Every object in my pocket is the size of a child's windpipe (coins, hard candies, paper clips). I am not child-proof.
9:45 a.m.: One bag of Skittles can ruin an entire couch. My anal tendency to clean up has been broken. Order gives way to chaos.
Robin Laananen
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Note to self: Buy stock in Toys "R" Us, Coke, Tyco, Disney, General Mills.
9:50 a.m.: Asa ("You're my best friend!") snaps off a large rhododendron branch with giant pink flowers to give me as a present.
I have not eaten, showered, or gone to the bathroom in 17 hours.
10-11 a.m.: Barney isn't so bad.
11:15 a.m.: Unlike my efforts at yoga lessons, Candy Land, and Ring Around the Rosie, Sesame Street holds the three tykes' attention: Songs! Dancing! Cartoons! The Sesame Street kids create an entire city out of crumpled paper and duct tape, making our Lego castle look lame. (The only difference between the new Sesame Street and when I watched is that they've added a handicapped boy to the melting pot. What's next? A blind, obese, homeless transsexual?)
11:30 a.m.: You get used to seeing the strangest things: plastic bags on their heads, orange-peel mouth guards, peeing in the yard, my journal in a teapot.
Observation: "Why?" is a tough question to answer succinctly.
Noon: Asa runs in from some worm-digging project and hands me a large butcher knife. "We took this knife but didn't hurt ourselves."
12:30 p.m.: I'm burning out. I understand Nintendo, Nickelodeon, baloney sandwiches, and day care.
Odd Ragamuffin Theories: "The hair on your stomach is from ice cream." "Beer makes the hiccups go away." "Monkeys don't fart."
Future Jobs of America: Asa, a grossologist (studying gross things) or a waitress; Dane, a chef; and Ty, sadly, wants to be Michael Stusser.
1:30 p.m.: Julie's home. Thank God. One of the twins has a huge gash under his chin from face-planting while handcuffed. It's not my fault.
2:30 p.m.: More convertible rides. Hauling them round and round a parking lot has made ME carsick.
3 p.m.: I really thought this experience would be about simple tasks: making PB&J sandwiches, tying shoelaces, and patting babes on the head. But it's the mental side that's draining. "Why do people shoot each other?" "How come you don't marry Mommy?"
3:30 p.m.: Time to head to McDonald's for the budgeting portion of the exam. I'm to feed the entire crew for $15 or less. Two Happy Meals, two Quarter Pounders, small fries ("SUPERSIZE IT!" chants Asa, but I hold firm), and it looks like I'm gonna be under budget—but it's Cole, wanting to eat healthy, and his #7 Chicken Burger that breaks the bank. Total: $22.17.
4:30 p.m.: Julie thinks it would be a good idea for me to go shopping at QFC with the gang. We run roughshod down the aisles. A day ago, I would have been concerned "our" kids were bothering other folks in the store, slamming carts into their shins, putting their filthy hands on deli meats, tossing fruit, and hitting innocent bystanders. Now I don't care. I buy two minutes of silence with a box of pink sugar cookies.
5 p.m.: Even though these kids are wonderful, affectionate, and good-natured, the thought of sitting in rush-hour traffic has never seemed so appealing. It takes me half an hour to slip out, as each child has a positively manipulative way of keeping me on the premises ("One more game of tetherball!" "Can I show you something?" "I just need you to help me find my pet slug. Please?").
IN THE FINAL ANALYSIS, I realize I had not studied for the exam. I had not read the primers on parenting, fostering self-esteem, disciplinary techniques, early childhood development, or management skills of the Third Reich. I hadn't crammed Freud, Dr. Spock, or Betty Crocker. Most importantly, I hadn't looked into the biggest case study of them all: my own upbringing. What did my folks do right? What improvements could have been made?
Like most exams, the test wasn't fair. The kids weren't mine, I observed five subjects simultaneously (as I understand it, they usually come one at a time), and the lab conditions—more sleep-over than reality—didn't simulate normal behavior. Removing bias and emotion from my observations was also problematic. Perhaps a future partner's desire for a child would overcome my longing for space, solitude, calm, order, financial stability, and personal freedom. Other variables might also alter the basic equation (winning the lotto, maturity, an offer from Pamela Anderson). But I doubt it.
Currently I am fruitful, but do not multiply. Without time for laundry, balancing the checkbook, or proper hygiene, throwing a rug rat into the mix might not be the best idea. I'm able to live—just barely—as a freelancer, scribing late into the evenings, smoking weed, sleeping in, rotating partners, and living a life that is all mine. The Father's Day Test bolted my learning curve upright in a hurry. Given what I know, I'm not ready—or interested—in a passing grade.
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