On Being The World's Worst Father

This weekend, Abigail charged up to me in the living room and said “Daddy, make me fly!” I obligingly hoisted her into the air. She grinned, and said “Again!” I did it again, and was greeted by the sickening triple-crack of the ceiling fan, which was going full tilt, hitting her little head. We rushed her into the bathroom amid her screams to wash her head of the blood that was seeping out and put a washcloth on the wound to staunch the flow. After about 15 minutes, she had calmed down some, and the bleeding had stopped. We called up [Mom McMains->], our family pediatrician, and told her what had happened. She told us what symptoms of shock and concussion to watch for, but thought that Abby would probably be just fine. And, mercifully, after another hour or two, she was up wrestling with her little brother again, and happy as a little ambulant clam. I’m grateful our misadventure wasn’t any more serious, but it certainly gave me a scare. Later that evening, Kathy knocked Liam down and gave him a bit of a black eye, but I think it was just to make me feel better. (Joking!)