Don’t Kill The Buggie!

Li'l Bee

Parenting is not for wusses.

The other day, I’m walking down the hall with Norah. A pleasant little stroll from the stairs to the kitchen.

And she starts to pull away from me, going towards something on the wall.

Instinct kicks in. It’s a bug. Spider? Poisonous? Is there a yellow recluse spider? What if it bites her? She was “the sickest kid in the NICU” two years ago!

I pull Norah back and yell for Shannon (she’s already in the kitchen) to grab a paper towel. She comes running with the towel, and I squoosh the bug. Several times. Just to make sure.

And Norah is crying.

I saved your life! What are you crying about?

Oh wait. You don’t know that some buggies bite and hurt. You watch “Miss Spider’s Sunny Patch Kids” where bees and butterflies and spiders all get along and have cute adventures.

It’s OK, baby. Daddy’s sorry. But he didn’t know if that was a bad buggie or a buggie that we’d normally just shoo away.

Mean Daddy killed a buggie. Oy.

I repeat: Parenting is not for wusses.

Bad Daddy, Part 2

It’s been six days since It happened. AndĀ  yes, I should have blogged it sooner. (Hence the title.)

I mentioned in my last post how verbal our girls are getting. But nothing prepared me for this:

Friday, Ali flicked a mental switch. And all I could hear was “DADA DADA! DADA DADA!”

And yes, she was directing it at me. With increasing volume and joy at seeing me.

Cue heart melting into puddle.

And last night, just because she wanted to make sure she was mentioned in this blog post, Norah said — quite clearly, to both Shannon and me — “Sit down” whilst standing on her little pink chair. She then sat down, taking her own advice.

It feels like I should do this every day. I’m at work, but this took like four minutes to do. Am I too selfish and wrapped up in stupid things to capture moments like these? Answer: Kinda, yeah.

I promise to try to be better about it. Excuses abound, but that’s not fair. Some day in the year 2031, my daughters might be hanging out reading Dad’s old blogs (“How quaint!” they may chuckle at our primitive technology) and wishing that I had been more online-attentive.

I’m a writer, for Pete Rose’s sake. Paid for my skill with words. I should be better at this kind of thing.

Sorry, girls. Daddy’s only human. (Clearly, one of the greatest living humans, but still.)

Please don’t put me on a floating chunk of iceĀ  when I get old.

Our angels