We Are Going To Be Late

8:55am.  We are going to be late. 

Out of bed.  Get dressed, go quickly, scream while I head downstairs.  Where are the kids?  Why aren't they answering me?  The dog decides that this is a perfect time to stick his nose in my butt.  I'm wearing yesterdays shorts, he appears to like my musk. 

At the bottom of the stairs, I see the children.  Two of them are on the couch.  Neither one is dressed.  The toddler plays with a Barbie at the breakfast table, dipping her hair into a bowl of cereal milk.  Cartoons are on, loud and obnoxious, an ear-splitting car wreck that has their undivided attention.

"What the hell!" I say.  "We are going to be late for school!"

"What school?" Wyatt says, my 10-year-old boy.  "We don't have school today." 

The kid is bright but clueless at the same time.  Last week we had to discuss what the term "Kafkaesque" meant.  He came across it while watching one of his science videos.  However, he doesn't seem to know his days of the week.  I'm hoping that he is a forgetful genius, a nutty professor that will one day invent flubber. 

"It's Tuesday!  Saturday?  We just had the weekend.  It's Tuesday!"

The kids don't move.  Ollie, the four-year-old at the table, has moved on from Barbie and is now just sticking his whole face into the cereal bowl.  He's trying to drink the milk like our cat. 

"Move!"  I give the command like a general, one that has slept late and is going to miss the offensive that starts in five minutes. 

The kids don't move.

"Move!"  I say again.  We need to have some time this evening so that I can fully discuss listening.  The cartoons on the TV switch to a commercial. 

Now the kids jump up.  They run upstairs, taking the time to push each other over by the third stair.  Someone crashes into a wall, a picture frame tumbles from it and the woman on the TV is telling me about ABC Mouse. 

In the kitchen, I grab the lunch boxes.  I start throwing pre-made snacks and chips in.  Two bologna sandwiches.  For some reason, I place the bread in a sandwich bag, zip it up and throw it in next to the juice boxes.  Then I take the bologna and put it in its own sandwich bag.  It is lost on me why I did this instead of just making the sandwich.  No time to think, we must react.  The clock says 9:05.  Shit.  We're already late.  The bus has come and gone. 

"Ollie!  Get down and get your shoes on," I tell my toddler.  He doesn't have to get dressed.  He can roll the whole day in pajamas.  He stays home with me, we can look like crap when we need to.  Today, apparently, we need to.  The older kids come down the stairs. 

"Why did you let me sleep in?" I ask them.  It's a fools question that is asked only to make myself feel better.  They aren't responsible for me getting up.  I'm responsible for them.  But this way I get to deflect my blame.  Let's call it payback for a 1000 nutshots over the years.  They can take a little bit of this blame for me. 

"We didn't know," Vivi says.  11 and she pleads ignorance of the law as an excuse, puts the blame back on me.  "Why didn't you get up?"

"Had a late night, had to work," I tell them.

"Dad, you don't work.  You stay home with us."

"I binge watched a show on Netflix," I say, giving the truthful answer. 

We hammer the kids on honesty, lecture about it often, rarely practice it ourselves.  Little white lies get called out constantly.  How come you and mommy sent us to bed early?  To have alone time (sex).  Where is the dog?  He went to the farm (he's dead).  Where do babies come from?  From alone time (unprotected sex).

  They are right, I am wrong and we are also late. 

Lunches packed, I throw them at the children's heads.  Backpacks get things stuffed in, jackets get put on, I grab the toddler.  Ollie screams as I yank him from his chair.  He was dipping his fingers into his milk and using that to paint some sort of picture on the table.  His masterpiece wasn't finished.  Don't care, got to get to school. 

In the car, everyone gets buckled up.  Hurry.  Stop fighting  Stop pushing.  Stop screaming.  One of the children throws something at one of the other children.  One of the boys fart.  They all laugh.  I pull out of the driveway like I'm the coach master of the insane wagon.  The laughter sounds maniacal, sharp and unhinged. 

School is less than three minutes away.  The morning radio lets me know about politics--someone said something stupid.  My toddler says that later today he is going to fart on his brother's pillow while they are at school.  The next election I decide that I'm going to vote for him rather than any candidate. 

