A Grounding of the Ungrounded

So it's a Sunday afternoon. The wind outside is whipping and the temperature is dropping, not what one wants as March approaches but it is what it is. I have just returned from playing the role of super-dad...grocery shopping with my toddler.

H has done his normal cuteness duty, drawing out smiles from fellow shoppers and "he's so cute" from the cashier as she tries to entertain him with the circling plastic bag holder. I am feeling like super dad, not because grocery shopping is particularly difficult, but in my mind I am conquering worlds and negotiating peace treaties.

I get home, feeling proud that I have life, and son, so under control. He and I are sharing witty banter, singing along to Wilco, all as I unpack the groceries. As I start to prepare lunch, I happen to glance at myself in the mirror, Boston backwards cap, faded gray t-shirt with white long sleeve shirt, chinos, perfect suburban dad apparel. I am feeling it.

Lunch consists of a chicken patty with ketchup and bbq sauce, a cheese stick, and strawberries, the perfect lunch for a perfect duo. Feeling pretty good about my lot in life, I serve up my carefully crafted delicacy to the little angel waiting like a baby bird, mouth agape ready for nutrition.

As I continue to jam to the music, I start preparing lunch for myself as I casually glance at H eating his meal.

Then I notice something that doesn't look right. I saunter over and look down. I see a spot of bbq sauce on H's head, then another, then as if I am watching a movie I start to see the big picture.

I shout "No, No, NO," H's little cherubic face looks up at me, a bulls eye of sauce on his forehead. His fingers covered in sauce and his clothes splattered with sugary brown sweetness. He hasn't been eating, he has been splashing.

The kitchen looks like a horror movie, like Sweet Baby Ray was murdered in my home. I have seen enough CSI to know that there is a decent enough splatter pattern to solve this mystery in minutes.

I quickly race to grab paper towels and forget to take away the ammunition, as I turn to grab the paper towel, I feel it. I've been hit. I scramble to take away the rest of the sauce and look at the carnage.

White cupboards and Sweet Baby Rays is just the start. The floors are smeared, H's chair is covered better than a slab of ribs and the table looks like a chemistry experiment of Hunts, Baby Ray's and squashed Tyson's Chicken. There is even a splatter of sauce on the Kleenex box. Oye! I am on my hands and knees scrubbing up sauce and I hear Bob Dylan playing, I think aloud, "I bet Dylan never had to scrub his kitchen floor with Downey"

Yup, that is me, Mr Cool dad...back to reality...