My Kids Were Crying “Daddy! Daddy!” So I Hid In The Closet.

An orange dusk descended upon Los Angeles.  And in that glow, I was reborn.  My wife was back in the house after a well-deserved day of self-care.  The last two weeks were brutal for her.  18-hour days, 7-days a week.  Always on.  Phone calls at 9pm and 6am and everything in between.  It was one of those weeks for the Working Mom.  On the other side of the parenting ledger was me:  the Stay-At-Home Dad.  In our household, an Always On Mom is balanced by an Always On SAHD.  But the sun was setting on her work fog.  And all I wanted to do was take a shower.

“Are you good with the boys right now?  Mommy bonding time?” I asked, kicking at my shoes.  “I’m gonna go do something else.”

“Yeah, for sure,” she said.  “Go for it.”

Go for it.  I spun on my heels and crossed the concrete in our backyard in three steps.  No goodbyes.  No looking back.  The white French doors of our master bedroom rose before me, and I reached out for the gleaming, gray door handle.  “If I could just get inside,” I thought.  “Maybe THEY’LL forget that I’m here.”  My mind was already in the shower, imagining the warm droplets running down my face and soothing my aching back.  The soap would wash away three, four…. who knows how many days’ worth of sweat and crackers and grime.  But I could already feel THEM.  THEY were right behind me.  I turned to see a toddler galloping toward me, his arms stretching his cute little llama sweatshirt skyward like it could rip in two.  His mouth was twisted into a sagging rectangle, and horrible sounds spewed forth into the air.  His older brother was right behind him, working his way into a full sprint.  Concern welled up in his eyes as he gained some speed, and a whimpered “…nnnnno!” bubbled out of his quivering lips.  THEY wanted their Daddy.  They’d grown so accustomed to my presence in the past two weeks.  The threat of being apart from me was too much for them to bear.  They ran toward me, seeking the fatherly embrace that only I could give them.  I dropped to one knee and fixed my eyes upon them.  Softly I whispered….

“Not my problem.”

I hurdled the toddler.  Shocked, he stumbled seven more steps toward the French doors before he realized what had happened.  The preschooler thought he had me, until I planted my right foot on the deck and spun, giving him a gentle shove in the back with my left hand as I left him in my sordid dust.  I slid through our backdoor and into the house, shutting the door behind me.  I sighed and closed my eyes.  I made it.

But the door knob was moving.  How could this be?  Had these animals learned to open doors?  The knob turned, but I wasn’t there to see it open.  Two miniature, screaming lunatics spilled through the open door and into the house, leaving a trail of spit and mucus and tears behind them.  I was already in the hallway, high-stepping the most efficient path to the shower my adrenaline-soaked brain could imagine.  But I could hear pounding footfalls behind me, and the walls echoed with the screaming.  THEY were coming for me.  In the master bedroom, my eyes scanned the room.  The stomping was closer.  My time was up.  But then I saw it.  The closet.  As my boys burst into the bedroom, I slipped into the walk-in closet’s double doors like Hannibal Lecter with a tip of my cap, never to be seen again.  Through the doors’ slats, like E.T. I peered with anxious, frozen eyes at my pursuers.  I saw my toddler, inconsolable, stumble through the room.  “Daddy!!!  Daddy!!!!” he screamed.  But I stayed silent.  He lurched back toward the hallway, dejected, his cries reduced to staccato sobs of despair.  His brother followed him, his voice small and meek.  “…. Daddy?….. But I don’t LIKE Mommy….”  I bit my tongue as he walked out.  And then I smiled. 

At moments like this, I’m convinced that I’m a giant asshole.  My boys love me, yet I ignore them.  My wife is left to fend for herself in hostile territory but, rather than barrel through the closet doors to her rescue, I hide.  What kind of a man, what kind of a father, does that kind of thing?  My boys can’t get enough of me right now.  My wife would trade places with me in a second.  I mean especially for her, Working Mom, to be rewarded for two weeks of crushing, bread-winner stress with an emphatic “I don’t LIKE Mommy” for her troubles?  To see our toddler, her pride and joy, sprinting away from her with shrieks of terror that only Daddy’s embrace can extinguish?  Brutal.  I should be proud.  Daddy wins.  Staying home was worth it.  But I locked eyes with her just before I hurdled that demon toddler with the rectangular mouth. 

“I wish I was you,” I thought.

I finally entered the shower and let the water wash away some of these nasty memories.  “I wish I was you?”  Really?  That’s what you thought?  You don’t actually want them to hate you, do you?  Couldn’t you just pick up the little guy and stop the screaming for a few minutes?  Give him a squeeze and appreciate his affection?  A love that you’ve cultivated each day with your presence and sacrifice?  Isn’t this the reason you’re a stay-at-home dad?  Unbridled, constant, suffocating affection? 

But I just wanted to TAKE A FUCKIN’ SHOWER!!!!

After a few deep breaths and a slow, deliberate, towel dry, I re-emerged into our household, a clean man.  No more hiding.  I’m the stay-at-home dad.  And this is my job, even on a Saturday.  If they need to be held, I’ll hold them.  If they need to be fed, I’ll feed them.  If they need their Daddy, I’ll be there.  I guess that shower was refreshing enough.  I got my break.  But it was time to get back on duty.  I strode down our hallway and made a left turn into the living room.  I initiated the broad grin that says “Don’t worry about me!  I’m here for YOU!  Can I get you a snack?”  But THEY didn’t come running.  There were no tears.  “Daddy!  Daddy!” was no longer shooting through the air like audible arrows to my ear drums.  Instead, THEY were with Mommy.  THEY were laughing.  THEY were playing some goofy game with Working Mom, and they loved it.  They loved her.  There were a couple of cages and some weapons, and Working Mom had a box on her head for some reason.  But there was joy in the air, and I wasn’t there.  They didn’t need Daddy.  I smiled again.  If I ever doubt my essential need to take some time for myself again, I’ll remember this.

I can hide in the closet.