My five-year-old jumped out of the ute and nearly toppled over under the weight of his school bag.
A backpack almost as big as him.
Then he stopped and held out his hand, waiting for me to take him in.
“Mate, I’ve got a meeting”, I said. “Surely you can walk in on your own.”
He just stood there with his hand out, so I grabbed it and hurried him across the schoolyard, checking my phone over his head the whole way.
He hung up his bag, kissed me on the cheek, and whispered, “I’ll miss you Dad”.
Then I was gone, thundering down the highway to Bendigo.
When I got to my parents’ place I walked straight past Mum at the door and into my old bedroom for a Zoom meeting. It ran overtime. I came out apologising, not for the first time.
“I’m late for a board meeting”, I said.
Dad just smiled. “Busy”, he said. Not a question. A statement.
ANU researchers have been asking us how satisfied we are with life since 2019. This year we scored ourselves 6.22 out of 10. That’s the lowest they’ve ever recorded. Lower even than during the lockdowns.
Nearly three in five of us reckon life was better fifty years ago. Fifty years ago! When Spam was something you put in your sanger, olive oil came from the chemist, and salad was a slice of tinned beetroot.
Life is tough right now. There’s the rising cost of, well, everything. Yet while we’re watching our wallets something else is quietly disappearing.
Time.
My old man is 78. I see him about once a month, so I did the maths (that’s what I do). If he makes 88, that’s a hundred-odd dinners left.
One hundred dinners.
My youngest still grips my hand and kisses me goodbye. My eldest ducks down in the car so his mates don’t spot him with his old man (which I make worse by blasting Johnny Cash’s ‘Ring of Fire’ in the school carpark).
I’ve got maybe a hundred drop-offs before that little hand stops reaching too. The funny thing is, my little bloke is letting go of my hand at the same time I’ve stopped reaching for Dad’s. (Though we shake now, like men do. Firm grip, two pumps, see you next month.)
So, given it’s Father’s Day, do yourself a favour and do your own maths. How many Sundays have you got left with your parents? How many drop-offs before your kid ducks down in the car? Whatever number you land on, it’s likely smaller than you thought … and it’s the only balance that never goes up.
One of these mornings will be the last one my youngest son reaches for me. I won’t know it when it happens. Neither will you. These are the good old days.
Happy Father’s Day!
Tread Your Own Path!
Your Questions & Answers
I’m Getting Scammed by My Teenage Son
The Ultimate Father’s Day Gift
A Long Shot that Landed
I’m Getting Scammed by My Teenage Son
Hi Scott,
Our son is 16 and regularly asks us for money for açai bowls, bubble tea, gym membership, movies and other non-essentials. Individually they’re not huge, but they add up. What concerns me more is he doesn’t seem motivated to get a casual job. I can get a text or a call at almost any time of day asking me to transfer money for whatever he wants next. Some days I feel like I’m being scammed by my own teenager.
We’re fortunate we can afford to give him spending money. I’m starting to wonder if that’s the problem. Are we teaching him that Mum and Dad are an ATM, rather than the link between working, earning, saving and spending?
I don’t want to be overly strict or turn money into a constant argument. Do we stop paying for the extras and push him to get a job? Or give him a fixed weekly allowance with clear boundaries about what we cover and what he funds?
Sandy
Hi Sandy,
By asking this you’ve just given me a Father’s Day gift!
The next text he sends, here’s what I want you to write back:
“No.”
No is a complete sentence in my house.
Sandy, your son sounds like a spoiled, entitled brat. Your job as parents is to knock that out of him.
You do that by setting three boundaries:
First, no more spending money.
Drawing that line will feel brutal. You’ll know how strong the boundary is by how much he flips out (the bigger the outburst, the better the boundary in my book).
Second, do not under any circumstances pay him an allowance, even if you dress it up as chores.
Why?
You’ll set up a transfer. He’ll do it for a fortnight, and then quit and keep pocketing your money.
Bugger that!
Third, don’t pay him to have manners.
While you’re straightening your spine, explain that he clears his dishes, cleans his room and does his laundry without getting paid. That’s what being in a family is. You all pitch in.
Sandy, the lesson he needs is simple:
Money comes from working.
If he wants açai bowls, movie tickets or a gym membership, he pays for it with a part-time job.
Draw the line and hold it.
The Ultimate Father’s Day Gift
Hi Scott
I’ve read your emails weekly for years, but only today felt the need to write to you and say thank you. My father passed away this morning at the age of 77 after a long fight with cancer. As I sit here typing this, I’m thinking about a column you wrote years ago for Father’s Day, where you suggested that one of the best gifts you can have is a video of your dad talking about his life, guided by five simple questions. We recorded that video back then. I’m watching it now, hearing his voice, listening to his stories – and while I miss him more than ever, I’m deeply grateful to have 45 minutes of him to return to whenever I need. That gift means more to me and my brothers than you can imagine.
Andrew
Hi Andrew
I’m so sorry for your loss.
I’m glad you sat down and made that video when you still could. Forty-five minutes of his voice and his stories is more than most people ever get, and it’s gold.
Now, for the rest of you … we run this every year. Here’s a tip. If your dad is still around, get your kids to do the interviewing. Less awkward for everyone, much cuter – and, after all, grandparents never say no to their grandkids.
Here are the questions:
How did you meet Mum?
What advice can you share with me about money, life and happiness?
What does being a dad mean to you?
What are you most proud of?
How would you like to be remembered?
Phone out. Hit record.
Andrew gave his dad a lifetime of Father’s Day presents. All of them are now forgotten. Except this one, which will be cherished forever.
A Long Shot that Landed
Scott,
I’m a single woman in my 50s, no kids, earning under $80,000. In 2017, on Dad’s advice, I started your book. I cut up the credit card, cleared the debts, boosted my super and opened a Mojo account.
When Dad was diagnosed with terminal cancer he made us a promise: Barefoot Date Nights. I’d read a step, we’d have dinner, he’d quiz me, and we’d tick it off together. It reassured him. It gave us time. But sadly we didn’t get to finish.
Now I’ve just received my own cancer diagnosis. Surgery and treatment mean unpaid leave, which is exactly what Mojo is for. Thanks to an inheritance, my apartment is paid off and I have $250,000 in the bank. I know how lucky that is. I’m grateful every day. I’m also scared about the next step. Shares confuse and frighten me. Writing to you is a long shot. I don’t expect a reply!
Gwen
Hi Gwen
Your old man would be proud of you.
Sitting down and doing the Barefoot Steps with your father was his way of sharing some precious time with you, and preparing you for life without him. And it worked. You’re facing a tough challenge, and financially you’re fighting fit.
Good work Dad. Good work Gwen.
You’ve earned the right not to stress about money right now. The share market can wait. Focus on your treatment. When you’re better, top the Mojo back up and put a bit extra into your low-cost super fund.
Finish the book when you’re ready. Tick off the last steps for him.
Thanks for reading,
Scott.