So, here it is. My recap on the couple days I was home alone with the kids while the wife was out of town. And at the end, I’ll give my opinion on who wins the battle of the Mommy Bloggers vs. the Daddy Bloggers.
After getting back home from dropping the wife off at the airport, I gathered the troops, (Tommy 8, Emma 5, and Raylan 3) stood on top of the coffee table to show that I was in a position of authority (and I always wanted an excuse to talk to someone while standing on the coffee table) and told them the rules.
Rule 1. Clean your own rooms.
Rule 2. Pick up your own shoes
Rule 3. Wipe your own asses.
Rule 4. Go pee every couple hours. In the toilet.
Rule 5. No cursing. (This is Emma specific. We’re working on it.)
I had no sooner got down from the coffee table, when Raylan informed me that he had peed his pants while I was explaining the rules. He said I was taking too long and his pee didn’t have anywhere else to go. I didn’t stay mad at him too long, because as soon as I was done getting him cleaned up, I walked out of the room and immediately tripped over Tommy’s shoes.
The time my wife was away actually went fairly smooth. We kept the house clean. Nobody got hurt. And only one pair of shoes were eaten by the Poodles. Here’s a couple more things that stood out about my time alone with the kids:
* I bought the wrong toilet paper. Guys don’t usually spend alot of time internally debating which brand of toilet paper to use, and without my wife, I had no clue which kind to get. So I just grabbed any. How do I know I bought the wrong toilet paper? Emma told me, and I quote, “Gaaa. Daddy! This toe-let paper sucks! It. Makes. My. Ass. Hurt!” End quote.
* Thank God for the heavy duty, super powered shower heads with the twelve foot hose attached. To be fair, I wasn’t a fan when my wife first bought it. I remember saying shit like, “Why the hell did you buy a shower head with such a long ass hose? Are you planning on pulling it through the window to wash the car?” and “Oh goody. Let’s set this thing on ‘massage’ and power wash the side of the house.” The wife just shook her head and called me a moron. Not having had to wash the little ones in a while, I now completely and totally understand the need for the super powered shower head and the ginormous hose. I would’ve lost my mind, and probably my back if it wasn’t for this wonderful invention. No more bending over the tub trying to rinse them off, without getting soaked myself. Heck no. With this baby, I was able to casually lean against the wall and hose the little dirt factories off from five feet away.
* I figured out the best way to get work done during the day, was to get the kids drunk the night before. On cake. Yep. I got them all hopped up on cake. This kept them up pretty much all night, which in turn had them sleeping all day, allowing me to get as much work done as possible. The downside? My big ass was up all night jacked up on cake too. And stupid me couldn’t sleep in.
* On a positive note, we had nice dinners together, and surprisingly enough, everybody ate everything without complaining. This could however, be due to the fact that everybody was completely starving, as I kept forgetting to feed everybody at the normal dinner time. We didn’t wind up eating until like 10 PM. But hey, whatever gets the little creeps to eat all their food, right?
* Regarding the wiping of the asses, let’s just say that it shouldn’t be assumed that just because a child is no longer wearing diapers, that they are fully capable of cleaning their own ass. Thoroughly. I became keenly aware of this as I handed Tommy a towel after his shower, and saw a nine foot tail made of toilet paper sticking out of his ass. Easy enough to solve though…the super powered shower head on the twelve foot hose.
So anyway, things were going pretty good, although it kinda reminded me of the days when I had just moved out of my parents house and was living with my buddies. Minus the getting plastered and making bad decisions. Well…minus the getting plastered, anyway. Everybody staying up all night and sleeping all day. Playing video games, raiding the fridge for snacks at midnight, prank calling the neighbors. Peeing in the closet. (Raylan again)
None of this was really all that terrible though, I mean it was Spring Break after all. What the problem was, was that our current lifestyle wasn’t really that conducive with waking up early. And we needed to wake up really early on Saturday to pick up my wife from the airport. I say that this was a problem, mostly due to a fairly detailed text message I received from my wife before she boarded the plane for the last leg of her trip home, stating, and I quote, “You better have your ass to the airport on time. I didn’t get any sleep on this stupid plane, I don’t expect to get any sleep on the next stupid plane, and all I want to do is get home and go to bed. DO NOT FUCK THIS UP, TOM-ASS!!!” End quote.
I fucked it up.
I woke up with like fifteen minutes till the plane landed.
We live twenty minutes from the airport.
I immediately went into panic mode and went about getting the kids up:
* I woke Tommy up by gently whispering in his ear, “OH MY GOD!!!! THE PS3 IS ON FIRE!!! I REPEAT, THE PS3 IS ON FIRE!!!!” He was up and out of that bed in 0.03 seconds.
* Waking up Emma was a little tougher. I shook her. I tickled her. I shook her again. She groggily called me an asshole. (We really need to work on her swearing problem.) Finally, in a last ditch effort, I got a piece of cake and put it under her nose. Like the old cartoons where the sleeping person just rises up with the aroma of fresh baked food, my little princess was up. With chocolate frosting all over her nose.
* Raylan was a totally different story. He woke up pretty easily after I told him a bug was on him. But then he decided to get himself dressed and put his head through the armhole of his shirt, thus causing it to get stuck just below his nose. Every time I tried to pull it over his head, he said it was hurting him, so I just pulled the damn thing down the rest of the way. one arm was stuck in the body of the shirt, and the other was sticking out the neck hole, but I didn’t care. We just needed to get to the airport.
And we did.
Half an hour late.
Oddly enough, my wife wasn’t even mad. She actually seemed happy to see us. She didn’t even complain that Tommy was shaking due to lack of sleep and Minecraft withdrawals, Emma was passed out with frosting still on her nose, and Raylan had apparently disappeared inside his shirt. And wasn’t wearing any pants. I kinda forgot to have him put those on in the rush to get out of the house. All I can say, is that if I could’ve got out of the car and done a happy dance right there, I would’ve. But airport security frowns on people parking in pick up zones and doing happy dances. Needless to say, the kids and I survived our time without Mommy, but we all sure as shit were happy to see her.
All that being said, I’ve read alot of Mommy and Daddy blogs. Sure they have their differences…just like Moms and Dads do. And now that I, as a Daddy Blogger myself, had the chance to play both roles, in my wife’s absence, I feel like I can finally say who wins the battle between the Mommy Bloggers and the Daddy Bloggers…
So, who’s the winner?
By a fucking landslide.
Sure. We Dads are super duper important. And most of us can manage taking our kids out to give our wives a break every once in a while. And we really are helpful in the grand scheme of things, by killing spiders and whatnot. And yes, it might not hurt for certain brands to market to Dads every once in a while. But holy shit. My hat is off to the Moms. You ladies deserve every bottle of wine you guzzle at night, typing away about the horrors you face every day at the hands of these little monsters. The screaming kids wanting to crawl onto your lap as you’re sitting on the toilet. The potential for flooding the whole house during bathtime. The Rubik’s Cube-like insanity of trying to get squirmy little kids dressed in a manner that doesn’t make them look homeless. The dopey husbands that think they can do things just as good, if not better than you.
Shit. After four days of this, my boobs even hurt.
Disclaimer: Again, this was all meant to be tongue in cheek. All parents are equally important. Unless one of them is a crackhead. Then they’re just an asshole.