Sat. 11 am: Willow Point Park- SINGLE DADS CLUB

Sat. 11 am- Willow Point Park

SINGLE DADS CLUB

4:26 am

He cleaned the dishes. If I were to be kind about it, it only took him a year. I’m too drained to be petty. Hell, I’m too tired to continue even thinking about it. The throbbing hum quieted once I stepped into our apartment, kicking off the orthopedics that fused to my soles within the past 20 hours (but who’s counting? My paystub better be). I wind up my good shoulder, and chunk my trusty-

Tired.

Excuse me? I look past the kitchen and squint, hissing, try beloved-

A cough seemed to come from nowhere, bouncing off the popcorn ceiling.

Busted.

Okay, rude, but the voice was right.

It’s a busted coach bag, not just any busted-up coach. It was Michael’s gift to me, not just for finishing medical school but to celebrate the debt that came with it.

“Look babe, my debt’s gotta twin.”

Not the kind he was thinking. Always the wise guy, he just had to open that mouth of his, didn’t he?

That’s what scored him our first date.

The bag landed with an aged thud, sagging onto a freshly clean granite island, now devoid of drying nipples and cups, and those stale stray cheerios I had been feeding on each time I had popped out in the morning, or was it last night? Tuesday? The day I had just screamed Tuesday. But the calendar over the table makes it look like it was the 5th…rent had been due, and there was a surgery scheduled the day before the board of directors meeting but the morning after Michael’s parents took his uncle Terry back to Wisconsin-

Blessed be, I feel like I’m chaffing. My head hurts royally, and I blame Terry. Screw Terry. Screw ‘em.

My feet were just numb enough for me to step onto the carpet, and with each step, I stripped off a piece of damp, soiled, and saggy scrubs- a mess with a very, very high chance of being mine, someone else’s, or a warm combination of the two pooling at the hem of my waistband. I’m in nothing but a mixed-matched pair of my husband’s crew socks and a nursing bra I snagged from the NICU’s lost and found. It was two cups too big but it kept the cows in the barn the whole ride home at least.

The house was still, I’m still, stationary for once. I drape my white coat over my stomach, sprawling over my couch, in my house, enjoying the a/c on my skin but not fully divorcing the feeling of being tucked in. I knew I wasn’t going to make it into the bedroom, I had barely made it up the two flights of stairs. Sleeping on the lobby’s couch would’ve been uncouth and I couldn’t have that, not on a Tuesday at least.

With Micah, no no, Michael, being the doting househusband, he would usually tuck me in or carry me to bed after a shift but no, according to his schedule, I'd miss the deadline by mere minutes.

As I did with everything else, I blamed Terry.

8:13 am

Sleeping does little to erase the 20 hours, the same way how the black-out curtains in the living room fail to stop those skinny slivers of light, forcing their way in from the sliding glass doors. In the same way, once hungry, the couch tries to eat your shorts and has you looking crazy when you stand.

Coffee heals and I remember it fondly. I peel myself off the couch, tossing a stuffed cat off my chest, and stomp off to the bathroom, squeezing my eyes tight to protect what remained of my sleepiness to pee and put together what remained of my mind. The day after was always the hardest, the second often too much for rest- the sweet spot souring by evening, and the third parting from you without so much as a word.

Looking at myself in the mirror, I could see glimpses of the woman who put herself through school working full time and sleeping on her cousin’s couch. The girl who gave herself to studies, damn it all. The water droplets clinging to my skin aged me in a way that made my eyes sting to witness. Yesterday’s makeup looks like dirty rainbow swirls goin’ down the sink.

In the dim hall, twirls of smoke danced in the light. The cheerios were back. Crumbs lined the counter next to crushed bits of warm fruit and an open gallon of almond milk. I shut my eyes trying to will a tear to come, I took last night's cleanliness for granted. Miles was at the stove with one of the twins strapped to his back in a cocoon- bouncing away, dodging bacon grease to some pop song. There’s something new written on the calendar in a jarring neon green, 11 am Willow Point Park- SDC.

