When Daddy Comes Home

My husband’s return from work every evening at seven-thirty p.m. infuses our home with new energy.

Olivia needs to eat a second dinner on Daddy’s lap, while Mateo suddenly develops a hankering for cheese sticks. Then, everyone needs a Popsicle, followed by a tickle session, and, often as not, some kind of group dance performance that involves music, the louder the better.

This frustrates me because I’ve spent the previous three hours wrangling my children through the dinner, bath, pajamas, tooth-brushing routine. My goal is to settle them down, not rev them up.

“Your arriving sooner or later would be easier for us,” I tell my husband. “Either sit down for dinner or wait ‘till they’re asleep.”

But no.

Seventy-thirty is what works for him, and besides, it’s the only real time they have together during the week.

Last night the garage door went up as I read “Good Night Moon.” My son was drowsy enough that I knew he would fall asleep, but Olivia opened her eyes wide and gasped, “Daddy’s home!” before sliding off the bed and disappearing down the hallway.

A few minutes later, as I transferred a sleeping Mateo to his crib, I smelled the unmistakable odor of microwave popcorn. Following the scent, I opened the door to the den, where my husband and Olivia were sprawled on the sofa in front of the TV, a big bowl of popcorn between them.

“We’re watching the game,” Olivia said, with the practiced ease of a diehard football fan.

“Don’t stay up too late.” I kissed them both before closing the door.

I was the third of five children and have few memories of time spent with my own father.

Once, I was in first grade and it was parents’ night at school. My father wore a green tweed coat flecked with black spots, and afterwards, we ate an orange and vanilla Creamsicle.

All these years later, if I close my eyes, I can feel the nubby tweed of the coat, taste the vanilla sweetness of the Creamsicle.

By Jessica O’Dwyer