mylifeinpoop- Memoirs of a Mad Stay Home Dad

In the brilliant novel, Into Thin Air, Jon Krakauer vividly takes the reader along the journey to climb Mt. Everest, hours before some of the climbers eventually lose their lives in a horrible unexpected snowstorm. He describes the climbers as they wander in the white out at 20,000 feet, deprived of all necessary resources for life, their stiff, cold bodies like zombies lethargic and half alive, their minds hallucinating from the lack of oxygen draining their sense of reality, almost separating themselves from time and space, not knowing if they are dead or alive or somewhere between.

Well, this is how nights are when you have kids. It’s become a ritualistic conversation piece the following morning after a bizarre wake-up call like a kid puking, or another moaning from teething. My wife might say, “ what was up with Robby last night? How long was I rocking him?” And my reply would be, “ no, that wasn’t last night it was two nights ago.” “Oh”, she’d sigh. Another would be: “what time did Danny get into our bed this morning?”  “Ummm,” I’d say, “I didn’t even know he was there, but I did feel a sudden slap on my face resulting in an inch long abrasion akin to a cat scratch, so it must have been him.” It’s a strange sensation to sleep so soundly only to have that perfect slumber be interrupted and then drift back again a minute or two before the damn alarm goes off. But this is the nocturnal reality of parenthood: you just don’t sleep the way you did before you had kids. Those days are over, and now we are climbing Mt. Everest as we roll with the many phases that kids go through, climbing to that place where we can plant a flag on top and say we did it, we slept through the night!

Last night was no exception. My wife was preparing for a presentation into the wee hours so she could be somewhat prepared for an 8 o’clock meeting in NYC. That meant setting the alarm for 5am, and me getting her to the train by 5:40. Around 3 am, there was some scuttle buttin’ outside our bedroom door. Apparently, our 3-year-old wandered out of bed and into the hallway where he ran into my mother-in –law who was getting up to go the bathroom. Now, I don’t remember doing this, but I eventually got up and put him back to bed, and then my wife somehow passed me in the dark and rocked him back to sleep. At 5:46 am, my wife sprang out of bed (which she never does) like a jack in the box – “Shhhtt!!” Whhhhaa?? “ I forgot to set the alarm. I have 10 minutes to get ready and get on the next train.” Oh boy. I get dressed, go downstairs to start the car, I disengage the garage door opener (since the garage is below the boy’s room, I don’t want to risk waking them up), especially since this Danny’s first day of pre-school. As it turns out she made the 5:58 am train and it’s now 9:37pm and there’s still no sign of her – a true working mom – I’m praying that she gets some rest tonight. She deserves it!

After a few days I began to feel imprisoned by my kids. It’s not their fault daddy lost his job and has become Mr. Mom (BTW, that term is SO outdated). The truth is I wasn’t sure about taking this show on the road. As long as I stayed inside no one would see that I was losing my mind and completely screwing up things at home (breaking glasses, chipping dishes, burning spoons in the microwave, shrinking clothes, etc.). Perhaps it was my ego getting the best of me, but realistically in our middle-upper class neighborhood it became clear that I was the only “at home” daddy in a world full of nannies and stay-home mothers. I remain to this day, the odd “man” out. But I knew it wasn’t good for us all to stay couped up like chickens – the kids and me needed some fresh air. So, I ventured out in the morning after Robby’s feeding. We went for a nice long power walk, the boys in the side-by- side double stroller, recently purchased off of Craigslist. This was the beginning of a very therapeutic time for the boys and me. It seemed getting out really calmed us all down –Robby even fell asleep. Danny sat quietly and observed the surroundings, pointing to birds and garbage cans. I felt alive again. The sun was bright and it spread shadows across the street. The humidity was low and the sky a perfect blue.  For the first time in months I felt at peace with myself my kids, and my life. If this was going to be my “job” then I better start getting good at it, I told myself. As we hiked up a long steep hill, passed the monstrous McMansions that lined the street, I also thought, I bet these guys who live here don’t change any diapers and swallow spit-up.

Maybe it was their loss. You see, as difficult as it is to be in this position; to be on the other side of what our culture has been dictating for years and years, that it’s a woman’s place to be at home with her kids, it became clear to me on that beautiful summer day, walking with my boys, without any manager looking over my shoulder, or fellow peers talking behind my back, without selling my soul for a paycheck, that this is where I needed to be, as much for me, as it was for my wife and kids. I learned to check my ego on a daily basis and remind myself that this is the most important job in my life. For me there is nothing more soul-satisfying than cuddling up on the couch with Robby and Danny one under each arm, and watching the Wonder Pets, as we await mommy’s return from selling her soul (for us). Seeing, no, feeling the eyes of my sons gazing up at me, with their food stained lips smiling, as if to say, “you did a good job today, Daddy, thank you” – well nothing compares to that. I was once lost – but in their eyes, I was found.

