This month, in Lilla Rogers’ Assignment Bootcamp, we are making wall art with a nautical theme. Here are some of my sketches. Check back next week for my final piece!
It’s 6pm. The baby is crying (which is what babies do, every night, as soon as you start to even think about dinner). As I tend to him, my daughter starts drawing all over her legs in purple and green marker. Then she decides to “help” me cook and puts said markers into the bowl where the raw chicken is marinating and mixes it all together with her hands. I put the baby down and get Hazel to the sink to wash. As I fish her markers out of the bowl, the baby promptly starts screaming again. My hands are covered in raw chicken goo and Hazel has gone upstairs. She starts yelling from the bathroom, “Mama, mama, mama. I’m done. Come wiiiiiiippe me!” in this urgent, high-pitched whine that grates on my already fried nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard.
And then, my husband walks in from work.
He takes one look at me--picks the baby up, goes upstairs to help my daughter, and then takes them both outside to play and water the flowers.
I wash my hands. And exhale.
He is my best friend. My partner. And on some days, he is my salvation.
Last weekend, we celebrated Father’s day. We had a lovely breakfast with my dad and then he and my husband went out for a round of golf for the afternoon.
In my family, mother’s day seems to be a bigger deal. I don't think it should be. I’m sure I would have completely lost my mind by now without my husband (I honestly don't know how single parents do it).
To all the Dads out there, I salute you. Happy (belated) Father’s Day.