I love my wife. I love hanging out with my wife. I love snuggling with my wife. I love doing everything with my wife. All though, I have to admit, playing tennis with my wife is ... well, kind of painful. She's not the most athletic gal, but that's okay. She pretty much rocks everything else.
My ten hour solo shift with the lil' man ends at about 5:15pm when my wife get's home from work. Oh, how I look forward to her arrival and the ensuing relief. I'm exhausted.
The lil' man and I head to the stoop a little after 5 and wait for mommy's little white convertible to come rolling down the street. Oh the delight when it comes into view. The lil' man stands up with a wide smile and screeches "Mommy's home!" Once mommy has pulled into the driveway, I release the excited lil' dude. He runs toward mommy, where her open arms are waiting, anticipating that welcome home hug. But, he runs past her. Jumps in the white convertible and frigs with buttons. Poor mommy. Welcome to 3 hours of hell. I mean, welcome home.
I quietly sneak inside. Pour the days last Diet Coke over ice. Head to the patio and collapse in a chair. I roll a cigarette. Yep, I said that filthy word, "cigarette." Don't judge me. It's my vice. My treat. My moment of relaxation. I'm sure you have a vice that's not so good for you. Don't you? Besides, it's organic American Spirit, doesn't have a fiberglass filled filter, and I only smoke half of it. As you can see, I'm a little sensitive about this. I know it's not good for me, but it is good for me. Piss off!
So I sip some Diet Coke and smoke half a cigarette. I set the cigarette down in an ashtray and watch it go out. Saving the other half to accompany a crisp glass of wine while mommy and the lil' man enjoy tubby time. I wait. I know it's coming. I can't see it. But this is what I imagine. Mommy patiently stands by the convertible door. She's watching the lil' man frig with her convertible. She's holding three bags (why she needs three bags, I'll never grasp). Her new job is fancy, so she's decked out and looks beautiful. She's tired. She wants to trade those heels for flip flops. Longs to slip into some comfy clothes. Wait for it. Wait for it. BAM! Major melt down as mommy pries those little hands from the steering wheel. She scoops him up and carries him inside as he kicks, screams, pulls hair, and bites.
In a few minutes the lil' man opens the sliding door to the patio, pops his head out and says, "Hi daddy!" And I know my moment is over and it's time to make dinner. The kitchen in the house we're renting is really quite nice, but intimate. The kind of kitchen you need to be alone in.
The lil' man. Oh that lil' man. He just gets so excited that mommy is around. My lil' man who has been pretty darn close to angelic all day, turns into a crazed uncontrollable lunatic. He starts runnin' around. He throws cars. He throws trains. He throws books. He pulls art off the wall. More biting. Pulls more hair. Then, the worst of it begins. He starts chasing "Toots!" Toots (a.k.a. Stella) is our nine year old Belgium malinois. An unemployed work dog that likes a calm and controlled environment. Let's just say that Toots fucking hates the lil' man's existence. There is uncontrollable growling. Snarling. Baring of teeth. He chases Toots and mommy chases him. Eventually they all end up in a corner. I think to myself, "Would you just fucking bite him so we can be done with this." Obviously, I don't want this to happen, but good lord. That poor dog.
I think the family senses that their food is about to be basted with daddy's tears. Things settle down. I compose myself and get dinner on the table.
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