During my brief tenure as a father, I had settled into the pleasant little groove of five days as Weekday Dad and two as a full-time, hands-on parent. Notwithstanding Robert’s sweet devotion, sauntering off to work each morning – leaving Mama to the nonstop action of keeping our son active, fed, and poop-free – had its advantages. Especially on those early winter days of cabin fever, when I’d swoop in at the dinner hour to find the apartment littered with shredded magazines, my son stalking the cat and laughing maniacally, and my wife slumped on the sofa, her shirt smeared with avocado.
As rewarding as most weekends were, the level of activity, of pure busy-ness, sure seemed strenuous to a guy who had spent most of the previous week at a keyboard. No matter how overwhelmed I felt, I always drew a little comfort knowing that the madness would end Sunday evening, when the kid finally ran out of gas and dropped off.
One of the biggest adjustments so far is realizing that the Monday Morning Reprieve, such as it was, is no more. Each day is a new challenge of deciding what to do and how to do it.