The Still, Small Voice

My erudite friends are now processing their verbatim recollections of the Old Testament story of Elijah. Probably in Hebrew. While healing someone. I have amazing friends. I bask in their glory.

Unfortunately, I do not share their erudition nor have I ever owned any.

I'm talking about the still, small voice of danger that haunts dads in the night. Yes, you should be scared. Imagine this scenario:

You are a dad. Dead, coma asleep. Near the edge of your bed. Because you are a veteran dad of many night engagements, your dad radar is always running. You become aware of a small, humid sound in your ear.

"Daaad" It is breathed with urgency. You process instantly this is your 4 year old son. By the numbness in the rest of your body, it is between 3 and 3:30 AM.

You still have not moved a muscle. More information is required before action. Responding to your mental prompting, your son continues.

"Daaad. I don't feel good" Processors are now at 100%. The relative humidity in his breath (2" from your left ear), the small lurching sound he made and the record of consumption of four caramel apples just 59 minutes before bedtime are enough for a green light. The darkness is no challenge. Just another dad mission. Good thing it wasn't the twins. That would have taken some effort...

In one acrobatic, panther-like motion, you bounce yourself from horizontal to vertical, throw back your half of the bedspread, while simultaneously grabbing your son off the ground and turning him toward the bathroom, and upon landing, avoid stepping on the dog. Your inert spouse makes an inquisitive grunt. Better for her not to know.

"I got it honey. Go to sleep" This has consumed 3.5 seconds and your are within 7 feet of the drop zone. You carry your suffering son, facing forward into the bathroom. The cat dashing in the shadows between your legs, causes a minor pause, as you seamlessly transition to your best Broadway step with your bilious partner. No time for distractions.

Just in the nick of time. Four apples, caramel and some kind of kibble in the commode and not on your floor, sheets and dog.

Another mission accomplished. Sign, sealed, delivered. Total time on target: 4 minutes.

The wife rolls over, now partially alert.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. The boy needed to talk".

Charlie Mike, dads.