One night in our house

Good parenting<bad parenting.

My wife and I chat on our respective commutes home from work. We realize that it will be the only “alone” time we’ll have until our heads hit the pillow at 11:15 PM. That alone time includes therapeutic work complaints and the game planning of dinner prep. I own the grill, the table setting and the “accessories”. She owns the rice, the black beans, the avocados. You’ll notice the kids have no tasks here; we’re failing as parents.

We arrive home within 5 minutes of each other. Before hitting up the grill, I insist on abandoning my work clothes and my third pee of the past two hours. I should get that checked out. She remains in work attire cause she’s more dedicated and responsible.

As operation “Weeknight Dinner” commences, the kids venture in to the kitchen. My daughter happily greets us with “Tomorrow is Halloween” and my wife and I collectively reply with “eh”. My son informs my daughter that “Mom and Dad clearly don’t care.” I temporarily lose my shit and give the “we had rough days at work” and “you don’t know what it’s like to work all day and then come home and provide for you two” speeches.

15 minutes of silence ensues. I feel no guilt and enjoy the solitude. The guilt would kick in later.

Rice bowls are good to go by 6:40 PM. I’m on IPA #2 and appreciating and loving the kids. I use more Sriracha than should be humanly possible but I let everyone know that my tolerance is due to my deviated septum. It makes no sense but it seems to end the inquiry. I actually have a theory about my lack of smell and spice tolerance but will spare you the dissertation.

Dinner ends and both kids have disappeared. We tag team the cleaning and only now am I questioning why the kids were not forced to assist or own the task themselves. I actually know why. They’ll never do the job well enough for me so I encourage them to bolt and abandon my domain. That’s bad parenting but I don’t care.

By 7:30 PM, episode 3 of “Stranger Things” is on the TV in the family room. My son has abandoned the show after reading every spoiler the night before. He does that thing where he lets you know what’s coming and I shoot him down with unsavory language. He returns to his bedroom and watches the Boston Celtics game.

My wife, queen of the multi-task, multi-tasks during the show. She’s good at it and I am not. If she ever were to divorce me, my inability to juggle would be justification #2. I’m not telling you #1.

My daughter and I (before I could type that I did that thing where you remove the “my daughter” part to know if I should type “I” or “me”) watch the show with copious amount of effort. By effort I mean we shut everyone and everything else out; also known as “how you are supposed to watch TV”.

We finish episode 3, thrown around theories and agree to continue on to episode 4. I get the hoopla around this show. It has killer 80’s references, the right sense of horror and intrigue with a dash of subtle humor. The sex scene between high school students is 51 seconds of unbearable silence but my daughter seems to be unaffected or she’s very good at feigning unaffected. If it’s the latter, I’m troubled.

Episode 4 ends and we shut it down for the night. I joke that I’m going to finish Season 1 later that night and no one laughs. I don’t know if that was the green light or they ignored me. If it was the latter, I’m used to it.

The dog gets her long before-bed-walk and she always knows when to appear by the front door by the sound of the zipper on my jacket. Mia and I walk in total darkness for 13 minutes and I swear I hear coyotes in the distance. I like scaring myself and I like the cold right before bed. It makes the journey to under the warm blankets that much more enjoyable.

We have a major issue.

I find the dog laying on our bedroom floor with a unicorn adorned headband in her mouth. This is really bad. She broke the headband. It is the centerpiece of my daughter’s Halloween costume. We will have tears, we will be up all night struggling to right the sitch and tomorrow is all but ruined.

Tears commence on cue.

But my wife is determined to right the ship. I know the face. It’s 25% pissed, 25% determined and 50% pissed determination. I sit back and know my role here. I make the trips to get the scissors, crazy glue and tweezers from downstairs. I provide emotional support and humor where needed.

My daughter says nothing and buries her head in her pillow while my wife works her magic. I wonder to myself (so as not to add additional stress), if an 11 year-old should want to be a unicorn for Halloween. At the same time I’m thankful that an 11 year-old wants to be a unicorn for Halloween. Keep it young and innocent daughter, thank you.

The headband is saved, my daughter smiles, my wife and I share a romantic high-five and we all resort to our respective bedrooms.

The dog has no guilt as she circles five times and sleeps on our bedroom floor.

My daughter plays Taylor Swift on her boom box, turns on her essential oils diffuser, puts on her unicorn slippers and retreats under her ridiculously comfortable comforter.

My son, I never know what he does but he’s at least quiet about it.

My wife and I brush our teeth, disappear under the blankets … and watch Real Housewives of Orange County.

Good night.