My wife's pain is annoying

On Wednesday, my wife had the anterior cruciate ligament in her right knee repaired. Since that time, the pain and inconvenience has been terrible. But don’t worry, I suppose I’ll get used to it.

What you don’t realize is that in a household of two adults, a four year old, a baby, two dogs, three cats, and three horses, there are a lot of tasks. What you don’t realize is that when you’re the only responsible party in that house, you have to be constantly in motion or else you will be killed. Literally killed by your own children and eaten by your dogs. True story. 

Friday night, the baby fought going to sleep and then woke me twice. Then she peed through her sleeper. Then my son woke up at 4am and announced that his pajamas and sheets were wet too. It was like some sort of urine free-for-all, where rules need not apply. So 8am Saturday morning, I was dragging out of bed. 

I went to my office for five minutes. Robin was soon up, and I knew this because I could hear her mechanized approach on the crutches, sounding like an Imperial Walker from Star Wars. Then my son got up. I knew this because I heard crying and assumed the baby was awake, then realized it was just the boy’s theatrics. I ignored him. Then the baby started to cry for real, and the fun began. 

Change the baby. Bring her to the table. Get a bottle for the baby. Get a bowl of cereal for the wife. Get bib for the baby. Ask the boy what he wants to eat. He decides on cereal, so deliver cereal. Get juice for the wife. Push in the boy’s chair. Attempt to get my own breakfast. Fail.

“Daddy, I’m done,” said my son. “I want another bowl of cereal.” 

But the boy had already had one bowl, so he was going to the end of the queue. 

“Your request is very important to us,” I told him. “Please wait, and it will be answered in the order in which it was received.”

Let the dogs out. Feed the dogs. Let the dogs back in. Realize they’ve been outside for fifteen seconds; let dogs back out. 

“Daddy, I need my vitamin.”

What the hell. I’m headed that way anyway. 

Get his vitamin. Get Robin’s vitamin. Get that second bowl of cereal while I’m at it. Notice the yogurt in the fridge; remove it to begin making my breakfast shake. Fail. Instead, deliver vitamins. 

“Did you feed the horses?” Robin asks. 

“Their request is very important to us,” I tell her. Then, to my son, “Do you want juice to drink?”

“I want milk.” 

“We’re out of milk. I used the last on your cereal. Do you want juice?”

He said no, so I went about getting Robin’s fish oil supplement. She can’t swallow pills, so it’s a liquid — mixed with Crystal Light to make it palatable. Pour. Mix. Deliver. Return to the counter to make my own food. Fail.

“Daddy, I want juice.”

“You said you didn’t want juice.”

“I want mommy’s juice.” Meaning the Crystal Light.

Whatever. 

Pour Crystal Light. Deliver. Look longingly at yogurt for my breakfast shake. The boy announces he’d like a third bowl of cereal. Pour cereal, add water because we’re out of milk. First everyone pees the bed, now we’re putting water on cereal. This household is crazier than a car dealer.

Realize the baby needs her rice cereal. Make it; deliver it. Get bib again, because what I grabbed last time turned out to be a pair of socks. 

“Can you get me some ibuprofin?” Robin asks. She’s supposed to start taking it today, so I look up the doctor’s instructions. 200mg. Two tablets. Three times a day. So is that 200mg three times a day, or two tablets twice a day? Or are the tablets 200mg? Do they make different doses? 

“Daddy, more cereal!”

But the kid has had enough; he’s going to barf and then I’ll have another task. So I deliver the ibuprofin. Refill water glass; deny first-born. Pick up dishes and return them to the sink. Open the dishwasher to get a spoon to make my shake; realize all of the dishes are covered with strange white detritus. Re-run dishwasher. Realize we’re out of milk for the shake anyway. Attempt to think around the problem. Fail.

“Daddy, because I ate three bowls of cereal, can I have that green sucker?” He indicates the “get well” bouquet of candy that my mother sent to my wife. He’s been harvesting it since it arrived. 

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because breakfast isn’t the time for suckers,” I said. But I knew I was kidding myself. 

Robin rises and begins Imperial Walking out to the living room. I know that if a small fighter dragging a wire were to fly around her four ground-touching limbs at this point, she’d fall forward and the rebellion would rejoice. I do not point this out. 

“It’s cold in here,” she says. 

Walk to a vent. Feel cold air. Go downstairs, touch flue. It’s warm, not hot. Change furnace filter, which is thick with the hair of five animals, three of which are yelling at me. Feed cats. Go upstairs, re-check vents. Better. 

“Could you bring my pillows from the bed?” Robin says. And on my return, she adds, “…and my pills and water?” 

Return to kitchen. Down my own fish oil supplement, my own vitamins. Begin making my food. Pained grunting comes from the front room at this exact moment. It’s not my wife. It’s my daughter. And there is only one time at which she grunts like that. 

Change baby’s diaper. Realize furnace is now working too well; turn it off. Suddenly it’s 9:45, but at least suddenly, I’m able to make my own breakfast. The boy is watching SpongeBob SquarePants, so I sit down with my shake to watch it with him. Fifteen minutes pass. Then a half hour. 

At 10:30, I realize the horses are surely getting impatient. 

I had a double-urine extravaganza last night. It took me nearly two hours to make my breakfast. 

And now, the horses are hungry. 

I realize I don’t give a shit.

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