Oh how I made fun of her and her wacko ways.

MJ gets up first in the morning because she has a longer commute to her job. She’s walking out the door either before, or just as, Will is getting up for the day and she’s not home until well after Will and I have eaten the dinner I cooked for us all. Needless to say, the daily opening and closing ceremonies of parenthood are largely left up to me.

But yesterday I had to work the early shift and be into work by 6:30 a.m. That meant I was up and out of the house first. At first I have to admit, I welcomed the change. It was kind of nice just being able to get up and go without having to worry about feeding the dog, giving the dog her pills, changing diapers, showering, getting Will dressed, putting his diaper bag together, making lunch, getting myself and Will dressed, driving to daycare and then heading to work.

It wasn’t until I picked Will up and brought him home after work yesterday that I realized my wife isn’t the only one with OCD tendencies.

Simply put, I was horrified when I came home with Will yesterday evening. First of all, MJ didn’t put the outside light on so it was a little dark coming up the walk. She also forgot to leave an inside light on for the dog, as well as the sound on the TV to keep her company. There was a bag of trash strewn about the kitchen, because she forgot to move anything edible out of the reach of the dog. The dog subsequently peed all over the trash, just for good measure.

She also left the blinds open which is important because if that happens the dog is able to look out at the world and bark at any squirrels, people, animals she sees. We live in a condo and barking equals complaints. She also forgot to close off the bedroom door so the dog got in there too and ate a whole box of tissues.

When I went to feed the dog I found she left the cover off the dog food. And, instead of bringing the dog’s food bowl to pantry, scooping some food and setting the bowl down in the kitchen, she brought the scooper to the bowl. And then left the scooper in the kitchen.

And because she didn’t change the kitty litter, the cats pissed all over the blankets on the couch.

Look, I know how stupid some of this sounds and I’m complaining about insignificant things. I already know this. The point is, my whole universe was thrown out of whack. I never realized until yesterday how set in my own little routine I’ve become. And when everything was different, even for one day, I was totally thrown for a loop. Lost. Anchor broken, drifting aimlessly in a sea of confusion in a tempest of uncertainty.

Good thing I’m not dramatic.

When MJ got home from work I started telling her about all the things she “did wrong.” And she listened to me rattle off my complaints with equal parts amusement and incredulity. And then she smiled.

“Remember when you used to make fun of me for being OCD?” she asked. “Good thing you’re not like that, huh?”

But I’m not OCD. I’m organized. Or at least that’s what I keep telling myself.

CHECK OUT FATHERHOOD FRIDAY AT DAD-BLOGS. OR I WILL KILL 10 KITTENS.

I’m in my 30s and I have a wife and one child. I own a house, and although a man is only a man once he buys land and a domicile, it is this very house that is crushing my will to live. But more on that later. Here in the middle class, both of us work full-time. And we work hard. We kind of had to after one of us lost that job when the economy imploded. Sure we make less now, but one of us was also forced to take a job an hour away from home, so we’re spending a fortune on gas that costs nearly $3 a gallon and less time with our families. And because we can’t spend as much time with our kids as we’d like, we need to pay for daycare. That means one of our jobs is paying almost exclusively for someone else to watch our kid, yet we slave away.

But then home values tanked and we were stuck with that exotic mortgage. I know exotic sounds sexy most of the time, but trust me, in this instance there’s nothing appealing about it. It was only supposed to be temporary, you know, until we could refinance or sell the place and get something bigger. But then the market crashed and home values dropped faster than Tiger Woods’ pants. All of a sudden we’re upside down $75,000 and saddled with an adjustable rate mortgage that’s about to shoot up higher than Tiger’s erection when he passes a strip joint. We can’t refinance because we don’t have any equity in the house. We can’t sell the place because we’d still owe a fortune. And we can’t rent it because the rental income wouldn’t even cover all of our expenses.

Not to mention most of us haven’t received raises in a couple of years now, and health insurance costs have ballooned up to nearly unthinkable levels as employers contribute less and less to the cause.

And speaking of expenses, it’s getting out of control. The condo fees are getting a little too close to $300 a month for comfort. And on top of that, the condo association has implemented a 5-year “special assessment” at the rate of $1,100 a year to put new siding on the houses. Not to mention another $140 special assessment for landscaping, which is already supposed to be included in the regular condo fees. Yet my house has no new siding, they don’t do anything besides mow the lawn and the snow barely gets plowed in the winter. Meanwhile NStar is charging me a $500 per month electric bill because energy costs are off the charts.

