A Work-At-Home Dad's First Morning

This was just my first day on the job and first days usually go smoothly. There is so much planning involved, there is so much apprehension and consideration beforehand. While my nerves were surely piqued, I had complete confidence that I would not only get Bridget to the train, I’d survive my ten hour shift. There were four bottles each with about three ounces of milk perfectly lined up on the top shelf of the refrigerator. I’d already selected a pint glass to serve as my bottle warmer. There was an ample supply of Pampers Swaddlers Size 1 diapers, and new package of Pampers Sensitive Baby Wipes. Bridget had even selected a back-up outfit for Aiden, just in case he somehow soiled what he was wearing. I also had already spoken with both of my sisters-in-law, who were students out on summer break, and informed them that they were being placed them on call. I had spoken with my neighbor, a teacher on summer break, who was successfully guiding her second child through infancy. She too was on call. And, having planned ahead, I had gotten all of my stories for that week filed with my editors ahead of deadline. My ability to do this was one amazing benefit of being a freelance writer. Of course, I’d soon learn that being a freelance writer doubling as a fulltime dad would also have its challenges.

But that was for later. This was the first day and I was ready. When the clock on our stove read 7:24, Bridget gently removed a half-sleeping Aiden from her breast and passed him to me so that I could get him changed, socked, capped and placed into the car seat. Too sleepy to complain, Aiden accepted his placement, and snuggled deeply into chair. Bridget grabbed her computer and her pump bag and announced that, “we’d better get going,” before dashing into our bedroom to grab a back-up shirt, “just in case.” Moxie, who by this point had rolled up on the doormat, leapt to her feet. I grabbed Aiden and headed out the door.

The drive to the commuter stop a few blocks away seemed unusually normal, except for the fact that Bridget was riding in the backseat with Aiden. Moxie was relishing her promotion to shut gun. I don’t know what I expected, certainly not a banner draped across the roadway that blared: “Good Luck, Dave!” But I wanted acknowledgement, something other than being that pseudo-anonymous guy in the red Pontiac driving by the trickle of commuters on their way to the train. All of them were totally unaware of what I was about to undertake. Did they have any idea how crazy it was? I, the guy who steamrolled through college and my 20s swearing not to burden the planet with another generation, was about to become the primary daytime caretaker of my child. I, the guy who three months earlier would rather have watched re-runs of old Red Sox games, alone, in my basemen, than spend quality time with family, was about to be The Dad. I, the hip-hop writer for the Chicago Sun-Times, was about to preface interviews saying, “If you hear a baby in the background, that’s my son laying down vocal tracks.” I, with a gut forged of Guinness and Bud Light, was about to covert one of my pint glasses into a vessel for warming breast milk. I was confident, but I had palpable doubts. “You’re going to do great,” Bridget told me as we pulled up the stop. “You’re the best dad in the world.”

“Thanks,” I said, “Call often, OK?”

“I will,” she comforted me, leaning over to give Aiden a kiss and letting herself out from the backseat.

“You’ll be OK, too,” I offered.

“I know,” she promised, before waving at the dog, “No Moxie, stay here with Daddy.” Then she turned and headed for train platform.

I put the car back into drive and cracked the driver’s side window. Moxie leapt into my lap and thrust her nose up to capture the scents of the morning. I looked into the rear view mirror to check on Aiden. All I could see was the back of his car seat. “We’ll be home soon,” I promised. He didn’t reply.

I pulled away and we were home a few minutes later. I popped open the driver’s side door and Moxie hopped out, running to the back door. I walked around the car, opened the passenger’s side door, and lifted the car seat out of the base. Aiden was sound asleep. I tiptoed into the house and down into the basement, where my office had been relocated to make room for the nursery. I sat the car seat down on the basement family room sofa and took a deep breath. I’d never successfully removed the tentacles of the car seat without waking him up and sending him into a crabby fuss. But this time, I had to. Mom was on the train. There was no way she could pull him back into his comfort zone. I slipped a couple fingers under the center latch and pressed down the button to release the straps with my thumb. They clicked free. He rocked his head to one side, but remained asleep. As gently as I could, I slipped each of his arms through the restraining straps. Not a peep. Sliding my hand behind his back, I lifted him up and out of the seat and held him against my chest. He nuzzled into my neck. Softly, I walked into my office, where his Pack N Play was ready to receive him. I lay him down, and covered him with an Afghan. He wriggled twice, and settled.

There wouldn’t be another peep from him for two and a half hours.