Mike Maddock

Most fathers like me who work outside the home and have wives who have chosen to stay at home with the kids get to bask in a sort of glow of innocence, or more accurately, ignorance. We get to leave the office, walk through our front doors, and return home night after night as some sort of conquering heroes, even if the most important thing we did all day was figure out how to send an attachment on an e–mail.

I hear my three kids in various parts of the house when my keys start jingling to unlock our front door.

“Daddy’s home!” they yell in unison. Then the pitter–patter of six little feet comes thundering towards the door, and I am greeted with a chorus of hugs, kisses, and stories from the day. It’s a ritual I have come to cherish and appreciate.

Why?

Because my wife does not receive the same kind of admiration. Not that she doesn’t absolutely deserve the hero’s treatment, but the gaze filled with appreciation just doesn’t exist for a person who’s up to her elbows in it every single day.

She’s not the parent missing for 40 plus hours a week. She’s the one fixing breakfast and lunch and an array of snacks. She’s the one dragging all three of them into the vast wonderland that is Wal–Mart or Publix. She’s the one putting on band–aids and reminding them to brush their teeth and clean their rooms. My wife is the one keeping them from climbing in the dishwasher or playing trains under the ironing board. She is also the one reading 10 to 12 books to them, taking them to the pool, or gladly accepting invitations to tea parties and dance performances. Despite all that, she still won’t get the hero’s treatment. That’s reserved for me.

Why?

I’d like to say it’s because of my superior parenting skills and patience, but my special treatment is simply a result of the fact I’m not around a lot of the time. I know this because, as a sort of an experiment, my wife and I traded places last week. She went to work and I spent my vacation as Mr. Mom.

It took all of two or three hours for my shine to fade. I quickly learned my two–and–a–half– year–old son is relentless and no request is untimely or unreasonable in his little mind. It did not matter if I was half–submerged in a sink full of dirty dishes, half–way up the stairs with an armload of clean laundry or even seeking a few quiet minutes in the bathroom, he was asking for something.

“Ca–I hab arnge juice?” (Translation: Can I have orange juice?)

“Ca–I hab bonana?” (Translation: Can I have a banana?)

“I gotta go potty!” (Translation: Drop whatever you’re doing, before things get real ugly!)

I learned having a designated playroom does not necessarily mean the living room won’t be covered in blocks and baby dolls by the end of the day. I learned no matter how many times I played tickle–monster or board games, the thing my kids remembered most was being sent to their rooms for destroying my clean kitchen floor.

My kids learned a little too, because as the week came to a close and those three sets of little blue eyes that once lit up at my return each day looked at me and said, “We miss Mommy. When are you going back to work?”