Why are some father's so insensitive?

I was driving back from a meeting recently with a group of fathers. All of us have kids under the age of 11. We got to laughing our asses off at how it seems to be a universal phenomenon that fathers can watch their children fall or hurt themselves with an almost detached sense of amazement. Yet, our wives have some sixth sense for anticipating an accident even before it happens.

What is in our genetic wiring that would allow us to hold back for the moment when our child goes ass over teacups off their scooter? Our brains are saying just seconds beforehand that this is going to be interesting, if not permanently debilitating. So, we hold back. We pause. And as we do, inevitably, our wives are behind us screaming "What the hell are you doing just standing there? Little Bobby just skinned his knee with that stunt and you are standing there like a stump."

Well, honey, the reason for the hesitation is that we knew Little Bobby was not going to be permanently scarred. Somehow in that moment of hesitation we made a decision that he'd survive it, would be taught a lesson and we'd get the vicarious enjoyment of seeing something queerly amusing. For the same reason we watch sports -- to see people get hurt -- we also have a genetic predisposition to watching our children make small physical errors.

For those of you inclined to see child abuse in this, I can assure you that the judgment to pummel the life out of anyone who would seek to hurt our children is well-ingrained too. I'm not talking about watching our children stick a wet electrical plug into a wall socket. I'm talking about small disasters like you'd see on America's Funniest Home Videos. These moments, though, are purely our own.

I watched my three year old running pell mell down a hill recently (on the grass). As his feet began to move beyond his brain's ability to process the data necessary for coordination, I hesitated knowing full well he was about to receive an intimate introduction to a mouthful of fine fescue park grass. Sure enough, as if in a dream, he did a perfect arm-splayed forward fall landing precisely on his face.

The grass was in his mouth, his hair, down his shirt and all over the palms of his hands. Moments before he had known an experience of pure human bliss. Flying down that hill at top speed, legs moving, golden hair flying, screaming as if he'd just won an Olympic Gold Medal. Now he was stretched out like a spit-ready suckling pig gasping for breath through a flood of tears.

"Your'e ok, buddy," I said, lifting him off the turf and rubbing bits of grass out of his mouth with the corner of my shirt.

"Waaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!"

"Daddy's got you. You're ok, sweet boy."

"Waaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!

I lift him up in my arms. I hug and comfort him and he begins to calm down. We begin slowly walking home. And as we enter the back porch door. There's my wife.

"What the hell happened? I heard the screaming three blocks away. Were you even watching him?"

"Yes, dear. Of course I was watching him."

And so it goes.