November 15th, 2010 | by Matt | Published in Uncategorized
It seems so long ago, last Friday morning. Back then, things were good. No, great—I was loving fatherhood, finally feeling at ease with the routine. Then, like an idiot, I called down the wrath of the god: I wrote about how easy it all was.
By that afternoon, I’d been stricken with the flu, and spent the next 24 hours in bed, alternately shivering and sweating under the covers, subsisting on Progresso chicken noodle soup and orange juice, becoming a burden to my wife and child.
By Saturday afternoon, I was feeling better, or at least good enough to pace around the house in my sick clothes while Jean made dinner for Sasha. At one point, I watched Jean carry said dinner—rice and something—in one of the nice bowls I brought back from my recent trip to Ireland, and I remember thinking I would never see it again. I was right: Within seconds, Sasha had thrown the bowl from her highchair, despite our frequent, almost daily admonitions not to throw food (or food containers) on the ground.
All of which just presaged the fact that this was a difficult weekend with Sasha. As she nears 2, she can express herself as never before—and yet she still can’t express herself fully. She fixates randomly; when she heard me say the word “yogurt” on Sunday morning, she demanded to eat yogurt, and wouldn’t touch anything else. She’s led by mysterious whims; one parent can hold her, but not the other, at least until she changes her mind and wants to hold both our hands and swing in the air.
And at the same time, she’s insanely cute, and knows it. After one of her timeouts, she came to us and, quoting an episode of “Yo Gabba Gabba,” said, “I’m sorry, guys. It was an accident.” And she made up for her misdeeds by joyfully sprinting back and forth from Jean to me at a local playground.
The point is, it’s not easy, and maybe never was. And even if it does someday get easy again, you won’t hear me crowing about it. I hate the flu. Instead, I’ll just go on complaining, as we always do here on Dadwagon, knowing you’ll understand and, better yet, the gods will leave us alone.