To those without children, things can be very hard to explain.
Why does it take me so long to answer the phone sometimes? Because I have to go brush the cracker crumbs or rice off of my fingers. If i don't the crumbs fall down and get lodged between the phone buttons, or the rice gums them up. I have these things on my fingers because I've been sitting around, feeding babies manually. Why? Because they routinely slap the spoon right out of my hand, sending gobs of oatmeal or soup or whatever onto the wall, the dog, my HP printer, anything.
But I don't say all that to whoever is calling. Sorry, I say, kid stuff. You know.
And they say, oh yeah sure, but unless they have kids they definitely don't. No no nope. How could they? Even pet owners of the world scarcely know the truth; that parents of human beings sign an unwritten contract that stipulates total self-denial and diminished expectation of rewards. Children, by their very design, are consumers of adult energy. Anyone who has ever tried can agree that in raising them with anything like intention we find that they fully and efficiently require every ounce of energy we can scrape from the ragged depths of our souls. In giving them life, we are most exquisitely spent, drawn ever forward by a sweetness deeper than our childless life could have revealed.
My friends are artists. They spend their time, countless hours, putting together works of inexplicable beauty. Would I like to go over to their house, bring a bottle of wine, spend hours looking over their works and discussing, capriciously, the subtle and profound power of art? Good god yes! But the truth is that actually I'm going to be home dancing to preschool music in my living room, stamping little bits of cereal into the carpet, making yet another pot of macaroni or rice or comforting a very, very little girl who sniffles on my chest, because also in the unwritten contract is that a piece of you, a purer piece of your own heart that perhaps you've let grow guarded and inaccessible lives in the eyes of your child and it is more precious than any belonging you'll ever have. It is in this wonderful light of my son's eyes when I tell him stories or show him how to cook noodles that I forget how much of this great big world I am so unable to see right now, and how much it seems to matter. In those moments, holding their sweetness close to me, I am fully satisfied just to be the father. What could be more valuable in this torn world than innocence?
I try to remember these things when self-denial is at the forefront of my mind, scraping crusty cheese off of little plastic baby dishes, why do they make those things with the damned little contours that are so hard to clean out! And the sink sprays water like a power-washer because of some odd glitch in the purifier we have affixed to it, so I am literally dripping water on the floor long before I'm finished. plink, plink, plink. The phone rings. I wipe my hands off on my soggy pants and turn to pick it up. Behind me Khaliya has climbed up the step stool and is reaching for the long knife on the counter; it glistens almost as if to taunt me. I can see the number on the phone and I think its one of my potential employers calling to set up and interview. Small fingers reaching for a large blade! Water dripping from my pants! I am a modern warrior! I can endure anything! In my head, I look up at thunderous skies and laugh maniacally, bellowing hot breath. In reality I grab the phone, tenuously say hello and attempt to talk while with another hand wrangling the dagger from my daughters grip. The guy, who is calling to set up an interview notices the commotion and says, uh, is this maybe a bad time? To which I reply oh no no no, not at all. Its just the kids, you know.
To which he replies, oh yeah. Sure.
