On a lighter note...

... and in anticipation of Father's Day, here's an essay Hubs wrote shortly after the birth of our second child.


By Hubs

“Can you pick up the kids? I’ve got to work late.”

In response, a vision instantly pops into my head: a 2-year-old screaming because she just went potty, but not in her little toilet, and our little master, all of 3 months, out-yelling her because he discovered his dad is insufficient in the anatomy department.

“Sure, I’ll get them — but how late will you be?” I ask.

No matter what her response, I will ask, “Why so late?” and “Do you have to do it tonight?”

There is no escape.

What could be better, you might ask, than a night alone with my two adorable children? The daycare teachers joke that they want to borrow them, maybe take them home one night, because they are so cute, cuddly and well-behaved. I joke back that I almost called them at about 3 a.m. this morning when we were changing our sheets and comforter after our little guy anointed the bed during a diaper change.

I would have happily lent him out the night he was wailing inconsolably because I gently put him in his crib after 30 minutes of rocking. How dare I mistreat him so?

How could I know that he wanted to stay up and socialize? This is the scariest sight I know — a wide-eyed baby smiling at you in the way-too-early hours of the morning. The smile, it sucks me in; I cave like a dieting chocoholic who just found a lonely Hershey’s Kiss. If it weren’t for that toothless grin, which he musters even when I’m suctioning his nose, I would suspect he just doesn’t like me and is out to do me in.

The thought of being alone without the Milk Bar — aka “Mama” — sends me searching for a way out, any way, any direction. I want to be with them. I just want the option of passing the little guy off to the one with the right equipment. It’s so easy. He cries, she puts him on, and voila: peace. In her absence, he starts to fuss, the 2-year-old chimes in and the blissful evening of watching my beloved Astros with my little adorables turns into something on Elm Street.

I often point out to my wife how different it is when she is away. But she waves it off, saying it can’t be that bad.

She doesn’t know. Upon her arrival, usually later than she said, our oldest is asleep and the younger one is napping in my arms, oh so innocent-looking. How sweet it all appears. The quiet, the calm — both belie the scene an hour earlier.

The little one went off when his standard comfort-apparatus wasn’t to be found and the other joined in because she was having trouble pooping.

Panties down, on the little throne, panties up, more cries of “I need to poop!” Panties down, “I need a book,” panties up. Panties down, no poop. No poop to be found. I want her to poop. I pray for poop. How my priorities seem so simple, yet out of my control. A little poop in the potty and all will be well.

Later, I’m rinsing out panties. I have poop.

When, I wonder, will my wife get home?

I phone, but her cell goes to voice mail. How could she abandon me? My hope rises with every glimpse of headlights through the blinds. It’s not her. It’s still not her.

Finally, one child is asleep and the other is quiet for the moment. More lights, the sound of her car in the drive. The car door shuts, keys rattle, the front door opens and she enters, smiling.

“Sorry I’m late.” She pauses to croon at the now-sleeping little guy. “How was it?”

I shake my head. “I hope you brought beer.”