After Work

I’ve realized that the past couple of articles have dealt almost completely with how much I hate mornings. (Ok, I didn’t actually realize that. A couple of people pointed it out, including my mother-in-law, who according to my wife, said, “I hope he doesn’t expect any sympathy.” And this came after my nice comments. I’m not bitter and haven’t planned any revenge… yet.) While it’s true that mornings, especially the 6 a.m. part of them, are classified as a dirty word in our house now, I don’t hate everything about them.

This past week I re-realized why my wife and I are working. While our normal schedule is I get our two little spawns up, dressed, fed (and sometimes redressed) and off to school and my wife picks them up in the evening, this week she had to work late a couple of nights, so I picked them up after work too.

On Wednesday, I got to their daycare and signed them out before going in. My daughter saw me from across the room. “Daddy!” she cried and ran to me, her arms open wide.

Those of you with small children have experienced what I‘m talking about. It’s that moment when you know you are the center of their world. They rely on you for everything and trust you implicitly. The pure joy at seeing you at the end of the day, suddenly everything is right in their tiny world…

My daughter had gone through several growth spurts in the past few months and at three and a half, her forehead reaches just above my belly button. This is important, because while most parents are smiling as they remember/relive/hope for what I described in the previous paragraph, they don’t know my daughter.

She raced across the room, her eyes bright with joy and relief at being rescued. Just before she reached me, she ducked her head, turning into a 35-pound missile aimed at my crotch. While the fathers are wincing in shared pain, let me explain.

My daughter and I have developed many routines and games over the past year. She stands in the middle of the room, her tiny arms crossed and a toxic frown on her face and states, “I mad you!” I’ll mimic her and echo, “I’m mad at you!” We’ll go back and forth until one of us starts laughing. Another is she’ll flop over and whisper, “I broke.” I get out my imaginary tools and make noises while I fix her. Then I flop over and say, “I broke.” She’ll get out her tools and fix me.

Ever since she was big enough to walk, she’d run to me when I pick her up from daycare. When she gets to me I make a loud “OOMPH!” sound and flip her upside down. Then I ask her where her head is. She’ll laugh and in her most Daddy-you-are-a-moron-but-I-still-love-you-and-hope-I-didn’t-get-too-many-of-your-genes voice say, “I down here.” After a few flips, she started ducking her head at the last instant. When she was only up to my mid thigh, that placed her head about level with my kneecap. For the sake of self-preservation, I learned to react quickly and kept both knees relatively unbroken.

Over the past couple of months, I guess my wife had been picking the kids up after school. The last time I rescued their teachers, I know the top of my daughter’s head was barely to my hip. So, when she ducked for the flip, I was in no danger of having my voice raised by several octaves. (Believe me, men pay attention to this sort of thing.) Between traveling for work, getting ready for the new job to start and the holidays, my daughter must have had several growth spurts.

This week, when she turned into the voice-raising missile, I had just spent over an hour driving from a long day of work. To say I was mentally and physically worn out would be an understatement. And after playing the same game for months, my daughter had no reason to expect today to be any different when she saw me walk in.

It’s true that if you practice enough, your muscles will react without conscious thought. I caught her at the last second and flipped her upside down. She giggled and answered “I down here!” when I asked why she was wearing her pants on her head.

You may be wondering what this has to do with re-realizing why my wife and I are working. It’s pretty simple. Every time I hear her giggle at my silliness or my son race down stairs in the morning because my wife didn’t give him a morning kiss (she never forgets, but he sleeps like a log. There have been times I’ve gotten home at midnight from traveling. I woke him up, told him I was home, kissed and hugged him. The next morning I was accused of breaking my promise to let him know when I got home.) I am amazed at how well adjusted they are considering their parents. And how lucky we are.