She looks up.

Let me tell you a little bit about eighty-four cents' worth of love. And food.

I know I'm an old fart; most parents are. I'm still a bit more clever than you give me credit for, although if you're reading this when I think it's germane, your mother may well have already placed me in a nursing home and ensured excessive meds. Anyway, some years ago (tonight, as I write this) I had a mild epiphany.

I also posted a non-embarrassing, proud parent photo. Of you. At 11 weeks.

Next week we can probably start with the reusable diapers. More babby stuff and things inside. Nowt else, just some parked proud papa shitstuff. And things.

Exactly one year ago to this minute I was sitting in the office determined to get myself out of the "I'm single again, now what?" funk I was in. There was that gorgeous redhead the night before who didn't blow me off inside 30 seconds as she did with ever other person -- male or female -- at the expats' Tuesday drinks meet, but she was gone when I came back from my smoke with the friends I was there to see.

Anyway, I didn't have my game back yet. I wasn't on the prowl, the hunt, nada. I just knew I needed to get back out and socialise a bit. There would be an expats' curry house meet that Wednesday and the place was both the best one in Munich and right around the corner from my house. I didn't know the redhead's name and didn't see anything on the curry sign-up sheet to make me think she'd put in an appearance.

I was still in a depression and thinking "Now what?", with a sigh.

MildlyNaughtyPuppy hasn't yet broken into PapaDog's stash, but a private bottling Bruichladdich (from the company Vom Faß) soothed the savage beast. It really was "kill or cure".

1st solo! Great job! 3 solid landings, xwind, VOR work, Great!

That's from my first logbook. There's also the 01SEP98 entry of "Private Pilot Practical Test Satisfactory" when I actually got my flying license. These two days, legally documented, were two of the happiest in my life.

Neither of them holds a candle to lying in bed at 10:00a.m., my daughter propping herself up on my chest trying to automotorvate, my wife lying in the crook of my right arm smiling and the cat coming up on the side hoping my left arm has enough freedom of motion to scratch his face.

Eleven days in, Little Mistress MildlyNaughtyPuppy prefers to sleep all day and party all night. A 24-year-old Papa would probably have beamed with pride at this, a 44-year-old Papa not so much so. Both of us read piles of research and peer-reviewed studies (along with thousands of sites loaded with anecdotal "wisdom") in an effort to Not Fuck Up.

Intellectually we knew all the pros and cons. Physically and mentally we're both already ravaged. It's not her fault and we'd never blame her for being a baby, but sooner or later, well... we gave in.

INSERT INTO
        canine_family
                (fname, mname, sex, bdate, btimeUTC, bweight_gm, blength_cm)
        VALUES
                (Mildly, Naughty, F, 20090804, 18:15, 3270, 50);
COMMIT;

There's a babby coming. A babby grill^*. Last night was again spent on a false alarm trip to the clinic, 'cept it wasn't quite the same false alarm it's been so far. I had to fill out papers. Writing out the Bellyfrog's intended full name three separate times brought the reality that much closer.

We know what we're calling her. What we're still unsure about is what she's calling me. This is where you come in... (poll).

^*Family in-joke.