As I wallow in the lag between vasectomy surgery and the big test to see if everything went according to plan, my mind has been want to wander. And of course, those meandering thoughts have drifted into doubt – second guessing whether or not this whole kick in the manhood is all worthwhile.
Dude, like – did I take the bogus pill?
Lucky for me, I have the unwavering support of not only my smokin’ hot wife, but my two precious kiddos are looking out for me as well. It’s as if they can sense their daddy is conflicted and deeply troubled, so they swoop in to offer their adorably poignant, yet delicately subtle, nudges of reinforcement.
Like yesterday. The wife and I were in the kitchen. I was supposed to be helping her stir up some dinner, but I was lost in a spiral of sad virile uncertainty – gazing off into space. Suddenly, the 9-year-old boy pipes up.
“I don’t know what you’re cooking, but I hate it. It stinks, and it’s making me gag. I’m not eating it.”
– Turd Jones
Ah thanks, buddy. You know how to put daddy at ease. Here’s a butter knife – be a champ and go tighten up the electrical outlets.
And then there was this delightful little conversation about an hour later:
The Wife: Where did you put your dress?
The 6-Year-Old: I don’t know.
The Wife: Then I don’t know if it’ll get washed.
The 6-Year-Old: What if I don’t want my clothes where you want my clothes?
The Wife: Y’know, I’m just trying to do your laundry.
The 6-Year-Old: I don’t care.
Masterfully done, sweet-pea. Daddy won’t forget this. Could you take this flashlight and go check the dog for worms?
They really have it down to a science. Their timing is in perfect step. Their delivery, Shakespearean. And their creative little minds produce truly surprising and remarkably varied methods of treatment. Notice how the two examples above managed to deftly co-mingle insulting obstinance with a household chore that neither the wife nor I wanted to do in the first place. It’s like telling the janitor he’s an idiot for not scrubbing the toilet with the right brush.
So I chose this. And I feel good about it.
And then, just before bedtime, I’m assaulted with one last little perfect act of diabolical cruelty. The six-year-old crawls up onto my lap and curls herself into a warm, gushy ball of fragile affection.
“I love you, Daddy.”
– I love you too, sweetie.
“I made up a song for you, Daddy.”
– Really? That’s wonderful.
“It’s called, ‘I Love Daddy.'”
That’s when I bury my nose into the top of her head and breathe in as deeply as I can. And honest to God, there is nothing else in the world that smells anything like this. My olfactory nerves somehow delve beyond the stench of sweat and dirt and selfishness and insensitivity, and it locks-on to a faint, distant essence of unconditional love and undeniable comfort. It’s like a tractor beam of tenderness that pulls me in and washes away any sour memories lingering from the day. Eventually, we start to breathe in unison.
Her soft, raspy voice lets out a small hum as she begins to sing.
Turns out it’s a song about daddy’s farts.