We went to the doctor the other day for my daughter Lucy’s nine-month checkup. It included a smorgasbord of shots.
And I got to hold her down.
I was pretty nervous on the ride there, and I wasn’t even the one getting the shots. As we were driving, I told Kim that I would rather receive the shots myself than have to see Lucy get them.
“Spoken like a true Dad,” said my wife.
I’m not sure what suddenly made me a glutton for punishment, but I didn’t say that to come across like some macho dude. I really meant it. Which surprises even me.
You see, I’m not one of those manly men, with hair on his knuckles and steel hands that can pulverize granite. Nor could I be considered a metrosexual because I have the fashion sense of a twelve-year-old. I like to think of myself as a normal guy — whatever that means these days — but I am not a big fan of pain. Manual labor gives me the heebie-jebbies. I sometimes curse like a sailor when I’m in below zero temperatures. And I am likely to faint if I’m in a discussion that spends more than thirty seconds talking about anything internal: spine alignments, organ transplants, brain surgery…woah….I just got a little woozy.
Even though I have a history of going out of my way to avoid just about anything uncomfortable, I’d literally…(Read the rest of this article over at Dad-O-Matic, a cool site for Dads, by Dads.)