Precious Moments

            I often feel like I’m taking advantage.  It’s not fair, I know this, but I can’t seem to help myself.  Maybe it’s a side affect of being a Recent Paterfamilias.  Maybe it’s a result of existing in an exalted state of sleep deprivation.  Maybe it’s because I’m a terrible father.  But, for whatever reason, I occasionally, often, continuously, constantly, find myself taking advantage. 

            But please, allow me to explain. 

            My daughter has recently been introduced to real food.  Thusly, my daughter typically has food all over her face.  In addition to breast milk, as of late, she’s also been “sampling” “real” food (or “solids,” as we call them in the “biz”), which result in “residue” on her hands and on her face and in her hair and on the dog and everywhere else within sight, all except within the confines of her stomach.  This, I am told, is normal.  (Out of good taste, I won’t subject my dear reader to even a mild description of the rather noticeable impact these “solids” have had upon this Recent Paterfamilias’ offspring’s bowel movement, suffice it to say that the impact is “significant.”)  But whenever her face is plastered with destroyed peas (peas, not pee, which is different, but has also been known to occur) or destroyed bananas or destroyed pears or destroyed prunes or destroyed squash (squashs? squashes? what is the plural of squash?), but, at any rate, when my daughter has painted herself with destroyed food-like items, I find myself reaching for the camera. 

            Is this wrong?  Am I taking advantage?  Am I the world’s worst Paterfamilias? 

I sure as hell hope not.

            But, my dear reader must admit, there’s something somewhat intoxicating about a food-covered face.  (For whatever reason, this does not apply when considering the food-covered faces of adult humans.) 

            I am aware that many such situations will present themselves during the life of my daughter.  There will be no shortage of opportunities (see: embarrassing opportunities) where I will want to grab a camera and capture the moment.  But, of course, all those moments can’t be caught.  Consider the case of my infant daughter’s own mother.  She was under three years old.  She got out of bed and went to the bathroom all by herself.  She hopped on up.  And then she fell on in. 

She called for help. 

And then help came. 

The help laughed.  The help called for the rest of the family.  The rest of the family came running.  They laughed.  They pointed.  They laughed and they pointed and they didn’t help her out of the toilet and I’m sure that one of those people wishes that they’d had a camera handy to capture the moment.  (It should be noted here:  three-plus decades later, my daughter’s own mother is still upset about the aforementioned incident, and she, my daughter’s mother, still remembers who laughed and who pointed and who laughed and pointed, and she, my daughter’s mother, is still threatening that those who laughed and pointed are going to pay for what they’ve done, even if those who laughed and pointed do find her own daughter adorable.)