Daddy is such a sweet housewife
TUESDAY, October 5 – I tell Eamonn to get a move on since his karate lesson is about to start. His instructor is strict and hates it when pupils come late. Eamonn’s a bit in awe of him, and so am I. Together we try to make a knot in the white belt.
‘I washed your uniform yesterday and put in the dryer, so it should fit much better now,’ I reassure Eamonn. His uniform allowed for growth and during his first lesson he was almost swimming in it.
One of the moms was watching us. Touched, she smiled when I say to Eamonn, ‘Don’t worry about out-growing your karate uniform. One time in the dryer and it won’t shrink any more.’
‘Imagine your knowing that,’ the mother exclaimed. ‘Just like a regular housewife. It sounded so sweet.’
I chased Eamonn up the stairs in the direction of his lesson. I follow at my leisure, pondering the idea that I resemble a sweet little housewife. In the life of a widower who’s been chastened by adversity, in which category does this crazy compliment belong under – falling down or picking yourself up again?
Diary of a Widower 