The Great Irony of Parenting

Last post, I mentioned the irony of travelling – when you are away from the kids you wish you were with them; when you are with them, you daydream about vacations. This is actually a corollary of what I call the great irony of parenting (This is like my “Murphy’s Law” so bear with me here). Here it is:

The great irony of parenting: I love my kids, but sometimes I just hate being their parent.

This is directly related to another saying: “The years are short but the days are long.”

Parenting is often great. On the odd Saturday afternoon, Andrea has needed to be out running errands or whatever, and I’ve had primary caretaking responsibility. We’ve spent these halcyon days playing in the playroom. The kids and I do puzzles, play board games while totally ignoring the rules, pretend to be Batman and the Joker beating the snot out of Thomas the Train. It’s great and we play for a couple of hours.

But then something happens. I look up and I get this sensation: Oh my god, it’s only four o’clock. I’m now done. Batman’s assault on Thomas has lost its novelty. I feel like we’ve had plenty of quality interactive time and now a little quiet time to ourselves would be perfect. And I have this unstoppable urge to tend to my iPhone villagers – they’re not going to lead themselves into battle with neighboring villages, after all!

The problem is, the kids just don’t see it that way. In their minds, it’s not time for quiet time to ourselves. It’s never time for quiet time to ourselves. We want daddy! There can never be too much quality interactive time.

Like that third piece of chocolate cake or 27^th time through Billy Madison it’s now too much of a good thing for me. I’m done. Fried. But the kids can eat more chocolate cake. They’d eat chocolate cake every meal, and snack times, to boot.

The worst of it is, we’re moving out of the good period. We’ve had fun up until now, but the witching hour is upon us. The kids are getting tired and ornery, and the toughest parts are ahead: piano, dinner, tubby, bed. I groan at the prospect of four more hours of parenting, having already reached burn out.

At this point, Andrea sends me a text: 3 more stops. There in 2 hours. Can u start dinner?

Just when I’ve given up all hope, I remember daddy’s best friend: Scooby Doo movie night! The afternoon is saved!