My day began yesterday with a parade.
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Aerial shot of the "Ordale J Allen 'Father of the Year' Parade[/caption]A lot of people will take the self-righteous route and say that being a father is its own reward. These people are lying to you, and you may want to question your friendship with them. Being a father is great, but rewards and/or monetary donations are gladly accepted. The very first thing I asked my co-parent for was sleep. We alternate days with "the child" and on the weekend that often results in one person waking up at 6 with her and calling the other person around eight to tag them into the battle. My gift yesterday was a hefty dose of ZzzQuil and the right to sleep until God decided I should wake up. I slept for ten hours and it was everything that I imagined it could be.
Unlike entry-level parents, I've figured this thing out. My daughter isn't even three yet, so the concept of "it's Daddy's day" means absolutely nothing to her. In truth, Father's Day at this age is less a day of appreciation and more a day of recertification. My daughter put me through the ringer yesterday. After my great sleep and parade, I was treated to lunch at Red Lobster. It was naptime, so there was a minor meltdown, but co-parent took care of it. After lunch, however, it was all downhill.
"Let the Tantrum of Fire commence!"
Somehow a "quick" stop at Target turned into a 2.5 hour experience. I ended up taking my daughter to the car for the last 20-30 minutes where she did everything but steal the car and run over pedestrians. I popped something in my lower spine while trying to wrangle her into the car seat, and then she and I went home. Unable to move freely and seriously questioning the assertion that generic ibuprofen is as effective as real Advil, I spent the next few hours realizing just how nonthreatening I am to my daughter.
Attempts to distract her with Finding Nemo and Toy Story were unsuccessful as all she wanted to do was play and run around and serve as a host body for Zuul. She took a quick power nap which gave her enough energy to move at full speed, but did nothing for her temperament, and I spent most of the time feeling my heartbeat through my vertebrae. I decided to put her to bed early, so that I could go to bed early and sleep off some of that pain. Whereas I normally go to sleep around 11 or 12, I was out like a light at 10:00.
That light was cut back on at 10:22 by my daughter's shrill thanks to a nightmare or just her realization that there was still an hour and thirty-eight minutes left in "Recertification Day." I jumped up in pure panic from the sound and then fell back down in pain and slowly limped over to her aid. I took her to the bathroom, told her everything would be alright, and put her back to sleep. By 10:50 I was back asleep, and then awake again at 10:58, because she wasn't tired anymore.
We played that affectionate game where you sit on the floor next to her bed because your back hurts too bad to stand up and you keep rubbing her back and trying to get her to go to sleep before just giving up and crawling back to your own bed with her behind you thinking it's a game where she's supposed to climb on your back and snap whatever parts of your spine are still intact. Yeah, that one.
She ended up getting in the bed with me and, through the power of suggestion (slapping and kicking the hell out of me), convinced me to just sleep at the edge of the bed. Two hours later she woke up again and I just gave up on sleep. Maybe it was delirium, but I realized that sleep was the enemy. If I could learn to let go of the archaic notion of rest, then I wouldn't be so frustrated at that moment. It was a zen moment.
At some point the sun came up, I made her breakfast that she didn't eat and I took her to daycare. Someone said something about, "Did you have a nice Father's Day," and I smiled to keep from crying...and now here I am writing this post. The upside is that this license to be a daddy is good for another 364 days.
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