and Dad put me in charge” carried weight.
As parents, we were discovering that the outside world had changed. There were new dishes on the menu. There were shops we’d never seen, and they were now allowed to open on weekends.
The freedom was liberating. It was worth the odd cordial stain on the carpet.
The next step was always going to be whether the system would stand up to a night away.
We had some friends on the coast. They were a bit better off than we were. We had a bond, and we’d talk about mutual issues and ways we might be able to see more of each other.
We’d drink wine, they’d invite other wealthy friends around for us to meet, and we’d spend the evening enjoying good stories while the waves of the ocean broke in the background.
Back at the ranch, the eldest was again the one in charge.
There were of course no mobile phones back then, but there were landlines that – when not the focal point of dispute among siblings – could be used in an emergency.
Wanda would check in on the hour to find the number was engaged, which at first was a cause of some panic. As time went by, we became more relaxed with the prospect of child number one being the overseer of Monopoly arguments and homework.
We did however, have a whisper in the neighbour’s ear before we left.
“No need to put out the garbage, check the mail or water the garden. We’re just going away for a night or two. Can you keep a gentle eye on the children while we’re away to ensure World War III hasn’t broken out? And by the way, here’s the number of the place we’re staying.”
Neighbours were like that then. They’d give a thumbs up, and say hi to the children occasionally to let them know they were watching and that they were there in times of need.
Things just worked.
Now, we’d be criticised on so many levels. Not least that we were daring to leave one of them in charge. Now, it’s all about teamwork, no hierarchy or favouritism because someone might get their nose out of joint.
Maybe that’s what the Premier, the Queen P, was thinking when she went to visit her rich friends.
She didn’t want her children fighting, so she left nobody in charge. Since when was anarchy a good thing? The Sex Pistols wrote about what it did to the UK in the 1970s – was nobody listening?
Queen P probably had a word to trusted neighbour, Albo: “No need to make any big decisions while I’m away, but do you mind having a sneaky look over the fence every now and then to make sure everything’s okay. By the way, here’s my number.”
Albo has no control over the state, I hear you say? Nor did our neighbours.
Hey Wanda, aren’t you glad our children are all grown up and responsible now?
