Fathers just get used to it
Our 2-year-old grabbed my fingers and yanked. Did he want milk? A graham cracker? A college fund? Or did he want me to venture into the Land of the Exploded Toy Box to play choo-choos? Sometimes it's hard to tell.
"What are we going to do, Sam?" I asked, bending to his level. "Want to play football?"
He pulled my hand toward his face and casually looked away like I'd just asked for his autograph. Then he wiped my fingers across his nose, dropped my hand and walked away.
No, I guess he didn't want to play football.
"Hey, honey," I called into the living room. "How long has Sam had a cold?"
"A couple of days," she said.
Great, I thought, looking at my hand slowly, like it might turn into a wolf at the next full moon. Nope, it looked like something from an "Alien" movie.
Kids, by their nature, are gross. They don't mean to be gross, but since by about 2 p.m. on any given Saturday most of my shirts are 45 percent cotton/55 percent drool. I have scientific proof.
I've learned to accept the fact that I may never again be dry, well groomed or free of the yellow smear of A&D ointment. But, as Nietzsche would have felt after a few bouts of solid in, liquid out, being a parent has made me stronger.
As a dad, I can:
- Drink after my toddler unless he's eating crackers.
- Change the soiled undergarments of another human being*.
- Eat things that have been in someone else's mouth as long as that someone has fewer than 12 teeth ... and has always had fewer than 12 teeth.
- Be happy with the ever-present smell of peanut butter.
- Be content with the ever-present smell of sour milk.
- Be tolerant of the odor that comes from a diet of too many grapes.
- Mock my wife when she smells like any of the above.
- Touch something sticky on, or around the couch, and feel comfortable about it.
- Understand that anything I step in has a logical reason for being there _ no matter the consistency, or if it's on something of mine.
- Watch a toddler lick ketchup off a McDonald's french fry dipped over and over until the once-proud, crispy fry is reduced to something resembling pudding.
Standing at the sink, washing toddler glaze from my hand, I heard the boy stomping toward me breathing like Darth Vader. So I did what any sensible person would do.
I ran.
*Offer void if you've had at least three birthdays or remember anything before 2004.
