She keeps a journal. It’s in one of those old composition notebooks, the ones with the black and white mottled covers. Sometimes she lets me read it, sometimes she doesn’t, and I always respect her feelings on that. Kills me to do it, because all I want to know in this world is what’s going on in that little head of hers, but I do it all the same. I have to.
Sometimes it’s about what she did over the weekend. More often, it’s about what stickers or books or toys her grandparents bought her. And then there’s this one:
I love my dad.
I love my dad
becus he has no
joob and wen he
has no joob then
he sumtimes can
pic me up from
scool urly.
***
Sunday is Father’s Day – my sixth, incredibly. Each is better than the last, because each day the kids get more magnificent. Couple weeks ago they held a debate on the question of robot poop – Max says they poop cannonballs, but Mia says it’s more like screws and bolts. I think it depends on the robot’s diet. The jury’s out. And Saturday, Max drew a frog and named it Snort, and this is how he explained the name to his sister:
“My frog’s name is snort because he snorted one of his boogers into the ocean. He had a booger that was really good, and he snorted it, and it fell into the water.”
And in fact, there’s a really good booger in the water. See for yourself.
***
Mia learned to tie her shoes this week.
Max ate a 64-ounce clamshell of blueberries watching Caillou.
Max still comes into our bed at night, but not every night.
Max is uncommonly polite. He uses please and thank you like they were Skittles. He also farts a lot, and this makes him laugh. A lot.
Mia’s favorite food is Skittles. I have never given her Skittles.
Max doesn’t like pizza. It has sauce, and he doesn’t like sauce. He also doesn’t like ketchup, or white sauce, or spaghetti with red sauce. The only sauce Max likes is syrup.
And Fig Newtons. Which he described to me as “the thing with the sauce with the bread around it.” He likes Fig Newtons.
Mia and Max only eat the heads off broccoli.
Mia read a whole book in bed tonight. She called me in to tell me about it. Her smile kept the room lit even after I made her turn out the light.
Max is coming around on shorts.
Every night before bath, Max chooses a plastic animal or dinosaur to bring into the tub. And every night, he asks me if that particular animal or dinosaur swims, and if it swims underwater too. Every night, I say yes to both questions.
Max draws dogs. He draws cats. He draws bunnies. He draws mice. Yesterday, he drew a dog chasing a cat. Chasing a bunny. Chasing…no, not a mouse. A ball of yarn. The ball of yarn was chasing the mouse. The mouse was chasing an ant.
Mia refuses to tell me about her day. It’s because it’s her day, not my day. That’s what she told me.
Max still gets tired of walking. I get tired of carrying him.
***
And then there’s this: I got a joob. I’ve been working at it for five months, and right now I’m thrilled, but I’m not.
I’ve not gone to work for five years. I’ve worked, but I’ve not gone to work. I’ve written. And though this job is insanely close to home – close enough that I’ll commute on foot – it’s not at home, which means I can’t watch kids and still work. Which brings with it all sorts of complications involving daycare and after-school care and babysitters and juggling and I don’t know what else. I don’t know. We’ll figure it out soon, though. We’ll have to. I start next month.
It’s good. I’m happy. This is what I’ve been working toward. And it’s as close to a perfect situation as I could have imagined. It’s just.
Well. I like picking her up urly.
