Diary of a single “dad”

Morning is a sacred time. It’s quiet, serene, and I have it all to myself. Because it’s the time before John and Leah wake up.

I’ve noticed the two of them like to open every set of blinds possible first thing in the morning. I decide to get one step ahead of them, fumble around with the little twisty rods because they’re not what I’m used to, and am eventually rewarded with the sun’s golden rays that slip through. I’m new to this house and still figuring out its little nooks and crannies.

Breakfast is my first order of business. There’s two boxes of cereal in the kitchen: the healthy option for me, and Cheerios for John. He’s not a fan of my “grown up” stuff, but I’m not about to let him eat standard-issue ultra sugary goodness. Cheerios, the Honey Nut kind, is a decent compromise. Leah doesn’t eat cereal, so I steam a few Chinese “maan tau” bread buns for her. In case they wake up soon.

I lace up my sneakers and go for a quick morning jog around the neighborhood block. It’s just long enough to get my blood pumping and clear my head for the day, and not so long that if John and Leah wake up they’ll freak out about where I am. They’re old enough to handle themselves for a few minutes.

John’s up when I get back, and I see he’s making himself some coffee in the kitchen. Not long ago, he and I had a nice father-son moment when I taught him how to brew his own coffee. I don’t know if coffee is actually good for him at his age, but he enjoys it, and I don’t want to take this away from him. His body is going through a tough patch, and I know a lot is equally going on in his mind. I have to pick my battles carefully.

I walk over and put a hand on his shoulder. “Morning,” I smile. It’s a tad forced, and I’m hoping that he can’t tell the difference.

“Good morning, Dad,” he says, his voice a little hoarse.

I wish he’d smile back, or say more, but things could be worse. He could not call me ‘Dad.’ He could wonder who this person is in his house.

I see Leah at the living room dining table, which she’s claimed as her desk. She’s already dressed, and gathering a bunch of papers and folders together. Class starts in about a half hour.

“Auntie Patricia is taking you this morning, right?” I ask her. I obviously know the answer; I just want to make sure that she knows it, that she remembers who will take her to class, and who will take her home.

We don’t say much as we wait together in front of the house. I chuckle, thinking about whoever might be watching us. I’m so much taller than she is, me in my basketball shorts, and her in a nice maroon sweater and grey jeans. Her clothes are starting to look a little old, and I wonder if I should take her shopping. Reality gently reminds me I’ve always been bad at shopping for clothes for myself, forget for the female half of the human race.

Eventually a jade minivan pulls up and I open the door.

“Hello, good morning!” I say to “Auntie Patricia,” a sweet older woman; a family friend.

She waves back to me. “Good to see you!” Pleasantries between parents always seem so short.

Leah struggles to climb into the seat and pull her seatbelt in.

“Hello,” she says, emphasizing the “hel” part of the word. The exact opposite of how I say it.

“Thanks for taking her!” I say and gently close the door.

I walk back to the driveway and watch the van drive off as long as I can still see it. I’m so proud of her, being able to go off on her own, knowing that she’ll be home safely without my watchful eye over her.

Back inside, I see John’s plopped himself on the couch. He hasn’t gotten dressed, not that he has to today. I need to figure out what to do about him, but I decide today is not that day. I don’t know if that’s part of picking my battles, or me putting off the inevitable confrontation.

While the two sides of my mind fight, I shower, dress, and go into the room I’ve designated as my office. I work from home; one of the arrangements I made so that I could live where I am now. Every day is a little different, and today I answer a few emails, take a phone call about some blog posts that need editing, and start doing some research for a paper. Somewhere in there I snack on something simple for lunch. Sometimes a sandwich, sometimes leftover Chinese takeout. Today, it’s what remains of last night’s pasta.

Before I know it, it’s already the afternoon and Leah is back home for an afternoon break.

“Can we go to the post office today?” she asks me as soon as she’s through the door.

I may have decided that today is not the day to push back on John, but I do decide to push on Leah, who’s several years younger than John is. “How about we go tomorrow? You have a doctor’s appointment, and we can stop by since it’s on the way.

I hold my breath for her answer as she seems to mull over this for a little while.

“Okay.”

My eyebrows raise. I didn’t actually expect her to agree. It’s been hard, getting Leah to change from wanting to go to the post office everyday. But I’ve done it; she’s actually accepting my suggestions. Hell yeah, I’ll take the small victories wherever I can find them.

“What are you going to do now?” I ask her.

“Maybe work on homework,” she responds, sitting back at the dining table and opening the laptop I bought for her.

Back in my office, my mind digs into what she likes about going to the post office. I don’t think she actually gets any joy out of the post office itself. Who does? I wonder if she’s expecting a letter. Maybe one from her mom. I know she misses her mom. More than anything I can imagine.

My eyes start to feel a little heavy. I can feel my mind working overtime, thinking about all of these questions and trying to refocus on the work in front of me. Some days the distractions are worse. Today, not so bad, since I went for that morning run.

My thinking is punctured by some murmuring and yelling in the other room. The two of them are talking to each other. I’m not really sure what about, but I can hear John being a bit of a brat.

