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I relinquish my role as Primary Kid Wrangler to my husband after dinner. The exceptions being those I-can’t-take-it-anymore days when I am desperate to punch the proverbial time card the moment he sets foot in the house and those nights he is working late, has a meeting, or is going out with his Peeps. Most nights, though, our deal is: I clean up the kitchen and he cleans up the kids.
We’ve never talked about this division of work. It happened organically, and over time, it became our pattern. I am happy with this arrangement (he might not be but I’m not asking) and on those nights I am required to pull double duty, I am reminded how lucky I am that he is an involved parent.
But, as in most things, we do things differently.
“Mommy,” said Henry, splashing in his bath. “We thkip da shampoo tonight?”
“What? No. We have to wash your hair.”
His scowl matched his displeased mutter. “Daddy doeth.”
He pointed at the plastic rinse cup on the opposite side of the tub. “I’m thirthty. Gimme dat.”
“So you can, what? Drink the bathwater? No.”
“Pweeth?”
I raised an eyebrow and stared him down (this is easy to do when you have a 30 year advantage).
He glared at me. “Daddy doeth.”
I attempted to wash the grime from his ears. “Are you growing cabbages in there?”
“No, Mommy, don’t!” he screamed. “Daddy doethn’t do dat!” He thrashed from side to side trying to escape the dreaded washcloth. By the time bath time was over, I was soaked and the bathroom floor was dotted with flotsam from our battle. We both wished that his father was there.
He had one last question for me while I was drying him off. “Mommy? Can you thtand up and pee?”
“No.”
He smirked. “Daddy doeth.”
It’s after lunch and the kids are playing in the rec room. Washing the dishes, I analyze the snippets of conversation that I can overhear. I am certain the children are using the dress-up clothes and the Tae Kwon Do paddle in their latest game of “Make-Believe.” I consider intervening.
“I’m takin’ a bwake,” calls Henry, climbing upstairs. “But, whath your name again, ma’am?”
He runs into the kitchen wearing a police helmet and SWAT vest.
“I’m hungwy,” he says.
I guess the hostages can wait. Henry wants a donut.
I have been debating whether or not to post this as I want to maintain custody of my children. I’m only half-joking. No judging.
The babysitter hasn’t shown up, the older kids are still in their pajamas, and I am running late. Although I managed to get Henry dressed, he found—and is enlarging—a previously unnoticed rip in his pants while regarding his uneaten breakfast, now congealed and unappetizing. Today is Henry’s first day of preschool; the one I picked based on the school’s reputation (excellent) and proximity to our house (close).
I am feeling a bit apprehensive on his behalf in spite of my confidence in his social skills. After all, until recently, he has attended an all-day daycare, four days a week. He’s a social butterfly—I’ve witnessed it. No, my butterflies must stem from something else. Perhaps my awareness that a responsible parent eases her child through the transition to a new school. Henry missed both of the school-sponsored playdates due to our family’s packed summer schedule. He knows no one and hasn’t even seen his classroom. The closest we came to visiting this school was to look at the outside of the locked building from the inside of our vehicle. Sure, I talked with him about leaving his old daycare and tried to excite him about going somewhere new. But talk is not action. Any anxiety he is now experiencing is my fault. My plan is to make-up for my deficient parenting by spending the morning with him exploring his new space, facilitating conversations with his peers, helping him accept this change that was out of his control.
Of course, things do not always go as planned. Reality dissipates my vision. My choices: 1) Leave Medium and Large seated comfortably in front of the television at home; or 2) Bring Medium and Large with me and allow them to bicker and complain in the school’s parking lot. Neither of these options appeal, but I am out of time.
I hastily run through the list of admonishments: Lock the door behind me; do not answer the phone; do not answer the door; do not operate the stove; do not touch the computer; stay away from the windows; and remember to dial 911 if there is an emergency.
Henry protests that he wants to stay home and watch TV too. Tossing him into the vehicle, I buckle his seatbelt (I am not wholly irresponsible) and then recall that I have forgotten to tell Liam that I will be back in half an hour. I race up the front steps and ring the doorbell. I hear the patter of little feet and then the door is unlocked and opened. “Yes?” Liam asks.
I unthinkingly do a poor imitation of Edward Lewis: “I told you not to open the door.”
“Oh, right,” he says, before slamming the door in my face.
I knock and yell for him to re-open the door. When he does, I tell him not to worry and that I will be right back.
Henry sucks his thumb in the backseat. He clutches Piggy to his nose and inhales what I suspect is the scent of sweaty little boy with undertones of yesterday’s entrees: pizza, peanut butter and banana. He is silent.
Starting the engine, I murmur a brief prayer to whomever might be listening to protect my children from the monsters that hide in plain sight.
My guilt is monstrous. I have never left my children alone in the house before. I know that if my husband did this, I would be furious with him. I try and convince myself that the kids are safe; that I am not a bad mother.
Is it acceptable to assuage one guilt by accepting another?
We have a conspiracy in our family that’s bigger than the bunny, more fantastical than the fairy, practically more sacrosanct than that chimney sweep who wears red.
It’s all about the Pig.
Henry and his stuffed “Piggy” are a duo. You don’t often find one without the other. If Piggy is missing, our family goes on red alert until she is found. Piggy comforts Henry like none of us can. Sometimes, she even speaks on his behalf. Piggy is Henry’s best friend and champion.
Henry is long past the age my other kids were when I told them about the origins of bacon. And even though it’s something Henry should be told, I haven’t told him and I actively discourage others from telling him, too. I reason that he will be upset to learn that the fork he holds in one hand is spearing, in a figurative sense, the friend he holds in the other. I rationalize that telling him will only spark more battles at the dinner table.
On inspecting my motives for keeping the Secret of the Pork, I recognize the truth: I want to preserve his innocence. Because Henry is my baby. He is my previously unlooked for miracle-child; the one whose due date was December 25. He is the last of my brood.
Almost without my perceiving it, he has become a pre-schooler. Not only does he now expertly articulate his immediate needs; he also makes surprising observations about his world. His little body hums with energy and curiosity. He grasps the seeds of his independence firmly and with purpose as he pushes the boundaries I set for him.
I never thought I would feel this way. 
From their births, I pushed my kids to move on to the next phase, stage, year. I wanted them older because that meant they’d be easier for me to manage. I wanted a diaper-less, stroller-less, high-chair free world. And finally, I have it. Except now, like many others, I want time to freeze.
I can’t stop time. But I can delay the inevitable by keeping this one, small secret.
Your whine scrapes my nerves.
Rusty hinge. Must lubricate.
Wine, wine and more wine.
OINKtales 
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