Yesterday, after returning from a five day long trip which required leaving my wife at home with both kids, I took a nap. Now before you call the police, I want you to know it was an accident. There was no premeditation involved, so at worst I’m guilty only of involuntary napping. I fell asleep with my coat on and the only thing more indicative of an unwitting snooze is dozing off while standing.
My wife was nice enough not to wake me up and say, “Um…no.” At the same time, she didn’t put a blanket on me, dim the lights or even hush the children. Continue…
After feeding, comforting, dressing, teaching, entertaining, and loving our children, the remaining 30% of parenting is basically trying not to say the f-word in front of them. When they’re babies, it’s fine, blast away if you want. But as anyone knows, when they get older, children have a knack for repeating things, and when given the choice between “Oh my Golly” and “Holy Fu*king Sh*t”, they’ll always choose to yell the latter in front of the new neighbors.
The four of us flew to California to visit my parents for the week. Unfortunately, Lindsay has a head cold which she contracted because Arlo likes to give her sloppy kisses followed by brazen hacks that launch glistening clouds of phlegm into the back of her throat. The boy feels just fine, and is totally himself, but has that lingering toddler hack. If he gets to laughing really hard, or breathing heavily, he breaks into a chunky spell that makes one wonder whether a thousand-year old Rabbi just climbed two flights of stairs or perhaps a Thanksgiving witch is percolating gravy in an adjacent apartment. It’s jarring until you see that every child his age has a similar hack this time of year.
It’s either day 6 or 7. I can’t remember. After a while, the days without routine and electricity blend together into a foggy-headed smoothie that tastes like the middle of Led Zeppelin’s “Kashmir” sounds. We’re all walking around with grim heavy-metal faces, but all feel confused and awkward, like maybe we accidentally ate some Percocet dusted catnip.
If you’re interested in seeing my family at its absolute worst, I recommend getting in a car with us for five minutes. Before we even start the ignition, there’s usually a heated kid-dispute over the rights to their identical car seats. The first child to arrive chooses his seat and then, when the second child is done playing with a rock or staring at a fern (because he knows we’re in a hurry), he looks to see which seat is already occupied and invariably chooses that one as his desired throne. Continue…