“Hey!” I roar from my seat, marching over towards the living room. I try to be loud enough to be firm, but not so much to be condescending. “What’s going on?”

John’s still sitting on the couch. Leah towers over him, hands at her sides. Maybe she was trying to ask him something, something private that John didn’t want to answer. Maybe it was for her homework. Those two have a complicated relationship. Everyone in his house does. When you’re family, it’s always complicated.

“Nothing,” John mumbles. He’s changed clothes sometime in between Leah leaving and coming back, now wearing a grey shirt with a red vest, and a blue beanie. He’s dressed awfully hip for someone his age, although I doubt he’s self-aware enough to know that, or even notice he’s been wearing this outfit a little too often.

Leah seems unfazed, and returns to the living room. Whatever they were arguing about, I’m already too late to know.

“What do you want for dinner?” I ask since they’ve pulled me from my work. The question is half a ruse; dinner is always up to me, but I like to give them some sense that they still have some agency over their dinner fate.

“How about beef?” Leah suggests.

Perfect, I think to myself. It’s exactly what I’d hoped she’d say. This is an excuse to use my new kitchen toy: a pressure cooker. I figure if I’m going to be doing most of the cooking, I may as well experiment and enjoy it. I decide that tonight’s menu will be corned beef, brussels sprouts, and brown rice. They prefer brown rice, which is the most alien concept I’ve ever heard of: preferring brown rice. I hate it, personally, but their health is my responsibility.

“How is it?” I ask John, to be kind, but I already know his answer.

“It’s good,” he mumbles back. I wonder if he’ll ever have more than one or two-word phrases for me.

Leah, on the other hand, is stuffing the shredded beef into her mouth as fast as her trembling hands will let her.

“I really like it,” she says in between bites. “It tastes really good.”

Her expressions are so simple, and I love it.

Dinner is an exercise in accepting silence as perfect, and not as a hole that needs to be filled. I used to try to ask questions about their days, or about what they wanted to do over the weekend. Now, we listen to the occasional clang of a fork hitting a plate, each other’s chewing rhythms, and the sounds of our own thoughts. When we finish, I take our dirty plates to the sink and pack up the leftovers in some containers.

John is back on the couch, and has turned on the TV. He has a thing for news in particular. I don’t know if he’s consuming it, trying to form opinions, or if he just likes the noise.

I check the clock, call for Leah, and grab my wallet and car keys. Leah also goes to class in the evening and needs me to drive her. I ask John if he wants to come with us. He shakes his head.

“You going to be okay at home?”

He nods.

I open my mouth to speak, and then hesitate. I want to tell him “try not to watch so much TV,” but the words don’t materialize. The lights flicker on his face, and the sound turns into a buzz in the background. If there’s a way to pull him out, I’m going to find it, and I’m not going to let go.

I drop Leah off and ponder what to do for the next hour. Not enough time for me to go home and back, but enough for a quick workout.

I breathe a sigh of relief once I pass through the gym doors, have a towel hanging from my hip and an audiobook blaring in my ears. This is a familiar scene, and a small bit of reprieve. It reminds me of a time that feels so far away now, before John and Leah. If I’m struggling to keep my mental muscles in order, at least I have this short window to keep my physical body intact. Bonus: It also takes my mind off the self-inflicted pressure and questions I’ve been pondering all day.

Am I doing a good enough job? Am I being a good parent? Am I throwing my own life away?

Those questions fade and will have to wait for another time as I focus on not collapsing under the two hundred pounds resting on my shoulders.

“Remember to brush your teeth,” I say to the two of them once we get home. I leave their two toothbrushes in the same cup next to the kitchen sink, which is where they like it.

I go off to my office to finish off the few tasks I didn’t get done earlier in the day. I get lost in my work, until a voice interrupts me.

“Goodnight, Dad.” It’s John, standing in the doorway.

I turn in my chair and smile back. “Night!” I watch, as he shuffles off to his room.

Soon, Leah does the same. Except she walks up to my desk and stares at what’s on my screen. She tries to figure out what I’m doing, her eyes scanning up and down, but I know she won’t get it.

“Goodnight,” she says, just above a whisper. I start to respond but then she adds, “thank you for coming back.”

Something stirs in my chest. I’m experiencing something, but it’s unfamiliar. Not really positive, and not negative either. It sits there, while I watch her head off to her room.

Which means that it is now once again, my time. I could do a number of different things. Maybe I’ll catch up on some work. Maybe pursue some of my hobbies like play the guitar. Maybe work on that one novel I’ve been thinking about. Or maybe, I’ll treat myself, and head into the city and try to have a fun night out with some drinks and friends — the few friends I still have in the area.

And then it tugs at me, that if I were better at this, maybe I should pause everything I’m doing. I should get up and tuck them in with a goodnight kiss. Maybe sing them a song. Or sit and read them a bedtime story. That’s what my dad used to do, read me a bedtime story.

I briefly think about my parents, how they raised me, and I remember that they weren’t perfect either.

Which knocks me out of my philosophical trance. I don’t do more, because John and Leah don’t actually call me ‘Dad.’ They call me ‘Dan.’

Because John and Leah aren’t my kids.

They are my parents.