The Hungry Hungry Writer

I was sitting on a kiddy chair watching TV while my 4-year old daughter, Bella, was talking to me. Well, she was trying to have a conversation with me. Of course I was a little distracted in the conversation as I was watching the De La Hoya/Mayweather boxing series on HBO. There were four other kids in the house, besides Bella, running around, yelling, getting in trouble and causing migraines all around, that it was hard to even hear the television.

So I scooted up close, grabbed one of the kiddy chairs and sat a few feet in front of the glowing box. Bella sat on the little kiddy table next to me and was talking about something. I’m not sure what she was rambling on and on about.

My thoughts were only on the unbelievable training boxers go through. It’s the dedication to training of champion boxers that fascinate me. Boxers: the elite of the elite, the ones they announce as ‘pound for pound’ where every pound is muscle of brute strength and agility, the best of the best. They are this way because of focus and dedication.

In my head the fight between De La Hoya and Mayweather played out. Who’s going to win? Will De La Hoya go in intimidated? Will Mayweather freeze up when he sees the crowd and a confident opponent across from him? Will De La Hoya run around the ring if he thinks he’s got the scorecard?

“Angelo doesn’t like to kiss.”

My thoughts came to a brutal halt. All the thoughts of training, the fantasy fight I played in my head, the mesmerizing HBO special - gone, just like that. All because Bella announced, out of the blue, “Angelo doesn’t like to kiss.”

Excuse me? Who’s Angelo? How do you know he doesn’t like to kiss? Back up, slow down, don’t grow so fast, be my baby… wait… you’re 4! You’re still my baby!

“Who’s Angelo?” I questioned with eager curiosity.

“My boyfriend.”

I repeat: Slow down, don’t grow so fast, be my baby… “How do you know he doesn’t like to kiss?!

Did you try and kiss him?” I asked, my anticipation growing.

“Yep, he’s my boyfriend.”

NOPE. It’s fine to have a, quote un-quote, boyfriend.

“It’s okay to have a ‘boyfriend’ but NO KISSING! You can hold hands but no kissing!” I tried to be calm and sensible about the innocence of childhood.

“But he’s my boyfriend.”

Okay, no more watching TV. No more DVDs. No school, you can stay home till I grow old.

“Bella, you’re too young to kiss other boys. You’ll get in trouble at school because you’re not supposed to kiss other students remember?” I pulled that one from something I heard – that the teachers didn’t want kids to kiss each other – you know, diseases and bacteria and stuff.

“Okay. Can I kiss you?”

Is that all you need from your baby daughter to make your heart melt? Everything else doesn’t matter: the HBO show, who’s going to win or lose, work, my aches and pains, my plans on buying a $1000 set of Calloway golf clubs, and my pending marathon.

“Of course you can kiss me!” And I leaned forward for her.

“Because you’re my daddy, and I love you!”

She planted a big wet kiss on my face and I grabbed her from the table and squeezed her as I held her in my arms. Ahhh - now that’s a moment to cherish for as long as you can!

Hmmm… where was I? The HBO show was over. I missed a major part of it but, to be honest, I got a special kiss from my baby and it was worth it.

Take that, Angelo. You don’t know what you’re missing.