It's All Fun and Games Until Somebody Loses an Eye

     In honor (belated) of Father’s Day, I was going to write something about the true joys of fatherhood.  I was going to recount the day The Wife and I discovered The Bean was coming.  I was going to relate the tale of our trip to the Psychic Fair the day before and how, after being told it would be at least another year before a baby joined our family, we both agreed that was probably for the best.  

     We’re just learning to be responsible, we said.  We’re managing our money better, we have a house, we’re starting to take care of simple things like laundry and dishes before they get to be big, smelly messes.  We’ve only been married a year.  Let’s have some more time for ourselves.  

     The next day, one little word on a pee covered EPT stick changed everything.

     Just about 14 months later, we’re both overjoyed that it did.

     And that was what I was going to write about.  All the little things The Bean does to make it all worthwhile.  

     Instead, let me tell you how I almost blinded my daughter.

     Today is day one of week three of Daddy Day Care.  And, in an effort to get The Wife to work in a more timely manner, I was feeding The Bean her rice cereal.  And we were having a grand time.  She loves reaching for the spoon and pulling it to her mouth.  We love to watch her smile up at us with cereal smushed all around her mouth, dripping down on to her bib or her high-chair tray (which she then proceeds to try and lick clean).  And so Daddy was doing the old classic – Airplane Coming in for a Landing!.  And as the plane swooped down out of the sky, on a direct course for Landing Strip Tongue One, the landing strip suddenly moved.  It lurched forward (in pursuit of some of that yummy cereal on the tray).  The pilot didn’t have time to change course and so Flight Cereal 101 crashed down.

     Right into The Bean’s left eye.

     To her credit, The Bean didn’t cry.  She just looked up at me, with rice cereal dripping off her eyelashes.   She didn’t start to cry until Daddy tried to clean her up with her bib, spreading more rice cereal goop all over cheeks.  Finally, The Wife (aka Mommy) stepped in and saved the day.  Three minutes of Mommy magic later, The Bean was clean, eager to guzzle down her bottle, and read to burp up half of said bottle all over Daddy’s shorts.  All was right with the world again.

     So the next time Father’s Day rolls around, I won’t remember that last year I didn’t think I was ready for the responsibility of a child.  I won’t remember that I thought of myself as an overgrown child who couldn’t possibly raise another human being without doing severe damage.

     I’ll remember how lucky I am to have The Wife.  

     So at least there’s someone around to fix it when I screw up.

     Maybe we should just have two Mother’s Days.