9:20 and we pull up to school.  Vivi and Wyatt jump out, I unbuckle the toddler from the car seat and put him on the ground.  He's not wearing any shoes.  We run up to the front door and ring the bell.  The school stays locked during the day now, a defense against possible crazy people.  I look up to the security camera above the door and realize what I look like now.  My shirt's on backward.  I am a forgetful genius like my son. 

The school lets us in, double doors lead to the office. 

"Hi!" Donna says from behind her desk.  I refuse to look at my reflection in her glasses.  She is the friendly gatekeeper and I know what she is going to ask next.  She hands me a pen and a clipboard so that I can sign the children in.

"And why are we late this morning?" Donna asks. 

"Doctors appointment," I say hoping that she doesn't notice the no shoe wearing toddler and my backward shirt.  I also notice that it's inside out. 

"Dad..." Wyatt says. 

Shit.  He's calling me out.  Right here in front of Donna.  Donna used to like me.   I hate that my son is right.  Make a mistake, own up to it. 

"Dad.  Dad is the reason we are late," I tell the gatekeeper.

Donna makes a clucking noise behind her smile.  I hate that I'm being seen as a bumbling father.  I'm not.  Usually, I have my shit together.  Stupid Netflix. 

"Oh, we all have bad days sometimes," Donna says, letting me off the hook.  I kiss the kids, tell them to have a great day, give them hugs.

And notice that neither one of them has their backpacks.   

Sharks Inside Volcanos

Sharks can live inside volcanos.  It's true.  I read the paper online.  Everything posted online is true.  Scientists have found a shark living inside an underwater volcano.  This is it.  This is how the world ends.  Good.  

3 am and I can't sleep.  Too much is on my mind.  Fatherly stuff, stuff that makes you lay awake and plot revenge.  Justice.  The world needs more justice.  My wife, daughter and two sons are asleep.  The dog is heavy on my feet.  My eyes are closed but I can't get there, to dreamland.  Dad's got heavy dad things on his mind.  I'm not all jokes and good times.  Sometimes, when the kids are asleep and my wife is snoring, I'm wide awake.  

My daughter is a reader.  If she doesn't have a book in her hand, even for a two-minute drive to the grocery store, I wonder if she is sick.  She reads way above her grade level.  It's freaky and I have to read a lot of things with her so that we can talk about what she is seeing.  YA novels.  So many YA novels.  I could use them as stepping stones in the backyard, we have so many.  

Do you know what YA novels have in them?  Jackass love interests.  Jerks and peckerheads that treat the main female character like shit.  Oh, she's so mad at that boy.  He's so rude!  But ya know what, she loves him.  Yup, there it fucking is.  The main character will eventually love him.  Every fucking single time.  It's ok though, the main character can change him!  He's not really a bad guy, no really.  He just needs someone who can understand him.  If she is determined enough, her attention will teach him that being shitty to her is a bad thing.  Then he will love her.  What the Jesus fuck.  Seriously.  I have to give her a lecture every day to let her know that if a boy is a dick, he will always be a dick.  The real world doesn't work that way.  If the demon vampire goes to your school, he's not going to be all shiny and love you oh so much Bella!  No, he's going to want to suck your blood.  I've lectured my niece on this as well.  

I talked to my wife tonight.  The "me too" conversation that is going around twitter and the internet.  I've been with my wife since she was 18.  22 years of being by her side.  When I asked her, she said "Well, nothing physical, but in college...."  Jesus fucking Christ.  How did I not know about this, about what she has to go through?  The demeaning comments.  The "because you're a girl," bosses have said to her over the years.  

I demanded names.  I want to make a list.  How many fists of justice can I dole out throughout the day?  Can I track someone down from 20 years ago?  I bet I can.  Who fucking catcalls?  Seriously?  I don't even need a name.  I can just follow behind my wife when she walks downtown.  I'll take notes.  Give her a kiss on the cheek when I hear it, then go do the justice thing.  I tell my wife this.  

"You know you can tell me anything, right?" I say. 

"Of course," she says and rolls her eyes.  

"Look, I'm a big guy.  And it's all yours.  Every stitch of it.  Yours.  Just say the word and things can happen.  That's all I'm saying."  

She snorts at my bravado but it's all I got.  It's the only thing I know how to do.  

I'm an ex-football player.  Sure, not in shape anymore but a lot of that strength remains.  It's all right here.  And, not to be humble here, I can take a punch.  Never, not once in my life, have I felt attacked or demeaned like my wife has felt.  I have never felt belittled.  It's rare that I was even challenged.  I suppose as kids but then my brother and I would go and have us a good old-fashioned fistfight.  Good times.  I miss my brother.  He's got a wife and daughter, we should talk more often.  

