Clearly Defined Roles

Wait . . . Dad?


Don't you know on Mondays I can wear my slip-ons because we don't have P.E.?

I didn't. Eat your cereal.

Oh. Wait . . . Dad?


What taste's better, bacon that's cooked or not?

I imagine cooked bacon tastes better.

But you don't know?

I've never eaten raw bacon.

Oh. . . . Wait . . . Dad?

Eat your cereal.

I can't cause it's all mushy now. I bet if I hadn't gone to wash my hands it would have stayed crunchy.

And he was probably right. Had he not gotten up to go wash his hands, he would have been able to eat most of his cereal. Yet aside from the mushy cereal and the fact that he tried successfully not only to get away with wearing loafers to school, but also to pick an outfit that is clearly not mother approved, I would say that this weekend has turned out all right.

Which of course it did.

I'm not some "Disneyland Doesn't Know How to Change a Diaper" Dad.

I'm "Wait  . . . Dad?" for gosh sakes.

I'm a professional. This is my career now.

But you certainly wouldn't know it based on the amount of concern I received while my wife was out of town, as if three days alone with my own son might be a little out of my depth. And I will openly admit I was a bit miffed about being treated like an irresponsible uncle.

Even Calvin got into the act by trying to explain to me how to give him a bath, how to prep his homework, and, this one's my favorite, how he only eats the "square" cereal (Chex) as if I was tempted to put a bowl of raisin bran in front of a spoiled eight year old.

When did I become doddering?

Cause when I leave the house for more than a day, the only thing I tell my wife to do is to stay hot and sexy, which she's usually pretty good at, and sometimes remind her that her boyfriend is not allowed to use my deodorant.

She leaves the house and I get a thirty minute monologue on how to pack a lunch:

The lunchables go in the lunch bag.
He doesn't need a drink cause there's already one in there.
Make sure to put an icepack in the lunch bag so it stays cold.
Don't put the snack in the lunch bag, put it in his back pack.
Clean the water bottle and put ice in it before you add the water.
Make sure the lid is on tight so it doesn't drip.
Are you listening to me?
I can write this down if you don't think you can remember.

Now none of this stuff is random, unreasonable or even ridiculous. It is the result of years of waking up at six and getting our little devil off to the one place he doesn't want to be, in clothes he doesn't want to wear, with food he's never gonna eat, except the Skittles and Capri-Sun.

Water bottles have leaked.

Snacks have ended up in the wrong bag, effectively starving the child for an additional 45 minutes.

I'm sure some poor snot bundle has had a bad tummy because the turkey slice in his lunchable crept above forty two degrees for enough time to allow botulism to multiply.

These are important things to avoid, so it's probably time to openly admit that there are certain homemaking tasks that I'm unskilled at.

Laundry, dishes, and hygiene for instance.

Were Joann suddenly whisked away to an exotic location by a sopping wet Colin Firth, six months later she would find us both eating day old nachos off of the coffee table and wearing ill fitting food stained moo-moos.

Just like yesterday.

But, and here's the thing, there's not really a double standard in the household. Instead of the tag team that we used to be, we've settled into clearly defined roles.

Were I to be frozen in carbonite because of some bad financial decisions I made in the 80's, by the time Carrie Fisher came to rescue me, the interior of this house would look like the opening scenes of Wall-E.

My honey doesn't have many tragic flaws, but junk mail to her is like hubris to Oedipus' mother.

Now, in her defense, there is a very real possibility that A) A bill gets mixed in and thrown away by accident and B) That she one day finds a coupon that she might actually use.

As of this writing, there are three separate piles of paper junk on my kitchen island of which she has instructed me not to touch.

And I'm fine with that.

Because I'm wearing recently washed boxer-briefs.


Clearly defined roles.

And I'm happy that she's coming home today, cause for whatever its worth, I miss her.

I just hope she doesn't notice that the Penny-Saver is missing from pile three.

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