Sometime last year, while propped up in bed watching a baseball game, I noticed my 2 ½ year old child, Bailey, standing in front of a full length mirror. She was weeping quietly and clearly frightened. The game was in the 8th inning with the Cubbies up by four runs so I didn’t think much about rustling myself out of bed to see what the problem was. If the game had been tied…well, never mind. Upon closer inspection, I noticed that the front of my daughter’s pink floral dress was wet as she stood barefoot and trembling in a small puddle of urine. As the Brits would say, “She had pissed herself”. I’d recently watched a movie where a wicked grandmother had berated her bedwetting grandson and threatened to cut off his little pecker. Now, that seemed a bit extreme despite the fact that it may have solved the problem. In any case, it was not an option available to me for the simple reason that Bailey, being a girl as most daughters are, was lacking in the “little pecker” department. (Trust me, I’ve researched that.) So, instead, I picked her up in my arms and kissed her. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. Everything is OK,” I said endearingly. (God, I hate adverbs) Easy for me to say because I knew my wife would be home soon to clean up the mess and I’d be able to get back to the ballgame. My daughter hugged me saying, “I’m sorry, Daddy”. It was one of the many sweetest of moments that I’ve been blessed to share with my little girl. I’d have been happy to have it last longer but for the commotion emanating from the television behind me. A botched ground ball allowed two runs to score cutting the Cub’s lead in half. Fortunately, my daughter managed to hang on as I turned abruptly. Clearly, I was on the horns of a dilemma. Do I place my daughter on dry ground and return to the game or do I continue consoling her?  What’s more important…being a true Cub fan or being a good daddy? Scant deliberation resolved the matter. I’ve been a Cub fan for fifty years; a daddy for less than three years. I quickly stripped my daughter, hosed her down, washed her and set her next to me in bed wearing a diaper. The rascal, Bailey, doesn’t give a damn about the Cubbies. She prefers cartoons. Within forty-five minutes we both got what we wanted. In the bottom of the 9^th the Cubs walked the bases loaded, hit a batter and then allowed a misplayed bunt to lose the game. In lieu of pissing myself, I thereupon switched the channel to watch a far more enjoyable series of cartoons. My daughter was happy and nothing makes me happier than seeing her happy. Nevertheless, having the serious business of a Cubbies ballgame resemble a children’s cartoon show struck me as an instance of parallel lines actually meeting. And, why not? I’m familiar with the long established axiom that parallel lines don’t meet. However, we’ve all seen thousands of parallel lines and there’s no denying that they have a lot in common. So, isn't it a shame that they're not allowed to meet?