The latest wrinkle in the toddler-centric tapestry of my life is Robert’s and my nightly wrestling match. It begins with his default greeting as I walk in the door: “Hi daddy! You’re home! You have to change into your play clothes and wrestle with me!” So I do as I’m told and sit with my back against the couch, and Robert takes running starts at me and tries to scale the slope of my torso.
My gut makes a nifty foothold, so he often reaches the peak and exults by trying to rip my glasses off. But sometimes, when he flails too close to The Populator, I have to lift him up, bench-press him a few times, and hurl him over my head and into the sofa cushions. (Robert weighed 38 pounds when he last crawled onto the scale at the laundromat, and I’m starting to develop some serious pipes.)
A few nights ago, all three of my biorhythm strands must have been troughing at once, and I arrived home in one of my deep blue funks. The boy and I began our nightly Sofa SmackDownTM, and as I lifted him over my head he pointed out a tear in the armpit seam of my t-shirt. I looked at the hole and responded gloomily with something ridiculous like “You’re right, my son. Life has conspired to rend my armpit, and my soul.” And he came right back with “Don’t worry Daddy, ’cause I can fix it!”
Damned if he didn’t. Just one of 3 billion reasons why fatherhood is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.