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Dad's Daily Genesis

Someone cried through the baby monitor. Or maybe the older one came to your bedside. And then someone said, "Oh, God, does there have to be light now?" And there was light, and it was not good. It was coming from the television.
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Sometimes I feel as if my daily life as a parent is like the story of Genesis.

In the beginning you created, well... procreated, not the heavens and the earth but a star, or stars, something to revolve around.

And somebody decided to call them children.

In the beginning, there was Darkness. And it was good. So good. In fact, let's linger here in the darkness, warm and under the covers for a while more before the cries, and the demands, and the rushing about commences.

Actually, let me go back. If we're being honest, before the Darkness there was interrupted sleep.

First, there was the glowing screen of your smartphone, which you fell asleep on. Before and after that there were nightmares and sickness, peeing and stalling, yelling and laughing, and various creatures entering and leaving the bed. If there was none of that, maybe you were just awake because you were thinking about the future or your to-do list. Then maybe before that there had been an hour of relaxation. Maybe.

And then someone cried through the baby monitor. Or maybe the older one came to your bedside. And then someone said, "Oh, God, does there have to be light now?" And there was light, and it was not good.

It was coming from the television.

And the little ones, blessed be they, said "let there be Dora, and Elmo, and Peppa Pig, and Mickey Mouse, and Curious George, and Doc McStuffins" and it was so. And for a few minutes, it was good.

And your brain said, "Let there be coffee," and you walked unsteadily on the land, and waited for this to be so. And when it was ready you saw that it was nearly as good as the Darkness.

And then your brain reminded you that everybody had to use the potty; and it was so. But not until you yelled and paused the television. And then it was all good.

And the little ones said, "Let there be Cheerios and Gorilla Munch and bananas and milk and yogurt and pancakes and waffles and eggs," as if you were a short order cook; and it was so. And there was breakfast and it looked pretty good, if you do say yourself. But then they ignored the bounty placed before them because they were too engrossed by whatever adventure the character on television was in, and it was not good. And you had to threaten to turn off the television because it was already getting late and nobody was dressed.

And you and your spouse said, "Let there be showers," but you argued about who should shower first. And again this was not good, because it was even later.

And then your fingers said, "You must check Facebook and Twitter and your email," and it was so. But after a moment it was not good, because the children wanted your phone and you got in trouble with your spouse because you were supposed to be showering.

And you muttered something about "privacy" and went to the bathroom, and at least one of the children and the cat barged in and asked, "What are you doing?" or meowed at you not to close any doors in this house, mister.

And you tried to hide under the gathering of the waters coming from the shower head. And it was good until someone thrust open the shower curtain to inform you that they "see your butt."

And then it was really late. And you said, "Let me shove something in my mouth"; and it was so. And you got dressed while eating, and ate while getting dressed. And your conscience said, "You forgot to get up early and exercise!" and you said, "Damn," and there was guilt.

And the little ones refused to put on shoes and jackets, and it was really bad. And maybe someone made a poo in their diaper, and you saw that it was so and said "Really? Come on!"

And you rushed out into the street to catch a bus to take a child to school. But the MTA said, "Let there only be bunches of buses that come all at the same time"; and it was so. And you missed a bunch and had to wait for the bus. And when you finally caught the bus and got off at the school stop, that child said, "I don't want to walk."

And, by now you had had enough.

And after you parted with your child and finally arrived at your office, you wished that it were a day of rest because of all the work you had just been doing. It was not. But you saw all that you had made, and it was very good.

This piece originally appeared on Great Moments in Parenting