For anyone who has had children, or even baby-sat some little tike once or twice, this may be an obvious observation: After a baby devours a bottle of milk, it is unwise to play airplane swing with them. You see, when you swing a baby over your head and then bench press them while their laughing mouths are inches away from your (open) laughing mouth, there is a very real chance that you will be fed the most foul combination of regurgitated milk and/or formula (which is must worse, trust me) and other non-toxic but equally gross material which was consumed that afternoon. It’s not the bizarre, chalky flavoring and texture of this material (commonly referred to as “spit-up” or “vomit”) that conjures up thoughts of being tortured in the interrogation room of some twisted prison camp– it’s more the question of – what the hell do I do now??? What if I swallow? Or, choke? I don’t want to startle the child (who I am still holding over me, mind you) by acting like a grossed-out little schoolgirl who just found a spider crawling up her arm – but I AM that little schoolgirl and I need to find the MAN inside of me to get out this situation before I….cry. I collect myself (you will hear me use this phrase gratuitously, I’m sure), place Robby down next to Danny who is not paying any attention to this debacle on the living room floor, and I run to the sink and hurl the murky white stuff that was collecting in my mouth, trying desperately not to taste it (too late). I take my shirt off and look for something to clean the floor, and oh yeah, Robby. Actually, he was clean, of course. Duh. So I use my shirt to clean the floor where a foul odor greets me at nose level. It was not puke, but equally familiar. You guessed it: poop. I didn’t need this right now, but apparently Danny did. Boy, this job really is a dirty one.

Later in the evening, I recounted the days events with my wife, where despite my inept behavior, I still argued my case that if the milk was not heated up, Robby would not have showered me as he had (as if throwing a baby around like a trapeze artist wasn’t enough). I was under the same assumption as was with the cereal, that rational being, why would you heat up milk for the child on a day as hot as this one? It had to be 98 degrees. One would think that such a day would require a cooler beverage, like a Corona with a wedge of lime, or a Margarita. I like that in July. Wrong again. Lesson number one: babies like their milk warm even on hot days. And two, DON’T SWING THEM OVER YOU AFTER THEY DRINK IT!! And if you should find yourself in that position – by God, Man, close your mouth. Tight.

Blog Vol. 1 “ In the beginning there was poop”

When I lost my paralegal job from a prominent law firm 6 months ago, it became clear that I was more than just fired- I was truly lost. Not that being a paralegal was the end-all career. It was clearly a means to an end. However, that job helped to support my wife and two children. So, it was quite a blow to our lives and to me personally. I suddenly found myself wallowing in the bitterness that usually follows a firing. But there was a bright side. That bitterness was sweetened by the joy of being home with my two boys, Danny and Robby (2 1/2 and 6 months). Or, so I thought. It all sounded good in theory, me taking care of the kids, saving money on daycare and who better than to raise our kids than one of us parents? That is until the morning my wife left to go to work. And that parent was me.

It was July. It wasn’t 10 minutes after that soft good-bye kiss that all hell broke loose. That’s when I realized that I was now responsible for these two heavenly creatures and that my life was to change forever. Don’t get me wrong. I was miserable and frustrated. I didn’t have a clue what I was supposed to do. Let me take you there to that fateful first day “on the job” as a stay home dad.

