Late night Taco Run

  

     It’s funny how of all the little things that remind me I’m a dad – a smelly diaper, a dirty, little finger meddling in my ketchup, a voice from across the apartment yelling, “Dad, come wipe me, I’m done pooping” – nothing makes me feel more like a parent than when my kids are sick. It’s like these tiny little wrecking ball, energizer bunny babies that are normally brimming with curiosity are all of a sudden reduced to helpless little blobs of glum and droopy eyes, and you’re the only one they trust enough to nurse them back to heathenry…I mean health.

     Our little sullen savages landed us a trip to the urgent care center last night, and with Cristina sporting a 27 week baby bump, it was Dad-Bod to the rescue, nestling Millie before the barrage of X-rays and breathing treatments, and holding Darc after his tablet died and the boredom, compounded by his chest congestion and throat pain, drove him to body aches and a theatrical performance I’d say could rival that of Daniel Day-Lewis (he gets that from my side of the family). At the end of it all, we got what we went for: peace of mind and a pair of antibiotics that kept both Gramma, MDs out of our hair (thanks for all that you do grammas!).

     The trip home after a hospital visit is always the part I look forward to, not that there have been many, fortunately. But, usually by this time the kids are medicated and fast asleep on the road to recovery, and Cristina and I are a little less stressed. Not so completely destressed to avoid the drive-thru at Taco Cabana, of course. It was late but we figured it was just what the doctor ordered. RX: 2 Egg and bean breakfast tacos to go.