A terrible, no good, very bad Father’s Day.

You see, there is this cherub cheeked baby. He’s sleeping right now a door away. Today when his mommy took him to the doctor, the doctor asked her a very hard question. He asked, “How old is your baby?” She sputtered and stumbled over the numbers in her tired mind until she had to admit… that it would take her a minute to count.

That little baby, who’s mommy didn’t know his age, is sleeping with shallow breaths, labored and frightening. He rattles and rumbles and gasps and then coughs while his whole body shakes… and then he whimpers. He sounds like a diesel truck that’s running out of fuel and being driven by shouting seal. Yes, a seal… it’s my story. That little baby’s mommy is so scared of that seal cough. The doctor said its croup. Croup.

His daddy is crawling over dirt roads that look like mesh stockings for giantesses in the middle of the most ginormously gigantic country, Tanzania… a bah-zillion miles away on a day called Father’s Day. And it going to take him longer. A lot longer. His mommy is trying to be brave, but sometimes she cries. Today while she was crying, her oldest asked her, “Why are you crying mommy?” She replied, “Because I don’t know what else I can do.”

She’s living in a house full of boxes and bins and cooking with only one spatula, a bowl and a pot… and facing the biggest move of her life. The biggest. And he’s not here. And her baby is sick. And she might have to give away her dog tah-boot. And her to-do list is so full and so long…. and its got lots of man-jobs on it. You know, those kinds of jobs that under typical marriage arrangements the manly-man might do? Not that she can’t do them, because if this year has taught her anything, it’s that she’s stronger than she ever thought.

This is the part when I should tell you something inspiring and refreshing like, “But she’s keeping her head up” or “She’s soldiering on anyway” but really, she’s not. In her mind she’s saying, “What the heck, God? What the heck is this?” I’m just telling you the truth about her, as storytellers are supposed to.

She’ll probably look back on this time someday in the future and smile, not believing she made it through so much all at once. Not today though. Today is more than just a “double-stink-day” or “a real crapper” in her book. No, today it feels more like there’s an anchor tied to her heartstrings and it’s mooring her in the deep. She’s longing for a time when she will pay attention to simple pleasures again… like adding up the length of time her baby son has been on this earth. Soon enough he’ll be so big that the months won’t matter to anyone but her anymore, so she feels terrible that three have come and gone without her recognition.

I wish, for her sake, that there was a way of un-knowing that you didn’t know your baby’s age, because I’d tell her that trick in a heartbeat if I could. While I was at it, I’d wish her baby better too, seal cough and all. If only storytellers had the super hero powers they write about.