And as I lie here, wide fucking awake, thinking about my wife and daughter, I can't forget about my sons.  Two of them.  10 and 4.  Little guys.  And what makes me worry, what puts that ball of tension in my chest, is that I know exactly what they will have to go through.  

Competition.  Day in and day out competition.  Can't be helped, it will always be there.  Subtle things, peer pressure things.  Things that will be in their own heads.  Little boys are constantly one-upping each other.  I can go faster, I can hit harder, I can jump further.  I dare you  I double dog dare you.  I'm tougher than you are.  It doesn't stop when you become an adult.  For a while there, in your twenties, it gets worse.  I have no idea why.  Then your own thoughts come in.  Am I good enough, am I tough enough? 

Don't cry.  Only the weak cry.  Stay level-headed in a crisis.  Don't panic.  Sissies panic.  Are you a sissy?  Control your emotions, can't let them get out of control.  Don't disappoint dad.  Be like dad.  But what if I'm not as tough as dad?  What if dad is cross with me, have I failed dad?  That's the rub, that's the one that is the hardest to deal with.  Dad always loves you, without fail or condition.  You are always tough enough for dad.  But in your own head, as a young boy, you never think so.  I didn't.  I think being 10 is exhausting.  

So I can't sleep.  I can't sleep because I know that there is not a whole lot I can do.  It's a thought that is defeating.  My one job, my one real job, is to shield them all from the shit in the world.  To right the wrongs, to protect them from those things out in the shitty world.  To confront those thoughts that they might have.  To get into their heads to make sure that it doesn't lead them down the wrong path, make them jaded and lie awake at night.  My job is to take on the world.  

And I can't. As big as I am, as strong as I am, as tough as I am--it's not enough.   

I can teach.  I can read the YA books with my daughter.  I can reassure my sons that dad always has their back.  I can teach all of them that confidence is your shield and that Dad is never disappointed in you.  And I can hug my wife, keep things away.  Sometimes.  Not all the time.  Because the bottom line truth is that Dad can't fight all their battles for them.  My wife knows this.  She's the beacon of strength that I hope my children see.  I want to fight all their battles for them.  I can't.  They have to.  I can be in their corner, I can cheer them on.  But I can't fight them.  Now I feel powerless, and perhaps for the first time, I can really feel like they all do sometimes.  

That's why you find yourself in the middle of the night worried about all of them.  A father's worry, deep and gnawing.  

This is how you find yourself rooting for the sharks in the volcanos.   

Not As Important

"It's ok.  I know that I'm not as important," my daughter tells me. 

And right there, that exact moment, is where I know that I have failed as a father.  I mean, fuck.  Where the hell did I go wrong?  I almost slam on the breaks when I hear her say it.  Someone slamming into the back of my car seems a lot less important than my daughter not thinking that she is important to me. 

"Woah!  Woah!  Woah!" I tell her.  No one should ever give you earth shattering info when you are driving.  It's a bad idea.  "What do you mean that you are not as important?" 

"I know that you can't make all my practices.  It's ok.  I know that you have the two boys that need you," she says. 

"You need me too.  Hell, I need you!"  I say.  I'm in panic mode.  If I get pulled over while driving, I"m going to explain to the police officer that my daughter's confidence in her father is shot.  I'm sure they will understand.

"There are some practices I can't make, sure," I say.  "Your mom works late and the boys don't do well sitting in the stands watching you.  I love it, though."

"You do?" my 11-year-old asks me.

"Fuck yeah I do."  I know I'm cussing here.  But I feel that it is necessary so that my daughter can fully see my commitment to the conversation.  I want her to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she is the sun in my universe.  I revolve around her and she is more important than the very light of the day. 

"But it's just practice," she says.  "Isn't it boring?"

"Hell no, it's not boring.  I watch you all the time at practice.  I see your overhand serves.  I see when you dig the volleyball.  I know when run into the net.  I love practice.  It's, hands down, my favorite thing to do during the week."

"What about soccer practice with the boys?"

"I like those too, sure.  But that doesn't mean I don't like your volleyball practices."

"Really?"

"Really.  I mean, come on, you are my firstborn.  How can you think anyone is more important to me than you?"

