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Traveling Solo


By Gregory Keer

The Amtrak Surfliner is very late, which means I've spent the last hour trying to manage Benjamin's alternating excitement/disappointment. "Here comes the train," he says as he rushes toward the oncoming freightliner. I have to dash to shepherd him away from the tracks, while balancing a 300-pound "survival" backpack of food, books, games, and (hopefully) enough extra underwear to survive the rest of this two-day experience as a "single" father. The train finally arrives, gleaming brighter than Thomas the Tank Engine could ever hope for. We board and sit down in a nice bulkhead-like spot. The train lurches San Diego-bound and Benjamin gets giddy, "We're going, we're going!"

We have three-and-a-half hours before we meet Mommy, who is at a child-development conference. Sometimes, I coast a little when Wendy is around to share the parenting load. In times like these, I'm focused and notice how much he looks like his Mommy and appreciate more comments, like "Can trains fly?"

We snack on healthful peanut-butter pretzels ("Daddy, you eat them") and cookies ("These are for me"). I try to teach him checkers, but he creates a new game ("I just want to hold them"). I glamorize the sights from the window: abandoned homes littered with scrap metal, drab warehouses. Not much to see until we hit the jackpot-a parking lot for cranes! It's all Benjamin can do to point out each one. I never knew cranes could come in so many sizes and colors. I never knew I would ever care.

Eventually, we nap a little. But we're awakened when a young girl sits across from us. She has candy. She gives the candy to Benjamin. Quiet time is over. Benjamin starts to wrestle with me on the seat. "I'm going to get you." I pretend to go down in repeated defeat, then draw the line at, "Let's hop on pop!" A crowded train is one place where Dr. Seuss is not helpful.

I endeavor to curb the sugar rush with carrots. He snaps off a piece, "I'm all done now!" So I offer a walk. It's hard enough to follow a three-year old without the wobble of a train ride.

He climbs on an empty seat and discovers the emergency lever. I tell him not to touch it. "Why?" he asks. "Because it makes the train stop." He thinks about this, "I want to get off, now," he sees, reaching for the device. I snatch him back: "Other people don't want to get off." "Why not," he asks. Now, I really want my wife.

Finally, the train pulls into the station. "Where's San Diego?" he says, trying to make sense of the fact that a train station cannot be all there is to a city. But I'm just too tired to explain. When she arrives to pick us up, Benjamin and I are both happy to see Mommy.

We drive to meet our friends Nicole and Joel at a restaurant. I remain nonpartisan as Wendy takes her turn parenting, as she works on feeding our picky eater. Then, Benjamin needs to go potty. Feeling guilty that I have shirked all duties for the past hour, I volunteer to take him. We go in and it is then I discover something horrible-he has already gone in his clothes. And its not…exactly…tidy. In fact, it's a Defcon 4 alert untidy.

Exhausted, distressed, and trying mightily not to let him see me sweat (we mustn't say anything to cause a regression in the potty training), I proceed to unpeel his clothes. Exhausted, distressed, and not at all afraid to cry, he says, "I don't want to be naked, now!" I try to console him while I pat him down with several rolls of toilet paper in this public bathroom. A man walks in and starts to giggle, watching me try to clean up my poor son.

Then, Joel walks in. The search party. "Are you all right?" "Does it look like I'm all right," I say, looking fairly untidy myself. Joel tries hard not to laugh. I tell him to tell my wife, "she owes me-big time."

Joel leaves and I ponder the desecrated Blue's Clues undies. I decide to throw them away. Benjamin is not happy about that, but I've lost the ability to reason. I shove his pants back on (though still a bit untidy) and burst out of the restroom with him under my arm.

I return to the table and there they are, laughing hysterically at my predicament. Benjamin laughs with them. And I say to my wife, "I am done parenting for the rest of the weekend."

It was all of 48 hours, but in that stretch of time, I tasted a morsel of life as a single parent. It was chaotic. It was precious. It was exhausting. It was character building. But I'm not alone. I have an amazing wife who does more than her share of child rearing. I like being in a team with her and sharing in the moments of Benjamin's life.

So, to all the real single parents out there, I salute you for your bravery in the face of everything. Especially the untidy experiences.
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