After wiping the vomit from my shirt and pulling up my pants from the incessant tugging for attention, I reach into the fridge to grab formula. #FedIsBest, right" I?m home alone with my 11-month-old daughter and sick-from-daycare three-year-old son.
I?m careful to not spill any hot water on my eldest and not let my youngest, who is wriggling in my arms, touch the kettle. I pour the water, balance the temperature with ice and find the closest chair to collapse in to address the most immediate crisis with a bottle.
I turn my gaze to my son, who is the source of the incessant tugging: ?Yes, Ben, how can I help you"?
?I have to poo.?
?Go then, buddy! You can do it!?
He looks at me with puppy dog eyes, his hand holding his bum. ?I need you to carry me!? he says. I make it to the top of the stairs, both kids in tow. But when I put him down, he looks at me sadly. ?It?s too late,? he says. Just then, my daughter?s fart tells me that I now have two poops to clean. I sigh and imagine my wife kicking back in an ergonomic office chair, laughing and sipping freshly made coffee with her smart co-workers. ?Only four more hours,? I mutter to myself.
And yet, I wouldn?t trade this for the world. I am incredibly fortunate to get to raise my two kids. I may grumble, but I complain about work, commutes and bosses, too. Raising children is an opportunity granted. My one month of paternity leave with each kid taught me an awful lot about them, myself and what it takes to raise a family...