"But it's just practice,"  she says. 

"No, it isn't.  It's me watching my daughter doing something that she loves.  And on the very rare occasion that I have to miss one, I feel like shit about it.  I miss you, little girl.  Don't you know that?"

"I suppose."

"Suppose nothing.  And never think that anyone is more important to me than you.  I quit my job just to spend time home with you."

"I know."

"And how many years ago was that?"

"I don't know."

"Nine.  Nine years.  That's how long ago I quit my job to stay home with you.  I gave it all up because it was nothing without my daughter."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah.  And I wouldn't go back, even now, if it meant that I couldn't come to your volleyball games and practices.  Jesus, honey.  You're my girl."

"I like being your girl," she says. 

"Good.  Now how about tonight after practice we go get a pony."

Domestic

"Honey?" I say as I walk in the door to our house.  "Honey?"

"Yeah.  I'm right here," my wife says.  She's on the couch reading a book.  It's Harry Potter, I think the third one judging by the cover.  I know that other husbands may walk into the house and expect to see the wife reading Cosmo or perhaps Good Housekeeping.  That's not my wife.  That's not her at all.

"So what's going on?" I ask her.

"Just reading," she says.

"Where are the kids?" I ask her.  I know that this is a setup question.  I know exactly where the kids are.  All three of them.  I just want to see if she does.

"Little Hoss and Bacon are playing out on the front porch.  Wyatt is right behind you," she says while pointing at my 10-year-old son.  She rolls her eyes, like how could I ask such a stupid question?

"Are you sure?" I say.  I'm building up to something here and I want it to be good.

"What do you mean 'are you sure',"  She says.  "He's right there, right behind you.  You took him to soccer practice an hour ago.  You coach soccer.  Your brain is going to mush, honey."

"Hmm.  Maybe you are right.  I'm getting forgetful in my old age.  Like I probably forgot that Bacon Hoss always takes a piss out on the front porch."

That catches her attention.  Now she puts the book down.

"What?" she says.

"Yup.  Taking a wiz right off the front porch.  Just now.  Pants all the way down to his ankles, junk and butt out so that all the neighbors can see."

"Where's Little Hoss?"  They were out there playing!"  Now she gets up off the couch and heads to the front door.

The front door is open.  The glass screen door remains shut.  It gives a perfect view of the front porch.  On that porch, there are roughly three million stuffed animals, a bottle of bubbles, and a toddler who is pulling up his pants.  My daughter is nowhere to be found.  My wife heads outside.

"What are you doing!" she asks the toddler.

"Peeing," he says.

"Why?"

"Had to go pee."

There you go.  A perfectly reasonable answer.  Little dude had to pee.

"Where's your sister?" Hossmom asks.

"Getting toys," the boy says.

And as if on cue, my daughter shows up.

"Why did you leave your brother outside, you were playing!"  my wife says.  She's getting pretty hot now and I'm just sitting back enjoying the show.  I'm not saying that I'm better at the home stuff than my wife is, wait, that is exactly what I'm saying.

My wife sucks at anything "domestic."  She doesn't like it when I say this, but sadly, it is true.  And why shouldn't it be?  I've stayed home with the kids for nine years.  If I don't cook dinner, there is a pretty good chance everyone is getting Chinese takeout.  But she does an excellent job of making money.  

"What..." my wife says but can't finish the sentence before my daughter starts to defend herself.

"I was getting more toys for Bacon!  I was gone for, like, 3 seconds."

"He peed off the porch!" my wife says.

"In his pants?" my daughter asks.

"No, he peed OFF the porch.  He pulled his pants down. "

This goes on for a while.  It gets pretty heated for a second.  In the end, everyone agrees that the toddler should not be allowed to pee off the front porch.  I want to point out though that I was only gone for an hour.  Just an hour.

We head back inside.

"Did you make dinner?" I ask my wife as we head to the kitchen.

"Yes!  I'm not incompetent when you are not here, you know that don't you?" she asks with a touch of sarcasm in her voice.

"Sure," I say.

"Hoss..."

"Did you put a pizza in the oven for me?" I ask her.

"Of course, I did.  I put it in as soon as you texted you were on your way home 20 minutes ago."

I open the oven, the very cold oven.  I grab the frozen pizza with my hand.  Not surprisingly, I don't get burned.

"You didn't turn the oven on."