8:30 a.m. What to do now? I know I’ll put on the TV- Nick Jr. will help me out for sure. Nothing like a little classic Blues Clues to start the day –good ole, Steve. Why is Robby always crying? Does he not like the way I’m holding him? Oh, yeah, I need to feed him. Ok, how does one make baby cereal? Where is the baby cereal? Can I be this clueless?? Yes, I can. Now Danny is acting up. Where is he? He’s not in front of the TV – oh that’s right, he can climb the stairs now. THE STAIRS!! That means he can fall down the stairs. But he’s not there. He’s in the bathroom biting on a comb that I am praying was not flavored in toilet water -especially after what I left in there earlier….Oh my God I forgot about Robby! Stop crying!! Daddy’s on his way. Now cereal is supposed to be warm but I’m thinking it’s so freaking hot already outside that maybe the kid wants his cereal cold, you know cool him down a little. No dice. He dribbles the cereal out from his quivering mouth, hands flailing about in a tearful rampage. I taste the cereal, some mix of formula and oatmeal concoction that I watched my wife whip up, however, I missed the part where it’s flavored with some bananas. When I taste the cereal (Danny, mind you is still upstairs and the silence is making me nervous), it tasted like wet pureed paper and I shared Robby’s pain. We had a moment as if he was wordlessly saying, “see, how do you expect me to eat this? You think it’s gross, too, Dad.” He doesn’t know the difference, of course, he just wants it warmed up at which time I pop the cereal bowl in the microwave for a minute (BTW too long and with the metal spoon still in it = bad). Ok, at this time, the silence upstairs is truly killing me and I have to go see what Danny is up to. Now, he’s 2 and a half – and here I am Mr. Mom at the wake of the “terrible two” stage I’ve been hearing about, lucky me. As it turns out, he’s not doing anything terrible at all. He’s fantastic at entertaining himself with a mindless task (I wished I had that skill as a paralegal). And so there he was on the floor spinning the comb on the floor like he’s spinning the wheel on a board game. Well ok. I leave him be and get back to Robby who is now exhausted from crying, hungry, and sitting in a hot pile of freshly squeezed baby fudge that would be the first of many of my experiences with poop (thus the name of this blog). Now the dilemma – do I feed him first, or change him? Hmmm. I decide to call my wife and this will be the first of many calls in which she will answer and hear me, without a hello, rambling like a lunatic speaking in a foreign tongue that resembles a violent jungle tribesman who was once a hunter and is now the primary caretaker of his children. This is where the “man” really comes out of me – that stereotypical caveman unable to reason or act civil in the face of a crisis irrespective of work, sports, music, TV, drinking games, etc. In this case, poop. I believe the call lasted only a few seconds and I also believe my wife was laughing while giving me clear directions that I should change the boy as he may get a diaper rash if I wait and let it rot between his legs. That’s all I need to hear so I was on it. The task was clear. I had a mission – a purpose. I felt in control again and I managed to regain my manhood -that is until I got the pajamas off. That’s when I found out for the first time what exactly happens when an hysterical 6 month old poops while sitting in his highchair. It was everywhere -up his back (like he pooped up like astronauts do). It was down his legs, obscuring his penis, and of course, completely soiling his clothes (and yes, the changing table). And now my son is reaching for a piece and successfully snags a handful and thankfully decides to smear it on the wall and not taking a taste….OH wait, not the MOUTH!! NO. I got him just in time but the poop is on my hands and now my face and I can’t seem to negotiate holding this little Mexican jumping bean and grabbing a wipey to begin this mission. What’s that noise coming from the bathroom across the hall? No no no… Danny is done with the comb and out the corner of my eye as I peek into my room, and in the midst of this poop crisis, he’s now unraveling the toilet paper to the point where I can see strands of it flowing out of the bathroom door. “Danny, show thyself!!! Now!” He does not, of course, but I have to take care of this poop, before anything-before Robby open fires and pees on me, or rolls off the changing table (which eventually he will do, I think to myself. Someday.)  I collect myself -one thing at a time. I am now sweating like a swine, swearing like a sailor, and longing for a dip in the ocean. I’m so consumed with cleaning this mess that I forget who I am and what I’m all about. And that it feels like hours when it’s only been a few minutes. I’m a parent. A father. A husband. An adult. I am a musician, an artist.  I used to be cool. What was I doing working in a law firm? What am I doing in this house??? I’m a human being and I guess I’m entitled to lose it from time to time in this new position of mine- But it’s not even 9 am yet. As I stand there poop in hand, I realize my life in poop had just begun. And for a moment, again, Robby and I locked eyes. He’s got the twinkle of a dirty-old man in his eyes and a smile that could melt the coldest of hearts (which mine was that morning). We had another moment and we both burst out laughing. And I cleaned him while singing some song about skies being blue and cows that moo, and I kissed my boy, the first of thousands to follow. I kissed his cheeks and his tummy, under his arms and on his chubby thighs (I forgot that moments earlier they were covered in fudgy-poo. It didn’t matter). I loved every second of every kiss because he loved it so much more and his giggle quelled all that was horrible before that. I didn’t care about the toilet paper, or the poopy walls that I’d have to clean, or the soiled pajamas and the stinky brown diaper – wait, where is that? What did I do with that? Oh, it’s still in my hand- gggrrrross!! OH WELL. This is my life in poop. And it’s not even lunchtime yet….

I hope you continue to follow this story – please come again.  Next blog coming soon.

SM