This morning I followed my usual routine as we arrived in Seattle. I waited until the crowd had thinned a little and exited the ferry. I made my way to the McDonalds at the end of the terminal, and caught the eye of the manager who always runs the register at that time of the morning: “One egg and cheese biscuit, please.” It is my only line of the morning, and I have it down. The manager already knows my request, since I never vary my breakfast selection, but so far he hasn't felt it desirable to pre-fill my order. “One dollar and fifty-two cents,” he tells me. Today I gave him $2.05 just to spice it up a little – he made the proper change without the flicker of an eyelid.
After waiting for the signal to cross Alaskan Way, I scurry across the road and stand under the viaduct (I think that is what they call it) next to my usual pillar and devour my biscuit, dropping crumbs and usually finishing before my shuttle arrives.
Today I noticed a little Subaru parked in the spot where my shuttle generally stops to pick us up. A thirty-something man with long hair and a large diaper bag was talking with the driver of the Subaru, a petite woman in business clothes. She eventually rounded the car to help a little girl (perhaps three years old) out of her carseat. She entrusted the little girl into the arms of the man, who walked across the street and into the ferry terminal. The little girl, facing back toward the woman, held out her arms and cried pitifully as long as they were in view.
I'm guessing that I was privy to one of those ugly little scenes that spring up in the aftermath of a divorce. The man was clearly not the primary caretaker of the little girl, yet he was obviously taking charge of her for an extended period of time. It made me very sad, to think of the life that this girl will lead, routinely torn between two people who couldn't or wouldn't get along.
It took the man several minutes to cross Alaskan Way and ride the elevator to the upper level of the terminal. I think the saddest part of the whole scene was the way that the woman watched and watched. She waited, oblivious to the rush of traffic, until they had come out of the elevator on the upper level and were entirely out of sight; the man and little girl did not seem aware of her scrutiny. Her hands on the steering wheel as she finally drove away were empty of a ring, and her face wore a sad, and strangely guilty expression.
I don't think I'll ever understand how people who have children can permanently separate. I wish I had taken a video of that little scene, and could make it required viewing for anyone filing for divorce. I think I'd rather die than have to go through what that woman probably experiences every week.
There are those who say you shouldn't call your wife a weasel. Some of them have written successful marriage books, gone on extensive lecture tours, and stayed married for 40, 50, or even 60 years at a time. Perhaps a more politically-correct term is preferred, in such circumstances. How 'bout "integrity challenged partner" or "sneaky spouse" (the second substitute at least retains the alliteration)?
Judge for yourself.
Just after dinner, my 19-month youngest daughter was forcibly ejected from her chair by her three-year-old brother. They had been sharing the easy chair happily, watching an episode of "Little House on the Prairie". Suddenly David erupted with an outraged cry, "Sarah's poopy!" He began vigorously kicking her with his left foot to accelerate her departure.
While I have many strong points, and am generally a charming and engaging fellow, I find myself entirely unable to change a poopy diaper immediately following a meal. I used the standard line, stolen from "Three Men and a Baby":
"I'll pay you a thousand dollars if you'll change this diaper."
Cagily, Kathy called my bluff. "Seriously, what will you pay?" she countered.
Momentarily off-guard, I agreed to a 10-minute cleanup spree some time this evening. Now, some husbands make a daily (or even weekly) practice of cleaning up after the evening meal, washing dishes, and generally carrying on in a way that, frankly, makes the rest of us look bad. I am not one of those husbands.
Recently, in a half-hearted attempt to lighten Kathy's load, I have occasionally offered some limited cleanup help in the kitchen or living room, usually after the kids are in bed. To make it more palatable, I set a kitchen timer for some reasonable amount of time, like 10 minutes. Then I pitch in and help, and when Kathy works alongside me, we often can make a sizeable dent in that short timespan.
Around 10 pm I came in to the kitchen and, carefully setting the timer, began to rinse the dishes and load them into the dishwasher. Kathy joined me after a while, and we chatted amiably about the day and the various grocery purchases I had acquired.
"Boy, this is a long ten minutes!" I said to myself after what seemed like at least 30 minutes of cleanup duty. "Has the timer rung already?" I asked Kathy. (The other day the timer rang while I was putting something away in the mudroom, and I didn't hear it -- she turned it off, the crafty girl, and got another 40 seconds of work out of me before I suspected anything!)
"Hey, where IS the timer?" My gaze searched the counters frantically for the little white countdown timer, which surely by now must be showing less than 30 seconds remaining ...
She had put it away.
Turned it off, and put it in the drawer, underneath some hot-pad mittens. She claims (and I nearly believe her) that it was just a reflex action, that she thought it had been left there from some earlier task, like boiling pasta. I called her a weasel, and she reset the timer to 5 more minutes and started it up again.
They say that it is never too late for good marriage counseling, even when you've been married for a while. Some counselors will bring the husband and wife both in at the same time, and then let just one of them talk at a time. Maybe we can find a guy that uses a little white kitchen timer ...