The Other Mother

He was 34 years old when he told her, to her great delight, that he was finally ready to have children. He presented a clear and written plan: there were to be two children; not one who would be lonely, not three who would be overwhelming. She would earn the money (since she’d shown a knack for it) and he would quit his job and stay home with the children, because this was an important job best not delegated. And in his “spare time,” he would write.

He learned a lot, fast. Childbirths were not in clearly defined stages as outlined by the Lamaze coach but instead were messy, hair raising and unpredictable affairs with nevertheless satisfactory conclusions. Fear that he would be too disgusted to change diapers evaporated as he became accustomed to this and other quotidian activities. He was astounded at the titanium strength of the bond that formed almost immediately once each child was born—a bond both painful and joyous at once.

His sleep problems worsened during the era of 2-hour feedings and the spare time for writing never seemed to arise—but there were other rewards and he persevered.

He soon developed a routine that worked, and stuck with it. One thing he remembers is how much he loved to read to the kids and how much they loved it too. He worked hard to make the house a home, plan and shop for the weekly menus, cook the meals, keep the kids and their clothes reasonably clean.

When she came home from long days at work he sometimes left her to bathe the children and read the bedtime stories, while he disappeared for hours at a stretch seeking the alone time he had sacrificed. The times to write became few and far between.

At one point he taught the kids to call him “Captain,” since he couldn’t bear to hear “Dad!” even once more. He helped find a good pre-school, helped later with homework, taught both kids how to cook, volunteered for field trips and in the computer lab at the elementary school, danced to Jimi Hendrix with tiny dancers in the kitchen, allowed games to be played with pots and pans, and supported kitchen chemistry experiments. He went to baseball, softball and basketball games. He set up piano lessons and insisted on practice sessions.  He had the kids track their allowance money and make budgets to give them a better appreciation for the value of money.  He insisted that chores be done each week and tracked progress in charts on the refrigerator door.

He encouraged both kids to work hard in school, to think and ask questions, to notice nature and take a strong interest in the sciences. He took the kids on boogie boards out to the reef at Panama City Beach and dove for sand dollars. And he made sure they had sunscreen on beforehand. He played catch, threw the Frisbee, taught them how to ride their bikes. He watch the movie “Mr. Mom” with more critical analysis than amusement: “What bozo doesn’t know how to run a vacuum cleaner?”

He provided support and a listening ear when the working mom had a bad day at the salt mines. The “role reversal” was a matter of mild interest to friends and of concern mixed with amazement to grandfathers, but was never really well understood outside the immediate family.

He never really took adequate credit for all he contributed to make two beautiful, intelligent, good-hearted children who I am grateful for every single day.

This is a tribute to the “other mother.” Happy Mother’s Day!