Howdy,
Glistening mornings. Ah, what a picture.
WARNING: The following that you are about to read (and you are about to read it, ‘cause you’re not scared off by a warning, are you?) isn’t about sunrises again.
So … as of yet, I haven’t referred much on billyhawes.com to being a stay-at-home dad.
But I am.
Though I like to put husband in first, so I’d entitle it something more to the tune of at-home husband and father. Hardly feels like we do much staying.
I still haven’t watched the movie, Mr. Mom, though it did get recommended to me multiple times two years ago when I submitted my resignation and finished out my final month “at work.”
Ah, the days …
No, just kidding.
I am a stay-at-home dad now, and it’s great; and definitely a great blessing, when it’s not.
Here’s a little taste of the glory …
First, a scene from the changing table:
Tuesday our youngest, Riah, needed a fresh diaper, so off with the old …
He cried while I dealt with it, checked the temperature for his bottle, and probably answered a question or three from Ti, our two year old. Might have been the same question three times. Why? Why? Why? Or three questions in one: why why why?
Turning quickly back to four-month-old Riah, I noticed his face was glistening. His precious time outside a dipe resulted in him showering himself. Droplets clinging to his brows, holding the shine of the overhead light.
Now wiping his face before his butt, it’s, man, now I’ve got to clean him and the table and the walls and the overhead cabinet underhang. Who knows what he’s hit with his pee shooter.
He needs a bath.
So he bathes in the infant tub at the kitchen sink.
And shots arcing sprays into the clean dish rack.
Not once.
Not twice.
Three times.
On each play, me scrambling with a washcloth to smother the rushing attack. Doing no better than a 2016 Forty Niners linebacker.
Gonna hafta warsh them plates again, I reckon.
Second, a scene in public:
Now, you may be expecting a tantrum or some other childish act construed to totally embarrass us parents, but, come on, our children don’t do those things.
No, this public example serves simply as a reminder liquids can leak, squirt, or spray anywhere. (Don’t worry, I’ll pass on any leaking diaper stories.)
Okay, so, you’ve heard of helicopter moms parents. This made me think of the term helipad child. Not a hovering parent, but an underfoot kid no matter how far a parent’s flight.
Yesterday, while Sarah and I waited for a TB test (to volunteer in Jasper’s kindergarten classroom) Titus made the mistake of helipadding.
Re-enter Riah in this public scene. You know, I think I’m going to just give you the photo for this description. (Picture worth a thousand words … Can I count it for a couple of posts?)
Poor guy. Splashed with puke — and on his new “pocket shirt” from Grandma. Plus, we’d already wiped it out of his hair pre-pic.
So just a glimpse into the week of a writer; and a husband and a stay-at-home dad.
Or as our pediatrician said for me, “Oh, you’re a Professional Child Development Specialist. An expert.”
Yeah, that. Except maybe for the … expert part, and the professional part.
Not too different than my writing, come to think of it.
May your mornings glisten. With lots of light. And less liquids.
—Billy
Reading. Writing. Glistening.
P.S. Tuesday, when I finally got Riah pee-free, cleaned, diapered, and dressed. He barfed. Darn clean clothes; always upsetting the stomach.
Please subscribe to mailing list for the Reading Writing Living journey we’re on and get the goodies that’ll come from time to time with my newsletter. Thank you.