Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, whatever free time my family had has now been washed away like a smoky memory. We used to come together and work on projects or watch television or even read an odd book or two together.
But that, seemingly, is no more. We have no more time. Time has turned against us.
It all started innocently enough. We left our regular sitter in order to let Grandma take care of the baby during the day. But, she can only do so until 4 p.m. Which, conversely, only gives me seven hours a day to get work done. So the baby is home by four, but grandma hangs around until between 4:30 and 5. Rather than being able to accomplish anything as a family, Grandma needs to be talked to and entertained and have tea made.
So five rolls around and I start making dinner. Then Mom comes home. We eat, do the dishes, bathe the children and suddenly it’s bedtime.
And that’s just a normal day.
On Mondays Mom has a class from six until nine. Every other Monday, Matilda has Brownies. Tuesdays Matilda has a class that I have to drive her to straight from the bus stop. That ends at 5:45, and one of us has to pick her up. Matilda’s class, conversely, starts at exactly the same time that Grandma usually shows up and she also has a class on Tuesday nights. Wednesdays are clear, but Thursdays Matilda will be starting a class directly after school.
Add to that the fact that in my “free” time I’m starting up a business, try to find time to write and also help out on some websites (though I’ve been rather slack on that) and you have the recipe for stomach acid bubbling through my throat as I spit up the remnants of my sanity.
I can’t remember the last time the four of us were together and coherent.
As a result Gertrude and I have been spending a lot of time alone. Usually we spend it waiting outside of strange doors waiting for other people. But we have time to chat. It’s nice.
“We have to pick up Matilda from brownies,” I say.
“I eat them! Num num num num,” she says.
“No, honey. Not that kind of brownie.”
“Not that kind of brownie,” she asks.
“No. These brownies are people.”
“Brownies are people,” she asks, horrified.
Crap. I just made the baby think that brownies are Soylent Green.
So we’re standing there in the school waiting for Brownies to end and Gert is pouring on the cuteness in extra sticky, gooey increments.
I coughed.
“You okay,” she asked.
“I’m fine.” Meanwhile every parent is laughing at the fact that my nearly two-year-old was checking on my health. Admittedly, it’s sweet.
Out of boredom we ran through all of the basic animal sounds. Cow says moo. Dog says arf. That kind of thing.
“What sound does a daddy make,” I ask.
“Damn it!” she answers.
Mental note: Either watch my language or make sure she attributes it to mommy.
I noticed that every time I’m out with one of the girls the mothers in the group always look at me with wonder and amazement. Like I’m a museum freak. Why? Because there’s a Daddy actively participating in the care of his child.
I’ll wait until the collective gasp stops.
Okay. Yes, in 2003, there is still some sick belief that men are incapable of taking care of a family. That some how my wife should come home to Lord of the Flies where the children are standing around naked with war paint on their face debating who they should kill next. Underwear would be stuck to the ceiling and the kids will have survived by eating bugs, dirt or each other. She should find me in the basement curled up in a ball crying and unable to communicate the extent of the chaos that reigned in her twenty minute absence.
Instead she comes home to clean children, a clean house and a nice dinner of pan seared chicken in a garlic and Balsamic vinegar red wine sauce and pasta tossed in fresh roasted garlic, olive oil, herbs and grated parmesan cheese.
I’m not going to get into the fact that all men are not complete morons when it comes to taking care of children. I know many men who don’t freak out over changing a diaper or wiping a nose.
What I will get into is the fact that these Moms seem to be completely freaked out by the way I communicate with my daughter. True, she is only two-years-old. But she does have a very good vocabulary. Example?
“Want pepper,” she asks Mommy.
“No thanks,” says Mommmy.
“How ‘bout this one,” asks Gertrude as she picks up the salt.
Even if she didn’t have the ability to speak this well, I’d still have conversations with her. I did that even when she was an infant. It’s called modeling. And if people can give chimps that benefit of the doubt I think we can at least extend it to children.
My child’s mental acuity may not be to the level of Einstein yet. She may walk a little crooked and have a penchant for looking behind her as she walks head first into a wall. She may only be (nearly) two, but she’s not a fargin’ idiot. Why should I treat her as such?
Besides, most of the idiots I know are full-grown adults.
They’re the ones that scare me. But it's not on the daily schedule today, so I'll put up with it.
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