Mommy MIA: a survival saga

WE’RE STILL not sure what the last straw was, whether it was those late-night dreams in which -- much like a golden retriever -- I chase a tennis ball stupidly into the surf, no sunscreen, no nothin’. My wife used to wake me with “You’re barking again,” to which I’d reply, “So?”

Or perhaps it was the way the toddler took to addressing his mother with “Hi, babe!” every time he’d pass her in the house, which he meant affectionately even if it came off as sexist and flip.

Or maybe it was the way the other children would hold full conversations while eating corn on the cob at dinner, chatting away while grinding their front teeth into the soft yellow kernels, the latest gossip pouring from the corners of their mouths. “Eat-talking,” we call it, and have been trying to discourage it for years.

What drove their mother away? Thinking back, it could’ve been any of those things. Or all of them combined.

“Mommy gone?” the toddler kept asking.

“Yes,” I’d say.

“Why?”

Monogamy and motherhood: I think it was too much for one woman to take.

Anyway, she’s back, and as it turns out -- surprise! -- it wasn’t the dog dreams, or the screaming toddler or the way the kids behave at dinner that drove her off. It wasn’t even the most likely culprit of all: an overriding disenchantment with me, married life and our covey of children. Go figure.

“I’m just glad you’re back,” I said.

When she didn’t say anything, I replied, “Me too.”

In case you missed it last week, here’s what happened: We were standing around the center island having breakfast, like we always do, when the kids noticed their mother’s picture on the milk carton, or at least a woman who resembled her. I think their mother looks a little like Angie Dickinson from her “Police Woman” days, though the kids insist I really need to see an optician.

“Sometimes a softer focus is good,” I explained.

“It could be glaucoma, Dad,” the little girl argued.

Anyway, we looked everywhere for their mother, for what seemed like an hour, before she called and announced she’d just stopped by our older daughter’s new apartment, where she helped to get her cable going.

“Whew,” I said.

“You were worried?”

“I’m just relieved about the cable,” I said.

In truth, it was a little more than that. I was worried that she had run off, or worse, gone furniture shopping again.

Not only that, the kids were completely wiggy. The little girl was upset because I didn’t know how to straighten her hair, or which Chinese joint we always order from. Then the clothes dryer went off, sending a shrill buzz throughout the house that I took as some sort of radon gas alarm. We evacuated just in case.

“Mom never makes us evacuate,” the kids whined.

“I’m not your mother,” I said.

“No kidding,” one of them sneered.

It was there, standing on the curb with all those kids, two dogs, a cat and my Gordon Lightfoot albums that it suddenly hit me: Wonder if I have to date again?

Imagine me dating, dragging the kids along for tuna melts at Denny’s while trying to get to know someone new.

“So, how many kids do you have?” the date would ask.

“Four, not including me,” I’d explain.

We’d make idle chitchat, and before long, one of the kids would spill a milkshake all over everything, and the toddler would slip from our booth and run up and down the aisle imitating Jay Jay the Jet Plane.

Just when we got the milkshake mopped up, someone would knock a Diet Coke into my date’s French fries. The older kids would try to put her at ease by inquiring about her romantic past and what form of birth control she preferred.

On our second date, she’d either agree to marry me or take out a restraining order, neither a sign of a healthy long-term relationship.

So, all things considered, I think it’s good my wife’s finally home.

The kids seem happy about it, and over the years my wife and I have developed a certain rapport and are increasingly comfortable around each other.

I know just how she likes her toast (medium rare), and she knows never to book us into some frilly B&B;, me going a little nuts around all those doilies and 2-year-old copies of Sunset magazine. They’re all haunted anyway, most of them.

In fact, I told her once that the only B&B; I’d ever consider was one that was clothing optional.

“Great,” she said. “It’d be us and people like Doris Roberts.”

“Exactly.”

“You’re having those beach dreams again, aren’t you?” she replied.

Yes, and don’t be so quick to judge. Last night, I caught a very nice squirrel.

Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com. His MySpace address is www.myspace.com/chriserskine.