Steely Dad

Have you ever had one of those days where it just seems that everything goes wrong?  I recently had one of those days and it crescendo’d with my daughter ending up in the hospital.

Last Thursday I took the family to see the Padres play the Cubs at Wrigley Field. We went early to the ballpark for batting practice which is usually when you can interact with the players.  I’m not going to go into it here, perhaps I’ll save it for another post, but the Padre players were jerks and downright rude to my son. ‘Nuff said.

Following BP (that’s inside baseball talk for “batting practice”) we strapped on our Everest-capacity oxygen tanks and adjourned to our assigned seats. It took a while as we had to perform an altitude acclimatization regimen (OK, you get the peak, I mean point).

Steely Wife immediately excused herself and headed for the loo leaving me solo with both Steely Kids. No big deal, right? I’m a seasoned stay-at-home dad and this is certainly not my first rodeo. The three of us were famished after our Alpine climb so we began to devour our snacks. We were eating granola bars and trail mix and who the hell knows what else. My daughter, who we like to call the “Viper” because when she grabs for something she strikes like a coiled serpent, grabbed a tiny plump-fist full of trail mix.  As you are all aware, trail mix includes peanuts, yes as in those peanuts, the little nut with a major PR problem. I wasn’t worried. We tested her for nut allergies. I wasn’t worried. She’s a good eater and hasn’t had a choking episode.

Suddenly, I was worried.

When she saw Mommy walking up the stairs to join us at our seats, my daughter started to cry (she’s been experiencing Mommy withdrawals lately). Being the astute observer that I am, I didn’t notice that she had yet to swallow the edibles in her mouth and when she went to take a breath the food went down the windpipe like a Hoover vacuum. She started to choke big-time. I immediately grabbed her to administer what, I had no idea. I took a CPR class before my son was born so that was nearly four years ago and fortunately or unfortunately, I hadn’t had the opportunity to practice my craft. It was good luck that she had her mouth agape because it allowed me to look inside and remove the obstruction. Now mind you this is all happening very quickly but my first instinct was to perform the “finger sweep” because I could see the food but in a flash I recall a stern admonition not to use this technique as it can further lodge food into the critically important windpipe. I couldn’t recall if she was too small for me to perform the Heimlich. Panic. Finger sweep. Here goes nothing. I was hoping against hope that the finger sweep had since made a comeback as the preferred un-choking method. You know, firm bristles, soft bristles.

I managed to remove the food that was in her mouth. She coughed and even more food particles were ejected from her mouth. She started to breathe again and we thought the worst was behind us. Of course she was really upset and crying.

Fast-forward to later that evening, I was playing with both kids in the backyard. I noticed my baby girl wheezing, just a faint little whisper that was barely audible. We couldn’t hear it during the Cubs raucous victory. Nevertheless, I grew concerned because her laborious breathing was not commensurate with the level of activity.

When I shared my concern with Steely Wife we began to hypothesize that perhaps Steely Daughter had inhaled a particle of food. Could it be a coincidence that she had this choking episode on a day when she was coming down with a little cold that caused the wheezing or had she in fact inhaled some of the food that almost took her out?

We didn’t take any chances and called the doctor straight away. The doc advised us to keep an eye on her during the night and then bring her to the office in the morning. I took my son to preschool while the missus went to the appointment. Don’t ask me why but I had this strong feeling that something just wasn’t right and that this was more serious than at first blush. Sure enough while at the preschool I received “the call” from my wife. “Meet us at Children’s Hospital. We’re heading over there in an ambulance.”

I scooped up my son and headed Dukes of Hazard-style to the hospital. Yep, you guessed it, I even beat the ambulance (but only by 30 minutes).

After an examination and some chest X-rays which demonstrated her left lung was expanding but not collapsing, the physician determined that my daughter must have breathed in some small particles during her first desperate inhale for oxygen.

So what do we do?

Remove it.

How?

Surgery.

Surgery? As in general anesthesia?

Yes. We will insert into her lung a “tiny baby instrument” that has attached to it a camera and forceps in order to grab and remove the food particle.

Can I be in the room?

No.

As a dad who hasn’t left the side of his baby girl since the day she took her first breath, this was very difficult for me to accept. After a vigorous lobbying effort, I was resigned to putting the welfare of my daughter in the hands of the experts.

And I’m glad I did.

After the longest hour and a half of my entire life, the doctor and his team were successful in removing the particle that had lodged itself in the lower regions of my daughter’s lung. She emerged from surgery a little drowsy but with her resilient spirit still fighting. Relief. Tears. Smiles. Hugs. Kisses.

What did her big brother do during this entire ordeal? I would be remiss if I didn’t mention how good this kid was throughout our little misadventure. He was brave, stoic and cooperative. Whenever we were in the presence of his sister, he kept a smile on his face and eased her tension as only a big brother is able. However, when I took him home from the hospital (my wife stayed with my daughter at the hospital as they wanted to keep her for observation) he broke down and cried. He was concerned about his baby sister. It was the sweetest, purest demonstration of sibling love I’d ever witnessed and it filled my heart with pride and awe.

So, what’s the lesson here, kids? One, remember that which sustains can also kill and two, do the Clinton: don’t inhale!

