flag image

True Confessions of a Stay at Home Dad
In May of 2011, I dismissed class for the last time and began a new chapter in my life, full-time dad. I taught middle school for seven years, but with two kids and a third on the way, I wasn't able to give as much time to teaching as it required, plus I wanted to spend more time with my own kids, instead of someone else's.

My wife and I have been married for nine years. She spends her days (and some nights and weekends) as an OB/GYN, or as my kids like to call it, “catching babies.”

We have three kids. First Born is eight years old, but likes to pretend she’s in college. Our son, Middle Man is five, but we’re convinced by the way he talks about things like “beautiful sunsets” that he’s an old soul, and our youngest, the Blonde Bomber is only three, but already has the attitude of a teenager.

Our kids provide us with an endless amount of stories. Writing and retelling these stories for Indy’s Child has been my part-time job for the past three years.

You can contact me on Facebook at True Confessions of a Stay at Home Dad or via email at indyschildpete@gmail.com.

A Trip to the Mailbox

A Trip to the Mailbox

June 23, 2013 | 07:02 AM

When we moved, one thing we never thought about was the new location of our mailbox compared to where it was at our old house.

At the old place, the mailbox was attached to the house right outside the front door. Usually you could hear the mailman shut the lid after he put the mail in. All you had to do was open the front door, not even step all the way outside and get the mail.

At the new house things are a bit different. Our mailbox is not attached to our house, in fact it's not even in our yard; It's across the street in our neighbor's yard. This makes getting the mail more of a chore and harder to remember than before.

Until recently.

I'm not sure whether it was my wife or myself that made this discovery, but recently we've each been volunteering to get the mail.


Because it's peaceful.

It's quiet.

The walk to the mailbox doesn't involve crying, there's no baby clinging to your leg and you don't have to answer questions. It's a brief respite from the chaos of being inside a house with three small children.

Earlier this week my wife poured herself a glass of wine for her trip to the mailbox.

I've been known to get "lost" on my way, roaming around the street for a few extra minutes.

There's a famous quote that goes something like, "It's the simple things in life that mean the most." I'm not exactly sure a trip to the mailbox was what this person was talking about when they said this, but you never know.

That's enough from me for the day, I should probably go check the mail.

Oh wait, it's Sunday.

Oh well, I'll go check it anyway.


Comments ()

Race for a Cure
St. Francis