Daddy gets new full-time kid job

As I write this, I am sitting in bed with my laptop computer on my lap. My leg is swathed in bandages from hip to ankle, and is elevated on a pillow-like ramp underneath the covers.

Coming from downstairs, I can hear what appears to be the sounds of my youngest daughter jumping on her father’s stomach, as her loud giggles are punctuated by his groans and gasps. My son is yelling distantly, “Me, too! Me, too!” which I take to mean his turn to jump on Daddy must be fast approaching.

I can do nothing but smile in contentment at this entire scenario, so far removed from what things were like last Christmas. Then, Daddy was in Iraq and Christmas was spent reminiscing about what things would be like next year when he was home and the entire family was together for the holidays.

Since Daddy got back a mere two weeks ago, so much has changed. His presence lightens the entire household and the children call for him as much as for me. He is much better at tossing them up in the air than I am, and also much more likely to give in to their whims and tantrums. The former is because, at 6-foot-3, he has a much better child-throwing range and the latter is because, after being away for 14 months, he cannot stand to see any of our children upset for a second.

That’ll change soon, but it’s nice to enjoy the quiet while it lasts.

Our son is, I think, the most attached at the hip to his father. His big sister, at 13, understands that Daddy is home for good this time and the baby, at 1, only understands that someone who will pick her up anytime she pouts at him has come into her life. But our 3-year old recognizes that Daddy has been gone for a long time in a place called Iraq for work and he is terrified that Daddy is leaving soon again.

I didn’t realize how concerned our son was until my husband had been home for several days. On my husband’s third day home, while we were away at swimming lessons, my husband left for Fort Richardson to sign in for duty. When we got home, our son immediately noticed that his truck was gone and asked where he went. Unthinking, I told him that Daddy had gone to work.

The ensuing wailing, tears and copious sobbing that resulted stunned me. Through his gasping tears, my son managed to choke out that he didn’t want daddy to go back to Iraq and that he hadn’t said goodbye.

I realized I had told my son for the past year that “daddy is at work in Iraq” and our little boy immediately assumed that, when I said he was at work, Daddy had gone back to Iraq.

It took a long time, but I finally got him calmed down and convinced Daddy would be home for dinner.

Although our son still eyes his father warily now when he appears in his uniform, he seems more understanding of the fact that Daddy will be home each evening and he is not going to be gone for months on end.

Then, this week happened. Two weeks after arriving home, Daddy got kid duty full time as I recuperate from surgery.

The week before Christmas and I got to spend the entire time in bed, listening to the laughter and occasional bewilderment echoing throughout the house in periodic bouts of wakefulness.

My surgery on Monday morning went beautifully. Apparently, I enjoy singing Broadway show tunes while under anesthetic and know all the words to “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious,” even if I can’t spell it.

Usually, this is the time I spend baking Christmas cookies with my stepdaughter, covering the kitchen and the occasional cat with flour and sprinkles. I wrap presents quietly in the evenings and during naps while Christmas CDs play nonstop on my stereo.

This year, things were completely different, yet I would not have them any other way.

I got to spend the days leading up to Christmas listening to the sounds of season fill my house and my family. I got to hear my stepdaughter carefully explain the nativity scene to her little brother, going over what all the figurines meant as she unwrapped them and placed them on the coffee table, and I got to listen to his 3-year old questions for the first time as well as to her answers about the true meaning of Christmas. He was inordinately taken with the baby Jesus, and talked about the tiny porcelain figurine constantly.

I got to hear my husband read “Good Night, Moon” to our children for what had to be the millionth time, his voice taking on a gentle tone as he tried to calm them down for bed. Since he usually concluded his bedtime stories with a massive tickle time session, the calming approach didn’t usually work real well.

As a bystander and not a participant, I got to listen to my husband help our oldest with her homework, a project for school on the country of Liechtenstein. I got to hear my stepdaughter’s giggles as she corrected his penmanship and artistic skills. Apparently, my husband is not a fan of hot glue guns or glitter.

Instead of the constant rush and run that this week normally means, I was forced o sit back and do a lot of reflecting and listening.

I can honestly say I found just sitting back and listening to the sounds of my family hustling and bustling and laughing and talking around me to be one of the best things I have ever done. It made me realize how many small moments I have taken for granted every year at this time and that these small things are what I need to clasp close to my heart and treasure.

It made me realize that this Christmas, surrounded by my husband and three children, will be the best one ever. I will be allowed out of bed for the first time tomorrow on Christmas Eve, and will go to the late candlelight church service with my family. There, together, we will celebrate what Christmas truly means and we will celebrate it together as a family for the first time in 15 months.

Just how lucky I am to be able to do this was brought home again last night. Right before his bedtime, my little boy came to my bedside for hugs and kisses. He and Daddy had been looking at some of the names and faces of those soldiers who had not returned from Iraq after a news special earlier in the week had concentrated on welcoming our soldiers home. After he gave me my hug, my son earnestly said, “Mommy, those men on the TV are with the Baby Jesus. Daddy told me.”

Merry Christmas. God bless us, everyone.

Tiffany Horvath is the mother of two and the stepmother of one. Her husband, Drew, is newly returned from a deployment to Iraq. She writes every Sunday abut life at home for the wife of a soldier.