My imminently capable wife once said to my mother when our first boy was about 3 months old, "well, we're not drowning, but we're swimming all the time".
In the ensuing almost-five-years, Jack has grown into a sensitive little guy. Patient (mostly) and sweet (undeniably). He knows his old man is swimming as hard as he can to keep him and his little brother happy, smart, and out of the emergency room. But he also has a front-row seat to my obvious limitations.
So I didn't take it too hard when one day, after my customary 45 minute panic attack that precedes the three of us walking out the front door (you would think experience would improve this, but somehow it always feels like the first time. I'm like that guy from "Memento"...), Jack took my trembling big hand in his small, warm, little boy hand and said,
"Daddy? Did you manage to pack any food today?"
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