Now I have to chop my arm off

I’ve been home with Erin since the end of September, which I believe means that I’ve been doing this for (quick use of Windows Calculator) 6 months now, less about a week.

I haul her around everywhere, usually on my back. I toss her up in the air in a way that would scare the Blahnik’s off of most moms. I also stretch out my arm and balance her (all 20lbs of her) on one hand, in a way that would scare the Chino’s off of most dads.

But at around 5 months old she became very tossable, and I can’t resist, and it makes her giggle, and I love to hear and see her giggle.

She has had her little bonks, and her big bonks, but surprisingly none of them as a result of the circus act that is her father’s notion of “playtime”.

So, as the saying goes, “imagine my surprise”….

Are you?

Thanks.

We were playing an innocuous little game of hide-and-go-seek in our apartment. The floorplan, with the bedroom and bathroom doors closed, is essentially like half of a pair of eyeglasses: a big circle, a straight line, and a corner at the end of the line. There aren’t many places to hide, and our game really just consisted of me trying to crawl on my hands and knees just out of sight so that she would laugh and follow me around the corner.

I was leading her down the ear-hook hallway and to the dead-end; I twisted around at the end of the hall so that I could pop out as she approached and say “boo”. And as she was coming around the corner and I lunged forward IT happened.

I sprained my baby toe.

Come ON!

It’s the least manly injury I can think of: dad, crawling around on the floor with a baby sprains (not ‘breaks’, not ‘severs’) his smallest appendage.

I wish I could sprain my baby toe every day, though.

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