My dad, bless his clueless 65-year-old heart. The dude means well. But he has no inkling of what it's like to be a parent these days, where frenetic schedules crimp our mental and physical bandwidth, and smartphones help us from feeling completely dumb.
Allow me to explain.
I'm in the kitchen last night, performing my usual after-dinner shimmy (aka, clearing plates, cleaning counters, shooing cat off said counters) when the phone rings. Thinking it's the same telemarketer that's been hounding me for days despite my stealthy attempts to avert contact (i.e., just not answering the phone), I carry on with my nighttime routine. But when the ringing continues, I grudgingly check caller ID. Alas, it's not a creepy marketer who, no matter that I've registered my number with every do-not-call list on the planet, assumes I'm itching to hear a sales pitch.
It's just my dad, checking on a set of golf clubs he sent for my 14-year-old son. After wrapping our banter about drivers and putters (well, actually, he spoke, I listened), we chatted about some other routine things.
And, then, the coup de grâce: "Wow, you sound tired," he remarked, his voice a mix of wonder and worry. "Is everything alright?"
Um, tired? Me? Ya think?
My real answer, however, was slightly more diplomatic. I explained that, yes, I was tired. But that the not-so-peppy tone in my voice was, in fact, normal. Between waking early, prepping breakfast, making lunches, chauffeuring kids to school, working out (gym), working in (home) and then repeating a similar drill that night, when the sun finally sets, exhaustion follows.
"Oh, I see!" Dad cheerily replied. "Well, take care of yourself and don't work too hard. Bye!"
Click.
Keep in mind: This is coming from a guy who calls Chicago, the Antarctic of North America, his home sweet home. Who during the winter (and sometimes even the early springtime) routinely shovels piles of snow from his sidewalk and driveway - and then, during really blizzardy conditions, duplicates the process an hour later.
Obviously, you can't put much stock into a single word he says. Although, when it comes to my sleep-deprived life, the man does have a point.
The sad thing is, despite what you guys might think, the stuff that has me diving for my mattress involves anything but glamour and excitement. In fact, allow me a sec to dispel a myth: The life of a writer involves sitting in front of a screen for hours at a stretch, by yourself, wearing über-casual duds and banging out sentences you hope might stir an emotion in someone while springing from your ergonomically incorrect chair at various intervals to, say, sort a load of clean socks. Oh, yes, there are wild, ruckus parties and drinks galore. But those crazy bashes involve children, and the beverages come in pouches, not pints.
Example from a few Saturdays ago: a 7-year-old's birthday party, with a guest list that included eight hyper little girls shrieking at glass-shattering levels, some of which were so high-pitched, I'm fairly certain that only dogs could detect the frequency. The party actually was a blast, but it ended at 10 p.m., a time when absolutely nothing good happens where overtired, heavily sugared first-graders are involved. The following day, naturally, everyone was a bit off kilter … but most especially the adults involved.
Tired? Yep, that's an understatement.
It's been 14 years since the birth of my twin boys, which means I'm behind on roughly 15,341 hours of sleep … not including the "waking hours" I've spent in zombie mode. You know what I mean, technically you're conscious, but only thanks to copious amounts of caffeine and a distant memory of that desert-like oasis known as sleep, which might- if you're lucky - reveal itself again someday.
See, you guys get it, and that's why I feel comfortable venting to you. Now, if you'd kindly explain all this to my dad, I'll happily provide his contact info.
Just make sure to call during the summertime. Otherwise, he's knee-deep in snowdrifts.
Alison Rich is a divorced mother of four. She is a serious writer who doesn't take herself too seriously and has been writing for our magazine since 2006.
illustration by Charles Marsh
