Last update - 00:00 27/09/2007
Family Matters / A servant to three masters
By Doram Gaunt
The man who cleans the public park next to my home peers up at me curiously each morning, at about the same time.
"Are you on vacation?" he asks me.
"No."
"Sick?"
"No."
"Unemployed?" he asks, in a mixture of fear and concern.
"No."
"So, how come you're home with your daughter every day?"
"I work at night."
"Ohhh. Now, I understand. Good for you," he concludes, breathing a sigh of relief before asking, "How is it? Are you happy?"
"It's all good."
In fact, if you think about it, I didn't always dream of being a servant to three diminutive fickle masters who rarely share the same wishes. No one really told me about those all-too-frequent moments in which I would utterly helplessly pull out my hair and ask myself, "Why do I deserve this? What did I do wrong? When will they grow up, already, and leave me alone?"
"I confess," I should have answered the sanitation worker, "that my anticipation of all the ramifications of becoming a father - moreover, one who remains at home with his small children while their mother works - was shortsighted. I didn't think about it much and failed to clearly imagine where things might lead."
They ultimately led to routine, absolute, endless, Sisyphean labor and slavery to the whims of three human beings whose combined weight barely reaches 50 kilograms. I should have also told him that, in my dreams, they are considerate, affable and well-mannered, but in reality, they are selfish, impatient, tend to bark tyrannical, single-word commands ("water"), and refuse to waste words or energy on my pathetic attempts to teach them respect. In my dreams, they are sure of themselves and stand up for what is rightfully theirs, in the outside world, but obedient and disciplined at home. In reality, I spend half the day waiting for them to finish playing, arguing with them about taking baths, and persuading them to get into the car, get out of the car, put on their socks, and take off their shoes. But when they face strangers, all their self-confidence (and cocksure bravado) is suddenly gone and they become shy, mute and spineless.
In my dreams, the entire family sits down to pleasant, family meals in which we eat fresh, healthful food. In reality, meals are absolute chaos - noisy, messy affairs during which I wait on pampered, thankless diners. They never want the same food and rarely permit me to sit down and catch my breath while they are eating. He only eats the mashed potatoes, and she only eats the schnitzel. He wants pasta with sauce, and she wants Israeli couscous - straight up. If there are also hot dogs and schnitzel and pasta and chicken and soup, she is only willing to eat an omelet (in which case, he will have eggs sunny-side up). Then, while running between him and her, the baby washes his hair (and the table, chair and floor) in olive oil and grated cheese in preparation for his eighth bath of the day.
In my dreams, they love each other, play together, and the older two care for their younger sibling. In reality, they drive each other mad and unite only to drive their father mad.
In my dreams, they adore walks in nature and the inalienable benefits of culture. In reality, they long for nothing more than a trip to McDonald's.
In my dreams, I am always patient and serene with them. In reality, I am a jumble of nerves. But if you ask me to tell the truth, I'll tell you the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth: It's all good. Boaz (age 18 months) is still at home. Aya (age 5) and Amitai (age 7) stayed home with me until they were two years old. They now attend kindergarten and school until the afternoon. I have been working from home during the day (while my wife works outside) and have worked part-time at night, outside the home, since Amitai was born. In my dreams, Boaz will sleep for an hour and let me finish this piece (and all the other work that I must complete during the morning hours). In reality, I already hear him whining in bed.