Of throw-up and other philosophical dilemmas

 Nothing like the normal routine being thrown up by throw up. 

Topher comes down at precisely 7:15 a.m. He is the definition of clockwork.

Followed by the sweet request of, "I wake up Everett?"

We're always so excited to see each other in the morning. 

That's a cultural piece of the Watson home. 

"Dad, Everett threw up."

Oh boy. Happy Thursday. 

Sure enough, it's all over the place.

"What did he eat that was so red?" I ask my wife. 

She gives me a perfectly logical answer that I promptly forgot. 

I take off the sheets. 

She takes Everett to the bath. 

So now the moral dilemma that every parent of littles faces:

Should we take him to Mother's Day Out? 

The concept of "should" is a philosophical marvel. 

Should, not ought. 

Should, not could. 

And like all happenstances in the Absurd, as soon as the "should" becomes the real, we start feeling the weight of moral conscience. 

"He's not acting sick," my wife says. 

Ah, the opening statement for Plaintiff's Counsel. 

It was true. He bounced up and down the stairs, ready to devour his sausage, homemade muffin thing, and blueberries. 

"But he just threw up. A lot. How would you feel if you found out another mom brought her puking son to MDO?" asks the Defense Counsel. 

My wife rolls her eyes. She already knew what she "should" do. 

It's always the right thing to do the right thing. 

Topher can still go. He's fine. We're fine too. 

"Please, God, not another stomach bug," I pray.

So we decide for Everett to become the newest employee of the Watson Law Firm. 

We'll not employee--I don't want that tax burden or liability. 

Temp? Intern? Team mascot? 

Any'll do. 

We load up in the truck, head to the office. 

He's got his milk cup in one hand, sausage patty in the other. 

The ladies love it; certainly a better view than seeing my weary smile each morning. 

I set him up at a spare desk, replete with a pencil and the back of a client info sheet to draw on. 

Probably a breach of confidentiality, but he's two so I think we're okay. 

He's perfectly content being there, looking over at me and then looking back at his book about Noah and the Ark. 

And I love it. 

I read somewhere (probably Iron John) that boys start resenting their fathers when the father is gone all day. 

A haunting question enters their minds: "What does dad do all do?" Without him there, teaching them what his work is and how to do it, the son begins to image the dad's work must be bad. Else, why wouldn't he be here with me? 

"Well, son, I'm at work."

"Doing what?"

The attorney freezes at the cross-examination. He's like a human in the headlights of a deer driving the car. 

How in the world do you explain what an attorney does to a 42 year old, much less a two year old? 

I'm an attorney and I can't tell you what a CPA does other than "tax stuff." And I'd like to imagine that same CPA would say "law stuff" for my profession. 

Everett does great. I get my work done. And mom comes sometime later to pick him up. 

I love him being there.

That's my dream after all: to spend more time with my children. 

Thank you, God, for throw-up and other philosophical dilemmas. 

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More thoughts here.