Mr. Mom

My wife wanted to call our daughter Sue, but I felt that in our family that was usually a verb.                          Woody Allen

 

 I said something incredibly stupid to my wife the other day. I said:

 “I’m tired of working, I want to stay home with the kids....you go to work.”

 “OK.” she said.

I should have realized on the spot that she hadn’t put up much of a fight. In fact, it seemed that she might be almost pleased with the suggestion. But you never know about women, it could be one of those double psychology games women play. You know...she really wanted to get out of the house, so she’d insist that she didn’t want to get out of the house so you’d beg her to let you watch the kids, so then it would be what you asked for in the first place, but not to give you even that pleasure she would argue with some rebuttal like:

 “So...you don’t think staying home with the kids is work?”

I had to be careful here. Could two play double psychology or would one cancel the other out? Could men play double psychology at all without getting completely lost?

 “I’m sure it is dear, that’s why I want to give you a break.” I lied. 

 I mean, how hard could it be? Sitting on your kiester all day, drinking Margaritas with the girls, watching the Young and the Worthless.

  I was sick of building houses in the snow, sick of begging banks & sub-contractors to see it my way...now that was work, and I was sick of it. I could see myself sleeping in till ten, reading the paper, home-schooling the kids a bit.

  “OK kids, today we’ll study Spanish”. “Now, the key word in Spanish is Cervesa. repeat after me...Cer-ve-sa...that’s it...that’s all you need to know, now go out side & play...I’ll call you when dinners ready.”

 Maybe I’d even teach them to cook, so I wouldn’t have to do a thing...it was going to be a wonderful life. I made a silent pact right then, my wife would never know just how much fun I was actually having.  However, I would make sure & whine & moan about the tough day I’d had. I’d pull some of that double psychology  myself. This was going to be great.

 

The day started badly when my one year old daughter,  Little A, (short for Alexandria Sofia, far to sophisticated for a physcopathic dwarf with golden curls) put a death grip on my mustache...

 “NOW A!!!THAT HURTS DADDY!?*&%$ LET GO NOW DARLING!!@#OUCH!! LOOK HERE’S MOM’S JEWELRY BOX!!!&*%

 For those of you that don’t know, babies have a grip somewhere between a pit bull and a snapping turtle. Once they have latched onto something, the only way to get them to release is the temptation of something better to latch onto...in this case four generations of heirlooms in my wife’s jewelry box...verses...the mustache.

 She considered her options for a another painful moment & went for the jewelry...typical woman...I was muttering...when a colossal crash echoed from my 6 year old son’s room.

 “CHRISTO!!! WHAT WAS THAT??”

“NOTHIN DAD!!”.

 Good, that’s a relief, because it sure sounded like the antique armoire fell over.

 I started filling the Jacuzzi, retrieved a considerable cup of espresso and the paper for company. This was going be great...just relaxing by myself....

 “NNNUUUUGGGFFL?? Yelled little A which means “Not without me your not!”....

   “Ah you little angel”, I pulled her in with me...“here’s Lolita your little whale...Lolita,  Lolita, Bobita , banana nana bo bana, bo.”..she grabbed the whale & tossed him in the churning water. Lolita started slamming into me with the force of a hardball pitch. I was grabbing for the attacking whale when ‘Little A’ dumped a half bottle of shampoo into the frothing water. A & I immediately disappeared in a churning drift of suds.

 “A, A!!! A, WHERE ARE YOU!!” I groped for the greasy little body & pulled her toward me through the blinding bubbles. As I pulled her, she pulled the Sunday Post & within seconds A & I looked like papier mache aliens. Suddenly an unmistakable odor filled the bathroom.

“A!!! YOU DIDN’T??? She smiled that toothless grin...she had.

I leaped from the brown, paper mulch, suds...an instantaneous primordial soup.

We had been in that tub approximately 30 seconds, and now looked and smelled like we’d spent the night in a dumpster. Never mind the bathroom, I’d have to clean it up later.

“CRASH- TINKLE -TINKLE!” Echoed from my sons room.

 “CHRISTO!! WHAT HAPPENED???

 “NUTHIN DAD!!”

 Good, it sounded like a window broke or something....

 I headed to the kitchen. On the refrigerator door my wife had taped the days activities:

 8:30 Christo to school, needs a lunch:- 9:30 Little A has her shots:-11:00 Pick up Christo for Soo Bak Do, (must find & wash his uniform),-12;00 Christo has dance class, must find his tap shoes, -12:30 feed Little A ,  mix formula, directions below,- 1:00 Christo back to school,- 1:30, A has nap- -2:00 bake something for school bazaar ,recipe for Baked Alaska in Gourmet Magazine:- 2:30 wash diapers, change sheets, hang curtains, overhaul car,- 3;00 pick up Christo for hockey,  takes good hour to dress him, can’t find his cup, thaw out dinner, cook dinner. Don’t forget to pick up Christo from hockey.

I’ll be home late, going out for a glass of wine with Shell...love Vic.

 Inside the refrigerator was a suspect lump of green meat. “SOFA!” I yelled as our 200 lb. Malamute rose from his slumber by the Christmas tree. He had a hockey cup strapped to his head.

 “Here boy!!” I tossed the meat out the front door, closely followed by the dog, who was closely followed by the Christmas tree crashing and flailing about in a havoc of tinsel and shattering decorative ornaments... out the door the whole mess went.

“WHO TIED THE DOG TO THE CHRISTMAS TREE?” I yelled.

 “NOT ME DAD!” Yelled back Christo.

 Good, I might have had to reprimand him or...

“LITTLE A” WHAT HAVE YOU DONE???” in the time I’d watched the Christmas tree exit the front door my daughter had retrieved an open blueberry yogurt from the fridge and painted a kind of two foot high blue wainscoting mural throughout the white dining room.   She now was balanced on one foot atop a quivering bar stool, her hair plastered in Post & yogurt, a steak knife in one hand, a pair of scissors in the other.

 “My God, how did the species ever survive?”... I wondered as I stared at my little blue paiper mache alien & received back that toothless grin.

 The sun was just coming up over a frozen, toy splattered front yard...it was going to be a long day.

                                     to be continued