Last weekend, my husband took our son and five chicks (!) to a farm near his hometown. I stayed home with the baby. In keeping with tradition, my husband gave me his “Dadlogs” of the trip. Well, actually, of the drive up there. I guess once he got there, he realized that you can’t chase a toddler on a farm while typing on an iPhone. Or something.
For your amusement, I present The Dadlogs, Volume II.
0620 – The boy arrives, bedside, informing me it’s time to bring his chickens to the farm. The Odyssey of the Great Suburban Chicken Hatch should be over in a mere seven hours.
0630 – Alarm goes off, waking sleeping wife. I scurry about the house attempting to pack the car for our “hard” departure at 0700. Military precision is the name of the game.
0718 – Car packed. Departure. (MT Editorial Note: Seriously, with two kids, I’ve come to realize that 15 minutes late is on time.)
0724 – I realize packing the chicken bedding in two garbage bags is insufficient to prevent the boy’s allergies from recurring—will spend the remainder of the drive with the sunroof open to provide ventilation. (MT Editorial Note: Really? You don’t say.)
0725 – Boy: “Are we almost there?”
0748 – It occurs to me I’m not sure if any laws prohibit the interstate transfer of poultry. Hmm. We press on.
0817 – We stop hard at a red light. I make a very Dad-esque joke about “chicken sliders.” The boy doesn’t get it. I realize I’m acting like a middle-age dad and commit to minimal lameness for the remainder of the adventure. (MT Editorial Note: No comment.)
0908 – The boy has managed to wrap the car seat kick pad strings around his neck. Quick stop to toddler-proof. Perhaps the wife’s seeming constant state of chaos may be justified. (MT Editorial Note: You think?)
0930 – The calls of “Pee pee! Pee pee!” emanate from the backseat. I own this: McDonald’s is a short 2 miles away.
0948 – Damn you, McDonald’s cookie placement.
0952 – Wishing I’d just bought the cookie. Despite tough negotiating tactics from the boy, I stand my ground. He’ll settle for the promise of a cookie at lunch. If it’s the last thing I do.
1044 – Boy and I have a good laugh – “Do you think that car knows it was just passed by five chickens?”
1054 – He sleeps. I swear if you chickens don’t stop peeping you’ll be nuggets before noon.
1239 – We enter my Home State.
1244 – The boy is euphoric at each tractor, cow and horse we pass. Apparently he’s my son.
1330 – I get nostalgic and begin telling the boy all sort of stories about my youth.
1332 – “Where’s Gramps now?” Gulp. I’m not ready for this conversation. Nostalgia time over.
1334 – “Tractor!”
1336 – “Cow!”
1338 – “Horse!”
1351- We arrive. “Daddy, our chickens are home now.” Yes, they are son. Yes, they are.
Oh, look at my baby in a field. Sigh.
Um, is that my son playing by railroad tracks? RAILROAD TRACKS?
Why in the name of all that is holy is my child behind that barrier? Has his father lost his mind?
To read more about Dad’s adventures, please see Dadlogs Volume I.