Cracking Up...

I write this post from the muggy confines of my command station on the carport.  I have beer and my dogs.  My son has been ripped from my arms and carted across state lines. A few states actually. My wife has taken him up north to visit family and friends. She left yesterday and we’ve spoken several times. She says everything is fine. I told her the same on my end.  What I didn't tell her is that last night I ate watermelon and cocoa puffs for dinner, while wandering the house in a bathrobe, listening to Baby Einstein and reading My BeeBo. I'm not bitter it just reads that way...

I should be cutting loose with my freedom, taking full advantage now that my strings of responsibility are blowing in the wind. As are the smells in this house, I may need to open a window. Dinner tonight looks to be a delectable course involving peanut butter and jelly packets. The possibilities are endless. This is not the first time I've been left, but it's the first time since I've been a dad.

It’s bittersweet, a week of freedom in exchange for a week without my little guy. But don’t cry for me Argentina, or Virginia. I’ll get to play basketball and drink some beers with the fellas, and undo all of that training my wife worked so hard to accomplish. The stubble on my face is like industrial strength sandpaper...and we're only on day two.  A week without shaving, toilet seat maneuvering, and hair in the bathtub, I’m going full neanderthal here. Boom... I just smashed a bug with my fist. 

The dogs and I will hunker down and ride out the storm. They're already sighing heavily and looking up at me with sad eyes.  Weeks are like months for my little dude at this stage. What if he forgets me? I had no idea how attached I was already. I mean I did, but it was hard not holding him before work, coming home to that smile after work, and listening to him giggle in the tub, and sleeping on my chest….oh God, I'm no neanderthal, I'm a dad!  A dad who needs to wash the bug guts from his hands...