SecretAgentMan's Dossier

Thanks, All For Your Prayers

My wife is fine, except for being in post-op pain and very woozy when she stands up and tries to walk.

I, on the other hand, am having a heck of a time maintaining "overwatch" on the perpetual-motion activities of our daughter, Hannah.

Last night was the bear. Hannah took a perfect header off a chair she was standing on to visit with mommy (a/k/a "ummah"), forehead BANG into a large metal tablestand. She was very tired when she got home, kept trying to sleep on top of her Pooh Bear with the Magic Blankie, eschewing all play and even her evening milk. After thinking to myself, "I AM THE WORST FATHER IN THE ENTIRE HISTORY OF MANKIND," I decided I better stay up all night and wake her up every hour or so to be sure (a) that the large bruise on her forehead didn't start developing eyes and a nose, and (b) that she wasn't developing some mind-numbingly-terrifying brain injury.

So, with DVDs rented while Dad was watching Hannah, managed to see the Lord of the Rings third episode (nice movie, but I'm not a Tolkien fan) and just about the whole Band of Brothers cycle (again!), and a lot of caffiene, I kept waking her up. She was so cute, I was really teed off about having to wake her up. She'd open her little eyes, stare into my face, stare at the wall over my shoulder, and then -- FLOP! -- onto my shoulder and go back to sleep again.

She was fine, woke up singing. She sings a lot. Little soft songs that fill the air like silver clouds. La la, . . . loooooohhhhhh lalalalalaaaaahhhhhhh . . .

Ate a whole Jumbo-sized scrambled egg for breakfast with buttered toast-tips and some mango. She didn't like the mango, gave it the "chew - display - discard" treatment. She loved mango 6 weeks ago. Now mango's on the ash-heap of history.

The Dog's having serious rejection issues. Usually one of us (my wife or I) can pet him a bit and give him some attention. Right now that's not possible in the mornings. Poor dog hasn't had his morning walk in three days. He spends a lot of time moping around and giving moon-eyes. I tell him, "Dog, we bought the lot next door. The grass is high there. Go kill a zebra." And he does, usually, bring down a gazelle or two by lunch. Not to mention discovering the dynamite Nazi commandoes left to destroy the aircraft-factory. Gets a medal and a milk bone every evening. He's got a good life, that dog.

Off to do the bath thing, then MILK. That's all capitals, M I L K. It's the essential part of the bedtime routine -- warm milk in the microwave, counting down audibly from 10 to giggles, then off with Pooh and the Magic Blankie to sleep.

As my daughter says, BAI! BAI BAI! Bah bah . . .