D is extraordinarily busy lately. She leaves the house at 6:30AM and doesn't get back until 7:30PM at the earliest. I am in charge of picking up the kids from day care and making dinner, and though I am a pretty good cook in general I have been skimping lately, mostly ordering in pathetically bad-for-you options. Her conspicuous absence also makes it easier for me to write. Henry is at the age where he could sit in front of the TV for hours. His sister likes the big play area we have in the living room, with lots of plastic blocks and other noisy toys--her favorite is this green dinosaur that makes a squeaky sound every time someone hits it. I saw her biting it the other day. I saw a lot of aggression in her eyes, and I wonder if she got that from her mother or from me.
For a while I thought D being busy makes it easier for me to watch porn and take care of my business, but I was wrong. Children are demanding creatures, and once you have them you give up pleasurable things in your life, as part of that perpetual parental duty. Ironically I find myself doing it more at the bathroom at work and at gym, especially since cell phone signals are getting better and better. I don't particularly like it. Bathrooms are dingy and malodorous places, even the fancy ones at work, but I find that having that outlet of release makes me more content and satisfied with my life, which I don't really want to change in any way.
But there is always that sense of guilt every time afterwards. Like today, dick in hand, I was in the bathroom for all of 5 minutes when I heard a big thump and crying. Henry managed to fall off a dining room chair. The desire had all but retreated after I helped him up and used all my psychological wherewithal to stop his bawling. I wonder if this is the predicament of most married men here, this pathetic, anomic yet at times hilarious existence that defines us.