Holy motherfucking shit, it's 2007.

I'm at this stage where my days are marked by quantifiable accomplishments (or lack thereof), and life rides on an undercurrent of unacknowledged panic. So, as the world stumbles into yet another year full of new opportunities, my hope of endless possibility gets choked by the overwhelmingly unmanageable list of things I've yet to achieve.

Welcome to my Type-A personality.

Last week Little-E, Lady-A and I were in Cleveland -- where you "gotta be tough" -- basking in the warm glow of gooey holiday goodness. We spent the week as emotional equivalents to the soft, mushy core of a just-baked chocolate chip cookie -- my dad and I took hordes of pictures, and E got more awesome presents than she could ever possibly know what to do with. (To see the full 2006 holiday photo essay, go here.)

'Twas the week daddy went from hero, to zero, and back again.

We chased through airports, shared airplane adventures, and successfully bribed Santa with chocolate milk and cookies, resulting in him leaving the aforementioned packages of supreme awesomeness. As my brave Little-E, 1000 miles away from home, drifted off to sleep in a new bed, in a new room, after chasing new dogs, and re-befriending rarely-seen family members with whom she generally has only a photographic affinity, I was momentarily overwhelmed by how proud I was of her. We were a team. We were the best team!

And then, self-proclaimed World's Best Dad (for a day, to myself), decided to push his luck (dumbass, shit, you dumbass).

The circumstances are unimportant, other than that E was tired, and I didn't listen. 20 minutes later, after manipulating her to put on her coat, and then her hat, and then her boots, E would repay me with a sound she's only made three times since I've known her. It's the kind of scream that makes the little green-faced girl in The Exorcist look like nothing more than a moody tween. It's a scream filled with such acute hatred for he that is inflicting the undesired state of affairs that is the very embodiment of the "dark side" of the force -- tearing the air apart at such a heinously inappropriate decibel level that it could've shattered glass into thousands of ear-piercing, daddy-loathing shards. E, I am your father. (NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! It's not true!)

And then it was over. Poof. Like it never happened.

The next day, we flew home, Little-E's bravery again on display, and our team re-united for one more journey into the unknown.

She spent New Year's with her mom, while Lady-A and I sat on our couch, exhausted, watching movies until it was 2007, and the panic set in.

(Parting note: as I was reading over this, I think I sounded just a little bit negative. Don't be fooled, our trip was amazing. We had a blast!)

tags: Christmas, New Year, screaming
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