I ask you: What kind of man would commit himself to a stay-at-home lifestyle for over a year, so that he and his wife could have an equal share in the rigors of raising their first child, then impregnate her right before taking a job that keeps him out of the house for 10 hours a day?
A man drowning in Guilt, that's who.
Even though I know I'm doing my part for the family, slicing my little bits of bacon from the Great Sow of Commerce, I can't keep my mind off three forces of nature that are becoming unsustainable: my wife's distending belly; my son's boundless energy; and this nutcracking deep-freeze. It's just too goddamn cold to take Robert outside and let him burn off those Kiddie Kilowatts, so he bounces off the walls in this little apartment while my ever-heftier wife tries to play goalie, and I'm stuck 60 blocks away, unable to help corral the little bugger.
I'm wracked. Wracked, I say.
The other day I called home, just to check in, and my wife told me that, during one of her numerous trips to the bathroom, Robert got a hold of some Elmer's glue and squirted it on the cat. So she put the TV on and told Robert NOT TO MOVE while she rinsed the cat off in the tub. (Please take a moment to let that visual sink in.) When she came back, Robert was dutifully watching Noggin and sitting quietly ... in the puddle of glue on the chair.
So basically, I called home in some pathetic attempt to make myself feel better, and instead I got this: “I can’t even go to the bathroom without him gluing the cat to the chair!”
I don't call home as often anymore.