Tax season
It wasn’t the fact that I’d forgotten
to claim my children last year that prompted me to hire a professional tax
preparer this year.
How I could have forgotten them, I
don’t know. I suppose it wasn’t a case of faulty memory, really. It was just
that while I was rushing to complete my forms on 4/14, my kids were screaming
and dismantling my house. In my haste to finish the taxes and get on with
crisis prevention, I forgot to include them.
Now, a professional has the presence
of mind to focus on my return while these same children are screaming and
dismantling his office.
Tax
Guy: Ms. Sanfilippo, about these screaming
children who are trying to stick pens in the electrical outlets, are they all
yours?
Me (staring out the window, sighing): Yes, yes they are.
TG (watching his computer reboot after my son unplugged it): OK, Child #1, name
and SS#.
I respond appropriately.
TG:
Child #2, name, SS#.
I answer again.
TG:
Child #3, name, SS#.
Me:
I only have two.
TG (still looking at the computer): What is your third child’s name?
Me:
I only have two.
TG (finally looking up): Two? (Now he is looking around, searching.) Are you sure?
Me:
Yes, trust me.
TG (astonished): But, it sounds like 10.
Me:
Only two. (That require the patience for 10.)
He really wanted to add more. Two
just didn’t feel right to him.
Actually, it wasn’t forgetting to
claim my rightfully begotten dependents that forced my stubborn self to visit
the tax guy. It was my son who convinced me. You see, at the tender age of 2
1/2, my son understood that it would be better if mommy left this job to
professionals. He conveyed this sentiment by chewing the numbers off my
calculator.
— Jennifer Sanfilippo
New daddy diary, March 5, 2006
The phone rings. It’s Nik. There’s urgency in her voice.
“What’s the first line of ‘this
little piggy’? I’m drawing a blank!”
“This little piggy… went to market… ?”
“Went to MARKET!
That’s it! Thanks bye!” Click.
Ten minutes later, she calls back.
“Have you seen her binky? Last time I saw it was on the Boppy.”
I never used to get calls like that.
Things have changed around our house in odd, subtle ways. I’ve heard many
things I’ve never heard before — utterances spoken in cutesy, high-pitched
tones. Things like, “What a good burp, honey! What a goooodbuuurp!” and “Ugh, how could you poop on mommy twice?”
I knew there’d be moments of
laughter, moments of concern, moments of exhaustion, and moments of great
bonding between us and this little pupa. But I hadn’t given much thought to how
the bond between me and Nik would evolve. One episode
stands out in particular.
The other day we found ourselves
staring down at Tess in her bassinette, and she
stared back at us, twitching and grimacing with unspecific angst. We marveled
at the strength of her grip on my finger, the folds in her ear (which she
borrowed from me). We marveled at her nose (which she got from her mom), and
her disproportionately large and strangely flexible big toe (a mystery). A
realization struck us simultaneously — a realization that I’m sure must
strike every new parent at some point:
“Holy shit.
We made this.”
Nik and I
have always felt like a pair, but never before like a team. I don’t want to be verbose about something so simple… this
family stuff: it’s good.
— Brandon Heffernan
This article appears in Mar 8-14, 2006.
