Tonight’s blog is two parts. The first part is pretty.
I woke up today to my wife making some monkey bread. I got to have Ann’s parents over, along with Ann’s brother and his wife — all of whom are some of my favorite people I know. We had steak, homemade cole slaw, deviled eggs, boullion onions (the spelling may or may not be right, but the taste sure was), and grilled zucchini, followed by individual (low-carb!) chocolate peanut butter cheesecakes. Also, a nice IPA. Then board games and card games. Sage got to go to the park twice today, and she took a great nap.
And my lovely wife got a great deal on some online guitar lessons for me, which is awesome.
All in all, it was a great way to spend my second-ever Father’s Day as a dad.
Now, for the second part. And it ain’t pretty.
As a father, you become exposed to all new kinds of fear.
You get the vague, unceasing chill that you don’t know what you’re doing, and that this will have disastrous results somewhere in an unnamed way in a future that feels both imminent and decades away.
You get the sudden, panicky terror when you see your child falling toward something hard, or from a height greater than one millimeter.
You get the spiked, middle-of-the-night dread that despite your best efforts something is going horribly wrong with your child right now.
You get the mild, just-breathe-deep unease that you could be the best parent in the history of parenthood but that your child could turn out to be one of the nasty ones.
But there is nothing — nothing — in my life that compares to the steady crescendo of suspense that occurs when you have a fully armed and operational DiaperBomb™ and the Diaper Genie (probably also, and for realsies, ™) is full enough that the trap door is not letting the DiaperBomb™ through and you have to keep pushing even though you don’t know what’s going to give first.