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Here I sit in my living room, beginning my first night of single parenthood. This doesn't come as any kind of nasty surprise. I was warned for weeks in advance of this eventuality, but I've got to say that I still don't feel completely prepared for the experience that awaits me. Yes, there are stacks of TV dinners in the freezer, and pages of phone numbers tacked to the bulletin board. I still have sense of mild dread.
My wife took off for Miami today at noon. I'm fine with that. She promised she'd come back. She's the one who wrangled all the bachelor food - heat 'n' eat stuff primarily. She made lists of all manner of contacts and even recipes for cold remedies to keep my son from succumbing to pneumonia in her absence. Pressure? What pressure?
I know that I'm a good father. I know which end of my son is the eating end, and which end isn't. Even if I didn't, he's plenty old enough now to clue me in on what I'm getting wrong. It really isn't the skill set that I'm worried about. I'm fantastically aware of the void that exists in our house. I know how to take care of my son. I'm just not used to doing it without help.
We're looking forward to the challenge, my son and I. We like the notion that salad is an option. We like the idea that the living room can be a base of operations. We know that there are enough televisions in the house to watch football and cartoons at the same time. We promise to keep the piles free of the entrances and exits. We expect to hold things together for three whole days so that mom will be proud of us. We miss her very much.