Married Single Parent

I’m a single parent.

I mean, I’m married and all – 14 years in fact. What I meant to say is I’m a “married single-parent.”

My wife and I both work, and work completely opposite schedules. I work a 9 – 5’er, Monday through Friday in a typical corporate American office environment. I’m also a published author and working on expanding my oeuvre. No that doesn’t require surgery. Oh, and I host two podcasts and will happily accept the occasional public speaking gig. Why not? Like that song in Zootopia, I want to try everything. Eventually I'll get something right.

My wife is a self-employed hair stylist, and a successful one at that. However her days tend to start late-morning or early afternoon and run into the night. She’s lucky if she gets home when one of our three kids is still up.

That means we’re both on our own, and dreadfully outnumbered most of our lives. The little time we get together during the week is usually after 10 PM and I'm ready to crash, having been up by 6 while she's wired and ready to catch up. We try to communicate pertinent information throughout the day, although that is often made harder by the fact that she’s working with her hands and can’t pick up the phone for hours at a time. I on the other hand am a “pencil pusher” by day and leap at any excuse to avoid real work.

Just kidding.

No, I’m not.

Mommy blogs have taken the world by storm, and even I find myself turning to a few I’ve come to follow for ideas, tips, or just commiseration. Odds are there are dads out there like me, who work all day only to come home to work again for another 3 – 4 hours, getting kids fed, washed, and into bed. All the while trying not to snap at them for wanting you to play when you just want 5 minutes to veg out (knowing full well that’s never going to happen.)
We have a 9 year-old son, Sean, who has already charted his course from Notre Dame to the NHL – where he gets the athlete gene I’m not sure because it isn’t from me. He’s also good at math. Another reason I’d demand a DNA test if he didn’t look like me.
Then we have two little girls, Maya (5) and Macy (4). One of them was a cherubic surprise. The other, her older sister, is a brunette agent of chaos sent from another world to wreak havoc on mankind as punishment for global warming and the music of Justin Bieber. They are all three the loves of my life – and I have to remind myself of that all the time.

Fortunately, my kids tend to be really funny too. Yes, every parent thinks that. Either their kid is funny, or their kid is a genius, or worse, their kid is a comedic genius. Well I’m not claiming any of mine are the reincarnated George Carlin, but people do tend to tell me I should compile a list of my funny kid stories and write a book. Well, I’m already elbow deep in book writin’ so a blog will have to do, for now.

Welcome to my world. Keep your hands and feet in the vehicle and remain seated until the ride has come to a complete stop.

                                                     

Bath time

Our youngest, Macy, is about to turn 4 at the end of this month. She loves taking baths . . . except for the whole cleaning part.

She sits there wailing, screaming bloody murder while I simply attempt to wash her hair. I realize I'm strong but I make a point to use almost zero pressure. And I know it's not from soap running into her eyes - I'd sympathize with that familiar burn of youth. She just hates it. The very act of it. I don't know if it's due to her thin, blonde hair. Maybe she has a sensitive scalp. But she never complains of pain. Just the act.

Is this normal???

Her big sister, Maya, who inherited her follicles from me and has thick, brown, shampoo sucking locks doesn't mind it a bit. I'm the one crying because it takes so long to rinse her hair out. It holds onto the suds like there's a shortage.

The only way  I can get the little one to stop crying while I wash her hair is to agree to let them wash mine next. So once both of them are clean, and after I drain most of the dirt soup they're soaking in out of the tub, I refill it with fresh water and lean in up to my elbows, head hung over the tub.

It thrills them to no end. Oddly enough, while Macy always claims to want to follow in her mother's footsteps and be hairstylist (Maya often claims she wants to be a unicorn - that child is all mine) it is the older one who leads my beautification ritual. I get my hair washed and conditioned no less than three times. Sure, it's a waste of shampoo, but it makes them happy, and quite frankly my wife gets it at cost.

Then comes the styling, for which I'm not allowed to dry my hair first. That's all part of the package apparently. So I sit on one of their little beds while my hair is brushed back and forth, sideways, then back again. Ultimately I end up looking like a drowned rat, but sometimes I get a bow. #dadlife