I used to be an interesting person. Not anymore. People with interesting lives have free time -- to ski, travel, help the downtrodden, read, go to museums, and do all the things that interesting people do. Me? At the end of the day or over the weekend, I'm probably changing the diaper of our 4-month-old while my wife chases our 2½-year-old -- who is clutching Magic Markers and "coloring" one of our cats -- around the house. Beyond work and family, the only exciting thing I've got going on is that I recently bought a new toothbrush. You know, one of those fancy ones with the blue-tinted indicator bristles that clean your teeth and massage your gums at the same time.
But it wasn't always this way. A million years ago, I made it through entire days and nights without being covered in baby drool. I could walk to another room uninhibited with responsibility -- and without plotting a strategy first. Yes, once upon a time, I even read books that didn't begin with the phrase "Once upon a time."
So when I'm feeling sleep-deprived and exhausted, which is to say every day, I yearn for a few hours -- or even just a few minutes -- of my old carefree life back.
And to get it, I'll admit, I've employed the sort of ethics usually reserved for shoplifters and spammers. For instance, in a seemingly grand gesture of chivalry, I'll say to my wife, Susan, "You know, you deserve a night off from cooking and cleaning." Instead of preparing a meal myself, however, I selflessly offer to go and pick up some takeout. But when I hop into the car to bring back the fast food, I know full well that I'm only in this for the 40-minute round-trip where I can be alone and listen to the radio.
So it was that in the first couple of months after our second daughter, Lorelei, was born, I transformed myself into a virtual domestic superhero: Errand Boy, our family's go-to guy for evening and weekend grocery trips, oil changes, dry-cleaning drop-offs, prescription pick-ups, and diaper and formula runs. Before my wife could even finish the sentence "We're running out of..." I would be eagerly at her side, car keys in hand.
Unfortunately, Susan is a smart woman and it didn't take long before she caught on to what I was really doing -- and wanted in on the action.
One evening after a long, hard day at work, when the baby wipes were low, I announced my intentions to purchase some at the grocery store, thereby making life easier for my spouse. Maybe I laid it on too thick, or perhaps she took my words to heart, because Susan asked if I'd mind taking both of our daughters along with me, so she could have an hour to herself of peace and quiet.
I tried flashing a noncommittal smile. (I was told later that I actually looked like a prisoner in a spy movie who has just been caught with a secret escape tunnel underneath his bed.) "Dear, remember, my darling," I stammered, "I'm going on this trip for you, not me, and if the girls are going to be cranky, it's now, right before bedtime, which could turn into a shopping fiasco for me, not to mention a driving hazard, and I know you wouldn't want that... " I didn't have to finish; I was already backing out of the driveway.
Days later, when I casually suggested getting takeout pizza for dinner, my wife stared at me and then the door. Suddenly, we were in a race for the keys and wrestling each other to the floor for them. If my wife hadn't grown up fighting off an older brother, I'm sure our infant and preschooler would have been spared the sight of seeing their father tumbling headfirst over the ottoman in defeat.
"Back in a jiffy," my wife shouted as she sprinted for the car. I'm not sure how long a jiffy is, but whenever we run out of diapers or have an urge for takeout, Susan's average jiffy is clocking in at 71 minutes.
Geoff Williams is a Babytalk contributing editor and a freelance writer in Loveland, Ohio.
