The other day I after I got home from my one day a week of work I was sitting on the floor playing guitar. Our squishy little baby was enthralled. He was clinging to the guitar and pulling himself up onto his knees. It was a sterling moment. He knelt there, awkwardly teetering and my wife made a move to come to his rescue. I clucked out through a smug grin, “I got this, babe”. — Yeah, I call my wife babe. sorry — “I watch him nine hours a day, you know” I said. She gave me a sidelong glance and said ok. It wasn’t ten seconds later that he fell backward and bonked his head on the ground. He was fine but my unearned confidence had been shattered.
My wife was as gracious about the matter as the situation allowed. She said, “You got this, huh?”. I ate my humble pie; every bitter bite. It was the kind of thing that could only happen while she was watching. I have this sycophantic need to impress her that turns me into a bumbling moron. I tell myself she thinks it’s cute.
A man prides himself on some such thing or the other. Now, what I have to pride myself on is my ability to protect my baby. It seems I have a long way to go before I can call myself a master. In the meantime, I’ll be proud of…allowing the sands of time to strip me of my ego? Growing more in touch with my feminine side? I guess I’ll just be proud of my superhuman wife and our happy, healthy baby. Things could be worse.
In yet another kvetch about nothing,
Clinton, a.k.a. Father of the Fallen