I have a man cave.
And it’s perfect. There is a bench press and an array of free weights. The treadmill is fairly new and has all the bells and whistles that all the modern treadmills have. In front of it, hanging on the wall, is a large-screen TV. Connected to this hi-def beauty is not only U-Verse cable, but also a Blu-ray DVD player, complete with surround sound.
I listen to loud rock and roll when I lift weights. The sound system I put together for this purpose is perfectly suited for my requirements. My neighbors can enjoy my music even with the window closed, and there is no distortion.
It’s a wonder I have any hearing left at all.
It’s my little slice of manly heaven. I close the door, and no one is allowed in until I’m done. Just me and ACDC and a curl bar, then a brisk walk on an inclined treadmill and Sports Center.
I’m feelin’ the burn.
And I absolutely love it to the tune of at least five nights a week.
And tonight was one of those nights. I’m actually writing this column when I thought I’d be upstairs, showing the weights who’s boss and stiff-arming old age and deterioration.
But, right before downing my pre-workout drink, a two-year-old with brown hair and sad eyes walked up to me and held her arms up. I picked her up and she immediately laid her head on my shoulder.
“Izzy,” I said, “are you okay?”
“No,” she answered, and then leaned away from me and put a hand on her belly.
“Does your belly hurt?”
She nodded, then laid her head back on my shoulder, tucking her arms between us as she did.
Other than a cough here and there, I don’t recall Izzy ever being sick, much less sick to her stomach. And the thing is, with two-year-olds, there is no warning.
And I mean none whatsoever.
Without going into details that may cause readers to lose their appetites, I was christened. And it was nasty.
So we got it all cleaned up. And it happened a few more times. And we figured it was a bug of some sort. It’s going around.
How dare it enter my granddaughter’s body.
The thing is, between bouts of Exorcist-like hurls, I was the one she went to. My shoulder, apparently, gave her the most comfort. My arms were the ones she wanted wrapped around her. And as I rocked, patted her back and whispered words of reassurance that everything was going to be all right, she went to sleep.
So we got a pillow and a blanket. And a trash can. I laid her gently on the couch and covered her up. And she continued to sleep.
Now I go upstairs, right? It is time to enter the cave, crank up the music and buff the bod. There’s no reason whatsoever to not spend the next two hours chiseling and sculpting, begging for just one more rep, pushing myself to the limit. Grab a towel, a couple of bottles of water, and …
I stayed right where I was. I had to be close if she woke up and was sick again. I had to be there for her in case it was me she needed again. If her eyes were sad, and she looked around and said, “Papa?” I didn’t want to be upstairs and not hear her.
Izzy, like all two-year-olds, can be exasperating. She can swap a halo for a set of horns in an instant. I have heard her mother, on more than one occasion, screaming, “Oh my God, Izzy! What in the world is wrong with you?”
But when they’re sick, when something goes haywire in that tiny, fragile body of theirs, it’s heartbreaking because they’re too young to understand that it’ll be okay again, that this yucky stuff coming back up and making them miserable won’t last forever. And that the tears they shed are making Mom and Papa and Nana far more miserable than they feel.
More than anything, the enormity of just how much you love them hits you like a tidal wave when suddenly this perfect human who calls you Papa is temporarily imperfect.
She actually woke up just now. And it appears the worst just may be over. We even got a smile. And, so far, no more hurls. Maybe it was just something she ate.
It’s almost my bedtime now. Way too late to start a workout. There’s only one thing to do.
Dominate a Payday.
Written by Rick Jacobs, a regular columnist for The Bartlett Express and recent first-time novelist. Contact him at rick45@aol.com.