Although we haven’t used credit cards in years, it became clear  a few months ago we had to lean on them in our time of need. But lo and behold, new credit card regulations are going into effect and the credit card companies don’t like it one bit. So, they began either drastically reducing credit limits on existing cards, or in some cases, canceling them altogether. That means our emergency safety net was suddenly removed, just as we got to the most treacherous part of the tightrope. And the biggest kick to the junk is when you’re hoping for a mini bailout in the form of a tax return, only to discover you owe the government $3,000 because you had to take out withdrawals from IRAs and 401ks just to get by.

Recently, after some simple math, it became clear that making timely mortgage payments, utility payments, condo fee payments, etc was not going to be possible. But because we are proud people who have never fallen behind on any payments in the past, we wanted to be proactive. So, being the responsible middle class folks we are, we began calling around.

We tried to refinance our mortgage and were rebuffed. We tried to negotiate with the condo association and were shat upon. But perhaps the most frustrating part was appealing to the mortgage company. We explained our situation to them and told them for at least a few months, we weren’t going to be able to pay on time. And so we asked for assistance, noting that we were doing so ahead of time to stay in front of things.

Wanna know what they said? They told us there was nothing they could do for us until we were at least two months behind in payments.

Incredulous at their response, we asked them if we were correct in surmising that they could do nothing to help us now, but if we were derelict in our responsibility to pay them for the next two months, then and only then could they step in and help us.

Does anyone else see how fucking backward this is?!?! No one can help the middle class until the middle class is so broke they become the poor. It actually benefits me NOT to pay the mortgage, so that I can receive help to then — you guessed it — pay the mortgage. Maybe I’m a goddamn lunatic here, but wouldn’t it be more cost effective to assist people BEFORE they get to the point where they’re considering walking away from a home with no equity of which they’re in arrears?

And make no mistake, people are walking away from their homes. And who can blame them? A lot of the middle class didn’t put money down on their homes, they’re upside down and with the market correction may never see any kind of profit. Where there used to be a strong connection to our homes, many see them as an anchor around their necks. There’s no “pride of ownership” related to a home that is slowly killing you. So people are taking the credit hit, weathering the foreclosure and starting over.

Meanwhile those of us working several jobs apiece and breaking our backs to pay everything on time (or slightly behind) are met with no assistance, liens on our homes and threatening letters from lenders and bill collectors. And whether it’s a car repair, home repair or medical problem, we’re all one major unexpected bill away from serious motherfucking trouble.

This is why the middle class is disappearing. The middle class makes too much money to qualify for much of the available aid out there, but not enough to make all the ends meet. It’s like being stuck in some hellish limbo where things admittedly could be worse, but at the same time there’s no real chance of them getting any better. It’s a never-ending struggle and swimming upstream is so fucking maddening sometimes, I feel like just sinking to the bottom so someone will come rescue me.

But I can’t. I can’t imagine getting behind on the mortgage. I would feel too much guilt, because I’ve been taught personal responsibility. And that’s what the bigwigs bank on, the pride of the remaining class that will keep them paying into a money pit that will never benefit them.

I thought our President might provide some relief, and for the first time in a long time I was hopeful. Turns out I was naive. There’s no help on the way. No white (or in this case, black) knight coming to the rescue. We either need to give up and be dirt poor, or hit the lottery (or land a book deal) and move up to the wealthy stratosphere.

Because those of us in the middle are nearly extinct, and we’re running out of reasons to keep trying.

They walk around with their kids in slings and baby backpacks. They carry gargantuan satchels that hold diapers, an assortment of creams, snacks, enough clothes to last for a week, pacifiers, toys and more children’s books than most libraries keep in stock. They drive mini-vans and SUVs filled with bulky state-of-the-art car seats that look like they belong in a space shuttle as opposed to an automobile.

And when they talk to their kids, they’re goofy as all fuck. Especially with the newborns, “those parents” will even engage in that ridiculous baby talk when addressing their precious offspring. Stuff like “Does Mikey have a poo-poo? Did Mikey do a little poo-poo in his diapey-wipey? MIKEY DID A BIG POO POO OH STINKY STINKY POO POO POO POO!” And they do this in public, in plain view of everyone.

What’s worse, even during those rare moments they are without their kids, they talk about the little rugrats incessantly. I used to listen to them, smile politely and think “If you keep talking about your kid going in the potty I’m gonna fucking lose my mind and kill all of you!”

I used to be so against those parents and on more than one occasion I mentioned that I felt sorry for them, because after all, how dull is your life if all you can talk about is your bratty little kid’s latest bowel movement?

Fast forward to last night.

I worked the late shift so I could help out covering the special U.S. Senate election. The polls closed at 8 p.m. and we immediately set to work. At that point, my job was to call as many Cape Cod towns as possible and pester all of them for election results so we could post the latest figures online to let readers know how people were voting. As you can imagine, it was a pretty chaotic scene.

