Vol. 125 - Back to Life, Back to Reality

On coming home and getting back to work.

A few months after my son was born, one of my favorite little rock clubs in Chapel Hill announced it was closing. There’d be a week of celebrations punctuated by one final show in the little subterranean dive bar where I spent many hours on its “stage” (in quotes because you just play on the floor) and both at and behind its bar.

“Go,” Emily told me regarding one of the club’s final nights. “You love that place. Go party. I’ll take care of him for the night.”

And so, I had my first furlough as a father.

What came the next morning was one of the worst hangovers of my life (“a hangover you could name a battleship after,” according to Hemingway) and a screaming, fussy three-month-old who didn’t give a single fuck that I was out until about forty-five minutes before he woke up. He was up. He was hungry. And my wife needed help.

Such is life when you’re a father. Well, such is life when you’re an involved father, but that’s a different rant.

When you have kids, you don’t get the proverbial “vacation from your vacation.” (And feel free to punch me directly in the face if you ever hear me say that.)

I had a similar experience this weekend, after I returned from a week in northern Norway, where I enjoyed a trip I won’t ever forget.

This time, in place of the hangover was a brutal case of jet lag.

And guess what? Just like my infant son the day after my epic night out, my kids didn’t give a single fuck about the fact that I was exhausted from forty hours of international travel. They didn’t care that my body’s clock was (is still…) set to six hours ahead. They didn’t care that my eyes started to get quite heavy around 4pm for the first few nights I was back home. They wanted their dad. They wanted to climb on me and hold me and have me read to them in bed.

Meanwhile, Emily, who graciously held the fort down for the previous ten days, just wanted a quiet, luxurious yoga class and a coffee date with no one but herself. And I wanted that for her, too.

And so, from the minute I walked through the exit at Raleigh-Durham International Airport, I slid back into my dad pants and got back to work. The morning after I got home, I woke early, sent Emily off for her quiet solo morning, got the kids ready, and hit parks, playgrounds, and a local coffee shop for hot chocolates. By then, some of the shine of having dad back home had worn off for my kids and they were back into their totally normal routine of bickering, butting heads, and generally being a pair of six- and three-year-old siblings. There were fires to put out, tears to wipe away, conditions made, some discipline meted out. There was everything that comes with being a dad. Of course, there were plenty of hugs, kisses, smiles, and laughs. But those are all too easy.

Would I have liked one day to recuperate, just like I used to have in those oh-so-foreign years before kids? Absolutely. Again, the vacation from my vacation (don’t hit me!). But part of the tradeoff of fatherhood is that those days don’t exist anymore. At least, not when my babies are still babies.

The only downside of my amazing week in Norway was how much I missed my family. And, for as much fun as I had on my trip, all of paled in comparison to spending time with my kids. Still, it’s never easy when you’re one giant sleep-deprived nerve dealing with two unwieldy kids. And by “unwieldy,” I mean perfectly normal, acting exactly as their supposed to, doing a great job at just being kids.