Nothing Is Sacred . . .

It seems inevitable that as soon as I sit down to read some ESPN magazine on the throne near of the laundry room (aka daddy's bathroom), one of two things happen. First, all three children suddenly want to talk to me or tell me something that to them cannot wait until I'm finished with my business, or secondly, all hell breaks loose-- someone kicks someone else in the face while the third kid falls off the table, all to the sound of the doorbell and the phone ringing. How is this possible? I do not know or understand why my colon has so much sway on the universe, but I wish it didn't. You would think that going potty would be one of the only getaways for a dad in a house full of ankle biters, but it is quite the opposite.

Construction worker vs. diaper changer

So last week there were three construction workers re-siding the exterior of my house. We woke up every day to hammering, ate lunch to the hum of drills, and generally got used to the steady screech of power saws. The guys used the bathroom off of our laundry room and were thus occasionally in the house. My favorite confluence of hired testosterone and misfired testosterone (me) was when I was screaming at the kids, "Pick up your Barbies and your babies before you make another mess! I'm sick of just picking up after your messes all day every day!" At just that moment, one of the guys rolled out of the bathroom and back outside, leaving a smell of sawdust and sweat to counter my baby wipe musk.

"What are they doing out there, daddy?"
"They're fixing the house. They'll be done in a few more days."
"Oh. How come you don't fix it?"
"Well, it's a big job and this is what they are really good at." Then my two year old son bangs on the sliding glass door and looks out at the stereotypical picture of what a man is, phallic hammers and chisels dangling from a leather tool belt half way up a ladder, and says, "Using hammer! Using tools!"
"Yah, buddy, tools. Okay, it's nap time dude. Come sit with me and watch Design on a Dime."

To make my impotence-inducing day everything it could be, the gardeners came later and did the lawns. I just closed the blinds so they wouldn't see me folding laundry.

And so it begins . . .

And so a new season of life begins, complete with a daily reconsideration of my life's purpose and my re-evaluation of established gender norms in the American family. My two, four, and six year old children can be counted on for perpetually creating opportunities in self-examination and psychological fortitude, be it from stepping on yet another spill on the kitchen floor, turning off lights behind them all day, mediating fights over who gets to use the freaking Care Bears plate, or overcooking the mac and cheese.

To round out the poetic nature of our family dynamic, Super Wife is a collegiate head coach of a highly competitive program. I have a Ph.D. in literature, currently proving to be best applied to the reading of countless classics such as Go Dog. Go!, The Very Hungry Caterpillar, and the tear-jerker Love You Forever (gets me every time).

I generally view this blog as a cathartic outlet and means of processing my daily misadventures; generally, I can laugh about them once I hear myself retell it. Feel free to laugh with me.