News flash: though yours truly has been known to throw tantrums at inanimate objects, fatherhood is making me a calmer, gentler guy.

Evidence of this transformation occurred tonight before dinner. I was preparing part of our meal, sautéing some spinach with bacon and a bunch of other goodness, when I grabbed the handle of the pan without an oven mitt. My flesh sizzled. The pain seared. My blood pressure skyrocketed.

Six months ago, I would have reacted to this burn violently: at least four dozen F-bombs, followed by some other assorted curses, a few pounds against the counter and (if I was feeling particularly dramatic) a few moments of kicking an inanimate object like (for instance) a garbage pail.

This time, however, because I knew L was in the room, I was more chill: I inhaled quietly without making a peep, waltzed to the sink and immediately stuck my hand under cold water.

My behavior was calculated; Powergirl and I have discussed the importance of making sure L isn’t exposed to parental tantrums of any kind. It’s our way of attempting to raise her in a relatively calm environment.

The way we see it, if she doesn’t see us (really, me) going off on inanimate objects like a wacko, she (in theory, at least) will end up more well-adjusted.

For a hothead like me, this strategy is harder than it looks. Did I want to scream my head off when I burned my hand? Of course I did. Did it hurt so bad that I wanted to put my fist through the wall? You better believe it.

Instead, though, I tried something new: I kept my composure. Fatherhood already has made me a better man.