“Mornin’ Chief.” Without missing a beat, and switched his hips, moving like the other Michael, and twirled over to my side of the kitchen. He bopped left, and boom toast appeared. Jived right and had coffee sputtering in seconds, filling up my cup.

When did I marry a friggin’ magician?

“Doctor Daddy, aren’t you chipper?”

“It’s the only way to be, baby, the diapers are changed, you’re off today and I makin’ waffles!”

Waffles is a magic word.

A sugar-induced spell and I'm reminded of our mornings in college. He'd taped my index cards all over the dorm, cabinets swathed in neon sticky notes, his distinct, annoyingly neat scrawl, and an abstract rendition of the human anatomy colored in on the fridge.

“What do you think babe? You have that midterm next week.” he’s got a habit of talkin’ to you the first thing in the morning. Before the coffee, with his mouth full, on the toilet- you name it. A droplet of syrup was pooled up in the corner of his mouth, a baby-faced sophomore who couldn’t help himself.

“It's certainly unique,” I stepped closer, swiping a taste from his lip. The syrup was that expensive glass kind, and the kiss was equally rich. I grabbed the fridge’s bicep, taking notice of the cluster of dots on the handle. “These look like-”

“Yeah,”

“Are they?”

“Is this you?” I turn to face him and find him sprawled out on the kitchen counter, bare-chested with vocabulary and diagrams lining his pale skin.

“Do you think you’re good to study or would you like a little cheat sheet?” He traces his abdominals, smudging the illustration. “I’m very open to extra credit.”

The test? Aced.

Health code? Violated.

10:31 am

“Babies? Daddy’s boys?” He claps at the twins and beacons them forward, Mason waddles with effort while his brother zips by in his roller. “Care to remind Doctor Mommy what day it is?” The boys assume the position as practiced and point to their matching shirts.

“Frisay!”

“Good effort boys, and what’s special about Fri-day?”

“Bamwa!”

“What baby?” I smile and strain my ear closer, the coffee has yet to do shit to make anything sound coherent. Your guess is as good as mine.

“Annunciate son,” Matt looks to me. “We’ve been working on them projecting their voices-”

I could only laugh, “Listen here, Mitchell-”

“Michael." The corners of his lips dipped down for a split second before the kids could catch it. "Boys, you hear that? Mommy forgot Daddy’s name again! How silly!” All three of them erupt in giggles.

I rubbed what sleep remained from my eyes and looked from him to the boys, and back again. Yeah, he was starting to look like a Michael to me again, the knockoff Foldgers was starting to do its thing.

“Now let me see what the fuss is about,” and I scooped Cameron, my younger twin, to get a better look at the shirt, and despite his violent squirming, I managed to make out “Halston Family Reunion-2012”.

“Did Bamwa mean that Grandma’s coming?” The boys shriek.

I put on my best smile, “How about you and Connie Bee grab your shoes and we go for a ride?”

“Outside?”

“Outside.”

“Outside! Outside!”

“Outside! Now shoes please,”

An unmanned pamper goes rogue. “Outsiiiiiide!!!”

Doctor Daddy with those wild brows of his, dips his head towards the glass doors and steps out onto the balcony with his ceramic mug.

Heck yeah, this went on for a good minute until I gave up and went to search for the shoes myself. By the time I got out from underneath the couch with Mason’s left croc in tow, I met my husband out on the porch.

“Since when do we get the paper? They still print?”

I stretch out my fingers, stealing a sip from his mug, and grimace, betrayed by the taste of decaf. “Who are you? And how are you just now reminding me about this?”

“She planned this visit months ago.”

“Yeah but on my day off? Like I want to sit around and entertain your mother, I barely want to entertain myself. I never know what to do with myself after a work streak like that.”

