You would think having twins would be an exciting phase in life after all the failed methods and miscarriages, yet for me it was more or less scary. By the time I had reached thirty-six weeks of pregnancy, one baby was breech, meaning a C-section delivery was required along with several weeks of recovery. The doctor looked straight at Trevor and told him I would not be able to lift anything, or even use the stairs, and that I would need a lot of assistance. Trevor said he had everything under control.
But four days before my schedule C-section, Trevor walks in smiling and tells me that his mates have organized a five-day holiday on the beach. He says he wants “one last break before fatherhood.”
All I could do was look at him. I had to remind him that the surgery was in four days. He thought I shouldn’t get mad since it was just one more getaway before things got crazy and said I could always call my mother if things got heated. The morning he left, I cramped on the porch and almost fell down while he was backing his car away.
As soon as I called my mother, she came to me, and the next day Trevor sent me a photo of him relaxing under a sun umbrella saying, “Living it up before diaper duty.” That message was certainly not worth responding to.
The surgery went well, but recovery was torture. Every single movement felt like my incision was splitting apart. After my mom and I managed to bring the babies home, navigating the house became an absolute struggle. One evening, as I tried to pick up both babies at the same time, a sharp pain hit me right across my abdomen, and my mom rushed over to pull one of them away from me. I shouldn’t have been lifting anything by myself, but Trevor was supposed to come home the very next day. Still, I didn’t call him. Instead, I did something I never thought I would do: I called his father.
Trevor hadn’t seen or spoken to his father in twelve years. The mere mention of Frank always resulted in Trevor snapping that his dad had abandoned them before he was even born. I didn’t expect Frank to answer a call from an unknown number, but he did. I told him everything, about the C-section, the twins, and where Trevor was currently vacationing. After a heavy silence, he only asked for my address.
Forty minutes later, Frank arrived at the porch with an ancient duffel bag. He stood there until I asked him to come in, observing my weary face and two babies sleeping beside me. “You should not even be on your feet,” Frank told me, and it was the first useful thing someone said to me during the whole week. My mother looked at him distrustfully, but Frank only nodded and explained that he understood nobody trusted him. Then he placed his bag near the wall and asked what needed to be done.
For weeks nobody had been asking me that simple question. I said that we needed to sterilize the bottles, and an hour later he managed to organize the entire kitchen work, learned how to operate the bottle warmer, and finished the second baby bassinet that Trevor left unfinished. Later, when I tried to thank him for all that, he simply shook his head and said that he wasn’t there because he was a good man, but because he knew firsthand what happened when a father walked out, and he wanted to see for himself what kind of man his son had become.
On the following day, Trevor texted me saying his plane would soon land, and he was excited to see his kids. I did not reply. Instead, I picked up my chalk and drew up an imaginary menu named “Trevor’s All Inclusive Parent Resort,” offering services such as “Sunrise Bottle Service”, “Diaper Duty” and “Midnight Entertainment” where late check out is unavailable. My mom laughed until tears ran down her cheeks while Frank just sat in the rocking chair with the baby in his arms.
At 4:17, Trevor entered the place with his body filled with the scent of sunscreen and announced with joy that he had returned. At the sight of his estranged dad sitting in the living room with one of his twins in his arms, his bag fell on the ground with a loud bang.
As soon as I tried to get up from the couch, a sharp pain shot through my stomach. Frank intervened and held my hand until I sat down properly. Trevor stared, watching another man perform the tasks he was supposed to be doing, but before he could react, Frank shut him down. Frank told Trevor that even if the babies wouldn’t remember the five days he spent away, he would surely remember them. I pointed upstairs and told him that his bags were already packed.
Over the next seven days, Trevor got all the relaxation he desired, though it mostly involved sleeping for two hours, doing laundry for eight hours, and taking care of crying babies for the rest of the time. Frank and my mother kept him on a military-style schedule, and by day four, he had completely stopped complaining.
One morning, I opened my eyes and there he was passed out on the rocking chair with one of my twins on top of him and the other one sleeping somewhere else. On the following day, Trevor made a sincere apology, admitting that he really felt that parenthood begins when kids grow enough to communicate with him. I said to him that changing diapers is not an apology because it’s something basic that a parent has to do, and if he wants forgiveness, he’ll have to learn it all by himself.
It did take time, but he did change. A few weeks passed, and his friends messaged him asking him out for another beach outing. As he sat there gazing at the screen, with a sleeping baby in his arms, he didn’t give it a second thought before replying that he wasn’t in the mood.
Maybe I was in the wrong for involving Frank in our family business, but I knew that seeing his estranged father would be eye-opening for my husband. I guess I thought right.
Please SHARE this article with your family and friends on Facebook.
Bored Daddy
Love and Peace
