Timing is Everything

My Dad has some funny timing. If, by "funny", you mean "bizarrely and disturbingly able to consistently call when you are rushing off to work/placing first fork-full of breakfast in your mouth/right at the scene towards the end of "The Crying Game". After a few years of this, I finally asked Dad if he had a camera on me. You know, like an X10 web cam (For fun and security!). He's a good guy, my Dad, and now opens every phone call with, "Is this a good time?".

Max seems to have inherited that particular "I'm watching you with my sppyyy satellite" spidey-sense for bad timing. 'Cause, yes, that is not a hat on Max's head. That is his actual head, glowing red from the 102-degree fever he's currently battling. This would be fine if WE WEREN'T ABOUT TO HAVE ANOTHER BABY. Thankfully, years of Dad's awkwardly timed phone calls have taught us that, rather than shaking your fists at the spy satellite-laden sky, you just have to laugh and answer the phone or, in this case, pump the kid full of infant Tylenol.

Breakfast will always be there and Max will be fine by the time the kid comes; Dad only calls once a week.