Stay-at-home dad working without a net

G at playtime

Lady Ga-Ga at Play Time.

The day began ominously.

Determined to meet our new reality head-on, my wife and I both managed to shower and get dressed before 8 a.m. She’s starting work again, and I’m going to look after the kids four days per week and work weekends. I’ve been “under-employed” for about nine months and we just can’t wait any longer for a full-time job for me. Erin’s also anxious to work again, so we’re going to speed things along.

My whole blogging life has been building toward this moment.

I took all three girls to get changed while Erin cleaned up our room.  I set our youngest, Emmy, on the chair in Charlie’s room to watch as her older sisters got dressed. It wasn’t 15 seconds wrestling George into her outfit that I looked up and saw Emmy face down in the chair. She was staring at the floor, her head and shoulders over the edge of the seat.

Emmy had flopped forward, and I had to “abruptly” move Georgie out of the way to grab her baby sister. “Well, isn’t that something?” I thought. Emmy, four months old, bucks like a bull at Stampede. She arches her back and tries to eject herself from most swings or baby seats these days. Now I know.

Undaunted, we managed to get the girls dressed and start breakfast by 8:15. My plan was to take all three girls to Play Time at the Boys and Girls Club.

But before we left, Charlie dumped a glob of toothpaste over her toothbrush and the counter, and George managed to sit in her oatmeal then pee her pants. But that didn’t dissuade me.

Cha-Cha at Play Time.

Cha-Cha at Play Time.

In fact, spending 90 minutes at Play Time is a life-saver. There are games, toys, crafts and coffee for dads and moms. Well, mostly moms. Erin asked if they were impressed by a dad alone with three girls. No, but a few of them said they were impressed by my sinewy shoulders; I’m not sure if that’s the same thing.

Until the girls melted down at dinner time, we had put the whole Baby Face Plant incident behind us, and I even managed to steam clean the floors while wearing Emmy in the Moby wrap (“Quaid, start the reactor…”), make soup and bake bread. A Moby is a long stretch piece of fabric you tie around your body to carry your baby. It’s usually made from organic cotton or hemp because, you know, hippies.

I’m feeling pretty good about myself as I try not to fall asleep in the keyboard, but of course tomorrow is another day, and another opportunity to drop your baby on her face.