We dads have a different way of doing things. I know this
because my kids tell me, “That’s not how mommy does it,” about ten times a day
now.
The boys will go back to school at the end of August, which
is rapidly approaching. At that point, my wife will begin a new teaching job,
and I will be in charge of our sons during the day. With my new role as Mr. Mom
looming so closely around the corner, I am attempting to learn the ropes while
my predecessor is still available for consultations.
For instance, I have always made pancakes on the weekends, but
I have never been in charge of regular healthy weekday breakfasts. (My pancakes
are cooked in a sea of butter and involve chocolate chips, whipped cream, and
about a gallon of syrup. They are basically little artery-hardening diabetes
cakes on a plate. But they’re yummy.)
During the weekdays, their mother who can multi-task, takes
breakfast orders from them like a short-order cook. I am a man without the
multi-tasking chromosome, so I got into trouble right away when asked to make
oatmeal and eggs at the same time. I got the microwave oatmeal recipe from my
wife, which could not have been easier. One cup of oats, one cup of milk, one
minute in the microwave. Too easy.
“This oatmeal is too runny, dad. This isn’t how mom does
it.”
“How could it possibly be different? I could not have messed
that up.”
“Mommy uses our plastic bowls. That’s different.”
(I used a ceramic bowl. That probably did make a big
difference. I don’t think the plastic bowl sucks up as much of the heat,
leaving more heat to cook the oatmeal, making it less runny.)
“Plus, mom lets me put in as much brown sugar as I want.”
“Nice try, punk.”
“My eggs are too runny, and his eggs are too hard. How come
you didn’t do it like mom does?”
“I was busy dealing with runny oatmeal. Shut up and eat your
eggs.”
“Also, mommy lets us have chocolate milk with whipped cream
on the top.”
“Yeah, right. Just eat your imperfect eggs and drink your
boring white milk.”
After their very unsatisfying breakfast, I said, “Go get
dressed.”
“But there are no clothes out. Mommy puts our clothes out
for us.”’
“That’s because mommy knows what shirts and shorts fit you,
and where they are kept. I have no idea. You guys know which clothes are yours,
and you’re old enough to dress yourselves, so get to it.”
I figured my wife was just coddling them too much by setting
out their clothes for them, but I decided that might not be entirely true when
I saw what Son Number Two ended up wearing. He had picked out a neon green
shirt and paired it with orange shorts and white socks pulled up to his knees
with sandals. He looked like a cross between Mr. Furley and the Fresh Prince of
Bel Air.
I guess I’ll finally have to learn her closet and drawer
system.
Even when I tried to do something as simple as cutting their
hair, there was trouble. Cutting our kids’ hair should be foolproof. We go for
low to no maintenance when it comes to hair, so my wife uses a number one guard
on the clippers and buzz cuts them like shearing a sheep. Somehow, however, I
don’t even do that like mommy does.
“This is taking forever. Mommy does it faster. Owwwww! Your
way hurts more than mommy’s way.”
“How could I possibly be doing this differently!?!”
So, yesterday when we went to the water park, I may have
been a little tired of hearing about “how mommy does it,” because when they
started to complain about my sunscreen application methods, I said, “Zip it!”
I thought I was doing a great job with the sunscreen. I even
remembered to reapply on all three of them at lunchtime, without being
reminded. This morning when they woke up, however, their faces told a different
story. Apparently I don’t do it like mommy
does, and I really should, since I neglected to get any sunscreen directly
under their eyes. All three of them woke up with dark red sunburned semi-circles
under their eyes. They looked like they had joined Fight Club in the middle of
the night.
Whoops.
Speaking of first aid, the other day Son Number Three got a
splinter in his thumb from our gigantic redwood play structure. I took the
reins on the splinter removal, which is traditionally mommy’s territory, and
dug it out for him with a sewing needle. (He had to show me where the sewing
needles were.) He was wailing and crying, and after it was out (I did a great
job by the way, just like mommy does it), he said, “This is one of my worst
days ever.”
“Dude, this is a splinter. You broke your femur in half on
that play structure.”
“I know, that’s why I said it was one of my
worst days. This is like my fourth worst day ever.”
At five years old, I think at least three of his four worst
days ever involve the play structure in some form or another, and I remember
thinking I wouldn’t be surprised if he takes an interest in playing with
matches pretty soon and “accidentally” burns that thing to the ground.
Well, we are visiting my wife’s family this week, and her grandpa
smokes a pipe. Yesterday, Number Three showed great interest in how his Bic
lighter worked. Now, his great grandpa is 95 years old, so back in his day,
every five-year-old probably had a gun, a knife, and a pack of matches as
standard issue, so he was happy to show the young lad how to operate the
lighter, and Number Three was listening very intently.
Sunburns and hopelessly uncoordinated outfits are one thing,
but if that play structure “accidentally” burns down on my watch, I don’t think
she’s going to forgive me.
I’d better go through his luggage when we leave and make
sure he’s not trying to bring a lighter home.
See you soon,
-Smidge
Copyright © 2013 Marc Schmatjen
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