My daughter is a thief and a pretty good one at that.  One time when we were on vacation, my wife was climbing in the back of our rented minivan (I refuse to drive a minivan under any other circumstances) and while she meandered her way through the labyrinth of collapsible seats my daughter picked her pocket and stole her wallet.  My wife didn’t know that the Viper had struck.  ”Where’s my wallet?” she exclaimed.  ”How the hell should I know?” I retorted, obviously aggravated because I hear that same question like 100 times a day.  My wife, in a panic, surveys her surroundings only to find my daughter, mind you she was only 13 months old at the time, sitting silently in her car seat examining her “kill.”  My little princess was rooting through her mother’s wallet!  I’ve never been so damn proud.  (I should explain that my daughter surely took her life into her own hands because G-d only knows what lurks in that wallet.  It makes George Costanza’s wallet look petite.
(I dare not look inside the abyss that is my wife’s wallet.  Grown men have gone mad after even peering at this diabolical item.)

Well, today I had the day off from my stay-at-home dad duties, meaning my wife took the kids out to play or do whatever, maybe jack some cars, shoot craps, who the hell knows.  What I do know is that my wife came home with a brand new T-shirt.  However, this wasn’t just any ol’ T-shirt.  Oddly enough this was a PINK Mickey Mouse T-shirt that just so happens to fit my little girl to, um, well, a “T.”  When I inquired about the shirt, assuming she purchased another superfluous piece of Disney memorabilia (remember, we recently spent 4 days at the Happiest Place on Earth so in case you missed the gory details you can read about them here  http://www.steelydad.com/i-shouldnt-be-alive.html), the missus had an alibi.  ”Your daughter stole it.  She ripped it off the hanger and I didn’t notice the thing until we got to the car and I was putting away the stroller.”  Normally, I wouldn’t buy it but considering my daughter’s proclivity for theft, it seemed at least plausible.  My daughter, my sweet, beautiful innocent angel, my infallible princess, is a pickpocket AND a shop lifter?  Where did I go wrong?  How can this be?

Oh, it be!

Steely Wife passed my foolproof lie detector test, which is me looking into her eyes like Larry David does when he’s trying to determine if someone is telling him the truth. It looks something like this:

I had to accept the truth about the situation: my baby girl can steal with complete impunity!  How rad is that?

Think about it.  If she steals something we simply pretend not to notice.  If someone “catches” us in the act we, very convincingly, plead ignorace.  Plus, my daughter is so damn charming no one can get mad or upset with this angelic creature.  Trust me, I’ve tried thousands of times.  This is so awesome!

I know what you’re thinking and you’re right: she can only five-finger some insignificant clothing items.  We’ll have to work our way up to big-screen TVs and exotic automobiles but this is a great start!  The girl’s got mad skills.

You know what they say: a quick hand is a terrible thing to waste.

I’ll keep you posted.  If you see me on an FBI poster for grand theft just don’t let ‘em know my whereabouts, cool?

Oh, and by the way, during the same outing with Mommy, my son apparently “found” $2.  What sort of crime ring is my wife running here?  I don’t even know who she is any longer!

(NOTE: All “stolen” merchandise mentioned in this story will be returned to the rightful retail establishment.  That’s my wife’s idea.  The individuals depicted here are guilty until proven innocent.  Please take the gushing descriptions of my daughter as absolute truth devoid of any hyperbole.)

I’m sorry for not writing in quite some time but I was battling a pernicious little flu bug for the last week. What happens when an at-home dad goes down for the count? The same that happens when any primary care giver gets sick: all hell breaks loose. Chaos ensues and you can’t see a break in the storm. Normally, I can pull it together and just push through any illness but this was a virus that knocked me on my arse. At one moment I was moaning in my bed, thinking the date with my maker loomed near only to realize that death would be way too merciful an end. I’m just too damn bitter to die.

On top of trying to recover, my 13-month-old daughter has decided that she is interested in using the potty. She points to the potty, says, “potty,” and waves her hand back and forth to sign the word for potty. When I put her on the potty, she actually goes. Yesterday, she went poop once and peed in the potty several times. It doesn’t always work out that way but I think it’s pretty cool she’s starting to understand. I know you “experts” out there will “poo-poo” my tale but don’t hate because she’s rocking the pot.

My daughter was an early talker. She started to say “da-da” at like four or five months. When I showed a social worker, an “expert” in early childhood development, she openly mocked me and basically said she’d let me have fun believing my baby was saying “da-da.” At 11 months, my daughter was eating a blueberry smoothie. When I asked her, “Do you like it?” she responded, “I like it!” This is no lie; I have the video to prove it. My daughter wakes up in the morning, starts talking, and doesn’t stop until she goes down for a nap. She wakes from her nap only to start talking again and won’t stop until she goes down for bed. Instead of a college fund, I’m going to start saving for a cell phone account.

Why do I share this fact with you? Because the other day I was walking around the back yard with my daughter on my shoulders while playing catch with my son. I noticed a shovel on the ground and didn’t want someone to step on it only to have their face flattened like a cartoon character. When I made the move to pick up said shovel my daughter started to fall from her perch. In an instant I caught darling daughter in mid air. I felt like Indiana Jones. She was obviously shaken by the entire experience and started to cry, not from pain but from the beautiful relief that the fear she faced did not come to fruition. You know that lashing you took from your mom when as a kid you got lost in a store or at an amusement park? It’s part “thank goodness,” part “you dumb kid.” Well, that’s what I heard from my daughter and she really let me have it. She was going off, articulating and gesticulating. Although most of what she said didn’t make sense to me, her face had conviction and those monosyllabic grunts meant something to her. She wanted to let me know never to let her fall again. I sheepishly apologized and assured her daddy would not be so careless next time. She looked at me, “Next time? What do you mean next time?” Hey, what do you do when you fall off a horse? So I put her right back up on her throne. She was fine so long as she could use my hair for reigns. Minus the two rather conspicuous bald spots on either side of my skull, it doesn’t really look all that bad.