“You never do and I see you, honey.”

“Unsubscribe from Oprah for me, please. I’m being serious.”

“As am I, I have to resort to using our kids as walking calendar reminders to keep you accountable nowadays. If I had told you outright, you would’ve done anything to get out of it.”

“Like work another 20 hrs?” I grumble into my shoulder. I was already drafting the message in my head.

“Like work another 20hrs. You barely remember my name the next day, and-” He sits up, setting down the paper and taking his mug from me, and what little remained in it. “You were trying to breastfeed a stuffed animal again.”

Here he goes telling all my business.

“It happened one time,”

“This is the third time, and don’t think I didn’t hear you come in last night,”

“You were having a full-on conversation by yourself.”

“Don’t be like that, you were talking mess about my purse being busted up. I heard you!”

“At four in the morning? When I have the boys in the bed with me?” His face twists for a second. “And yes it is! You won’t let me get you a new one!”

“With what money? Who’s money? ‘Cause only one of us is working.”

“And only one of us can read a damn calendar, too, so I guess that’s fair.”

“I’ll have you know, MARCUS, that God doesn’t like the ugly or the petty. Decaf’s changed you for the worst.”

A flush of pink rises from his neck and spreads across his nose, his way of fighting a smile and trying to stay mad at me.

“You can't stop yourself, can't you? "

I shift my weight and shrug, eyeing that ugly mug of his. "I guess I can't."

"I’m going to pick up my mother. I’m taking the boys with me.”

That Judas! “What about me? I wanted to take them somewhere for an hour.”

The little white croc is pried from my fingers, and a rough kiss is pressed into my hair.

The locks clicked in tandem, and the fading steps of haphazard toddlers faded by the time they reached the stairs, six feet melded into two, and then it was quiet.

Our balcony overlooks the parking lot and very clearly I see Michael’s back, and my boys’ dangling feet as they make their way down the sidewalk. The boys caught sight of me and waved with boogery, wide grins- telling everybody walking past my name, their dad’s name, and Bambwa’s favorite color. Doctor Daddy on the other hand didn’t offer so much as a wave.

‘I wanted to give you some space.’ He said in a text.

I felt awful. Worse, I couldn’t tell if which version of myself this was.

1:07 pm

I tried reading, picked up the mess from breakfast, showered, and left the water running for background noise. Two episodes into catching up on The Bachelor I began to feel the eye strain crest over the horizon, it was nowhere close to lunch and they weren't back from wherever they ran off to. Taking my babies when it was my turn. Damn him and his sensitivity. I wet a cloth and pressed it to my eyes, praying that would make the time go by faster. I door-dashed a singular cheesecake from Lou’s, slipped into my Mother’s Day robe and chowed down, felt sick, and did squats to atone for the sin. I don’t understand how the great Doctor Daddy does it, day after day, confined to this space. His life and the boys’ lives were all up on this calendar. I was there too, my schedule written in black like an intrusion.

He was right, not that I’d ever tell him.

It was right there on Friday, ‘Grandma’s visiting’. No note of when she’s leaving, of course, I’d be asking too much.

The previous weeks were filled with playdates, lunches with old pals from college, and the occasional note about what new episodes dropped that week.

SDC was the only abbreviation.

What was so great about this SDC?

2:43 pm

I heard keys jangle and connect with the door, so I grabbed the calendar off the wall and stomped over to intercept him. I flicked back the top lock and pulled.

A short, bright-faced older woman stood in the entryway, a lanky gentleman with a bad sunburn flanked her like a shadow.

“Now, Jennifer, you’re looking worse than what Mikey described.”

Juniper Mae Halston. My Smother-in-law from hell.

The full name is a part of the package, HOA chairperson for like the fifth year in a row, bridge fanatic, makes an equally mean lemon meringue and hates mine. "I cleared my whole schedule for you, hon. This weekend is going to be a hoot."

And great, she brought Terry.