Day of the Dad

I am a Valley dad. Last night, I made dinner while wearing a Dachshund apron.

I don’t have a dog.

And it wasn’t my kitchen.

To many Valley dads, this will make perfect sense.

Is this your day? Wake up in the dark. Consider — then dismiss — the idea of working out. Wake children. Make breakfast (which they don’t want if it’s healthy), pack lunches (like mailing off a letter without a stamp — you can never be sure of its final destination), think about dinner (which of the three things that they like will it be?), and then get the kids out the door to school.

Among the errands on your (hope) To Do list for the day are: hardware store, grocery store, stationery store and sporting goods store — all for things you’ve recently been told your kids MUST have. And any store that sells toilet paper — because you’re out.

THAT, they didn’t tell you.

The day is spent texting with your kids (who have cooler phones than you). You counsel, encourage, referee, interrogate, plan, adjust plans, re-schedule, pick up, deliver, and inquire about homework — which is roughly five hours a day less than you remember doing — where is the homework?!

At night, you’re assured all homework is done — except for that project or thing that needs to be printed or signed, which you will hear about only when you’re already exactly three minutes behind schedule in the morning. But for now, it’s all good.

In your ongoing effort to be a responsible parent, you will suggest that instead of playing video games, or watching re-runs of sitcoms that five years later are still not appropriate for them, they might want to … (wait for it) … read.

When the laughter dies down, you may ask if anyone needs to take a shower (even though it is odorifically clear they do).

Your flesh and blood will stare at you as if you have 5 eyeballs and two noses. Or as if you are speaking one of the 500 languages spoken in Nigeria (thank you Wikipedia! But don’t even get me started on THAT shortcut to success)

Begrudgingly, some attempt at hygiene will be rushed through, and eventually, they will trot off to worry-free sleep, at which point you will do some combination of — but rarely all of the following — Clean dishes, put away leftovers, set coffee pot for the next day, take out garbage, give a glimmering thought to the next day’s meal plan, and pour a glass of something stronger than milk.

At which time you will retire to bed — alone, if you’re a single dad like me. You surf through the list of programs you have saved on your DVR — five Jon Stewarts, five Homelands, ten Breaking Bads, three episodes of a new sitcom that was cancelled before the 4th episode — before settling on SportsCenter.

You watch for a minute. The Lakers lost. Soon, you’re barely following the latest update on the recent arrest of another 22-year-old multi-millionaire.

You prepare yourself for peaceful sleep by running through these topics in rapid-fire consternation: Bills, pending home and/or car repairs, doctor’s appointments, orthodontist appointments, therapy appointments, kids’ practices, kids’ games, plans for the weekend, your school volunteer hours, a college fund, another glass of whatever you were drinking, your kid’s friend Stacie’s mom (who’s got it going on), that ink cartridge you were supposed to get so the Map project that is due tomorrow can be printed in all colors — not just pink …

Soon you realize that you’re now listening to SportsCenter for the second time in a row, and the Lakers still lost. Your eyes aren’t even open, and you’re blindly switching channels, just trying to find some soothing sound to fall asleep to. Not Law and Order (BUM BUM!), not an infomercial with people clapping, not a war movie, just turn it off … and drift.

And with that … you hear your child standing over you saying, “I can’t sleep.”

Isn’t that what your day is like?

I’m not just a Valley dad, I’m a single Valley dad. The entertainment industry brought me here, and left me here. Moved here as a couple, then became three, then four … and now back down to three – a nice round number.

Maria Shriver told the TODAY show audience last week that there are more and more single dads. I know a lot of them in the Valley. Then again, I know a lot of married Valley dads too — and we’re a lot alike too.

In my home office/guest room, I have a plaque from the International Little League Organization, a mortgage modification application, a bookshelf full of books I’ve read and books I thought I’d read, my file of great ideas, calendars to remind me of what’s going on at the kids’ schools, an enormous power bill, 23 unopened applications for a Capitol One credit card, a small TV, a file cabinet full of … I don’t know, files, I guess. And a hand painted tie rack given to me 7 years ago for Fathers Day.

If I’m home alone when the big one hits, sitting at the laptop in the office, I’m grabbing that tie rack and running out the front door, across that front lawn that I’ve brought back to life three times, calling my kids schools, and then seeing if my neighbors are ok.

I’m a Valley dad.

Oh, and about that Dachshund apron …