Dads are careful.

I still remember the feeling of holding our first child, Aran Brady Fitzpatrick. And second, Allwyn Gallagher Fitzpatrick, and third, too, Colin Gavin Seamus Fitzpatrick. (There's been a James Fitzpatrick in this clan for every generation I've been able to trace, so Seamus found his way in there).

Holding Aran. New child. New dad. Giving her a bath in the sink on the avenues in San Francisco. She's sort of sprawled on my fore arm, head in my hand, face up, watching--always watching! Towel wrapped around her torso. It's 1973 and I haven't cut my hair yet, and I glance in the mirror and turn to leave for the adjacent bedroom and the never to be forgotten sound of her head hitting the doorjamb.

Sort of hollow, sort of. Which makes it a clunk, sort of, but there's some whack in there too. Holy shit!

And the explosive reaction takes a moment. It's as if she actually took the time to think, 'What the hell?' and then she let it go.

Standing at her wedding and the celebrant asks, "Who is it that gives this woman to this man?" We do. I do, the guy who cracked her head on the doorjamb more than 20 years ago, I do.