A Father’s Rite of Passage

A FATHER’S RITE OF PASSAGE

Well, I wanted to let you know that I have been recently initiated into parenthood.  Yes, a joyous occasion.  For some 18 ½ months now, I have been blissfully fooling myself into believing that I was an actual card carrying parent.  How far we fall.  Ah, the ignorance.  I do remember distinctly saying, some years ago, to an aghast listener, that, should I have children, I couldn’t imagine cleaning up all the poop and, worse yet, the vomit.  Well, friends, I have passed the first gauntlet many times, yet the second remained. Two days ago, my daughter Emma and I were partaking in our weekly ritual of grocery shopping at Publix, our local chain.  She sits in the cart facing me and, most often, is fine to hangout and let daddy do his chore.  Well, the stars aligned this morning and all was not well.  Unbeknownst to me, I was going to meet face to face with the final challenge of initiation.  And, as this challenge would find me, I was alone in a sea of aisles and half priced cans of soup…without Super Mom to take charge. Halfway done, Emma showed no, absolutely NO signs of what she was about to bestow on me.  As we rounded a corner to storm another aisle, she became fitful, whining and restless.  Thinking she was just tired of this chore, I picked her up.  No sooner was she on my hip (I am convinced she waited for this moment), did she open her mouth and share her breakfast with me.  The first heave was, I quickly learned, a warning volley; a “take cover” command to all near.  That first volley landed primarily on her.  Now, at this point, an experienced father would have quickly sat her down or even held her out at arms length.  Not I.  No, I continued to hold her close, patting her back gently, looking away at some nearby chips, wincing inside and willing myself that I would not contribute to this absurd festival of lost meals. 

The second volley followed and I realized this was, indeed, a “shock and awe” campaign doled out by my daughter.  This one came in greater force and ran like a river down the front of my pristine, white Ireland football jersey, ending on my shorts and shoes.  The patting continued as Daddy fought to stay upright.  The last of this came hard upon the heels of the second bombing, though this one was the back breaker.  All this time, Emma’s face was close to my neck, thankfully, turned outward.  For some bizarre reason, as if she thought I wasn’t enjoying this carnival enough, she turned her head inward and shared yet again.  Looking back, I was amazed a 19-pound baby could pack away the food that was now coming out of this body…and it was only 9:30 in the morning!  Emma’s blow hit my neck and split the geyser in two, most going down the front, but the rest now trailing down my back.  It was at this moment I blacked out and distinctly remember having an interesting conversation with the late Sir Winston Churchill.  Odd.

 When I came to, I sat Emma down and could not for the life of me figure out what to do next.  Both of us covered, buried, in this and looking like two characters from “Dawn of the Dead”.  She tottled off, jabbering to herself like nothing happened.  A woman.  I flipped open my phone and called my wife at work, not two miles from where I was, and uttered these words: “You need to come to Publix right now!”  Should this have been a Tom Clancy novel, it would have read this way: “We need immediate evac…I say again…man down, immediate evac…Operation Grocery is blown…” Gathering myself, I wheeled the cart out, called Emma, now three aisles down looking at something colorful, and began our exit.  I cannot convey the feeling of my shirt against me as I walked and now picked up Emma to put her on my hip again.  We made our way to the front of the store, seeing an elderly woman who caught sight of a father holding his daughter so lovingly at the top of the aisle. She smiled, but as we got closer the smile vanished and it looked like she was digging in her purse for a crucifix.  Inside the men’s bathroom, I stripped Emma down and had the growing realization that I, too, needed to take off my shirt…over my head.  So that is what banana nut granola smells like heated up.  The manager entered…there stood a half-naked baby and an overly hairy man.  Not a good scene.  He was kind enough to give me a shirt.  Super Mom came and whisked Emma off to be hosed down as I finished the shopping in a purple March of Dimes shirt with my shoes squishing on every step. Ah, parenthood.  But I should be receiving my laminated card in two to four weeks.  Good to be part of you all.