The Father Cavalier

They say that marriage and fatherhood takes away your fire and turns your blood to water.  Daddies, they say, play it safe.

Ha!

Only a father would have the dash and abandon to pile five kids and a wife into a minivan and drive 1800 miles cross country merely because there was a work conference that would help subsidize the trip.  Having just moved in to your house, plumbers still plumbing, boxes still unpacked.

When I was a young man, I would have reeled in horror.  So much roil for so little gain.  But now, one does these things.

I do not mean to boast, but there is a certain aplomb that comes from the umpteenth time you come home to your wife sobbing hysterically, kids running amok, and your youngest standing up in her high chair, face and environs smeared with spaghetti, and diarrhea running down her legs.  “Permit me, mon cherie,” you say gracefully, and with a certain insouciance you hoist your cub by the t-shirt nape in one hand and repair outdoors to hold your garden hose in the other.  A certain finesse in directing the spray with your thumb, a certain amount of squalling–easily supportable–and voila.  Repeat with the high chair.

Your neighbors comment on how green your lawn is.

P.S.  My advice to everyone going on a long cross-country trip, besides marrying a woman who is an excellent manager and who cultivates an attitude of gratitude, is to take along a good historical novel of the old, gallant France.  In my case, the Helmet of Navarre.  Then read it while your wife spells you driving.  Save singing rounds for when you are at the wheel.