Zone Defense
As a stay-at-home father of three young children, I tend to stay at home during the day. Unless we have a doctor’s appointment, or a dangerously low stockpile of a Vital Supply, I stay home with the kids until I have adult reinforcements to help corral the kids. It’s not just a matter of needing to keep the kids in line as we stroll from store to store and aisle to aisle, it’s a simple matter of herding the kids out the door. Between finding footwear scattered about the house, shoeing the kids, changing freshly soiled diapers, re-shoeing the kids who pulled their shoes off while I was busy with a sibling, and locking everyone into their car seat, I need the better part of a wake period to move everyone out of the house. And I don’t even have to worry about coats right now.
Ellie is home a lot more now. She has a few weeks off after graduating from residency, which gives me the help I need to leave the house for less than essential errands. With the two of us working in unison, we can move the kids out the door significantly faster than I could alone usually due to having a spare adult ensure the shoes stay on the feet. The kids still thwart us by pooping on our way out the door, but at least one parent can change a diaper while the other straps the as yet unpoopy kids into their car seats.
Ellie wanted to run a couple non-essential errands this morning, highlighted by my need for a haircut. Ordinarily I wait until I have Ellie around to help watch the kids before getting a haircut. I like to think I’ve mastered the father voice, but even the sternest threats won’t keep my kids under control if I’m pinned under a barber’s sheet. So I stay home growing my hair out through the long phase, the unkempt phase, and the unmanageable phase. I’d waited so long since my last haircut that this time I was approaching the dangerously curly phase, giving my ordinarily straight hair a borderline Afro look. When Ellie offered to take us all out so I could return my hair to its short phase, I took the opportunity, determined to get the kids out of the house.
The kids did their best to stop us, though. Abbie hit us hard by throwing up as I searched for shoes. I thought her appetite was smaller than usual this morning, but when she routinely leaves half her cereal in the bowl, it’s hard to notice when the ratio jumps to three-fourths. I cleaned the floor while Ellie changed her clothes, giving us another opportunity to show off that parental teamwork. Abbie’s outfit was thoroughly muckified, as were the floors. I opened the Mr. Clean bottle and set about disinfecting the bejeebers out of our laminate floor.
When I was convinced that nothing was still alive on the floor, I checked on Ellie and Abbie. Abbie was dressed, but we didn’t know if we should still leave the house. We didn’t want Abbie throwing up while my hair was being cut, but she was acting fine. She was running about the house, grabbing toys, pushing her brothers, and doing all her normal activities. We guessed that she was overheated for the morning and not sick, and continued with our plans.
When we went to sweep up the kids, we found Ian sitting on the hardwood floor, playing with the bottle of Mr. Clean that I left open. He’d poured a puddle in front of him, and while I was furious at him, I had to admire the skill required to pour out only a few ounces onto the floor before returning the bottle to its upright position. He may or may not have been playing in the puddle; that was indeterminable in the time between the moment we discovered him and the moment we swooped him into the bathroom in horror.
We were certain he didn’t drink any or splash it in his eyes, but Ellie spent a solid five minutes rinsing his skin and eyes to be safe. Ellie changed his outfit while I soaked up the spilled disinfectant in another stunning display of parental teamwork.
With two-thirds of our children sporting fresh outfits, one child who was possibly ill, and a child who was exposed to most likely a less-than-hazardous quantity of a household cleanser, we packed the kids into the car. I can now happily say that I’m typing this with a shorn head of hair, Ian is still alive, and Abbie only threw up one more time today. Of course, she threw up while I was getting my hair cut.
Ellie is home a lot more now. She has a few weeks off after graduating from residency, which gives me the help I need to leave the house for less than essential errands. With the two of us working in unison, we can move the kids out the door significantly faster than I could alone usually due to having a spare adult ensure the shoes stay on the feet. The kids still thwart us by pooping on our way out the door, but at least one parent can change a diaper while the other straps the as yet unpoopy kids into their car seats.
Ellie wanted to run a couple non-essential errands this morning, highlighted by my need for a haircut. Ordinarily I wait until I have Ellie around to help watch the kids before getting a haircut. I like to think I’ve mastered the father voice, but even the sternest threats won’t keep my kids under control if I’m pinned under a barber’s sheet. So I stay home growing my hair out through the long phase, the unkempt phase, and the unmanageable phase. I’d waited so long since my last haircut that this time I was approaching the dangerously curly phase, giving my ordinarily straight hair a borderline Afro look. When Ellie offered to take us all out so I could return my hair to its short phase, I took the opportunity, determined to get the kids out of the house.
The kids did their best to stop us, though. Abbie hit us hard by throwing up as I searched for shoes. I thought her appetite was smaller than usual this morning, but when she routinely leaves half her cereal in the bowl, it’s hard to notice when the ratio jumps to three-fourths. I cleaned the floor while Ellie changed her clothes, giving us another opportunity to show off that parental teamwork. Abbie’s outfit was thoroughly muckified, as were the floors. I opened the Mr. Clean bottle and set about disinfecting the bejeebers out of our laminate floor.
When I was convinced that nothing was still alive on the floor, I checked on Ellie and Abbie. Abbie was dressed, but we didn’t know if we should still leave the house. We didn’t want Abbie throwing up while my hair was being cut, but she was acting fine. She was running about the house, grabbing toys, pushing her brothers, and doing all her normal activities. We guessed that she was overheated for the morning and not sick, and continued with our plans.
When we went to sweep up the kids, we found Ian sitting on the hardwood floor, playing with the bottle of Mr. Clean that I left open. He’d poured a puddle in front of him, and while I was furious at him, I had to admire the skill required to pour out only a few ounces onto the floor before returning the bottle to its upright position. He may or may not have been playing in the puddle; that was indeterminable in the time between the moment we discovered him and the moment we swooped him into the bathroom in horror.
We were certain he didn’t drink any or splash it in his eyes, but Ellie spent a solid five minutes rinsing his skin and eyes to be safe. Ellie changed his outfit while I soaked up the spilled disinfectant in another stunning display of parental teamwork.
With two-thirds of our children sporting fresh outfits, one child who was possibly ill, and a child who was exposed to most likely a less-than-hazardous quantity of a household cleanser, we packed the kids into the car. I can now happily say that I’m typing this with a shorn head of hair, Ian is still alive, and Abbie only threw up one more time today. Of course, she threw up while I was getting my hair cut.
posted by Matt at
11:37 PM
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