Chapter 17
Apparently it Does Take a Village…
Ben
I stir the powdered cheese and milk into the macaroni while Vivian’s words about me being an amazing dad float through my mind.
Amazing is a big word. A-MAZ-ING. It feels pretty nice to get a thumbs up from someone about my parenting, especially since it’s not like I have a manager who gives me a quarterly review.
Ben, these last three months, you excelled at reading bedtime stories—terrific inflection and your accents are getting much better.
You need to work on handing over age-appropriate responsibilities to Henry.
He absolutely can and should learn to tie his own shoes.
I guess I am doing a pretty darn good job, if I do say so myself.
My son is happy, he’s healthy, he gets plenty of fresh air and exercise, and good food to eat.
We have fun, yet I’m also very responsible.
If I had to guess, I’d say I’m in the top twenty percent of responsible parents.
I get him to school on time every day with a full tummy (lately due to Vivian) and a lunch packed.
He always has clean clothes to wear, I never let him take unnecessary risks, and I make sure he has lots of experiences to expand his mind.
I should write a book: The Single Dad’s Guide to Raising a Wonderful Child, by Benjamin James.
I pop the lid on the pot of mac and cheese to keep it warm while I prepare some veggies.
I smile to myself while I wash some cherry tomatoes.
Yup, honestly, I think I’ve got this parenting thing figured out.
Henry and I will be great, even without Dominic.
I pour the tomatoes into a bowl and get to work cutting up a few mini-cucumbers.
The oven timer goes off and I flip the chicken strips over, then put them back in for another ten minutes.
Yes, sir, this place runs like a well-oiled machine.
I can hear Henry playing with his Star Wars toys in his bedroom.
I gave him a quick shower when we got in from the beach, so he’s already in his jammies.
Should make for a pretty relaxed evening.
Just him, Vivian (who is having a shower, not that I’m thinking about that), and me.
Maybe we’ll watch a movie or something after I get him to bed.
Once the veggies are ready and the table is set, I glance around for something to do while I wait for the chicken to finish cooking.
Spotting Henry’s lunch kit on the counter, I decide to unpack it and clean it out for tomorrow.
His job is to remember to take it out of his backpack after school.
(So there, imaginary HR person. He does have some age-appropriate responsibilities.)
When I open it, I see a note from his teacher.
Dear Mr. James,
Just a gentle reminder to fill in and return ALL of the forms that have gone home with Henry since the start of the year.
They were due at the end of last week. You also need to sign up on the Let’s Go app so you’ll have notice of all classroom events (the instructions are in the papers sent home last Thursday).
Also, don’t forget that tomorrow is Family Day, which means the family tree project is due!
I hope you and Henry are making good progress, as it is a very big job.
I’d hate for Henry to be the only one who doesn’t have his family tree to share with the class tomorrow.
Best,
Ms. Kahn
What the…? “Henry!” I rush over to the front entryway, where Henry’s backpack is hanging neatly on one of the low hooks I installed for him. “Henry! Come here!”
Unzipping the bag, I see it’s jammed with crinkled up papers. I start emptying it out, my heart racing a little. “Dammit,” I mutter. I’m the irresponsible dad of the class. The Single Dad’s Guide to Getting Off on the Wrong Foot with Your Child’s Teacher, by Benjamin James.
Henry comes around the corner flying an X-wing fighter that was mine when I was growing up. “Yeah?”
“Umm, did you know that you’re supposed to give me all these papers from school?”
He makes little ‘pshhow, pshhow’ gun sounds, aiming the toy at the stack of pages I’m holding. “Ms. Kahn said to be careful not to lose those, so I’ve been keeping them at the bottom of my bag.” He gives me a proud nod. Job well done.
Rubbing the bridge of my nose, I take a deep breath, then say, “From now on, any time your teacher sends important papers home with you, put them directly on the counter in the kitchen with your lunch kit.”
“Okay,” he says, zooming to the kitchen.
“Seriously, Henry, this is important grown-up stuff,” I say in a firm voice.
“All right.”
I hurry into the kitchen and set the papers down on the island. “And what’s this about a family tree project?”
