Our Amazing Gracie had a "gift." We were eager to get her potty trained. As were the garbage men. And the neighbors. “For Sale” signs were popping up like dandelions. The ozone was depleting. You get the idea. Such is the inauspicious setting for this story.
On this particular afternoon, Stephanie called from the other room: "Greg! Do you want to change Grace's diaper? Or go get some milk?" Is that even a question? My wife was demonstrating her masterclass on husband motivation: Combine whatever request with the option of something much more hideous.
Upon return from the store, I was greeted with The Busted Look (TBL).
You men know exactly what I’m talking about. TBL is that singular attribute of feminine genius with the soul-sucking power of Dementors, invisible hands penetrating depths we didn’t even know existed and summoning from us what we did, thought or ever imagined doing!
So there I was, somewhere between the front door and my second step. Three gallons of milk masterfully held in one hand. Having just braved merciless indignations from store clerks: “You buy 10 gallons a week! Why don’t you just get a cow?!” Now immobilized. A deer in the headlight of TBL.
So began our non-verbal sparring. Back and forth. Like Raymond and Debra Barone. TBL. What could I have done today? TBL cranked higher. What did I do last week? TBL cranked higher. What did I ever think or imagine of doing? TBL hitting me harder than Alderaan by the Death Star.
Now men, a freebie here from a card-carrying member of TBLSN (The Busted Look Survivors Network): If you’ve ever been stupid enough to think you can evade detection from your wife, think again. If something truly hidden, or imagined to be hidden, is not dealt with, TBL will become a kind of ongoing, relational waterboarding. You may think the passage of an hour, or day, or week, or year has pronounced it dead, and then… whoosh!
Just accept that you’ve lost. There’s no way out.
So what to do? By now you’ve deduced that I’m fond of simple acronyms. I’ll be direct: You need to perfect the IHNIWID-HMOM-ILYSM...H look. Of course, this stands for the “I Have No Idea What I Did - Have Mercy On Me - I Love You so Much… Honey” look. Executed well, it will keep you from being executed. This appeals to a woman’s innate moral rightness, surpassing beauty, feminine genius, pity, and all that is truly good and right in this world.
Take heart men! When this happens, know it’s merely God answering your prayer for greater humility. He made us for moments such as these. He’s made us to be praying men, without which we may meet the fate of Praying Mantises. (look it up)
So the story unfolds. (What happened on my way to getting milk.)
As number eleven of twelve children, Stephanie logged more hours changing niece and nephew diapers than King Solomon’s nanny. But while I was gone she experienced a diaper of cataclysmic proportions. We’re talking a 10-alarm, evacuate now, DEFCON 1, Chernobyl Diaper.
Now please know, diaper changing for us was always an occasion for early, chastity formation. We would say things like “you are sacred and holy.” But on this occasion, overwhelmed by this lowest rung of Dante’s Inferno, my wife reflexively exclaimed: "Grace, this is disgusting! You're old enough to use the toilet! You need to tell us when you have to go to the bathroom!”
Every mom understands that, right?
From the depths of this innocent, beautiful little creature, punctuated by her characteristic impish grin, came the impossibly unlikely words: "Holy Sh@$% Mom!" Hitting like a taser without the spasms, shock ensued. Then, likely spurred on by the horror she was able to induce, our little angel annunciated these very words, "I smell like BLOODY HELL!” Pausing for effect, she put the last nail in my coffin: “Go ahead! Say it!... DADDY DOES!"
Nice. TBL accomplished. Ok, so I may have uttered those words once... or twice.
And now… the rest of the story.
This is one of many self-effacing stories I could share to illustrate one epic point: In this sometimes harrowing business of parenting, there is nothing we could ever say or do that surpasses the impact of who we are. Nothing. No amount of money. No job. No neighborhood. No school. No stuff. No opportunity. Nothing can surpass the formative purpose and power of who we are.
In the case of Grace, it didn’t matter how many times we went to church, prayed, moderated media consumption, instructed on faith, determined her environment, challenged on words and actions. In a clutch moment, when it really counts, when what really is comes to the surface, she mimicked me. She revealed who I am.
NEXT: PARENTING KIDS FOR THE KINGDOM: GANGS OF NEW YORK (Part 2)
