…and
what, frankly, is “bejesus” anyway?
I’m a new
dad and I love hanging out with my daughter. Mia is cool. I know she’s going
to have a great personality and sense of humor even at this age. One of the things people always hear is how
fast kids grow up. I heard this a lot during
my days as a non-parent and I typically just laughed it off. Now I know. They were right. Practically in
front of your very eyes, they start smiling, laughing, projectile vomiting,
juggling your pets and doing long division. It’s amazing to watch. So, yes, I
try and spend as much quality time with Mia as I can.
I’m a new
dad but I think I’m a comfortable new dad. Ever seen those guys who get handed a kid and they look like they’ve got
absolutely no clue what they’re doing? I’m
not that guy. I think my child-handling
instincts are pretty good. I’m figuring
out which cry means what. I can smell a
poopy diaper at 20 paces. I haven’t sold
Mia on EBay. And, while we have played
Grand Theft Auto, I haven’t showed her how to beat up the hookers and steal
their cash…yet.
Keeping
all these things in mind – the areas in which I think I’m a pretty good dad – I’m
now living in fear of Sunday. Sunday is
the day a friend of ours is getting married. And Beth will be attending the wedding. I’ll be at home with Mia. Alone. Where no one can hear me
scream. Except Mia. Who’ll probably be doing some screaming of
her own.
I’m
pretty confident that I’ve perfected a few infant entertainment techniques but
I’m positive my arsenal isn’t sufficiently stocked. I can read stories, I can dance and sing, and
I can make the really obnoxious farting noises she likes on or independent of
her belly. I can push a stroller, speak
in silly voices, shake rattles like a percussionist at a Latin music festival,
squeeze a bottle and play the Winnie the Pooh song on a Fender Strat. But I get this sneaking suspicion that all of
these skills might not be enough when push comes to shove. For there will loom, just out of sight, the
menacing Absense of Mommy.
When I
was a kid, anticipating something I wasn’t happy about, my mom used to turn to
me and ask, “what’s the worst that could happen?” And she was usually right. Nothing terrible happened. The world didn’t end, although a few
Republican administrations began. And I
know she’d give me the exact same advice if I were to ask her. Regardless, I’m bracing myself for a non-stop
screaming, crying, non-napping spit-up fest. Sunday, the day of rest? Yeah,
right. Wish me luck.
