I wake up groggily still tired from the night before, sitting up watching reruns of Sports Center while trying to get my two month old son to go the fuck to bed. He decided to remain restless and resist sleep. I kept wishing my wife’s estrogen would take domination over her and propel her into pulling an all-nighter with the boy, but no such luck. I am so tired. Don’t get me wrong here folks; I am a very proud father and love the children I brought into this world. I love those kids like nobody’s business, but I’m also a fucking exhausted father.
|I got big balls, y'all|
I yawn, scratch at my balls, and tug down my bunched up boxers as I stumble slowly into the bathroom. The kid just woke up again, crying and ready to meet the day far before I would prefer. “Time to make a bottle,” I say aloud attempting to amuse myself with this lame Dunkin’ Donuts allusion. The children totally dictate what time my day begins. I would really love to stay under the covers for an hour or so more. But, I’m up and so I now gently lift my son from his bassinet, declaring, “It’s okay, buddy. Daddy’s up and he’s going to make you a bottle little dude.” I then mix up the formula and water and place the prepared bottle into my child’s expectant mouth. He begins sucking furiously at the plastic nipple. Watching while he attacks that bottle with his tiny lips and gums, tugging at it as though he’s been deprived of meals for days, I thank God that I am not a woman.
I recall how chapped and deeply reddened my wife’s nipples would become while breastfeeding. I think I get it now when she told me she felt like a “damn feedbag.” I admit I was selfish though, and mostly thought about how much her sore breasts sucked for me. Her breasts got even bigger with this child than the first. During the pregnancy and while breastfeeding, those breasts were two absolutely glorious mounds of flesh. Now, they have sadly retaken the appearance of tiny anthills that I could squish right down with just the palm of my hand. When they were wonderful though, I never got to enjoy their true greatness because she whined and said my frantic grappling just hurt too damn much. What a fucking awful paradox.
So, I’m feeding my son when I hear my daughter begin to cry from her bed. I wake her fully up, change her diapers, get her dressed, grab her some milk and cereal and then turn on Dora the Explorer to offer a little assistance in this child rearing. I know. Father of the year. I don’t want to hear it. Don’t you judge me; you don’t fucking know my life. I love these kids, but I’m tired. I’m just so tired.
Despite my sleepy state, I do still manage to enjoy the moments I get to share with my children in the early morning. Then, it’s time to rush and get ready for my part-time job at the high school. I remember before children when I could be ready and out the door for work in under ten minutes. I still constantly underestimate the time actually required to ready the entire family. Therefore, my daughter had to bypass her bath once again and I just comb through her hair with the green apple detangling spray – some shit my wife made me pick up at the grocery store. I attempt to pull her light blonde hair back into a quick ponytail, but she screams and cries like she’s being scalped. How is it my daughter cringes when I must comb through her hair, yet my wife will somehow manage to waste an entire hour styling hers?
When do carefree little girls become hypercritical women that must compare themselves to every other female they see? My own wife will frequently make statements, when witnessing couples of nonequivalent attraction, such as, “He’s with her? (tone of disgust) What the fuck? My ass is so much hotter than that! Right, honey?” I nod my head, but wonder what it matters anyway. She’s married to me, so who cares who the random hot guy at Applebee’s is dining with?
At any rate, then I drop the kids off at day care and arrive at work. After being laid off from my full-time teaching job this past spring (don’t even get me started on that bullshit), I currently supervise study hall in the afternoon. Essentially, it’s my job to tell kids to keep their mouths shut, quit texting, stop using curse words, and just do some damn homework already – for fuck’s sake.
I pick up the kids, go home, eat supper – usually something four star and super healthy like Kraft macaroni and cheese or Tyson chicken nuggets. I already told you not to judge me; piss off – I know I’m not perfect. I then spend time playing on the floor with my children building blocks or singing silly songs. My former classmates would barely believe I’m the same guy who was captain of the football team, once kicking ass on the field and now singing “itsty bitsy spider” with my daughter.
I try to get laid, but that’s usually a fail. I swear I’m about to get some serious blue balls. Whenever I actually convince my wife to engage in sexual activity, this is the exact moment that my toddler chooses to have a bawling fit. Ain’t that just the shit; these babies are the worst cock blockers ever.
Ah; such is life. You do the best you can and give all the love you have to those around you. You put on that smile and be a good parent and act like a professional even when you’re tired or angry, or both. You go to bed, get up the next day, and do it all again always believing tomorrow will be a better day. It really isn't so bad because I got big balls.