“The Fine Print”, by M.H. Schrader

MEETING THE DAD CHALLENGE!

(Originally published 13 Aug 1997. Posted and republished 25 Jan 2003.)

Call it “Adventures in Dad-ing”, if you will. Call it “Mr. Mom-ing”, if you will. Heck, call it whatever you want, but call it a success. I have met the challenge. I have overcome the hurdle. Yes, I was home alone with the little Schraders for four days. And the world did not end. And the house was not trashed.

Which was, of course, much to the surprise of Mrs. Schrader. Men are notorious for, well, how can I say this politely, letting things go to heck in a handbasket without a member of the fairer sex around to go behind them and right what is wrong. In short, men are slobs.

Now wait a minute, buster! You’re kind of over-generalizing, aren’t you?!

Yes, perhaps. But I based my statement on my years of experience of being a man. And hanging out with other men.

If you don’t believe me, go to any male college dorm in the country. I dare you. Yes, they are scary places. After all, where else can you go and see clothes that can stand up by themselves?

But I digress.

Anyhoo, Mrs. Schrader went to a conference in Atlanta, Gee-Eh, for four days last week. And boy, was she nervous. Like most normal, sane people, flying makes her a little bit nervous. As well it should, too. Stepping onto a plane is like shooting craps. No, I AM NOT being fatalistic. You jumped the gun, didn’t you? You thought I was going to say that there is always a chance that it could crash. Heck, life is a crap shoot. There is always a chance that when I walk out the door a big tree limb could fall on my head and...well, do some really serious damage. Planes are like a crap shoot because you never know who you’re going to be sitting next to.

I have gotten lucky on most of the flights I have taken. On the less crowed ones, I don’t have anyone next to me, so I can spread out. Which, when you’re crammed in like cattle, it’s nice to have a little room. (I don’t know what it is, but flying coach I always feel a desire to start chewing cud.) On the crowded flights, I always wind up with someone really nice sitting next to me to low, I mean moo, I mean talk with.

The other, and much larger, part of Mrs. Schrader’s nervousness was leaving me home with the little Schraders by myself. The horror! Dirty dishes stacked to the ceiling! Laundry that is so dirty that whites are yellows! Three little girls running around with dirt on their faces, their noses running, their bellies sticking out like some UNICEF poster child from not having been fed!

Of course, some of her friends did not assuage her fears.

“You’re doing what! You’re leaving him alone with the kids! Are you nuts!”

“Do you need us to check up on him and make sure that the kids are all right?!”

Needless to say, Mrs. Schrader’s nervousness jumped one-hundred fold. Of course, so did my indignation. After all, they are the little SCHRADERS ... they do have my name. That means that I am their Father.

Yes, I will admit that sometimes I get a little distracted. I will burn the bacon, for example. I will forget what I am doing a leave a job half-finished, which, when you’re changing a diaper, is both a really bad and really stupid thing to do. Yes, I will admit that doing laundry and the dishes do have lower priority than watching John Ritter movies. Nonetheless, my honor had been questioned.

After saying my tearful goodbyes, I decided, then and there, (okay perhaps not quite then and there, but sometime) to prove the skeptics wrong. Yes, I cooked and cleaned, cooked and cleaned. No time for the “Police Academy Movie Marathon”, I had to cook and clean. And when I say cook, I don’t mean peanut butter sandwiches. I mean homemade, yes homemade fried chicken, among other things.

And clean? why, that old dirty laundry didn’t stand a chance. I washed every sock, every shirt, even the clothes from last winter at the bottom of the pile.

Let’s just say, Mrs. Schrader was pleasantly surprised. I had conquered the enemy, maleness, which, by the way, is really hard to do when you’re a man. It felt good to be productive and industrious. I’ll have to do it again.

Then again, there is a Tori Spelling movie extravaganza coming on.

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