Okay, I’m 53 stinking years old, am able to dress myself, hold down a full-time job and am yet to have a felony conviction on my record. So why is it that my wife thinks I can’t hold down the fort for two weeks without letting the house burn down or our 12-year-old run away to join the circus?

My wife and I registered our youngest son Henry for middle school this past week. Yes, time does fly. It seems like it was just the other day when I swore I wouldn’t have children since having a kid was – I used to say - like having and training your own replacement. Now I have two kids. The oldest, Jack, who is 20, recently got his own apartment so we are half-way to being empty nesters although Henry maintains he plans to live at home forever.

Anyway, while we were at open house for Henry this past week I noticed my wife paused at his teacher’s desk while Henry and I were checking out his new locker. Being the award-winning reporter that I am, I decided to eavesdrop to make sure they weren’t talking about me. Well guess what, they sure were.

“I’m going to be out of the country at the end of the month,” I heard her tell Henry’s teacher in a hushed tone, referring to her pilgrimage with other nurses to Ireland. That’s right, I didn’t get to go to Disney with the family this past summer and now I don’t get to go chase leprechauns either.

“I just wanted you to know that in case you notice that Henry isn’t …” she trailed off as she saw me standing there.

“Really?” I interrupted. “I’m an adult. I think I can handle the child rearing while you’re gone.”

Not hardly missing a beat, the wife continued. “So if there’s any issues I’ll be back the middle of the month.”
“Helllloooo!” I bellowed. “I’m standing right here. I can hear everything you say. What kind of issues? How can there be issues? It’s just two weeks.”

The wife rolled her eyes. “Anyway,” she said to the teacher. “You get my point.”

Henry’s teacher nodded. “I understand,” she agreed.

Okay, I may not be the sharpest spoon in the drawer but give me a little credit for not being a dumpster fire either. I can take care of myself and Henry without my wife having to call in Aunt Bee to take care of us while she’s off hunting that pot of gold.

“Henry will be just fine,” I assured the teacher in a dry tone, shooting my wife a glare while at the same time realizing I’d better be sure Henry’s hair isn’t disheveled, he doesn’t smell like a stinky little boy and that his homework is marginally correct while I’m in charge at home.

“Uh huh,” my wife gave me the stink eye.

“Please. I’m a grown man,” I argued as the wife muttered something under her breath.

So, at the end of the month, it’s on. I’m Mister Dad for two weeks. Wish me luck and say a prayer.

Contact Duane Sherrill at          
news@smithvillereview.com