Just Passing

6. Manly

We leave the park without approaching the possibly-trans-guy. Maybe we'll see him again. Maybe we won't. It's lunchtime, which means I don't have the luxury of thinking about it anymore.

Lunch is almost always a disaster. Nora uses it as an opportunity to study physics. She's like Galileo dropping objects from the leaning tower of Pisa, only she's throwing things from her high chair. Yes, Nora, a strawberry and your water bottle both fall to the floor at the same speed. Good job!

Spencer, on the other hand, decides to go on a hunger strike. We do the exact opposite thing that the experts recommend, and instead of ignoring his behavior, we reward it by offering him every option from the freezer, fridge, or cabinet in hopes he will take a bite of something. The result is a buffet of uneaten toddler food.

Despite the seeming lack of actual eating, after lunch both kids are covered in crumbs, breaded like chicken cutlets. My wife whisks them into the bath, leaving me in charge of cleaning up the wreckage.

The floor is a minefield. Cheerios and goldfish have been strewn across the tiles, ready to explode into a million crumbs at one wrong step. I tiptoe around as I clean up, scavenging a meal for myself as I go.

I'm still chewing on a discarded cereal bar when I hear raucous laughing accompanied by loud splashes. "That's it! Bath time is over," my wife commands. Seconds later Spencer comes prancing out of the bathroom, buck naked, along with my wife, who is holding a toweled Nora. "I'm absolutely soaked. I need to go change ... What on earth are you chewing?"

"I'm composting the scraps," I respond, mouth still full of gooey berry filling.

"You're wh-" Her eyes squint and a sharp crease appears between her brows as she gets the joke. "You're disgusting. Come help me with the kids."

Tiffany goes to put on a dry set of clothes as I swallow my snack and swoop down to try and catch Spencer. "Come on, bud. Diaper time!"

"No diaper." He jukes and weaves just beyond my grasp.

"Fine, Spence, but don't pee on the floor." Shaking my head I turn to Nora, who has been plopped on the couch. "Oh my, is there a naked baby on the couch? You are too delicious. Is it time to ... eat the baby?" I blow a raspberry on her belly and she erupts with laughter.

Tiffany emerges from the bedroom. "Spencer, you need a diaper on right now!" She is successful where I failed and wrestles him up on the couch next to where Nora is still happily being tickled.

Several minutes later and they are both dressed and ready for naptime books. I WILL Take a Nap by Mo Willems is a bit hit, as always, and before I know it we're closing curtains, turning on sound machines, and tucking them in. They're tired from the park and all their shenanigans at lunch and in the bath and they both go down without much protest.

It is the most blessed time of the day. Nap time. Time to lounge on the couch, play on my phone, and catch up on whatever's new on Netflix.

"I have work emails to respond to. It's cooler today, go mow the lawn," Tiffany directs.

Ugh. Being an adult sucks.

"Fine," I grumble as I throw on a baseball cap and go grab my crappy sneakers from the utility closet: the pair that's faded to an ambiguous blue-green-gray with soles caked in mud and dry grass from the last time I had to mow.

I shuffle out to the shed to grab the 100-foot extension cord and my Greenworks electric lawn mower. At least my yard is pretty small, so I just might have some free time before the kids get up.

First, I clear the lawn of toys by tossing stray bouncy balls and a discarded mermaid doll into the toybox. I then push the plastic Little Tikes swing set up onto the patio. With the grass clear of hazards, I rev the mower to life with a simultaneous clench of the handlebar lever and a press of the starter button.

Doing my best to walk in straight lines, while also not running over the cord, I make my way back and forth across first the long leg and then the short leg of our L-shaped lawn. I have to swerve around the two pine trees along the back fence, but otherwise it's all pretty straightforward. Can't have fancy flower beds when you're raising two monsters– I mean, children. I finish up the back pretty quickly. A few blades of grass stick to my sweaty leg, but it's not too gross out. After a drink of water I'm ready to move onto the front yard.

One of the cars - ok, fine, my car - is parked halfway on the strip of grass that lines the driveway. Guess I need to move it. Grabbing the keys from my pocket I approach the driver's side door.

"Shit! Fuck, fuck, dammit, ugh!" The tirade of curse words flood from my mouth as I turn away, startled. There's a dead bird right next to my car. I almost stepped on it. The thought makes me shiver.

I hate dead things. Doesn't everybody? But I seriously have no stomach for death. Just one more reason why I would never survive the zombie apocalypse. I'm too squeamish.

There was once a decomposing raccoon behind my shed and I called my father-in-law over because I literally could not stomach it. He came over with two bandanas, a shovel, and a bucket. "Shit that smells bad," he had said, handing me the bucket. "I can even taste it. Should've brought some cologne. Ok, hold the bucket steady. Don't want to miss." He let out a grunt that could've been interpreted as a laugh. I closed my eyes and pretended to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. "Oh, come on Xander, it's not that bad. I'm sure you've seen worse driving down the highway. Though, shit, it does smell bad."

But I can't do that again. Don't want to risk losing his respect. At least not more of his respect. Not over a damn dead bird that doesn't even smell yet. I do eat chicken, after all. This shouldn't be a big deal. I take another peek. There's no blood or obvious injury. Seems fresh, but definitely dead. Maybe if I ignore it for a few days nature will take its course. I've seen foxes, coyotes, and turkey vultures near my house. Would one of them dispose of this bird for me?

No. That's dumb. I shouldn't be inviting predators to my yard when I have small children. I've got to man up and take care of this. Just put on my big boy pants, put it in a bag, and throw it in the trash. Easy as one, two, three. I really wish I owned a shovel, but I don't.

Maybe I should call my father-in-law. Just to borrow his shovel.

God, I'm such a wimp.

It's ironic that I "pass" so well, when in reality I'm so unmanly.

I don't like sports, not really. I don't know anything about cars. Guns don't appeal to me, not even in fiction. I've never been in a fist fight. Maybe I should turn in my male ID card. I've failed at manhood.

Deep breath. I'm being dramatic. Another unmanly trait, I must note. I go grab some thick garden gloves and a trash bag. I can do this. No biggie.

I give the bird a sideways glance and then close my eyes as I quickly grab it. It's hard, feels almost like wood. "I'm sorry bird," I say as I toss the bag into the trash can. What an unceremonious burial for a wild animal.

I feel bad, but it's not like I'm crying or anything. I do have some traditionally masculine traits, after all.

With the trashcan closed, I walk back over to my car and move it off the grass. I then turn back to the job at hand.

Vroom. The lawn mower comes to life and I hurriedly start to push it down our property line. Now I really want to be done before the kids wake up so I can zone out with technology and forget my flaws.