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"If you don't stop pooping in the bathtub, you'll never become president."
Those were the words that I said to my nine-month-old daughter a few weeks ago as her mother and I watched her defile her pristine baby bathtub. While I said this partially just to make my beautiful wife Mary giggle, there is something about becoming a father that makes you lose your sense of rationality.
Do I actually think that Grace could become president? Not really (in fact I kind of hope she doesn't), but there is something about that sweet little face that makes you think that the world is her oyster and nothing is impossible.
For example, one day I was watching Grace sitting in her high chair, content as could be, gingerly picking up the snack puffs that were scattered across her tray. After a while, I began to notice that she was doing most of the picking up with her right hand, making my mind jump directly to the world of athletics.
"I guess this means she won't be a southpaw," I thought to myself.
Those thoughts were quickly followed by fleeting ones of Grace standing on the mound, mowing down batter after batter in the Olympics (provided that softball returns to the games someday). I then questioned whether her right handedness would limit her scholarship opportunities in volleyball. After all, my future sister-in-law said that if Grace turned out to be left handed and close to six feet tall, she'd be able to write her ticket just about anywhere.
Fortunately, I came to my senses fairly quickly. I know that Grace still has a while until she is eating solid food, let alone setting foot on a volleyball court. I also know that if she has any of my coordination, then she'll be much more apt to nailing down A's in the classroom than strikeouts on the ball diamond.
What I haven't quite figured out yet is how something so small, so fragile, can turn my life completely upside down, in a good way. With one laugh, one smile, one well placed piece of baby jabbering, Grace has the ability to change my mood from bad to good, which can sometimes be a full-time job.
Sitting on my desk at work, I have two photos. One is of Mary and I, decked out in our Mizzou and Illini jerseys, looking like a friendlier version of the Hatfields and McCoys. The other is Gracie Lou, blue eyes shining, my dad's NAPA hat backwards on her head, mouth open in an ever-present smile that never ceases to bring on one of my own. The picture reminds me of the joy that Grace brings to not only to Mary and I, but to both of our parents, who have been generous enough to donate their time for baby-sitting duty week in and week out, and our siblings, who treat her like she's a little princess. That cherubic little face seems to elicit smiles wherever we go, even from complete strangers.
It makes me wonder what I did to deserve this blessing. I don't donate hours and hours of my time to worthy causes. I don't work nonstop to make the world a better place. Heck, I'm not even all that nice to people most of the time. But for some reason, I have received the gift of instant joy in the form of my daughter.
That doesn't mean there haven't been hard times. I've found myself gritting my teeth more than once as I rolled out of bed to give Grace her pacifier at 3 a.m. I've shaken my head as she sneezed pureed squash and giggled at the Jackson Pollock-esque landscape that used to be my shirt. Then of course there's the whole pooping in the tub thing. But none of that holds a candle to the good things she brings to my life. Like the way she falls asleep on my chest. Or how she flaps her arms like a little bird when she gets excited. Or how she giggles at the stupid little noises that I make.
Those little things are probably why I think she can be president, or a gold medalist, or both. The love in my heart clouds the reality in my mind. My mind tells me that she's more likely to be just an average ordinary young lady when she grows up, which is completely fine, but my heart tells me that the sky is the limit when it comes to my little girl.
And I kind of like it that way. The reality is that life is hard, and sometimes kind of like Grace's bath water that one day. If there is any way I can keep that reality away from her for just a few seconds longer, then I'll do everything in my power to do just that.
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