Every dad must return to the mortal status at some sad point in his life.
My dad’s moment came the day he gritted out an F-bomb while driving a nail – and taking his thumb along for the ride – when I was a kid. I’d never heard anyone outside the playground say what I thought was the worst bad word ever.
I’ve reverted to mortal status with each of my girls, although I can’t pinpoint the exact time or date.
They know now I can’t lift a house. They know now I can’t wrestle an alligator. They know now I don’t know everything about everything. I can’t slam dunk. Or hit a grand slam. Or punt the ball to the moon.
They’re always asking. Inquiring. You know, wondering.
My oldest now has an i-Pod, so perhaps her days of inquiry have ended when it comes to dad. Why ask D-A-D when you can just type in G-O-O-G-L-E?
I take note, and each time I do get the privilege of being asked to explain something in our wonderful and complex universe, I’ll do what any (blogging) father would do – I’ll say, “good question, honey. Let me research it, and I’ll blog about it. I’ll send you a link.”