Renaissance Dad: Of Survival and Takeout
[This is a piece that I wrote back when The Pickle (AKA my daughter, Gracie) was still roaming the house on all fours, finding new and exciting ways to endanger herself, and terrorizing our poor old Basset Hound, Phlash. Now, after months of being confined to our home (and now with a teenager), it felt eerily appropriate to dust it off and share the pain.]
If you are a friend, family member, or someone I owe money to, I have to apologize for the recent disappearance of myself and my family. We’ve been sick.
(Actually, if I owe you money . . . we’ve been abducted by aliens and are being held on the planet Zorb. Please feel free to drop by and pick up a check.)
Honestly, Vic and I have spent a week hosting the current cold virus (or, as we like to call it, “Dante’s hack-fest”) and I have only now had the strength to crawl over the mountains of dirty dishes and used Kleenex to get to my computer. Survival has been our only focus.
Ah, I remember the days of my youth, when getting a cold meant a couple of days of Nyquil shooters and wiping my nose on my sleeve. If I were really ill, I’d call in sick to work and go fishing.
Not so anymore.
As I’m sliding ungracefully towards 40, my body has adopted all the fighting verve of a French commando, and I’m pretty sure that the common cold will now kill me.
I’m at peace with this.
Conversely, our 8-month-old daughter Gracie is having the greatest time of her young life.
Read the rest of this article in the full digital issue below.