13 Days, 21 Hours: My Solo Parenting Marathon
My wife announced she was going to Europe for two weeks in mid-June to visit family. She’s made trips without me in the past and under normal circumstances, I’d be celebrating.
However, this trip was different. My wife also announced that she needed a “mommy break,” and this was the first time I’d be left alone with our 3- and 5-year-old daughters. Considering their devious temperaments, I feared I’d end up like Lemuel Gulliver of Gulliver’s Travels and held captive by the little people of Lilliput.
During the days prior to her departure, my wife went to Costco to stock up on two weeks of food, toilet paper and other supplies. Furthermore, she made about 15 servings of her iconic lentils and rice dish, which were stored in the freezer to increase our chances of survival.
Not a single stitch of clothing, not even a sock, was in the hamper; she had cycled our entire inventory of dirty clothes through the laundry, so having to wear a pair of underwear more than once could be avoided.
My wife placed instructions in strategic locations throughout our home. For example, on the refrigerator were instructions on how to make rice just the way the kids like it, and in the laundry were instructions on how not to destroy the kids’ clothes. I was even briefed on exactly how to position dirty dishes inside the dishwasher for best results.
Neighbors and family were alerted, and our housekeepers were scheduled for an extra day of cleaning just to be sure the kids didn’t make too much of a mess — or to make sure I wasn’t on the floor, hog-tied and gagged while the girls ran amok.
Lastly, my wife wrote down every account number, username and password that I might possibly need as the temporary administrator of the Kovach Residence. I need to mention that all passwords were encoded, so I needed to learn my wife’s methodology of encryption.
As my wife was saying her goodbyes, our 5-year-old daughter wrapped her arms around my wife’s waist and cried while the 3-year-old simply pushed the wheeled suitcase out the front door, implying her absence would be welcomed (yeah, that’s the one in therapy).
Anyway, from the moment my wife walked out that door, I was subjected to a barrage of demands that never would be made in my wife’s presence, and any attempts on my part to maintain control of this once peaceful household were met with resistance. I couldn’t help but commiserate with Michael Keaton’s character in the 1983 comedy, Mr. Mom.
Over the next 14 days, there were several battles and skirmishes, and I carefully chose the ones worth fighting — the first being on day one. In preparation for her first day at daycare, I had already dressed my youngest daughter in compliance with my wife’s standards for public attire. However, while I wasn’t looking, my daughter made a quick wardrobe change and reappeared dressed like Pinky Tuscadero after a long night of cruising the boulevard. I had suffered my first defeat.
Unfortunately, her last-minute change to a trashy outfit paled in comparison to what that stinker did next. To take full advantage of Daddy being in a wheelchair, she taunted me as she gleefully sauntered down the stairs of the fire escape and into the alley behind our building, which is often used as a shortcut during rush hour by impatient sailors headed to the nearby Navy base.
I recruited my 5-year-old for assistance, but just moments later, she, too, was enjoying the escapades. I had lost control of this situation and from three stories above, it looked like that 1980s video game Frogger as the two girls darted back and forth across the alley. They thought it was funny, but Daddy was in full-on freak-out mode. I quickly knocked on my neighbor’s door, and she chased the girls around parked cars and dumpsters until she was able to round them up and safely return them to me.
In addition to a glass of wine for me, I discovered bribery for compliance using popsicles and gummy bears was somewhat successful, and episodes of the Barbie: Life in the Dreamhouse series on Netflix were a surefire lifesaver.
Don’t get me wrong, there were momentary respites. For example, there was this one time when the three of us were actually able to work together. We were beginning to run low on clean clothes, so we did a load of laundry. When it came time to retrieve the clean clothes from the dryer (inconveniently stacked on top of the washer), my oldest daughter stood on my lap to initiate the process. Like an assembly line, she handed the clean clothes down to me, and I subsequently handed the clothes to my youngest daughter, who proceeded to toss the clothes onto the floor. Mission accomplished. Well, maybe not.
As the days passed, washing my daughters’ hair got old, putting the girls to bed at a reasonable hour was almost impossible and the uneaten vegetables in the refrigerator began to rot. I thought being a good-enough dad would be innate, but exhaustion had set in, and my ability to maintain a household was eluding me.
I can be pretty stubborn, but at a moment of weakness, or perhaps it was just curiosity, I Googled, “How does a single dad with SCI (spinal-cord injury) raise kids?” I found just a few articles about fathers sharing their experiences, mostly anecdotal and nothing useful. Perhaps, we’re so few in numbers that it’s difficult to justify research, collect data or examine the unique challenges single fathers with SCI face. I guess we’re left to figure it out on our own. Fortunately, my status as a single dad was short-lived.
Thankfully, after one week, six days and 21 hours, my wife returned from her trip with renewed energy and vigor. Her homecoming wasn’t only welcomed, but absolutely necessary for our continued existence. After all, it had become apparent my approach to fatherhood wasn’t sustainable, and these girls needed to be reprogrammed ASAP.
Adversity always creates the opportunity to learn and become a better person. With that said, I have a new appreciation for my wife’s commitment to raising our two beautiful girls and her continued efforts to provide a quality life for our entire family. Furthermore, my wife has learned that I’m fully capable of safely operating the dishwasher. Mission accomplished. Well, maybe not.
As always, please let me know what you’re thinking at al@pvamag.com.
