Holy dead external backup drive. I’m sick to my stomach, so instead I’m thinking about Father’s day, and how my friend and I used to bitch together about people who made a special deal out of our husbands caring for their children. You know how they do: “Oh! You’ve got the kids today eh? Babysitting?’” Um no. Raising my kids, thanks. Or, my personal favorite “Oh my! You’ve got your hands full since your wife is traveling/sick/in the shower/at the store. Let us know if you need any help! We’re here for you!”
Oh, thanks. Those sentiments say two things to me: 1) it’s fine for the mother to do this job 24 hours a day all year whether solo, sick, busy, pissy, or just disenfranchised and 2) The world at large perceives my husband as a bumbling idiot who spends so little time with his children in ‘real life’ that when confronted with a long stretch alone with them, he will flounder, destroy their lives, and possibly starve them to death.
We don’t live in those times anymore, folks. These are the days of Daddy and Me music classes and contractual distribution of household chores. In our house there’s no such thing as “downtime” after work. My husband walks in the door and clocks in. Often we pass in the doorway as I exclaim “They’re your kids now! I’m moving away!” on my way to Target which is the nearest retail therapy/purge the day outlet.
We don’t really celebrate Father’s Day around here, and not so much Mother’s Day either. Every day is both. There will be hot breakfast, a rare occurrence on my shifts, and possibly a mid afternoon nap.
Other than that, today is like all the other days. My dad is taking my kids to fast food breakfast like every weekend, snorting defiantly when I grouse about how as a child he wouldn’t even allow refined sugar or artificial coloring into my diet, rolling his eyes when I come behind him to check their seat belts. Michael and I will sit quietly together on separate computers, maybe IM each other on facebook a few times, doing our best to ignore the tell tale signs of summer vacation: piles of laundry and CPS-worthy housekeeping. I kid. Those are actually tell tale signs that you’re in our house, any day of the year.
Every day is Fathers Day. Say it with me. Let’s put the card industry out of business.
