Where’s Fang Been This Month?

Don’t think I’m not still outraged by national/world politics and all things W, but lately the energy usually allocated to decrying the hypocrisy in DC has been redirected at feeling wicked sorry for myself, and that doesn’t make for the kind of blogging one would care to be remembered for, so I have kept a deliberately low profile.

Instead, I’ve been focusing my efforts on trying to get a handle on being a better father to The Man Cub. He’s cutting teeth and almost walking at the same time, so when he’s not keeping us awake with his howls of outrage and oral pain, he’s keeping us busy crawling up on high, rickety-ass places and getting stuck and screaming for rescue.

If there is a common theme emerging, it has to do with screaming. These days, I’m happy to report, it’s mostly coming from the boy.

Thanks to my friendly neighborhood GP kicking up the Daddy Doesn’t Get Mad Pills dosage, and my spiritual advisor finally talking me into seeking out this crappy, tiny town’s sole homeopath, the last couple weeks have been mostly pretty good. I’ve got another long stretch of Daddying to do tomorrow, as The Missus chases after The Dissertation That Will Not Die, like some deranged Van Helsing trying to drive a stake through the black heart of her indestructible, elusive nemesis.

But she swears that by The Man Cub’s birthday next week, she’ll have the damned thing put of our lives for good, and we can refocus on our lives. I’ve never lived this close for this long to something that was trying to kill my ass so badly. And frankly, I haven’t responded this poorly to stress since I was a teenager. Seems like every day brings a mea culpa instead of a “what can I do for ya?”

I promise to do better, Sweetie. Tomorrow, as they say, is another day. Thanks for being strong for both of us. You knew the job was dangerous when you took it…