(I figgered I better start numbering these things since they're a recurring theme here...)
Paternal advice from a terrible, horrible father:
It's late in the evening. Just before 8 PM. (Which, if you're a relatively new parent, is indeed late in the evening.) Your wife is out working until, like, 10 or so. The boy, the dogs and the dad have all been fed and watered. There's a movie on the DVD since TV, generally speaking, sucks. Other than the babble from the hip-mo-tizing box, it has become preternaturally quiet. Definitely NOT the status quo in our household.
The boy, until now, had been amusing himself under the kitchen table with the toys that invariably migrate from the living room of their own accord. But if you'll picture a black and white 'B' grade detective flick that only runs on late night cable, this was the part where the private dick takes a long pull on his cigarette and says, "It was quiet, see. Too quiet."
Thus did I spring from the couch to see what was the matter. A leap into the kitchen showed me my son on his hands and knees, intent over a chrome dish sitting by the stove, pushing the head of our jack russell dog out of his way. He was into the dog food.
So I hauled him up around the belly and slung him over the sink, head first. Brown-tinged drool marking our path. Braving his six razor sharp teeth, I delved into the maw of the beast with my forefinger. First to the left, then to the right, his cheeks divulging a half dozen kibbles. Then, slipping my finger back and forth too rapidly for him to establish a firm bite, I performed a sweeping extrication underneath his tongue: two more.
His tainted smile was reminiscent of a four pack-a-day smoker's grimace, without the hollowed eyes sockets and soulless gaze. A paper towel was required to remove the last of the scum from around his lips.
A bottle of water for the squirt and a modicum of self-admonishment topped off that particular event for the evening...
I can so see him there, face buried in kibble, while a distraught little dog prances and whines.
Posted by: Paul | Monday, 11 July 2005 at 10:07 PM
When my kids were younger, I went by the "Roseanne" method of evaluating my parenting skills: If my husband walked in the door at 5, and the kids were still alive, well...... I done my job.
Posted by: Tina | Monday, 11 July 2005 at 10:38 PM
Hmmm. I'll probably just start a whole new blog dedicated to my parental follies.
Posted by: fv | Tuesday, 12 July 2005 at 09:55 AM
Oh! Our first daughter was caught gnawing on the dog's rawhide bone, and I very recently found our second eating handfuls of cat food at the home of a playdate host. I think it just toughens their tummies for a lifetime of sushi and booze.
P.S. I agree with Tina (and Roseanne).
P.P.S. I love your blog. It's wicked fun to see the papa perspective!
P.P.P.S. My husband's a Calgarian. Good souls hail from there, eh?
Posted by: Jenn | Wednesday, 13 July 2005 at 06:34 AM