Shotgun Daddy

Father of the Year

The sad truth is that not every day is a good day. Some days are like today, a day when you start pining for nap time at nine in the morning and praying for bedtime as soon as the nap is over. Summer vacation is mercifully coming to end, and I think it will be good for Alison and Henry to have some time apart once school starts, but for now there are times when I feel like I'm part father and part referee.

Most of the time life is beautiful, but sometimes you worry that if you look away, your four-year-old boy's head might start spinning around. You take him into his room to get him ready for bed, and you discover a disaster that's been building all afternoon -- toys, shoes, and clothes all over the floor. Even though he's cranky, and you're cranky, you still make him clean his room -- by himself -- before he gets ready for bed. He argues the whole time, but you forget that you are an adult and you argue right back. When he struggles to pull off a shirt that's too small, you don't help, you scold him. It's at this point when a small voice in your head tells you that the time you've spent crafting that clever acceptance speech for your Father of the Year Award has probably been a waste of time.

And when your boy runs down the hall just so he can turn out the light in the bathroom where your daughter is taking a shower, you've had enough. This boy is going straight to bed.

But then you realize that it's at least a little bit funny that he's turned the light off on your daughter, even though she's screaming at the top of her lungs, so you decide that he won't go straight to bed. Wouldn't it be fun to play a game of cards?

As you flip through the deck of vocabulary flash cards, you think to yourself, wow, I really am a good father. All I want is to put this boy to bed so I can relax, but I'm playing a game with him instead. And you wonder if maybe you should work on that speech a little more. Surely you are the best dad in the world.

But then your boy starts to test your patience. You show him the picture of a bluebird, and he says it's a fish. You ask him what color it is, and he says it's yellow. You go to the next card, a picture of a sun, and he says it's a rainbow. He finds this whole thing to be absolutely hilarious, so hilarious that he can hardly speak, but it will be at least three hours before you get the joke. In a huff, you stuff the cards back in their box, say goodnight to the now-crying boy, and click out the light.

Father of the year, indeed.

Seen And Not Heard=Good; Not Seen And Not Heard=Bad

I don't remember exactly how things were when Alison was this age, but with Henry there is one rule that supercedes all others: if you can't hear him, you've got trouble.

This evening after dinner Henry scurried off to the bathroom on his own, which is always nice. One of his favorite things to do is wash his hands, because to him "washing hands" means "playing with water in the sink." We usually give him a few minutes before pulling him out, but sometimes we forget. Today, we forgot.

After about five minutes I realized that Henry was still missing. He came quickly when called, which was strange. Even stranger was that he came straight to us with a confession.

"My underwear is gone."
"What? Where?"
"My underwear is gone in the potty."

I panicked as I remembered that the toilet had just flushed, and realized that he has seen me wash out his poopy underwear in the toilet dozens of times. I had a brief mental image of Henry washing out his underwear while singing "Cat's in the Cradle." (I'm gonna be just like you, Dad, I'm gonna be just like you...") But when I pulled down the waistband of his shorts I was relieved to see that his underwear was on.

Sensing my relief, Henry immediately explained.

"No, Daddy. My other underwear."

And then I remembered... When I had put Henry down for his afternoon nap (a nap which he didn't take, by the way), I had noticed that his clothes were wet from -- guess what? -- playing with water. I had changed him and left his pants and underwear in the bathtub to dry.

I shot off the couch and ran to the bathroom. No underwear.

"Henry, where did you put your underwear?!?"
"In the potty." He pointed into the toilet. "It went down there."

The water in the toilet was calm, clear, and completely free of underwear. Henry, to his credit, seemed at least a little bit concerned.

"Is my underwear all gone, Daddy?"
"Yes, Henry. It's all gone."

I flushed the toilet, just to make sure that it still worked. Somehow, it did. I shook my head as I ushered him back out of the bathroom, thankful that he had chosen the underwear instead of the pants.

Swimming With Sharks

Perhaps the best part of being a teacher is the vacation schedule. Don’t get me wrong -- I love my job and most of what goes along with it, but you know that bumper sticker that you sometimes see on old pickup trucks that says, “The worst day of fishing is better than the best day of work”? Well, that doesn’t apply exactly here, because there are certainly days at home when it seems like it would be easier and more relaxing.

But being off-track (on vacation) is always better than being on-track (working). You don’t need to set the alarm clock, you’re free to plan your days however you choose, and you tend to forget what day it is. Weekends are no longer days off as much as they are buoys in an ocean of free time, markers to keep you from sailing off the map.

It’s absolutely beautiful.

Sadly, though, there is a downside. Sometimes when you’re floating in that sea of free time, bobbing over wave after wave and wondering seriously whether it’s Tuesday or Wednesday, you sense shadows below the water. The dark shapes circle ominously at first, then nudge your kicking legs below the surface before attacking mercilessly.

But these are not sharks; they are your children.

And so it is with us. Today started as most of these August days have with Kate stirring in her crib at about 7:00 AM. Almost immediately after I got her up, Henry emerged blinking from his room, so I fixed breakfast for both them: oatmeal for Kate, cinnamon toast for Henry.

Everything was fine, for about ten minutes -- until Alison woke up and tossed her bucket of chum into the water. In old movies there is sometimes a character described as a mean drunk; Alison is a mean early riser. If she wakes up before she should, she’s intolerable for quite a while, and this morning was no different.

Henry looked up from his toast as Alison walked into the room and made the mistake of saying good morning. So in a sense, he brought the subsequent abuse on himself.

Alison didn’t respond, so Henry said good morning again, this time with a touch of urgency. Still no response. “Alison! Good! Morning!” Alison finally responded, but not with words any human could understand. It was something that a wolverine might say, a cross between a growl and howl, “Mrrrmumh!”

And suddenly it was as if we all grabbed our scripts from the table and picked up where we had left off the night before.

Daddy: Alison, that’s not a very nice way to say good morning. Why don’t you try again.
Alison: Hmm!
Henry: Daddy, Alison’s not listening!
Daddy: I know, Henry. She’s not being very nice, is she?
Alison: Hmm!
Daddy: Alison, did you have a good night sleep?
Alison: Hmm!
Henry: Daddy, Alison’s not listening!
Daddy: Alison, what would you like for breakfast?
Alison: I wanna watch something!
Daddy: But why don’t we first have some...
Henry: No, I wanna watch something!

At which point I turned to sweet, innocent Baby Kate. Her two round beautiful eyes spoke to me clearly, and this is what she said: “Don’t worry, Daddy. I promise I’ll never behave that way when I get older. Now can I please have another bite of oatmeal?”

Ah, sweet Kate. You are my life preserver. If it weren’t for you, I’d probably never go in the water again.