My cell phone rang and I saw that it was MJ. I thought about not picking it up because I was juggling several phone calls, but I grabbed it and gave her an exasperated “What’s up?”

That’s when I heard Will yell “HI DADDA!” into the phone.

All of a sudden I didn’t give a shit about Martha Coakley or Scott Brown. All I cared about was the sweet voice of my son on the other end of the line, who wanted nothing more than to say goodnight to his dad.

“Nuh-night Dadda. ‘Ove ooo (love you)!”

And so, in the middle of the news room surrounded by my co-workers in a cubicle with no walls, I officially became “that parent.”

“Hey buddy. How are you big guy? Daddy loves you too. And Dadda misses you. Can you give Dadda a kiss? (cue sound of a toddler smooching the phone) Awwww, thanks buddy. Here’s a big kiss back. Mmmmhhhhua! Sweet dreams handsome boy. Dadda will tuck you in later OK? Love you!!!”

Upon hanging up the phone, I could sense my childless friends and co-workers staring at me with equal parts disgust and amusement. I don’t blame them. Five years ago I would’ve ruthlessly mocked anyone who participated in such a stupid display of babbling incoherency and mushiness. And at that time, I swore I wouldn’t fall into the same trap.

Granted, I talk about many other things in addition to my son. I have outsides interests, hobbies, and plenty of opinions on everything from politics to sports. But just wait until you have the most adorable little boy clamoring for the mere opportunity just to tell you goodnight and that he loves you. You’ll be the same ridiculous puddle of emotional goo I was last night.

And that’s not a bad thing.

We were going around the table and they were all telling us how old they are. Most of them are seniors in college, somewhere around the age of 21. Then a few of them started asking the staff reporters how old they were. Except none of them were asking me. Feeling a little left out, I said “Doesn’t anyone want to guess how old I am?” At which point our news intern, who I will refer to as Satan from here on out, crippled me with a verbal parry that might as well have been a kick to the genitals.

“You’re married and you have a baby. You’re ancient.”

Ancient? ANCIENT?!??! Why you little…

I’d like to say I calmly replied with an appropriate verbal retort, gently reminding him that not all people with children are “ancient.” But instead, I think I said something like “Ancient?!!? I’m only 29 you little motherf*cker!!!”

I spent the rest of the weekend trying to prove I am anything but ancient. That night I stayed out and drank with all the interns to the point that I had to stay overnight at my buddy’s house in Hyannis. Unfortunately, that meant I spent my day off on Friday laying on the couch unable to move. But Saturday night I was back at it, and I attended a party until 2 a.m. after I got out of work. And not suprisingly, I was fighting off sleep all day yesterday.

In about five weeks I turn 30. And that never bothered me, until Thursday night when some smart ass 20-year-old intern turned my world upside down. Now I’m petrified of no longer being able to say I’m a 20-something and I feel like time is slipping away through my fingers.

After all, I feel like I was just in high school. Oh wait, that was 12 years ago. But college wasn’t so long ago, that’s where all my stories are from. Huh? I graduated from college eight years ago? Can someone check that math, it doesn’t seem right. I mean seriously, I”m a newlywed for God’s sake. Hmmmm…what’s that you say? I’ve been married more than 3 years now? Well shit.

How the hell did all this happen?

And then, I became very aware of what her new job means.

You see, her new job is close to an hour away. That means she’ll be getting up before me. I’ll be taking care of Will in the morning which is fine, I do that anyways. But I’ll have to drop Will off at daycare three times a week. And since she won’t be home in time, I have to pick him up from daycare too. And feed him dinner. Four nights a week, MJ will be leaving the house before Will is awake and getting home an hour before he goes to bed.

I’m not complaining, it’s just that I wasn’t fully aware how accustomed I’ve become to having MJ stay at home with Will. I wasn’t shirking my responsibilities as a dad by any means, but now I’m responsible for EVERYTHING! Every day except for Tuesday (because my saintly mom volunteered to watch him for a day) he’s my responsibility and mine alone.

If you know anything about journalism, you know it’s not exactly a 9 to 5 job. Something explodes, I go. There’s a murder or a bad accident, I get called. The news doesn’t wait and it certainly doesn’t care that I have a little boy to pick up from daycare. But I have no choice anymore, Will has to be picked up and it has to be me who does it. I’ll admit, that pisses me off a little since MJ isn’t giving up any of her work time, but then again she makes much more money than I do.

It’s tough going back to the whole daycare thing. And a little sad too because it was nice having her at home with Will everyday. I really like our daycare provider and I think he’ll have a great time, but there’s no substitute for mom and dad.

It’s gonna be a shock to the system as I get used to this routine again, but it’s absolutely necessary and, like most parents, I just have to try and walk the tightrope balancing everything as I go.