Daddy Broke Chair
I can’t decide which is more annoying – a swift kick to the balls or constantly being reminded of your exceptional girth.
A few days ago, I was trying to murder the dog when… Oh, I should probably explain why I was trying to murder the dog. The nine pound dachshund was leaping high in the air – a well-calculated attempt to steal my daughter’s breakfast. Like a domesticated predator, she sat poised on the dining room floor, a black stripe rising up her back, waiting for just the right moment to pounce. As the girl’s hand moved down to her lap holding the exquisite morsel of buttered bread, the dog quickly went into action. Pure instinct took over and she leaped high, grabbed the hunk of bread in her teeth and finished with a perfect dismount. While attempting to inhale the large boon all at once, I attempted to murder her.
However, sensing that her life was in danger, she dashed off just as I leaned over to do the deed. The arm of my chair cracked and the wood splintered. The arm swung down to the floor – broken. I’m certain I yelled a profanity. Not sure which one, but it couldn’t have been very original.
“Daddy broke chair.” My observant daughter announced. “Daddy broke chair.”
“Yes.” I replied. And soon I’ll break your little dog, too.
Since that fateful morning, she has informed every adult that we’ve come in contact with that “Daddy broke chair.” She tells the librarian, she tells the cashier at Starbucks, she tells her Grandmother on the telephone. “Daddy broke chair.”
But truly, as bad as the constant reminder of my dynamic waist line is, it can’t hold a candle to the beatings my balls have received recently. The worst incident happened a few days ago.
I was holding her in my arms while we crossed the street on the way to the library. She was so excited. I was paying attention to the cars and the traffic light, not her feet. And WHAM. She kicked me square in the nuts. I doubled over in the middle of the crosswalk, still holding her tightly. She laughed. Ha Ha. Funny daddy. I finished the monumental task of getting her across the street, slowly. The light probably turned yellow, red and green a few times before we finally made it. My head spun, my insides were on fire – and yet I kept moving, holding the girl in my arms. I felt like King Kong trying to hold onto Fay Wray while getting riddled with bullets; like Michael Douglas carrying Melanie Griffith over the border in Shining Through while the Germans turned him into swiss cheese with their machine guns. It was heroic, yet I didn’t feel like a hero. I felt like…sucky.
Then, last night at bedtime…
“Goodnight, honey.” I said sweetly, holding her in my arms.
“Goodnight, daddy.” WHAM.
Fine. Daddy break chair. Baby break balls.
Touche.
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