I'm Not Erma Bombeck

Back in my youth the local newspaper would have two pages of editorials, columns, political cartoons, and letters to the editor. I devoured those pages - particularly the columns. My two favorite columnists Sydney Harris and Art Buchwald. Alas, those days are gone - as are they.

One very popular columnist during those days was Erma Bombeck, though her columns were often put in the feature pages. I'll be honest; as a young man, I was not as interested in columns about being a housewife, raising children, living in the suburbs, losing socks, and so on. But I did read her occasionally, and appreciated her talent and sense of humor.

I recently came across an article about her, and I read a few of her collected columns

They reminded me of some of my own parenting experiences with three daughters.

The time youngest daughters decided to create a snowstorm using baby powder in the nursery. We were finding powder in books, clothes, and the ceiling light for weeks after.

Or the time the girls were taking a bath together and youngest daughter pooped in the tub. Oldest daughter scaled the side of the tub like a screaming spider.

Or the time at Mass oldest daughter needed a diaper change and discovering that we'd forgotten to resupply the diapers in the diaper bag, so she finished the Mass wearing my handkerchief.

Or the many grammar school concerts when some of the musicians actually hit the intended notes.

Or the many cold, snowy nights Christmas caroling door-to-door with their Girl Scout troop.

Or telling them every night a bedtime story (The Trunk Story) I was making up with them as characters, borrowing liberally from every children's book and myth I'd ever read or heard. 

Or the many nights long after bed time growling up the stairs, "I can hear you."

Or the even more middle-of-the-nights holding a crying child while rocking and rocking and sleepily singing "Hush little baby, don't say a word...." 

Or the other many moments of raising three daughters, now grown women living in their own homes.

Looking back, I realize I had had plenty of material for writing could have written columns like Bombeck's, only from the dad's point of view. Alas, I didn't I wasn't Erma. 

Oh, I could still write columns today about having an empty nest, or growing older, or deaing with a new-fangled technical world. Car problems. Dental woes. Noisy neighbors. Realizing the Golden Oldies station is playing songs I used (and sometimes still do) own. Finding all the craft projects and home-made cards created for Father's Day. Being on hold and listening to the same endless tune. Dog adventures while walking around the neighborhood. 

And then, there's always missing socks.  

Pax et bonum