In our home, Dad has always been the anti-mom. This was clear years
ago, when I left my partner in parenting in charge of our toddler so I
could enjoy some alone time. When I returned, it was obvious the
instructions I’d left for lunch, naps and general child care had been
ignored. My son was following his father around the garage in his bare
feet, clad only in a diaper and clinging happily to his very own can of
Pringles.
“Did you feed him lunch?” I barked upon my return.
 “Well,
we ate,” my husband said. My son reached his little arm into the
Pringles can and, with a happy smile, politely offered me a chip.
“What about the alphabet soup I left on the stove?” I challenged.
“Uh … no. We didn’t feel like it,” he shrugged, confused by my interrogation.
“Why isn’t he down for his nap?”
“He
didn’t want to sleep,” my husband said simply. “We’re just hangin’ out.
Look,” he said, pointing to my son, who was now sitting on the cold
cement floor of the garage, shaking the crumbs from the chip can. “He’s
fine.”
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