Certain parts of the following have been redacted at the "request" of my wife

A good buddy of mine is getting married this weekend. A couple weeks ago we took the obligatory six-hour drive to Las Vegas for his bachelor party and did our best to destroy our livers with a two day booze-fueled attempt to be 23 again. It was a blast. The ride home… not so much. Hangover + 6 hours in a car = sad Dad.

The bachelorette party, a two night fiesta that culminated with an overnight trip to Park City, was last weekend. My wife attended and I got the pleasure of having a daddy-daughter weekend with my little girl.

That too, was a blast. It was also somewhat enlightening. Everything was going smoothly until our Saturday-evening tea party. As I was sipping invisible tea out of a tiny, pink plastic tea cup, it occurred to me that one week earlier at that exact time I was in Las Vegas with a drunk six an angry, yet strangely sexy clown the original, unedited Star Wars Trilogy and a picture of The Pope that my buddy still can't find! Suddenly my imaginary tea tasted very bitter.

The reminders of my Vegas weekend continued on Sunday. My daughter and I met up at the park with another Dad (he was in Vegas too) and his little boy. While watching the kids fight over who got to go down the slide first my friend looked at me and said, "Do you realize that at this exact time last weekend we were at the pool and you were…"

"Stop. Yes, I remember," I interrupted.

We sat in momentary silence and watched the kids laugh uncontrollably while they threw hand fulls of bark in the air.

"Them throwing bark in the air is strangely reminiscent of the money we were..."

"Shut up."



"I just hope that Flamingo is ok."



"I said shut up."

He shut up.

I guess my point is this: two weekends, two worlds. For the first couple years of my daughter's life I have attempted to keep one foot in each. I've wanted to be a responsible, loving parent and be able to have wild nights out. Obviously the wild nights out became few and far between because keeping a kid alive and happy is a thousand times more difficult when hung over. Still, I guess I had this ridiculous belief that when the rare chances came up I could still party like a "rock star."

I can't. This fact was cemented into my soul just outside of Cedar City when I realized I still had three hours to go and I wanted to puke out of my eyeballs. That, and I missed my wife and kid. Tremendously. Achingly.

I'm not saying I'll never go to Vegas again. I will. I'll just follow the dinner, show, bed schedule from now on. And, if given the choice between pretend tea parties and r upside down with whipped cream, I'll pick tea parties every time. Hands down.

Love,

Dad





Not really us. We only make it rain c-notes.

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