My children have been taught a lesson by a Ukrainian refugee – and so have I

If you love them, set them free,” so the saying goes. But what if the gilded cage you’ve surrounded them with is too comfortable to want to leave?

I asked myself that question this week, as I dutifully sliced an apple for my 13-year-old daughter. I had already cut, toasted and buttered a bagel for her; and poured some cereal and milk into a bowl for her younger brother. They had sat at my parents’ kitchen table, eating their breakfast, before heading off to watch whatever screen was nearest to hand – both still pyjama-clad – leaving me to tidy up.

They had both been perfectly pleasant about it all, and I’d not had to demand pleases or thank yous. In other circumstances, I would not have blinked twice at this fairly standard breakfast routine. But on this occasion, there had been another child present, and his breakfasting habits had thrown my children’s ways into sharp focus.

Five months ago, my parents opened their home to two Ukrainian refugees, a young woman and her nine-year-old son. Her English was pretty good; his was limited – although he and my son bonded over the shared language of football and Minecraft. In the time since their arrival, the Ukrainians have respectively started a job and school, and they have settled into English village life. They seem to find living with my parents bearable; and my folks rather like having some youngsters in the house.

This week, my children and I had added to the household for a few days. The kids played, while I took advantage of my parents’ proximity to my office and headed to work each day. But before leaving in the morning, I sorted breakfast out, thinking it would be useful to relieve my mum and dad of a minor burden. On Thursday, as my two cosseted children waited patiently for their father to serve their meal, their new Ukrainian pal arrived in the kitchen, already dressed, and began to root around in the cupboard.

He eventually found the small frying pan he’d be looking for, smartly lit the hob and began to heat some oil. Next, he cracked an egg into the pan, before chopping some pieces of smoked sausage in too. Without any fuss whatsoever, he finished his cooking, ate his meal, washed up the implements he’d used, rinsed the plate, then put it in the dishwasher. Finally, as a coup de grace, he began to make his mother – who was elsewhere, getting ready for work – a cup of tea. What a boy, I thought.

My next response was to look at my own, delightful children, and wonder why they were quite such lazy little wretches who wouldn’t even butter a piece of toast, let alone fry an egg. I determined that the law should be laid down; that no more would they be free to swan about and be waited on hand and foot by their parents. They were an embarrassment; a disgrace; a pair of wanton layabouts who had been shown up by a boy who six months ago had been living in a war zone.

I rang my wife and said we must put up with it no longer: the children must learn to stand on their own two feet, come what may. “But it’s not them,” she replied, “it’s you. You’re an enabler!”

It sounded harsh. I protested. But when I later told my daughter about the conversation, she concurred. “Why do you think we ask you, and not mum?” she said.

So, there we have it – it’s me, I’m the problem. I have sheltered my children from the rigours of life because I adore them so much, but also because I can’t bear to see anyone do something more slowly or messily than I could do it myself.

But no more! I love them, so I will set them free – even if they do trash the kitchen.