‘Turn on Séamas mode,’ my son said as we were walking home this week. He said this with the same listless mien with which he commands our smart speaker. This is precisely how he sees me in such moments: an inanimate funnel of content, a servile jester he can request at any time.
Thing is, he can. Séamas Mode is what he calls my frequent lapses into performative stupidity for comic effect, usually when we’re out and I feel him getting bored. Daddy might hurry him on the journey home when he’s lagging, but Séamas will forget where we live and insist we try the house keys on every bin we pass. Daddy will scold him to eat his dinner, Séamas will serve a tiny amount of lasagne into an egg cup and insist nothing is amiss for as long as either of us can take it.
