Diary of a Stay At Home Dad

Yesterday I asked Eric if he would mind being a guest blogger for my blog. I told him I wanted him to start keeping a diary of his days as a stay at home father. I told him he can write about anything that comes to mind and how he is feeling at the time. He writes for a living so I knew this would come easy for him, and he was actully excited about dong it.

I am going to keep this going for a month or so and do one entry a week (Friday's).

So here it is.. Entry 1. I was actully quite impressed.

And thanks to my wonderful hubby for doing this!


The diary of a stay at home Father…
Entry#1: August 14th 2008
(An Introduction)

My name is Eric Enck. I’m a known horror writer and more importantly, a known Father and husband. My wife came to me today wanting to know if I’d be interested in writing a journal based on my life as a stay at home father so she could share it with her associates. Considering most families (or at least a large percentage of them) both parents work. Or, usually the woman is the one to storm the diaper and dish war, while Daddy-o goes off to bring home the bacon.
Not so for me.
Over the course of the next several weeks, I will be profiling my life on a daily basis. I would like to give perspective to the modicum of information out there on stay at home dads. The world itself is no longer straight. There are lots of curves, realities and roles have changed. There is no longer (in my opinion) a right way and a wrong way of who works and who stays home. The fact of the matter is, situation based…it’s whatever works for you in your family.
So I’ll begin with today, August 14th 2008. I awoke at 7:45 in the morning not to the pitter patter of little feet, but to the whispers in my ear.
" Daddy," Mallory said. Mallory is our youngest child. She was born in the same month as my wife, and can be as adorable as anyone’s child, but she also has a bit of my own temperament. And the greatest casualty of diaper war, is that it’s hard to win against an opponent who acts a lot like yourself.
" Daddy…juice,"
I didn’t want Johnna to awake. After all, she is the one that works for a living. I make money being an author, but lets be honest, most people don’t consider that real work. Even big time best sellers are often ridiculed for it. I feel on a daily basis that sometimes I’m not good enough for my own family. It has a lot to do with the work. I thought that way this morning while pouring Mallory her juice, and watching her pull her " Night Nights" off on her own to go " pee pee." Everything is said in double when you’re younger.
When I look at my kids I envy them. I wish sometimes that I could go back in time and live those years all over again. Then again, my parents were quite abusive and taught me what not to teach my own children through their actions.
" Juice Daddy."
I turned and saw Mallory had poured her juice all over the floor. I stopped trying to figure out what I would cook for breakfast, and then got on my hands and knees and wiped the spill. I did a few dishes and made some coffee and breakfast. Johnna awoke around 9:45 and wanted to know why I left her sleep so late?
She works for a living, so I felt she deserved it.
She also wanted to know why there was an ANT floating in her coffee?
I can’t answer that.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve steadily worked as a blue-collar employee since I was 12 years old. I worked for my mother at her answering service under the table. I had several jobs throughout my life. I mow the grass, still do heavy lifting and other "manly" things. I worked in construction for four years until I was laid off. Six months later my first novel came out.
But staying at home with kids whose eyes tell you that they depend on you is a bigger task then any cop, lawyer, writer, Doctor, blu-collar employee etc…
It’s the biggest job in the world because in a lot of ways, I got three people to answer too. Like a few jobs out there, most people answer to one boss. I answer to three.
" Juice Daddy," Mallory says. This time she is nude and has her dress wrapped around the top of her head like an Arab.
So in comes my son. He’s hungry. I fix everyone breakfast just in time to vacuum the floors, which I don’t get to do because I’m doing the dishes, while my wife gets ready for work. I pick up Mallory’s toys and put them in her room. Three dishes later, I come to find our house must be haunted because all the toys are back out in the living room. And Mallory no longer has her dress around her head thank god. No…Mallory has decided to turn her feet into coloring books.
So I try to wipe them clean. And magic marker isn’t exactly like the normal dirt you find outside. I help her with her feet, and then eventually my wife goes to work. I’m left with two content children who watch television while I finish my chores and think about the next scenes that I want to write in my new novel. I even sit down to approach this task, only to have my son tell me he’s " hungry."
So I break away from the book. ( I usually write 5,000-10,000 words a day) but that generally depends on what new fascination Mallory has. Pulling the wings off moths and then crying about it? Breaking her crayons? Just a few days ago she drew all over her face with a kids magic marker and I thought the rock band Kiss had a long lost member they were looking for.
So I push more deadlines to the side, and do what is expected of me. All I hope for is my wife to still love me, and for me to still be good at baby dancing, and for any fortune I make to be split among them. The main thing is that I still want respect. I imagine a lot of mothers who stay at home don’t get the respect they deserve. Not just from husbands, but from the kids as well.
I make french fries for Mason, because like I said, he’s hungry.
I spill the french fries all over the floor.
I make more french fries.
He doesn’t eat them.
Part of that reason, is because his Pop Pop comes home with a happy meal. And we all know how kids like those things. I end up eating more then my fair share of fries, and feel just about as much like writing the next gory scene in my book, as a man on death row feels like gardening.
Around the time my Father-in-law tucks himself away, the kids become reclusive. They sit together and every so often I hear Mallory complain by growling and hollering at Mason (who was doing nothing wrong.) I break that up, only had to do it once, twice, ten times and I go about my way, finally sitting down to write in my novel. I’m about to do a scene where a lunatic is hiding from an unsuspecting woman in a morgue when I feel a tap on my side. I turn and see Mallory with one of my t-shirts turned into what I can only assume is a dress. Her legs are sticking through the armholes and her arms and head through the other places.
" Daddy…juice."
I get her juice. I congratulate her on peeing in the potty. (We’re in the midst of potty training) and I listen to one of the most engaging stories from my 8-year old. Mason knows more about Pokemon, than the entire state of New Orleans knows about ghosts. One kid won’t stop jabbering, and the other is laughing and playing loudly with her toys.
Still, I smile and agree. Concurrence is often mistaken for senility. I don’t think so, because I love my kids and my wife and would kill for them before the next beating of a heart. It was nice to get some quiet time when 8:30 came. Mason announces that he’s going to bed and gives me a hug. Mallory follows suit because she’s in that copycat stage. I tuck them in.
I come back and start all over. The living room is filled with toys and dishes need done and this first entry to the diary needs written, but I’ll find time. I don’t believe there is actual minutes. I think sometimes there are lapses between seconds. It’s how I get things done.
Since this is an introduction, next Friday I will have a whole week’s worth of entries. They will be considerably shorter. Oh and one more thing. As I was writing this, my wife calls me. Here is the conversation that took place:
" Hello?" I said.
" Do we have any corn beef left?"
" I’m not sure."
" Can you go check?"
" Sure. Give me a second. I’m writing in this diary."
" NEVERMIND!"
Click.
Someone is having a bad night at work. So I call back.
" Do you want me to make you a sandwich?" I ask.
" No…that’s alright because I don’t know if I want tomato or corn beef."
" Are you sure?"
" Yeah I’m sure. I’ll just make it when I get home."
" Okay," I said.
" Make me a sandwich," she said.
See you next week my friends.
Eric Enck
Signing off-