The conversation between the three of us was so stilted. I tried talking to a still sad Noah about art, but I couldn't follow some of the painting terms he used, and the conversation faded away.
I tried asking Liam about basketball, and only got short answers ofyes, no,andfine.
Every branch I tried to extend to talk about something abruptly broke off when I realized I had only ever really knownmy sons at a surface level.
Liam and basketball, Noah and art.
In the past, I was able to connect with them by buying them the things they needed for their activities—or rather, making the money so Wendy could take them to the store to buy them the things they needed.
Then I would come home from work, Wendy would call the boys down, and they would run to me, show me what they got, and say, "Thank you, Daddy."
I never understood why the thank you felt undeserved, but I just hugged my boys close and said, "You're welcome."
I always thought Wendy was the most incredible mother, able to follow whatever artist Noah was interested in at the time, or whatever basketball player Liam idolized. I could never keep track of it when they chatted their little heads off at the dinner table, but my wife had it covered. She had everything covered while I made the money.
That was our teamwork in my mind.
Now, I realize that I have never had to look after them by myself. Ever. Wendy was always there, or my parents were watching them, or a babysitter.
It's never been just us alone together.
After dinner, the boys cleaned up and left without a word up to their rooms.
I think of after dinner at home, during the good times, when we would all crowd around the TV, the boys sprawled across the floor or the couch, Wendy tucked under my arm as we watched a movie.
Sometimes I'd feel her head drop down on my shoulder as she fell asleep, and I would press kisses to her hair, feeling so full of love I could burst.
I never even consideredwhyWendy was falling asleep in the middle of the movie. I thought she was just tired from the day like I was, but... it was exhaustion.
She was usually the last one in bed and the first one up in the mornings. She would get breakfast together while makingsure our lunches were packed. She would get the boys up and moving, and get me up and moving.
I'd come downstairs, and she'd hand me my breakfast burrito, my lunch bag, and a thermos of coffee before wrangling the kids and their bags, and herding them into her car.
I'd kiss the boys, kiss her, tell her I love them, and head on my way to work while Wendy did school drop-off.
I never really thought anything of it because that was our routine, but being forced to step back, I feel I've been sincerely missing something big in my parenting, leaving Wendy to carry the brunt of it all.
It is teamwork, but it's unbalanced.
And I have to fix that too.
???
Saturday morning comes with yet another realization—I haven't cooked anything in years.
Besides warming up leftovers in the microwave, all my meals were provided for me by Wendy... or the local fast-food joint.
Wendy was an excellent cook and could pretty much whip up anything the boys and I were craving. Weekend breakfasts were always something to look forward to.
Now I try—and fail—to put together breakfast for my sons.
Noah likes waffles, so I figured that would be easy enough. There are no frozen waffles in the freezer, but my mom does have the mix—just add water.
Simple, right?
"Yeah, real fucking simple," I grit my teeth as I wave a dish towel in front of the smoke alarm.
I must have turned the waffle iron on too high when I poured the batter on, and then I became distracted trying to Google whether I messed up by using salted butter instead of unsalted, because I really don't know the fucking differenceand why someone would use one over the other.
