I finally got to enjoy the gift certificate my girls gave me for a mani pedi and it was wonderful. And then I ended up with an ingrown toenail followed by an infection. Yes, a gift that keeps on giving. It’s my own fault. I should have not enjoyed the massaging of limbs so much that I became blissfully unaware of the fact that the nail tech was cutting my nails rather than filing. So now I get to soak my affected foot in an epsom salts, vinegar, bleach solution followed by nail care as prescribed by my doctor…anything to avoid him taking a scalpel to my poor, swollen, angry-red toe.
Daniel is fascinated with this three times daily exercise of mine…the soaking of the foot….the drying of the foot…
“What’s the dental floss for?”
“Well I need to slide it under the nail like so in order to lift…”
“OH MY GAWD!”
Poor guy pales, turns away quickly and loudly retches.
“it’s okay, son. It doesn’t hurt.”
“There are far grosser things than this, son.”
“Um, catching your kid’s vomit with your hands.”
“I promise you that isn’t even the grossest thing.”
“I’m not doing any of that EVER!”
Me thinks for the sake of my son’s future forever love of his life and any family they might have this needs to be fixed soon…for their sake and for his own sake so he won’t have to awkwardly apologize like Boomer Esiaison had to recently...I imagine not only to assuage some of his fan base (they all can’t be douche-bags, can they?). I’m sure old Boomer heard an earful from Mrs. E and didn’t care much for sleeping in the doghouse so to speak.
Having the privilege of seeing more babies being born than I can remember over the years, I have to say that I have seen so many different kinds of dads…the total hands on I’ll-do-everything kind of daddies, the dads who just might pass out if we don’t make him sit down now, the dads who do pass put, the dads who can scarcely look up from the game, Candy Crush, texts from his friends, dads who have fallen asleep because after 20 hours he is exhausted…YEAH…we wake those dads up so they won’t miss the big moment. Thankfully, most of these daddies surprise us all…especially their partners and their own selves as well. They go on to own diaper changing, well, some do. I know some dads refuse the diaper duty. The daddies on my watch soon learn they get one free pass on that with me because I come from the school of “You made this baby, you change this baby. That once earned me a tray of homemade tamales made by a lovely, elderly Mexican man who was amazed and amused that I could make his big, macho son change his daughter’s diaper because everyone knows that to “your average strong Hispanic man that is woman’s work” (his words, not mine). Some daddies grow with their babies being totally hands on daddies, taking a couple of the late night feedings, walking the floor, taking care of a barfy kid, taking the kids to the pediatrician, attending the parent-teacher conferences, jumping right in with child-care when the other parent is at work or out with friends or out of town without even calling on the grandparents to babysit or calling the wife asking when is she coming home…
and some daddies, well, some daddies don’t.
as long as both parents are okay with that.
I have been lucky to have a dad for my kids who was hands on from that very first diaper change, who has caught more than his fair share of barf and dealt with middle of the night barfy bedding. He has taken kids on occasion to the doctor, done some of the middle of the night feedings, walked the floor with a colicky-screaming baby even if he did have to get up for work in two hours, attended parent-teacher conferences and never once called on his parents to babysit when the wife was at work or out with friends or out of town because, as he taught me and his friends that they are his kids too and his job is to take care of them just like mom does…except for that breastfeeding thing because, well…
That’s the kind of daddy I hope and pray that my son will be…because frankly my grandbabies deserve nothing less. That’s the kind of man we are trying to raise this boy up to be.
Yeah, it’s a work in progress. He’s twelve. There’s time.