Archive for the ‘running errands’ Category

Double Daddy Dooty Duty

Wednesday, January 21st, 2009

When my workload is lighter than usual, “work-at-home dad” becomes just “at-home dad.” I become the house husband, a man with an apron (or at least a dish towel) who wanders from room to room picking up after the children.

Less work is no justification for taking a vacation. If anything, I pick up all the slack — I didn’t know there was any slack — and pull double daddy duty: cooking, laundry, cleaning, quality time with the kids, errands. My career, I’m afraid, might be little more than a retaining wall holding back an avalanche of family obligation. Knock away one billable project brick, and suddenly I’m heating leftovers, shoveling snow, and empting the potty. It’s all dooty duty, when I’d rather be working.

I see clearly that the choice facing all working parents — (a) find a job, (b) raise your children — is not a life choice. It’s a day choice. Guilt or gumption gets us out of bed, and we struggle between answering or ignoring the screaming alarm in our room, or the alarming scream from the other.

I don’t believe that our careers are an excuse to ignore our kids. Nor do I believe that playing with kids is a good way to procrastinate at work. The choice is both real and constant, and the parameters of choice can change when we’re not looking. Maybe there is no best choice. Maybe the best we can hope for is that today’s choice is a decent one. It’s all just a game of dress-up anyway, no matter what.

Suppose, just suppose, that instead of spending valuable time to take my kids to the science museum or the aquarium or the play space, I use my time looking for work that takes me even farther my away from them. Does this make me double the bad parent?

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One, Two, Transfer Money Directly Into My Checking Account

Tuesday, May 27th, 2008

On the way home from school today, Oren was upset at the prospect of being buckled into his car seat. Meanwhile, Siena wanted candy — something I indulge the kids with when I pick them up, most days — but I decided that today would be a no-candy day. She was telling me, over and over, that she was hungry. In Siena-speak, but I’m hungry means I want candy.

During all of this, I was using my in-the-ear Bluetooth microphone to talk to my credit card company. Now that we have a new address, I’m can use these odd interstitials in my day to update my address at the many companies where my wife and I have accounts. On this particular afternoon, I was on the phone with American Express.

In one ear, a recorded voice was speaking: “For English, press one. Para en Español, marque el numero dos.” In the other ear, Oren is screaming as he tucks himself into the cracks of the car like a crab, refusing to cooperate. Siena is impossible to hear with all his racket.

I press one.

The automatic voice is saying something else, something about account balances and cash advances, while I explain to Siena for the third time that we can have food at home if she’s really hungry. But just as I’m not listening to my options at American Express, she’s not listening to me. I turn my frustration to Oren and say, “I’m going to count to three.” This makes him especially upset, and he screams at full capacity.

“I’m hungry,” says Siena.

“One,” say I.

Oren and Siena are wailing and whining.

“Two,” say I.

And then, in my ear, I hear the telltale clicky-clicky noise that tells me I’ve selected a menu item with my voice. I have no idea what I’ve authorized by saying “two.” With all this noise, I can’t understand a word of what she’s saying.

Siena announces again that she’s hungry, this time with so much intensity that the operator hears her. The operator calmly explains that she doesn’t understand us.

So I hang up.

“Three.”

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To the Bank

Wednesday, February 13th, 2008

I brought Siena to the bank. She had received a check for the holiday, and so we went to the bank where I kept her passbook account. We entered the bank, stood in line, and passed the signed check and passbook to the teller.

“Why are you giving my money to the woman?” my daughter asked me.

Knowing the complete answer was complicated — and concerned she’d get upset at the idea of giving up her present — I answered, “This check is like a note. It represents money. I’m giving it to the woman so she can turn it into your money.” And when Siena wasn’t looking, I handed the teller a dollar bill, asking for quarters. At the end of the transaction, I was able to give my daughter some quarters (for each pocket), as well as candy suckers for both her and Oren. Everyone seemed satisfied.

A week later, Siena was talking about being grown up. “When I’m big, I’ll be able to get money, and then I can go to the bank, and then I can go into the bank and give the money to the bank, and then I’ll get suckers. That’s why I want to be grown up.”

I admire her priorities. She thinks work is for suckers.

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