Genetically predisposed tomfoolery.

I’m one of those lucky folks who doesn’t have a single doubt in his head as to whether or not his child is actually of his own flesh and blood.
You’ll never see me on the set of Maury Povich jumping up and down on the couch like an enraged orangutan because my girl done gone and cheated on me with my best friend and now I am NOT the father.
And, if the unfortunate reality did come to fruition that I was indeed not the biological father of my beloved little spawn, I can tell you right now there would be a small crater in the middle of Subiaco where a specialist clinic once sat.
The crater would have been caused by my explosive suing of said clinic.

But, should I ever have a doubt, I need merely look at my loving little bundle of crazy squealing and cat chasing.

She has my eyes. Not in the sense that Stephen King has the heart of a child (in a jar on his desk) but in that they are exactly like mine. Right down to the long thick luscious feminine eyelashes.
Get jealous ladies.

Also there’s the fact that whenever my mother and grandparents see her they have to do a double take because they’re convinced I was besieged by some horrendous time flux that throttled me back to the age of one and am now totally reliant on being carried around by my darling Wif. Up to the point that my grandfather apparently called my daughter ‘Jacob’ at one point.
Of course these facts are likely more due to geriatric brain farts and savage myopia.

But the most resounding quality is one that I’m still trying to decide if it’s a genetic bitch slap of unfortunate, or just the fact that she’s a one year old. And that’s her attention span.
Seriously, the kid doesn’t stop. All day she’s belting along at top speed going from one thing to another, stopping part way through a task to start another one, then getting back to the first, then chasing a cat, then going to the second task, then having a drink, then stealing my phone, then climbing on the couch, then laughing so hard she literally doubles over and falls on her side.

It’s like looking into a gender bending funhouse mirror.

Of course there’s a lot of the Wif in her too.
She’s incredibly intelligent and inquisitive, she has the most amazing smile, she can hug like a bastard and she doesn’t sleep. Plus she slaps me and pulls my beard.
Not in that way, but its close enough to make me worry.

There is one thing that makes me wonder however and that was bought to light today.
Two things now that I think about it.
One, she fucking LOVES being outdoors. Mostly because she can run in a straight line while screaming and there’s no walls or sneaky windows to stop her. But also partly because outside is where all the leaves are, and when you grab a big leaf you can tear it into smaller parts of leaf and shove them all in your mouth.
The second thing, she loves animals. LOOOOOVES animals.
Me, not so much.

I mean we have two cats that share our house. And I tolerate them because the Wif loves them and the spawn adores them but ‘Cats’ isn’t the four letter word that starts with a C that I use to describe them to people.
Because they’re cunts. As are all cats.
Read again in case you thought it was a typo.

All cats, are cunts.

Yeah, she loves animals. I’m barely a people person let alone an animal person but what can you do. They don’t have WiFi and internet porn in the middle of nowhere so it’s not like I’ll be packing up and disappearing to be alone any time in the near future.

So I take her out to the park to get her all tuckered out by seeing if she can break a land speed record with her weird legs-everywhere little child sprinting and also to gauge just how many leaves she can fit in her mouth.
On the way back to the car, we stop by the lake to look at the ducks.
And she’s having the time of her life. She’s clapping, squealing, laughing at them. It really warmed my heart.

And she’s getting them to stick around by throwing food to them but not very well, so I get her to hand it to me and I throw it to them.
After a few throws it dawns on me that I didn’t bring any duck food with us to throw at them.
Once she’s done clapping and laughing at the last lot of feeding, I ask her to hand me more.
She wanders a few steps away, toddles back with her hand out in a fist, deposits a lump of duck shit into my palm, then points at them and goes ‘Doot doot!’
I throw it at them stunned, and watch as she squeals and claps.

She’s been making them eat their own shit for several straight minutes, made me an accessory, and has been laughing her fucking guts off at all of us the entire time.

If I ever had any doubt that she’s mine, it was washed away in that moment.

Then she smiled up at me, and shoved her fist in her mouth.

– Jacob

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