Earning my Da.D

I've gotten away from the parental existentialism I once seemed to spout without breaking a sweat.  Drifted more in to the realm of cutsie "updates" and silly projections.  It's not a bad thing.  It's how most of the parent blogs of the world go about it.  It's actually more in line with what the "web logs's were designed to be.  But today I feel like letting the beast from it's cage.  Writing something more from the heart than from the eye.  An OP ED piece rather than breaking news.  I'm dad.   Dad.  A masculine parental title meant to exude love and respect simultaneously.  A three letter word that sums up a sole purpose in life.  In the thousands of years prior to ours, this was the only title attainable.  You hunted or you gathered, eventually you might have farmed, but your main objective in this life was to populate.  Outside of the 10 commandments brought down in stone form, many people forget there was one given way before these.  "Go forward.  Fill the earth and multiply".  In a sense, be a Dad.  Of course another interpretation might be "get out of here you crazy kids; and have her back by 12:30!"  It depends on how your mind works.  So while it's great to be a Dr. or a PhD. or an Esq., even RN and MA. seem to carry some weight, they pale in comparison to the original title man once strode for. .... Dad.  Anyway, now that we've firmly gone off on a tangent, let me reel it back a bit.  The flu escapade of 2011 didn't end with my bout on Tuesday; it reared it's ugly head once again on Friday night.  We held Gina's hair back most of the night while she prayed to the porcelain god and we slept with a bucket in bed that night.  Wasn't really a bucket, it was a cooking bowl - but I'll never see it as a bowl to be used in cooking again. ... so it's now considered a bucket.  Saturday I took the girls so Gina could sleep (and to try and keep them from being exposed).  Of course, that didn't help.  Around 2:30 Sunday morning Arianna started crying "Daddy!". ... here's a tangent worth going on: I've noticed that whenever someone poops or throws up or does something else gross, they call for Daddy.  If they want love or to cuddle - Mama.  When it requires a hose and some rubber gloves. ... that's when I become numbero uno.   What the hell is that about?!  It's like Gina hardwired them or something so that I'm the default in these situations.  Anyway, now back to the currently developing article - so we ran in to find her pillow soaked in puke.  We got her up and cleaned and brought her to our room where we had to watch in heart wrenching angst as she threw up in to the newly minted "bucket" for the next 5 hours.  You forget how scary that first time throwing up can be.  It's not like the spit up of infancy or the gag reflex of learning to eat solid food. ... it's a whole other animal.  And as your body convulses violently and this burning, acidic froth is forced up your throat against your will. ... it's terrifying.  And she was terrified.  We were able to get her back in to our bed (after rotating every 10 minutes; one napping while the other sat on the couch with her) and played the new game, everyone sleep for half an hour and then wake up, try to grab the bucket and get it under her chin before she gets it all over.  We lost a lot.  So after exhausting our sheet and towel supply she finally went to sleep for good and woke up feeling a million times better.  Don't know why these thing metastasize so quickly in children (rather than us adults who have it for two days straight) but I'm grateful she only had to deal with it for a few hours.  I then spent the rest of Sunday prepping the new (or old, as it is second hand) bassinet for refinishing - don't have room for a crib in our new digs - while everyone else took it easy for the day; Gina and Arianna recovering and Genevieve just waiting for her turn to battle the bug.  So where was I?  How does this all come full circle to the dad title?  Well. ... how doesn't it?!  Life - or life as it was originally intended for our species - doesn't revolve around titles like Dr. and Esq.  It doesn't revolve around car payments and concerts, martinis and new film releases.  It doesn't revolve around politics and vacations, it doesn't even circle our friendships.  Life, my life, the life of a parent (those who've gone forth and multiplied per instructions) revolves around these little people with chubby hands and bright eyes who we've been given the honor of escorting toward adulthood were they'll take on the mantle and continue the process.  It's a grand journey that will look magnificent in it's finalized, abridged version.  But while it's still being written it's all about holding back tiny pony tails in the middle of the night to avoid ruining Elmo pajamas, and spending a Sunday sanding their future bed instead of watching football with the other y chromosomes.  It's about teaching "please" and "thank you" and playing on a jungle gym.  It's cutting avocado into manageable bites and enforcing time out when they try to take a manageable bite out of their sister.  It's about rubbing a swollen tummy and feeling a tiny foot press back.  It's about looking into a tiny face and seeing the amazing, wonderful, intelligent, beautiful, successful and inspiring adult with in.  Everything else. ... is just passing the time.  How's that for a Monday morning blog?  Now get out of here you crazy kids; quit passing the time.