Laid-Off Dad

Dumbstruck

I’ve gotten a stark lesson in how much Robert and I talk each day, because for the last 24 hours or so I’ve been reduced to mime and guttural horks. My throat felt fine when my three-hour interview began yesterday afternoon, but by the end of the three-hour class I taught later that night, I was barking like a seal. When I finally staggered in the door, my larynx had seized up into a solid nodule of phlegm, and even whispering hurt like hell.

This morning, I explained why Daddy’s voice sounded “funny,” and at first Robert had some fun whispering back—albeit with arched eyebrows. But our interactions soon became terribly frustrating. He offered up all sorts of bon mots while we crayoned together, but I couldn’t respond. He ran over to the corner and started pulling books off the shelves, and I couldn’t shout after him. And when he shrieked at the sight of a little butt ointment (“No cream on my butt!”), I couldn’t convince him that I wasn’t trying to kill him.

The silver lining is that yesterday was also my wife’s birthday. I came home with a fistful of flowers and some Thai takeout, and we indulged her guilty pleasure by watching an episode of ER with a particularly moronic and Sweeps-friendly plotline—a deranged war veteran ran amok in a hijacked tank. She got to make all the snarky comments, and I could only nod and slurp my noodles. Sometimes the best gifts are unplanned.

Leveling [on] the playing field

I love watching Robert run. Especially in cold weather, when his parka has immobilized his upper body and he skitters across the playground, legs flailing, like one of those “Jesus lizards” that can run on water.

At the park, Robert and I often chase after a pair of little rubber soccer balls. We bring a spare because of the unwritten rule that anyone who brings accessories better be prepared to share them. Little boys always want what you have—especially if they have something similar at home and Nanny forgot to bring it.

Usually, it’s no big deal. Stuff gets borrowed, stuff gets returned. But every so often, Robert is beset by ardent four-year-olds who promise to share but end up playing keep-away, leaving my little boy to trail after them like some pathetic little hanger-on.

At this point, Daddy the Playground Darwinist sits back and watches, because Robert has to learn sooner or later that physicality matters. If the abuse becomes excessive, however, Daddy the Defender intervenes (because Robert should also know that I’ve got his back), playfully sends the ball in Robert’s direction, and stifles the urge to lay out one of these annoying little guttersnipes with a casual hip check.