He stops and smiles. “Oh yeah, we get to make a huge poster with pictures of everyone in our family. Ms. Kahn put hers up on the wall and it’s really cool. It even has a picture of her as a baby. Did you know she was a baby before?”
“Uh, yeah, I probably would have guessed that. Listen, you have got to tell me this stuff, dude,” I say in my not-so-perfect dad voice.
His little face falls and I feel instantly bad.
He’s five. It’s his first time on this planet.
How was he supposed to know any of this?
Flipping through the pages, I realize I’m way behind.
There are all sorts of documents I should have signed, including something about giving permission for his photo to be used on the school’s website and social media (hard no), classroom expectations, a parent volunteer sign-up, something about acceptable snack and lunch foods, and, finally, I get to the family tree project.
I glance it over quickly, then let out a groan.
We absolutely should’ve been working on it for days.
The timer for the chicken strips goes off and I rush over to the oven to take them out.
“Okay, we’re going to have to eat fast and get right to work on this project,” I tell him, plating up his food at lightning speed, only to have two cherry tomatoes roll off his plate and onto the floor.
In my quest to reach one of them, I step on the other, squishing it into my foot and the floor.
“Shit,” I mutter in my almost-inaudible voice.
“Of course that’s going to happen right now. ”
Vivian walks into the kitchen, her long hair wet against her T-shirt. “Smells delicious,” she says. When she looks at me, she narrows her eyes a little. “Everything okay?”
“Nope,” Henry answers. “My dad’s in a bad mood. You can tell because he talks to himself very quietly when he’s grumpy.”
She looks over at me, clearly trying not to laugh. “Did something happen?”
I hobble over to the sink to get some paper towels, using the edge of my left foot so as not to make a bigger mess. “Yeah, sort of. I have just become aware of a pretty big homework assignment that’s due tomorrow.”
“Henry has homework?” Vivian asks, plucking the other tomato off the floor and bringing it over to the sink to wash it. I get a whiff of her shampoo as we stand side-by-side, me wiping the bottom of my foot.
“Apparently, but if you ask me, it looks more like I have homework,” I tell her.
Grabbing the instructions off the island, I say, “How are five-year-olds supposed to get posterboard and print photos? They can’t drive.
” I gesture at the sample tree. “And he can’t fill all this stuff in.
He doesn’t know how to spell yet. That’s why he’s in kindergarten. ”
Vivian glances over it, then says, “Yeah, this is … a lot to do.” She gives me a firm nod. “Let’s eat fast and get to work.”
“You don’t have to help,” I tell her. “Seriously, you’re already so busy.”
“Nope, this is top priority,” Vivian answers. “We can’t have Henry showing up at school without his first big homework assignment.”
My heart does this weird thing, where it feels like it’s growing bigger by the second.
God, I want to kiss her. Just a quick ‘thank you so much’ peck on the lips.
Followed by a hard, lingering, ‘I want you so bad, it hurts’ kiss.
But there’s no use in entertaining that thought because it’s never going to happen.
Besides, there’s no time for that because I’m totally screwed right now.
“How’d it go at the store?” she asks me as soon as I walk through the door.
She’s sitting on the couch with her laptop, and I assume she’s working.
It took over an hour to find photos of everyone on my phone and place the order.
Then I rushed out to the store to get the supplies and pictures while she put Henry to bed.
We decided to draw the tree ourselves and have Henry trace it with a big crayon in the morning.
According to the instructions, he can also trace the names of his relatives rather than writing them out himself, so that’s what we’ll do.
I hold up the bags. “Got everything. How’d it go here?”
Vivian shuts her computer, then gets up. “So good. He’s a little angel.”
“Really?” I ask.
“Yes, he is. Hilarious too,” she says, following me into the kitchen, where we both start unpacking the bags. “He made me read a couple of chapters of a Captain Underpants book about a booger monster. He wanted me to read the parts ‘my dad skips because it makes him gag.’”
I close my eyes for a second, feeling totally embarrassed about my son asking a guest to do that. “Sorry about that. Were you okay?”
She pulls a face and shudders. “Let’s just say I can see why you skip that page.” Looking down at the materials I bought, Vivian says, “All right. Let’s do this.”