Buying my first house, for example. Everybody - our realtor, mortgage lender - played it all casual until I sat down to sign a mountain of paperwork informing me that my prison nick name would be Cheeks and I would be playing the part of the rabid yet horny jail donkey should I miss a payment.
Today, as I sat in a hospital room at Children's trying to distract my extremely suspicious daughter while the anesthesiologist went over the possible side effects of her impending surgery with me, would be another good example.
It was a relatively minor procedure - she was born with a blocked tear duct that had to be opened. For the past year strangers everywhere ask why she's crying or if she has pink eye. The affirmative pink eye response actually comes in handy on those occasions when I'm just not in the mood for idle produce aisle chit chat.
But, as with all decisions I make for my children, it was in the best interest of her getting a date to prom to have it fixed.
I knew it wasn't going to be pleasant, but the image of your baby being carted away by a team of people in scrubs was significantly more heart wrenching than I had anticipated. Especially when she turns around and cheerfully waves goodbye to you as they walk out the door with her, like she thought they were going to spend a nice afternoon at the park.
Immediately before they came in to take her I had visions of scooping her up and running with her like a football tucked under my arm fancy footing it past the nurses and back out to the parking garage.
But, as usual when I have that fantasy, I chickened out.
Luckily Nick was able to take a couple of hours off work and we passed the time by watching an infomercial for The Perfect Meatloaf for the 1/2 hour she was gone. A quality product that almost took my mind off what was happening until she came back, woke up from anesthesia and looked at me like this:
It's safe to say that milkshakes are in our near future.