Dad Entry #166

My sweet, little daughter doesn’t flush the toilet. I don’t get it; I view this activity as necessary and courteous, of course, but also relatively urgent. I am big and male – not insignificant factors here – but even when perpetrated by the cute and tiny, an unflushed toilet is an unpleasant surprise. Megan has her own bathroom, and I would stay out of it in between cleanings but she doesn’t turn off the lights either, or pick up her wet, wadded towels, so I am frequently reminded to check for things undone or out of place.

Man, I haven't had time to write lately…. I feel very rusty.

I’m tempted to let Megan rewear cloths unless she dribbles food on them. This is an unpopular practice, I realize, in certain circles, like those populated by women, mothers, fashion police, clothiers, and detergent salespeople. But I’ve thought it through, and I believe that two well-spaced wearings, in between thorough washings, is perfectly acceptable. Underwear and socks are exempt, of course, as is anything muddy, grass-stained, painted, or glitter-glued (whoever invented that crap is evil). And this new policy has nothing to do with laziness. Folding laundry is a pleasure, in fact; I do it while watching SportsCenter, Justified, or The Walking Dead, the best shows on TV. And let’s face it, Megan is still very cute and little and sweat-free and perfect-smelling and flawlessly complected. But all of this is moot anyway, because Megan always gets food on her clothes.

Megan is terrified of tornadoes. We’ve had some wicked weather this summer, no doubt, so I can’t blame her for asking me, every time it storms now, “Dad, is there gonna be a tornado?” Her anxiety has everything to do with an impressive storm that rolled through right before one of our baseball games this year. I don’t believe in cancelling a game only because the weatherman announces an ominous forecast. Weathermen, it’s fitting to note, get it right about as often as batters in baseball, a third of the time, and that’s if they’re good (Miguel Cabrera has a league-leading .355 average right now). The radar was ominous too, I admit, but I need to see the rain firsthand, and the opposing coach agreed. So there we were, assembled and exposed at the ballpark, when the sky blackened in an instant, the wind was suddenly whipping and deafening, and the showers came in sideways torrents. A great bolt of lightning arced across the sky right before an explosion of thunder. Megan was scared to death, and the rest of us were nearly so; we were all standing around metal fencing. Everyone sprinted to their cars. Megan was hysterical and soaked and convinced we were being swept away in a tornado. She was unable to hear my soothing screams over the wind, “It’s okay, Baby, we’re safe!! It’s just rain!!” I know, of course, that screams are rarely soothing. I tried to carry her, but I also had the baseball equipment to haul. Mommy was there too, helping and herding us all to safety. We made it, but now my sweetheart reflexively asks during every storm, “Dad, is there gonna be a tornado?” No Honey, no tornado.