My wife has gone to Texas to visit with her sister at M.D. Anderson. This morning, the kids and I packed her up and escorted her to the airport for her flight. We walked her to curbside check-in, helped her to the security gate, and then watched her melt into the teaming mass of people.
The second she’s gone from eyesight, my daughter turns to me and asks, “Daddy, do you know what you’re doing?”
I’m assuming she was concerned about getting home, but that’s probably me just flattering myself. I think both of my kids know, deep in their hearts, that I have about an 86% chance of really screwing up the extended single-parent gig. Once we got back to the house, my son walked in and vacantly stared at Rachel’s side of the bed, as if he wished she were there.
I did the same thing.
It wasn’t three seconds later that the chaos kicked in. “What’s for lunch?” “Can I have ice cream?” “Do you have any money, daddy?” “What’s that smell?”
The only question I could satisfactorily answer was the last one: my son had indeed detonated a five-megaton bomb in his Huggies.
This should be an interesting week.