Hope said something interesting a couple of weeks ago. “You can have your man cave back.” I was evicted from my he-bunker due to the children’s need for a playroom and Hope’s need to remove their clutter, remember? I’m happy to report both parties are finding this arrangement to their liking. “Yes, if you go further into the basement,” she continued. “We can set you back up to the way it was.” I’m presuming by “we” she means the children and her? I’m glad my being further out of sight is so top-of-mind.
Let me explain something to you. Deeper into our basement…crossing the threshold separating the new playroom and what lies beyond is what the impenetrable jungles of the Congo must have been like at the time of early white exploration. In short, from man cave to bloody kerplunking.
Despite my griping, I’ll take it. I’ll barge my way past the Christmas crapola, the assortment of furniture that will become archeologically significant thousands of years from now, and take over the same way a burrowing animal would. It won’t be pretty. Though it will be mine. And, seeing as I’ve already started telling my son about various ghosts living in the dark nether regions of our basement, he seems to be spending less time in his play area than before. I guess, I’ll have the old place all to myself?
But enough of this, the point of this posting is Hope’s new job and the fallout.
She left for San Francisco to meet her new workmates during the heaviest floods in state history. A Biblical downpour, lasting almost three days that equaled the length of her impending West Coast stay. This was the week leading up to Easter. I had the distinct feeling that my time with my children was to be the equivalent of the religious festival we visited in Guatemala a couple of years ago: Semana Santa (Holy Week), meaning I would serve penance, be crucified and rise again just as Hope got home.
We’re not a religious lot. Of the four of us, I would say that Samson is probably the most in touch with his spiritual side. Both children go to a daycare center where religion is part of the curriculum. Did we have any idea of this at the time? I can’t remember. Is it bad that parents send their children to be religiously inculcated just because they get a discount for sending both to the same place? Hey, it’s not like we’re sending them to a Jihadist madrasah. A little apostolic scripture never hurt anyone. And to be sure, Samson has come home with many a story that neither Hope nor I have any idea about. Anyone know the story of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego? He is becoming well versed in the ways of JC, that one. And his summoning of His name at the tiniest incident—like who will make the dill seed I planted grow—is directly attributed to his child-minding surroundings. In the car, the other day, he put one arm over the other and said, “What’s this?” I guessed Ninja Star. “No. A cross,” he said. “It’s what Jesus was put on.” Hey, what can I say it’s a life-style choice? But as with any true believer, their fervency requires tempering to keep it free from fanaticism. Last week, he had logged onto PBSkids.org for a little downtime. For some reason, the wireless connection kept dropping, so much so that from the young man’s mouth as he banged his fists came the confirmation of his faith, “JESUS CHRIST, why don’t you work!” Immediately, I gave a quick sermon on how referencing Jesus Christ has transcended faith into the common vernacular, which he’s forbidden to use in public under any circumstances. I also made a mental note to get a permit for my slovenly mouth and the wayward language spewing from it.
The first two days of my being Papa-Mama went without a hitch. Wednesday and Thursday morning, I got up an hour early to fix the kids their lunch boxes and figure out what to defrost for dinner. Hope is much more regimented in the mornings about this sort of thing. Bing, bang, boom. Done. Me? I wander through the cupboards in some strung out afterglow. Hmm, shall I cook lentils? A carbonara would be nice, but we don’t have cream…oh, that’s okay I’ll use milk. Wait a minute, I’ll quickly knock up a Spanish omelet...just peel some potatoes and boil them at SIX IN THE MORNING???!!!! Needless to say, the kids were late for school. Returning home from having dropped them off, I’d clean up the breakfast bomb crater and sit down to do some work. Ah, work. How to settle into concentrating on what pays me a wage having just survived the three-hour tornado is a feat many do, but few appreciate?
