Family Man: A Beautiful Mess

The other day, I got one of those calls parents dread: “It’s Stacy from the preschool office. I’m calling about Benjamin.”
class=MsoBodyTextIndent style="TEXT-INDENT: 0in">About .07 seconds elapsed between this and her next sentence, but that was all I needed for my parental instincts to go into panic mode. Images of my child bleeding on the circle-time mat, crushed by an avalanche of construction paper, flew through my mind.


class=MsoBodyTextIndent style="TEXT-INDENT: 0in">“He’s fine,” Stacy continued, anticipating my panic. “He just threw up. We need you to come get him.”


class=MsoNormal>A moment ago, I had been scared to death that my son had been sucked under by quicksand behind the swings, but upon hearing that he had upchucked at the “friendship table,” I was thrilled. Here was a genuine, minor emergency that I could answer in the middle of the day. I picked Benjamin up, bought him Gatorade, and cared for him the rest of the day – all without the anxiety of missing time off the work clock.


class=MsoBodyTextIndent style="TEXT-INDENT: 0in">Several months back, I underwent one of my many life crises. Our second child, Jacob, was 6 months old and my wife, Wendy, and I were still acclimating to life with two kids. I was working a ton of hours, at the office and later at home. I frequently missed dinners.


class=MsoBodyTextIndent style="TEXT-INDENT: 0in">Worst of all, Jacob often looked at me blankly, as if to say, “And you are … ?” Benjamin was frequently telling Wendy, “I can’t fall asleep until I give Daddy his cup of air.” (The “cup of air” involves my son pouring imaginary flavors in a pretend nightcap for a calming end to the day.) Because of all my extra work hours, I was missing my cups of fresh air – my kids.


class=MsoNormal>The Daddy Track


class=MsoNormal>After an unhealthy amount of soul-searching, I stepped off the linear track of career advancement and created a more flexible work schedule. As a result, I’ve had time to regularly change diapers, instead of just the occasional wipe up. Jacob has gotten so used to it, now he only poops when I’m the one with him. I’m also no longer inept at feeding him and have learned to imitate his dance moves. Recently, when we brought a runny-nosed Jacob into bed with us, he patted my chest and whispered one of his first words: “Dada.”


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