To my husband, it was a normal, sunny Saturday morning in September. We were all packed up for a day trip to the lake?probably one of the last beach days of the year. Both kids were finally buckled into their car seats, after the usual getting-out-the-door struggles. My husband started the car and then looked over at me in the passenger seat. Hot tears of frustration were streaming down my face as I cried silently behind my sunglasses.
?What on earth is wrong"? he asked.
?I want to be the one petting the cat!? I stammered, knowing how pathetic that sounded.
I had gone back into the house five times in the last 20 minutes?to grab snacks, replenish the spare diapers and wipes, fill the water bottles and sippy cup, pull clean towels out of the dryer, find the swim diapers and roll two spare sets of shorts and undies into a zip-top plastic bag for my still-accident-prone preschooler. Meanwhile, my husband and our two kids, then one and four, were wandering down the sidewalk in the sunshine, lackadaisically admiring a neighbour?s garden, observing a butterfly fluttering in the blooms and petting a friendly cat sauntering down the sidewalk. It was, on the surface, super cute: a dad and his two little boys enjoying life?s little pleasures?complete with cute kitties and actual butterflies.
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