Fatherly thoughts: 'Bug' and the last bottle

You killed your first bug today.

Daddy was so proud … mommy nearly cried. Well, Ok, it wasn’t a “bug.”

It was a worm … not exactly a bug. But close enough. It’s creepy and crawly and everything a bug should be.

You and I were hanging out on the porch this afternoon, and I spotted it crawling around in the grass. I immediately did what every good father would do – I picked it up and handed it to you.

You seemed to think it was pretty cool with all of your ooohs and ahhs. You quickly began to squash it between your fingers. I told you to be gentle – at least at first. I didn’t want all the fun ending too quickly.

But, since you're still working on your English skills, you really don't have a clue what gentle means. The next thing I know ... you hand me half of the worm. Last time I checked, the worm was on life support. It didn’t look good for the poor fella.

So anyway, your mom called and I gave an update on how your day had gone so far. I gave her the morning nap report: you slept a couple hours. I gave her the lunch report: you ate a grilled cheese sandwich and some applesauce. And then I just casually mentioned that you were playing with a worm outside … I didn’t even mention that you pulled it apart yet … and your mother immediately became alarmed. “Shawn, she’s a girl. She’s not supposed to play with worms.” And I guess this makes sense, since your mom declares something is dirty if it has a spot the size of a pinhead on it. And since I seem to have a spot or two on about every shirt and pair of pants I own, I’m always wearing “dirty clothes.”

I eventually mentioned the pulling apart element of the story, and your mother started asking over and over if I washed your hands. And at that point, she sounded a little teary ... maybe not ... but it sounds more dramatic that way. "Have I washed her hands?" I thought.

“Stephanie, it’s a worm … not Cobra or a disease-infested rat. It’s a worm!”

So maybe you got a little extra protein today. Big whoop. I’m definitely learning about your mother's fear that you will become a Tom Boy ... or fall in love with ultimate fighting. She’s all about dance and gymnastic lessons and whatever else little girls do. Of course I can’t help but hold out a little hope of seeing a little black-haired ponytail blowing in the breeze as you chase down a soccer ball. I mean, come on, you're Colombian. There has to be some soccer genes in there somewhere. Well, Laura, whatever you decide to do mommy and daddy will be proud of you.

Last week, you took the big step of officially moving from a bottle to a sippy cup. I have to admit I had your mother take a picture of the last bottle. A little corny, I know, but I'm glad I did. It seemed like I looked away for just a second, and you had already finished it.

It made me a little sad – but not as sad as that worm. May he rest in peace ... or pieces.