In my dream I spend the entire day with my boys at Disneyland, the zoo or some other place where children are often overly stimulated by an inundation of sights, sounds and grown-ups wandering about dressed as a variety of enormous woodland creatures. We are all exhausted and a little bit terrified by the day's proceedings and are loading up in the car. I'm careful to pack the stroller and setup the DVD player so the kids are sufficiently entertained (I say setup because we don't have a mounted system like those people who put on videos even though they're just driving to the store for milk. I feel this is poor parenting. Try engaging your kids, not ignoring them). Anyway, I start the movie and head home. The boys are quiet and well behaved and I decide to stop and get them a soft serve cone from McDonalds. When I pull in to the drive-thru and turn to tell them that Daddy, because he's such an awesome daddy, is getting them ice cream, I realize to my utter horror that the video is playing to a couple of empty car seats. I can only imagine the two little boys standing all alone in the Disneyland parking lot being comforted by Geppeto. It's at this point that I wake up in a cold sweat, breathe a sigh of relief and realize that it must be time for Nicole to go to the ladies retreat again.
Please don't get me wrong, I am capable of watching my boys by myself. It's just that in every parenting relationship, there are usually two kinds of people: the stalwart who is fazed by nothing and the worrier who manages to see the potential danger in every situation. I am the latter. When the boys are wrestling, I don't see two little guys horsing around and having fun. I see the much bigger one accidentally crushing the smaller one or Bryce hurling Henry into the corner of the piano bench, hitting his head and rendering him unconscious. So whenever Nicole leaves for a couple of days or even if she just goes to the store, I have to resist the urge to strap them to the couch with bubble wrap.
Well, after dropping Nicole off at the church I returned home (with both boys, whew!). I walked into the house, kicked off my flip-flops and promptly stepped into a gift that my dog left for me in the living room. Why is it that the dog never poops on the tile that is easy to clean? I immediately cordoned off a 10 foot area to try and keep Henry from playing in the offending substance. I then threw up, showered, soaked my feet in Purell, threw up again, showered again, and threw up again for good measure. You may think that I am acting like a wimp or a little girl even, but I don't care- you have your dog's diarrhetic poop squish between your toes and then we'll talk. (See! How many of you want to vomit now?) Speaking of diarrhea, Henry isn't feeling well. So that's good, yeah for me! Now, I didn't intend for this to be filled with potty humor so I will change the topic.
One of my favorite times of the day is "almost bedtime". About the last half hour or so before bedtime (hence the name "almost bedtime") is when we begin to wind down for the day. Usually this entails cleaning up a little (something we won't do until "almost pick up mommy time"), sitting down and turning on either Spongebob or the Upside Down show (I love having little boys that give me a great excuse to watch the shows I want to watch. Although I would watch them either way, having little kids makes it socially acceptable). This is my favorite time because Bryce is calm and happy and Henry, once I put Bryce to bed, eventually crawls up into my lap lays on my chest and rubs his hand on my stubbly chin. Once both boys are down for the night, I begin my solitude. As you could have probably guessed, I thrive on an audience. This usually means my wife bears the brunt of my feeble attempts at entertainment (no doubt boring her to death). But since I am alone, I am forced to try out my witty commentary on the cat (I would normally say the dog, but she and I are not on speaking terms until she learns to say "I am sorry" in perfect english). My cat is, as one might expect, unresponsive. I feel this is more a commentary on cats than the material I feed her, or at least I hope this is the case. Such great comedy fodder wasted on a stupid cat.
Bed time went well Thursday, for the boys anyway. I can never seem to sleep well when my better half is off somewhere else. It's kinda of bittersweet. On one hand I look forward to being able to sprawl all over the bed without a thought of infringing on someone's personal space. But on the other hand I have gotten so used to sleeping on the very edge of the bed while my lovely takes as much as she "needs". That and I can never seem to get to sleep without her there. Staying asleep isn't a problem. I just can't fall asleep. It may be that I have grown accustomed to our day-ending conversations and I need her to tell me about her day in order to fall asleep. Not that her day bores me to sleep or that her voice puts me out...I believe I'll stop there before I get into trouble.
Friday brought school and a speech therapy session for Bryce. Following the extremely short nap Henry took we went to the park and the Library (which has a very poor selection of kids videos). For the sake of brevity I'll just skip to the events that I really wish to discuss with you. Just before bedtime I asked Bryce to help me clean up the toys in the living room. He walked over to the couch, lied down and pulled the blanket up over himself. I asked him if he felt okay and all he said was, "Bryce is happy". I asked him if his stomach hurt and he said yes and, "need to spit". Which is "Bryce" for throw up. So I took him to the bathroom to give him a chance and all he did was actually spit. He turned around said, "go lay down" and went back into the living room and his perch on the couch. I kept an eye on him and cleaned up the living room. I am not sure if he was really sick, or just acting like daddy and trying to get out of cleaning up by feigning an illness of some kind. At any rate, he was fine by the time I put him to bed. Either way, I am just glad he didn't actually "spit". You see I am a sympathetic "spitter" and it wouldn't have been pretty.
Let's fast forward to 2:00 am. I had been asleep for two hours when I heard Henry fussing. My main objective was for both of us to return to sleep as quickly as possible. I brought him into the bed with me and after some tossing and turning and pushing me to the edge of the bed (not unlike mom), he finally settled down. Just as I was dozing myself, Henry began to cry. Now, when you become a parent, you are giving the ability to interpret your children's cries. You can rightly discern the difference between hurt and anger, hunger and a diaper change. There is no mistaking the cry of fear. I can't really describe it to you. Parents will already know exactly what I am referring to and those without kids, just be glad you haven't experienced it yet. Anyway, Henry's cry was one of sheer terror. This immediately sent my heart racing and adrenaline flooding through my body. I couldn't seem to wake him up as his cry got more and more terrified. He was having a bad dream and I drew him close to me to calm him down. It worked but not like I would have hoped or preferred. Note to self: wear a shirt to bed, especially if you are forced to comfort a freshly weaned baby after a bad dream. He will regress immediately. Awkward! Well, after calming him down, putting on a shirt and getting him back to sleep, I am stuck awake again. I tried to turn my brain off again (a task some of you would no doubt question its necessity, but I assure you I do use it occasionally) but it was difficult. Finally, I fell asleep at 5:00 am.
I now am getting ready to drive to Ironwood to get my wife who developed the stomach flu last night. I am sad because: a.) my baby is sick; and 2.) this means that even though she will be home, I will still be largely responsible for the children as she rests and recovers. Oh well, what's a couple of more hours as a single parent....
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