Mr. Mom

I have to keep writing. I know, I just posted a few hours ago, but it doesn't stop there and I just have to keep writing. Here's my night:

My wife went to work. Mind you, she's only been gone for 4 hours. In the time that she's been away,

--the Spiderman fiasco. See the previous post.

--my son spilled his milk. This was called to my attention by my daughter who yelled,"Dad, Alex spilled his milk!" I came in to see her pointing at the milk dripping down the side of the table. So I said, "Well, don't just stand there and look at it. Grab a paper towel and wipe it up!" So she does. Spilling her own milk in the process.

--I turned on the dishwasher and ten minutes later there was a river across the kitchen floor. I turned off the dishwasher, wiped up the water, opened the door, closed it more firmly, latched it, and turned it on. Ten minutes later, there was a river across the kitchen floor. Our dishwasher is dead.

--my son peed on the living room floor. He said he didn't have time to get to the bathroom. He said this while rooting through his Star Wars action figures collection which, apparently, he had plenty of time to get to. A man's gotta have his priotities.

--the phone died.

--ten minutes before bed, Alex says, "I have to do my homework." I say, "What is your homework?" He doesn't know. I don't know. He's going to throw a fit unless he does it. My wife knows. I need to call her. See the previous bullet point.

--I call upstairs "Alex, come down here please." He answers, "Dad, don't come up here." I say, "Why not?" He repeats, "Don't come up....uh oh. Um...you'd better come up here." When I get there, I find the entire bathroom floor covered in water. And, like Bill Cosby, I am compelled to ask, "What are you doing?" And my son sensibly answers, "I was washing the toothpaste off my foot." Of course he was. How silly of me to even ask.

I swear that this is all true, no exaggerations whatsoever. You couldn't make this stuff up if you tried.

Days of September

Ah, what a flashback.

My son, Alex, was playing outside just now with his Spiderman action figure, complete with Nifty Web Action and Free-Movement Joints. He was making Spiderman fly from web to web in the manner of young kids everywhere: he was using his imagination. More specifically, he was tossing the figure in the air and filling in the rest of the details (the rush of wind, the web shooting from the wrist) in the second or two before gravity took over, bearing the piece of plastic to the ground. Then…..”Daddy!”

Spiderman is stuck in the tree. Pretty high, too. Completely out of reach for me. Of course, I immediately resorted to the first plan of action necessary in these cases. I threw something else at it. (Remember doing this as a kid? I sure do.)

I instructed Alex to go get a ball to throw at it. He returned with his (Spiderman) shoe. The left one, I think. Where in the mind of a four-year old is “ball” equated with “shoe” I don’t know, but it would do as a projectile. After several tries, however, it became apparent that Spiderman’s web was caught on a branch, and he wasn’t going to be knocked out of the tree.

Plan B involves a kitchen chair and a plastic light saber. The chair is positioned under the tree. With a flourish, Dad extends the light saber and climbs onto the chair. The four-year old audience holds his breath. And after a few tense moments, Dad becomes a hero. Spiderman is free.

I carefully instruct Alex not to throw him back into the tree. He nods carefully, and says, “Ok, Dad.” (You all remember the Bill Cosby skit, don’t you? You all see exactly what’s coming, right?)

Fast forward ten minutes. I’m cleaning the kitchen and realize it’s too quiet. (Parents understand this. Too much noise is bad. Too little is worse. It becomes an instinct to know.) I go outside to check on my darling son….

Spiderman is in the tree. So is the left shoe. And the right one is getting ready to follow it.