I wanted my son to grow up to be whatever he wanted to become.
I just never thought he would become lunch.
My son's big break came a few weeks ago. I found out about it when my wife called me at work sounding upset.
In the few months that my wife and I have been parents, I have discovered that my wife has many different degrees of being upset. The level I heard on the phone that day was somewhere between "Our son's ear has fallen off" and "Our son spit up all over the carpet."
In other words, I knew it wasn't terribly serious.
"Another kid bit our son," she said to me as if he was now damaged goods for the rest of his natural life.
I told her to take a few deep breaths and to tell me what happened. She said that he had been sitting innocently in day care when another kid - an older infant and a "known repeat biter" (that's one of those things that will wind up on his permanent record and keep him from going to a good college when he grows up) walked up to our son and chomped on his cheek.
My son was defenseless. No teeth. Not able to walk away. So he used his only weapon - a glass-shattering scream - to scare this Hannibal Lecter, Jr. away.
The dining experience had left a dark red mark on our son's cheek, but it did not break the skin.
Then I uttered the first of what I'm sure will be many more phrases that I learned from my father: "Ah, it'll toughen him up."
I think most fathers have developed this "whatever doesn't kill them, toughens them up" philosophy as a defense mechanism for dealing with our wives who don't want a tough baby and who believe anyone who tries to toughen them up should be killed.
My wife insisted that I come home immediately to witness this horrible mark on our son's beautiful face and to document it. I didn't ask the reason for needing documentation. I guess I assumed she was planning to take this "repeat biter" to court (The case of "Turn the other cheek … I want seconds" next on "Judge Judy").
My son did have a definite mark on his cheek, but he certainly didn't seem hurt. In fact, when I came in the door he was enjoying his favorite pastime: watching the ceiling fan and smiling.
Seeing that he was OK, I determined that this was a pretty funny incident. "I guess I can't call him MUNCH-kin anymore, huh?" Then, I said, "We should cover him in Tabasco and that kid won't touch him again."
My wife didn't appreciate my humor.
I decided I better call my mom. We should have a direct line to her by now because she insists on knowing everything that is happening with our son.
My mom's response was vengeance: "Well, he should have gummed the @#$% out of that little bugger."
If it is humanly possible, grandmothers, I believe, are more protective than mothers are. In fact, I would not have been surprised if my mom would have jumped in a plane and flown immediately from California to Colorado to hunt down the little cannibal in person.
In the background I heard my dad. He was trying to determine why my mom was upset. She quickly relayed the story, emphasizing the fact that her grandchild was wounded.
And like one of those annoying Memorex commercials, I heard my dad repeat my earlier statement, "Ah, it'll toughen him up."
But it looks like I won't have to worry about my son being an appetizer for another kid for much longer.
My son finally figured out how to defend himself: his first tooth came in this week.
info@brandnewdad.com |
Add to Favorites
|
Save to del.icio.us
|
Moms - Tell Your Partner About Brand New Dad
|
Site Map
About the Author
Buy His Book »