You know those days when you don’t get enough sleep and it’s Tuesday or Wednesday or some other day not a weekend and you wake up late and you have to rush the kids through breakfast and getting dressed and they seem just a little grumpier than usual and you really don’t want them to buy lunch that day in the cafeteria because who the hell knows what a “chicken pretzel” is but there just isn’t time to pack anything and the orange juice has spilled.

And then you drive them to school and rush them to class and one of them forgot their homework folder so you drive home and drive back again and drive home again and then you work all day and do laundry and fold and put away and go to the bank and buy groceries and suddenly it’s time to pick the kids up from school.

So you drive to school and drive home and then you’re doing math homework and you thought you would never have to do math homework ever again but there you are doing math homework and then you’re taking one to dance class and one to martial arts and picking them up again and making dinner and washing dishes and wiping tables and sweeping the floor and finally, finally you send the kids upstairs to play or watch television or anything really as long as it is far away.

And you put the kettle on. And for three minutes everything is done. And everything is still. And the only sound is the purr of boiling water about to become after-dinner coffee.

And you find that spot in the corner, that spot by the cupboard where you hang the aprons, where the stool is, and you collapse on the stool, and wait for the water to boil. And breathe in and out. And it’s the most wonderful place in the world, that spot. For three minutes.

And just as the coffee is poured into your mug and the sweet satisfying aroma fills your nostrils… crying and arguing and no one wants to take the first shower and he pushed me and no one can find the toothpaste and where’s the toothpaste and what happened to the god damned toothpaste?

Not every day is like that, thank goodness. But weirdly, it’s worth it.

Science has shown that children are non-stop engines of destruction. This is a fact (look it up). Knowing that a child should be able to butter their own bread, while comforting, doesn’t adequately prepare one for the kinds of things children actually know. Like how to punch you right in the nuts and make you believe it was an accident. Twice.

So, without further ado, more practical lists…

What kids should be able to do on their own: a warning

• Punch you right in the nuts “accidentally”
• Lie
• Beg
• Burn down house
• Fake illness
• Overreact
• Torment sibling
• Eat last cookie without guilt
• Selective, instant memory loss
• Shift blame

And the companion list…

What kids should be able to do on their own (but can’t seem to)

• Flush toilet
• Accept “no” for an answer
• Find anything
• Eat food outside of the beige family
• Hear instructions the first time
• Be nice to siblings when you’re not in the same room
• Realize they need a bath
• Go to bed
• Stay in bed
• For the love of all that is holy and good, please, please get back in bed

In physics there are the related concepts of potential and kinetic energy. Potential energy is all of the latent energy that is stored inside of a thing waiting to do something. Kinetic energy is the energy a thing has when it’s in motion. You increase an egg’s potential energy as you carry it to the top of a building. And when you drop it from the roof, the potential energy in it is gradually converted into kinetic energy as it accelerates towards the earth. The potential energy is finally spent when it hits the ground and explodes.

As a father, I can sympathize with the egg.

Every new day is full of potential. But some days I get out of bed and the kids go mad and I go mad and we start falling immediately. On those days I feel that my relationship with them is not unlike Gandalf’s relationship with the Balrog. We fall together, struggling. And as we fall, I can see blurry visions of missed opportunities whoosh past, alternate paths we could take and explore if we could just float for a little while. But on those days we have nothing but fathomless black chaos beneath us.

Life is like that, too, it seems. Full of potential and slow-moving when we are born, we gain momentum as we age and grow and learn. That momentum is useful. But it also prevents us from changing course as quickly as we’d like. And we find our potential shrinking as we plummet through life towards the inevitable.

Lately I’ve started to accept the idea that a man can’t be a person’s father and their friend at the same time. At least, not while that person is a child. Of course one can be friendly—but that’s not the same thing at all. What a child wants and what a child needs are very often not the same thing. Friends don’t send friends to their rooms when they misbehave. Maybe true friendship can’t come until the child can stand on his own, when the father accepts the child as a man and the child realizes the father is only a man.

It’s so much more important to be their father. But I’d like to be my children’s friend one day, to be resurrected on the mountain as John the White. In a world of potential, it’s something to hope for.

And there are other benefits, too. I get 100% of the attention from the kids. And I feel like I’ve gotten to know them a little better and they me.

On the other hand, it’s a lot of work and can be stressful. The entire day, from the minute one wakes up until the kids go to bed, is an almost constant, frantic race. The kids going to school isn’t even a respite (a mere 3 hours for the Boy) because there is always laundry or cleaning or, in my case, running a small business to be done. It’s possible to be a single parent and do it well (if I do say so myself), but no matter how good I get at it I’m still just one person.

Which leads to confrontations like the one I had this evening with my daughter. I was preparing dinner and planning ahead to the logistics of getting one of them in the bathtub while the other did homework and getting them both in bed by 8:30pm. She wanted to play. I said I couldn’t because I was making dinner. She cried, all of the pent up frustration and exhaustion and missing her Mom bursting forth at once salty and bitter, rolling down her cheeks.

I didn’t have time for her, she accused. She looked so broken when she said that. And, in a way, she was right.

Although everything I was doing was for her and her brother, in many ways it was indirect, detached. Doing laundry, helping with homework, making breakfast, filling lunch boxes, shopping for groceries, earning a living… it doesn’t satisfy the same needs as playing hide-and-seek or curling up with a bedtime story does. And they’re each important.

It’s such a difficult balancing act, caregiver vs. dad. Two parents, who can take turns in the roles of Commander and Nurturer, are an unbelievable luxury in comparison.

I knelt down and hugged her but I still couldn’t give her my undivided attention (food on the stove). So I did the best I could and asked her to help me make dinner. She perked up after that. We reviewed the basics of boiling water and controlling the flame on the stove. They both helped season our meal. And we had a nice dinner together. I even sat down (briefly) before getting a head start on the dishes while the kids finished their meals.

My Lovely and Talented Wife will be home in just a few days. We’re all of us counting the hours.

via Working Dad

Sometimes it means going for a glass of water and returning with an arm load of dirty clothes and toys while kicking a giant stuffed pink unicorn down the hall.

It means not only knowing but actually living with the reality that the difference between a child and a hurricane is that hurricanes only last a few days.

I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Happy Father’s day to all of you optimists out there.

[ This was also posted at The Blogfathers along with the thoughts from several other Fathers. Go check it out. ]

On another topic, I think we may be losing the battle on the dog front. The daughter keeps coming up with completely compelling and bulletproof arguments for a dog like “the cats don’t play” and “dogs are better.” How much longer can I keep telling her no? I fear her willpower and determination on this point may be greater than mine. Also, I think I have the germ of a thought that getting a dog may get those pesky cats in line once and for all.

Dogs and vomit soap. This is fatherhood.