No Cats Up In This Cradle
Chances are you've read the last few posts and thought that I was pretty much the best dad ever, and you'd be right. Chances are even better that you didn't read the last few posts. Your loss, seeing as people think I'm pretty much the best dad ever.
The thing is my status as best dad ever, pretty much, is based upon a criteria of relativity and supply and demand. If you're a dad there's a decent chance someone thinks the same of you, although, to be honest, some of you are fairly suspect.
I've spent two days with my hand in a butt crack that isn't mine. I'm just throwing that out there.
Zane woke up sick on his birthday. He woke up about 5 minutes after his ass did. Fast forward a few hours later and my hand is silky smooth and will never know the likes of diaper rash. His butt, however, is tender as the night, assuming the night is raw, chaffed and burning. I've known nights like that.
This morning he finally seems better. I'm sure it's not over, but the healing has begun. I feel a sense of hope that the only crack my hand will be in is my own, albeit briefly.
He's been dancing all morning to the Flobots and singing about riding his bike with no handlebars, which, just between us, is bullshit because he can barely handle his tricycle, but who am I to mess with creative license?
I only hope I don't have to hear my son cry today, and not in an earplugs sort of way, but in the sweet kind of way that you've come to expect from pretty much the best dad ever.
This is the part where my mom cries.
For some reason the good folks at MamaPop asked me to write on their site today, which means they are either extremely desperate or gluttons for punishment. Whatevs. I did a recap of "Heroes." I'm the poor man's TiVo and so can you!