Every day is my Gettysburg. I wake up in what feels like a ditch, wipe the crusty breastmilk from my (her) eyes and contemplate the strategy that will help us defeat the enemy, and live to get drunk another day. We kiss and hug our families, crank up a Starbucks and hit the metro, freeway or open field, attacking the enemy, trying to avoid mass casualties.
For me, I’ve never been a rifle or carbine guy, I’ve never fired a whitworth or a howitzer, I’m just a soldier trying to locate a clean pair of briefs instead of a bathing suit, a t-shirt without a stain and take five as I stare deeply into the mirror and douse myself in a weak cologne called patience.
The face-off in the dining room is customary. After a few minutes of wardrobe adjustment and toddler jibberish, I can make an educated guess about her character for the next 12 hours. Today the adversary prefers multi-grain Cheerios, a swimmy diaper helmet and Playtex forearmor (she thinks they’re bracelets).
She’s going to win this one, because I pick and choose my battles.
Game. Set. Match.