Happy Father's Day

Yes, I know I'm late with this one, but with Friday's sojourn into NYC it could not be helped. Speaking of our little trip, this post should be a Father's Day tribute to Hubby, but instead I must begin by relaying the events of our excursion that almost brought about his untimely demise.

As you will recall, Hubby's office was having their annual Family Day where all the children of employees are invited in for lunch, face painting and, this year, a performance by cast members of The Lion King. The party started at two o'clock which meant I, as the Sleep Police, had to hope the baby would either sleep in Hubby's office, or do alright without his pm snooze. Add to that stress the idea of getting into the city, parking the car, and making it up to the fourteenth floor of Hubby's building with all three kids, their crap and the stroller, and you can see why I was already on edge. The plan was for me to call Hubby on his Blackberry when I pulled up in front of the building on Seventh Avenue, and he'd come down and get the kids while I parked the car and returned with all of our gear.

After spending the morning running around getting various bags packed with enough snacks, small toys and food for the baby to get us to Canada and back, we managed to get in the van on time. I texted Hubby a few times to let him know of our progress and he replied at 1:00 - "Going to lunch. Call me when you get in." Thirty minutes and few texts later, Hubby is no longer responding. OK, I thought. He doesn't get audio alert of e-mails, no big deal. I did tell him, after all, if he didn't pick up his phone the minute I called him upon our arrival, I was turning around and driving straight back to New Jersey. So imagine my level of aggravation when I turn onto his street, call him, and get no answer. I try his desk phone, no answer. I whisper to myself, "I am going to fucking kill him." Three more calls to each number later and still no answer. Two expletive-laced texts later and still no response. At this point, between using my Blackberry while driving and my husband-induced rage, I am going to crash the car, so I call my father in-law and ask him to keep trying Hubby while I find a parking garage and plot his death.

For those of you not familiar with New York City parking garages, their entrances are usually steeply angled tunnels you drive into and then make your way out of hoping another car doesn't hit you when it screeches in off the street. Garages in Hubby's part of town are especially busy so it was very comforting trying to get the baby out of his seat and safely into the stroller, with the girls squealing, "Are we here? Are we heeeeere?" with excitement to see the father I am planning on disemboweling, trying not to forget the three bags I have packed to keep the baby fed, happy and clean, while the surly, Hispanic parking attendant mutters things to his fellow compatriot about how I am holding up the line of cars behind me.

I finally make it out of the garage with all of my offspring and required supplies and try Hubby again. No answer. Bastard! I double check the exact street address of the building only having been there twice and head toward the cross streets my beloved has given me catching dirty stares from workers on their lunch breaks as I take up the entire width of the sidewalk with my brood. Yeah, fuck you lady. My Peg Perego can take you down and your eight dollar burrito so save the stink eye for someone who cares.

I arrive at said location and discover Hubby has given me the wrong cross streets. So not only do I have to back track, screeching at the girls to, "Hold onto the stroller!", but I also have to call information, steering the death-stroller with one hand, to get in touch with the main switchboard at the office because Hubby is still not answering either phone. At this point I think flaying him alive is a stellar idea. I get the address and head into the building.

I check in with security who, after taking one look at me, warily let me past, not wanting to upset the sweaty, frizzy-haired maniac screeching at her kids. After inquiring after my destination I am told, "Go up those two flights of stairs, turn the corner, go down one flight and take the elevator to fourteen." This building has two entrances and the other one, on Eight Avenue, is the handicapped accessible (read:mother of more than one child accessible) which Hubby neglected to tell me. I have about fifty pounds of gear strapped to the stroller, as well as my twenty-five pound son in said vehicle, and now I have to schlep it all up and down flights of stairs? MOTHER FUCKER! Of course, the underpaid security guards could give less of a crap and I am sent on my way.

This is when my angel, Liya, shows up. Liya works with Hubby and has spent many an afternoon with my eldest when Tony has brought her into work. She sees me in my state of insanity and helps me drag all of my shit to the elevator, she brings me to the party area and then goes to look for Hubby, who is still incommunicado. This poor woman is schlepping all over the building all the while waiting to eat her lunch which she has been carrying in its takeout bag since we met at the entrance. She returns to tell me he is nowhere to be found and after listening to my oaths of revenge runs off, I'm sure to call the cops.

So I spend the next half an hour navigating the overcrowded party room with my sherpa-mobile trying not to run over the other lucky, stroller-free mothers who have been able to park their wheels since their husbands have freed their babies and are proudly parading their offspring around in their arms, while the girls request chicken fingers and juice from the treat-laden tables. I spot some seats and try to push the millstone of a stroller to them while balancing plates of fried chicken lips and dripping wet juice boxes in one hand, as the baby flail his whole body with glee at the smell of food. We get settled in, and as the kids chomp away on strips of hydrogenated goodness I call Hubby again. No answer. It is now two forty-five. Dear readers, I am shaking with rage at this point as I am hungry, dehydrated, exhausted and alone. I keep up the usual cheerful banter I engage in with my kids, trying not to show my sadness over the fact that they will soon be fatherless. Here are the final two texts I sent.

"Where r u? I can't believe you did this to me. I am going to fucking strangle you."

"You are such an asshole."

Then I see him.

Through the glass doors of the conference room he is already mouthing, "I am so sorry." with his hands splayed before him in a gesture of surrender. I take one look at him and tell him, "Start talking before I kill you." It seems his Blackberry is on the fritz, displaying a full battery and then it starts to die, not alerting him to new messages in an effort to save power. He was not at his desk as he was dragged to a client lunch by his new boss who I, fortunately, did not run into because he thought my texts were "funny".

So after many apologies and the promise of fetching Greek food for dinner four towns over anytime I want it in the next six months, Hubby was forgiven. But I think I will be having a craving for souvlaki anytime it rains or snows in the near future.

While I originally had planned a Father's Day tribute to Hubby here on Mean Mommy, I felt this story had to be shared. In addition, Hubby is very shy when it comes to sharing details (he can freakin' eat it on this story though, it's part of his penance) so I will end by saying despite days like the one we had on Friday, Hubby is the best partner I could ever ask for to raise kids with. He is funny and silly, strong and firm, at all the right times. He is so easily affectionate with our kids it makes my heart ache. And while I crack wise about doing all the work around here I know he works his ass off for our family and I know that is a huge burden and responsibility. One I'm not sure I could handle with such quiet strength.

So Happy Father's Day to all the fathers our there. We mothers do a lot of bitching, but all the ones I know do a damn fine job. As usual, you rock my world, H, but for Christ's sake, pick up your damn phone.