So I’m at the store getting my daughter a book when my worthless brother texts me that he just got a copy of Call of Duty: Black Ops 2. At which point I look to see that lo and behold, today is it’s release date. Guess what I’m doing?
I’m reading her Green Eggs and Ham jerkoff! But I sure can’t wait for bedtime.
So I ordered a life insurance policy. I want to make sure Little Bear is covered in the event I finally meet my match.
When I check my mail I always bring her with me. Her head is the perfect height to see into the box and for some reason it’s something she just loves to do. Regardless, we go to check the mail today and she pulls out my life insurance policy. She then proceeds to spend the next 15 minutes asking me weird details and expressing much more interest in said life insurance policy than a 3 year old child should have. Then I started to think about the last picture her mother sent me about a week ago:
Bar Tally: 253 Hours
It was on, it was off. On the single last day I had to make this happen the stars aligned. So I’m still graduating and sitting for the Bar. I am exceptionally grateful I got such a head start on Bar study because I’m now only a week behind schedule instead of 3. As expected I’ve a little extra work ahead of me and I’m sure a handful of disappointments, such as the fact that I probably won’t be running the Beast, but priorities are set and I’m back in the fight as of tomorrow.
When my daughter was about 1 I experienced the saddest moment of my life. She was walking around in the living room and proceeded to pee on the carpet. She looked at her mother and I, and having seen us do this countless times before, she went and grabbed a towel and tried to clean up the carpet.
This afternoon that moment met its match. I was picking her up from preschool and the moment she saw me she flew across the room to her mailbox and pulled out a small bag, “Daddy! Open it!”
So I untie the ribbon on it and retrieve a plaster thing with shells and rocks glued in it. “Happy Father’s Day daddy!”
“Oh wow! This is awesome sweetheart! Thank you so much. Can I put this on my desk?”
“Yeah! Give it to me to put away to keep safe for you.”
So I hand her the plaster object and she starts to put it in the bag, when CRASH! it falls onto the ground and explodes. I look up at her and she is just standing there quietly looking at me. Painfully slowly her eyes begin to well with tears. Her lip begins to quiver. She opens her mouth and slobber connects the top and bottom of her mouth.
She falls apart in perhaps the saddest moment I’ve ever experienced. “Daddy….*sniff* *sniff* daddy. Daddy. Daddy. That was for y…y..you…” <insert hugs/tears/promises to reglue the impossible>
…is really hard. But I love the job. My entire world goes to about 1/8 speed, and I pretty much have to give up any autonomy until Little Bear is in bed, but perhaps it’s the teacher in me. I love to watch her learn. It grips the same place that being a squad leader did. I love to watch her, unprompted, to be about the most considerate person I’ve ever known. I love her sweetness. I love her ferocity. She is my child. She is a warrior. She is a thinker. I love to watch the gears turning in her head. I love getting a kiss, but having it not be enough; she wants, “lots of kisses.” I love dropping her off to school and have her hold my hand to show me what job she has that day. I love picking her up and having 3 kids run across the yard screaming, “Abby, look who’s here!” then having her run full tilt into a growling hug.
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