Deck the Halls with Balled-up Burp Cloths

Last Saturday was a rough day: My baby, Johnny, barfed on me 10 times—then I accidentally put a frozen cube of breast milk in my Mountain Dew. (How was I supposed to know my wife had poured Johnny’s milk into the ice cube tray for convenient thawing later?)

But I’m adjusting. I’ve started labeling the ice cube trays, and I’m wearing a utility belt like Batman that holds a burp cloth, a pacifier, a bottle of Fantastic and a rag. This makes my two-year-old daughter, Belle, quite jealous.

“I want to wear utility belt!” she exclaims. Never mind that there’s a “Mr. Yuck” sticker on the bottle of Fantastic.

Despite my best efforts to teach her Mr. Yuck means “yucky” and “poison,” Belle thinks he means “Binaca!” and “delicious!” She’s at that stage where she wants what everyone else has—you know, the stage that typically lasts until you’re 100 years old. So I figure I might as well have fun with it.

I’m like, “Belle, would you like to sit in the blue high chair or the white high chair?”

“Blue!” she says.

“OK,” I say, “then I’ll put Johnny in the white high chair.”

“I sit in white high chair!” she exclaims, posing like George Washington crossing the Delaware.

It’s good to know Belle has my back, though. For instance, I was recently upset by a discriminatory statement made by a religious leader, so I started “thinking” out loud. I feel I do some of my best thinking out loud. However, my wife feels I do some of my best “swearing” out loud.

“Not in front of the kids,” she says. “They might repeat it.” Fair enough, but they don't repeat a word. A few minutes later, my wife drops something on the floor—then does some rather intense thinking out loud. I say sarcastically, "Honey, not in front of the kids!”

Belle walks by and says, “Yes, Mommy!” Now there's a girl who's getting an extra-big present from Daddy this year. I guess the moral is that victory is sweet, even when served over frozen breast-milk cubes.

Copyright Christopher Hollenback, 2006, all rights reserved.