Confessions of a Bad Dad

I still remember the first time I suspected that, contrary to my early conceits, I might actually be a terrible father. When our oldest child was 2, I was clipping her fingernails and snipped her pinkie instead of the nail. As I saw the pinpoint of blood ooze from her tiny fingertip, I made a strange wailing sound, snatched her up, and ran her to the bathroom. I apologized profusely as I wrapped her finger in a complex set of bandages that effectively quadrupled the size of her pinkie. (Any parent will tell you that, if there's anything more difficult than clipping the nails of a toddler, it's trying to find a bandage that will fit her fingertip.)

She returned my apologies with a look of confusion. Truthfully, I don't think she was aware that anything was wrong.