At the time, I was lost to Mastercard madness: “That happy-family photo outside the White House—priceless.” I was determined to send my grandmother a damn photo of us outside the damn White House, and my people needed to get with the damn program.
Hearing helicopters approach, I grabbed the hairless arm of my sole surviving chance of a happy photo … leaving my husband to calm the storming child. I decided that my eldest needed to see the President and my dearest needed to diffuse a toddler tantrum.
So maybe that family photo wouldn’t have all four of us in it, but a Presidential stand-in (especially this one) would make for a funny Christmas card. I launched toward the hovering vehicles with a deranged smile—I’m sure raising alert levels—as I imagined witty Hanukkah-Bush captions. Twenty minutes later, we returned photo-less to the still-crying child and near-crying dad.
“Thanks,” my dearest spat, ungratefully. I reacted with sharp observations on his ability to stoke a four-year-old fire. He called me selfish for ditching him. Me selfish? He was the one … uhm … who had left me home alone with a two-week old baby so he could play rugby in Spain. “That was ten years ago,” he yelled. “And William was three months, not two weeks!” The FBI agents removed their shades for unobstructed viewing and two families got comfortable on nearby benches to appreciate the scene.
And we were a scene.
All of a sudden, we needed to pick apart each other’s parenting skills and—publicly—air all grievances against each other. He teases the kids when they get whiney, so that I then have an even bigger mess to clean up. I mollycoddle the kids. He walks too slow and we can’t make the most of our short time. I walk too fast and the kids can’t keep up. He let Quinn kick his shoes off. I made him wear a pair he doesn’t like in the first place? He forgot the kids’ hats. I forgot the kids’ hats. He … I … He … I …
PREVIOUS PAGE