Four o’clock. Time to get the kids. And here’s how it goes. Go to Samson’s class. Don’t forget to pick up his lunch box, stuffed bear and any religious drawings or Old Testament scripts that he has copied and put to memory, then onto Amelia’s room. Back up. Where’s Samson? Go back and get Samson. Now, onto Amelia’s room. Get Amelia who keeps running away. I grab her with one arm as I’m signing her out with the arm that’s holding her lunch bag, wet clothes and her pink bunny…the same arm already holding Samson’s sundry belongings. I blink goodbye to her caregivers, on account that my limbs are weighed down and Amelia’s jacket is in my mouth. And we’re off to the car. Samson runs away to chat with friends and Amelia is crying as she’s buckled into her car seat. I walk back to the daycare center picking up what I dropped on the way to the car. I corral Samson and we’re heading home.
During the festival of Semana Santa enormous floats with the images of the Blessed Virgin Mary and Jesus of Nazareth are carried on the shoulders of some 50 devotees or curcuruchas through the streets of La Antigua. Carrying 7000 pounds for a couple of blocks (only to be relieved by more curcuruchas) is a symbol of penance…atonement for one’s sins or wrongdoings.
I’m not sure what it is I’ve done. I’m just trying to be a dad. My sights aren’t particularly high in this department, either. I’m not a model anything, but that doesn’t mean I should go an entire day with no time to take a whiz. Is this domestic penance that I’m enduring…a past wrongdoing for which I’m now not allowed to piss?
Dinnertime. As my mother-in-law puts it, “Arsenic hour.” On the Thursday, a good friend came in from Boston to spend the night…catch up and enjoy the art of reconnecting, as civilized people do. Not exactly. Not even close. Cahill, a gentleman for whom children represent other people’s problems was thrown into dealing with one child while I calmed, bathed and pumped the knock-out-bottle into the other. He hadn’t even sipped his first martini before Samson screamed, “Cahill! Let’s build a rocket!” An hour later. There it stood. His martini…as unwanted as a witch’s tit. It was 9pm and dinner hadn’t even started. In the end, with Samson up way past his bedtime, we got down to the manly sport of eating steak, drinking vodka and telling whoppers. Samson fell asleep on the sofa. And a while later so did the rest of us. The next morning, Cahill left. He’s no dummy. Then it was just the kids and I. By 3pm I was deciding whether it was bad parenting to want to feed them, bathe them and put them to bed. I decided it was: a majorly big sin for which I would carry 7000 pounds of guilt without the help of 49 other dudes.
Before I knew it, dinnertime had come round again. Quick, go, go, go. Chop, sauté and boil as the children played with the one object that hadn’t been upturned, rifled through or obliterated by cushions and blankets: our bowls of onions, garlic and potatoes. In seconds, the kitchen floor turned into a plain covered with onionskins and stray onions barreling all over the place. I’d had it. “E-nuff!” Yelling felt good. It took the pain away in my lower abdomen that pulsated from not going to the bathroom since this morning. “But papa,” came from number one son. “I’m not papa. I am Mister Pick-Up. Mister. Pick-Up. Because all I do is pick-up, pick-up, pick-up!!! Who am I?” “Mister Pick-Up,” replied Samson agog at the dissonance between what he thought his father should endure and his unreasonable protestations. They were two and I was one. If this were a war I’d have been out-numbered by an entire regiment.
With the children eating, I sneaked off to the bathroom. Being a parent is to do, and be thinking of doing, multiple actions in the course of performing one single action. You fix the sticky handle on the toilet cistern while you whiz, because who has the time to do both with any sense of pleasure? With both children fed and bathed. We settled down to read a few books. Both crawled into their favorite nooks, which my body provided and as I read Amelia cooed, “Papa” over and over again while stroking my hair. If we had just been through arsenic hour, here was the antidote. Even though their mother was 3,000 miles away, they were content. Happy with, what in their minds was a good day. And who was I to think differently? As they fell asleep I managed to put them both to bed. Pulling Samson’s sheet up over him and BearBear, I detected something in his face, where locks of still wet hair curled about his forehead, framing his happy disposition as a testament to a Good Friday, that had been pretty dam good.
Hope called, that evening, to say things were going well, but air-traffic was snarled and she would be delayed by an extra day. Oh well, my resurrection will just have to wait a day. Da da da-da, da da da-da Pa-pa’s world.
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