chicagodads

So, um, apparently watching any sort or length of television is not a good idea for the very young . It does not matter what Elmo says. Do not listen to Elmo. Elmo is evil.

No, I’m kidding. He is, however, paved with good intentions.

But I don’t really want to talk about television or the damaging effects it has on our children’s attention spans (and we know this to be true through experience too. Just still would like to have tele or movies running on occasion…). I’d rather tell a couple stories.

When my wife and I were in South America this past summer, we had the misfortune of leaving without our daughter (does that sound like we accidentally left her somewhere? We didn’t. We left her in capable hands, I assure you.). For the first half of the trip, we were with a group of friends from our church who knew our daughter and would ask us questions about her. And thus I hearkened back to the many times over the summer when she would be wide awake and springing from her crib at seven in the morning. Eyes aglow. Mouth brimming from one side to the other like a mischievous elf. I would approach her slowly, one leg swung then another, “I’m coming to get ya!”, arms held up to shoulder length via the Frankenstein monster, also wildly grinning.

And then as I turn on the light, I would notice that she in her little onesie were all full of baby mess. But I could not hesitate. So I’d stop, go back to the kitchen, find a really large pair of tongs and grab her with it to immediately send her to the toilet, where she got the spin cycle treatment. And she would still be grinning and laughing, “Wheeee!”

“Jason, stop! That’s your daughter you’re talking about!”

“What, I can’t stop. I’m just telling the truth.”

Telling such stories made me feel all right for awhile. And I’m not sure why. Maybe there’s a simple connection being made at that moment, a new memory woven from old photographs, pieced together by emotional truth.

I thought about that this morning. Jocelyn was in a fit this morning, so after a few hours I rescued her and found out that her diaper was full, although not overflown. (Sigh) I put her back down to bed and returned to mine. When I next heard her (at I entered the room to a distinct smell. One I hadn’t smelled in her room (although on her) in a long time. Knowing full well that she did not have a baby-mess movement the day before, I kind of smiled because I was a bit concerned for her before.

It was a bit like somebody had found the cork holding up the Hoover Dam and unplugged it, only to drown in the vast yuckiness suddenly pelting him. We went into emergency mode then. And as I was wiping the baby mess from her little baby legs, and trying to get it from her baby bottom (some baby mess is drier than others) before she submerged into her baby bathtub, I was thinking, “I love this poor shivering baby. I do. And she, in her baby mess, needs me now.”

I love her. That’s it; nothing profound or new. She’s needy and she’s mine and as messy as today was (and it got worse), I can’t imagine life without her.

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