Shotgun Daddy

Tiny Dancer

One of the many things about parenthood that I never would have guessed before the children started sprouting around here is that each child is a different experience. For most of you this is probably obvious, but for some reason it came as a surprise to me. I always felt like the children Leslie and I would bring into the world would all have the same personalities, interests, abilities, preferences, and passions.

Now I know better. As Exhibit A and B, I give you Alison and Kate. Alison loves basketball, not ballet. Her favorite color has never been pink. I have never seen her in a frilly dress. 

Kate, on the other hand, could not be more different. Kate loves princesses and fairy tales and all things girly. She doesn't run as much as she dances, and she loves when her grandmother braids her hair. 

For the longest time she has been asking to take a ballet class, perhaps motivated by one of her favorite literary characters, Angelina Ballerina. Leslie finally signed her up for a class a few weeks ago, and last Thursday we took Kate shopping to buy a ballet outfit. We came home from the store just before dinner time and thought it would be a good idea for Kate to try on the tights and leotard, just to be sure that they fit. 

Was she excited about her new ballet clothes? She wore them for four days straight, even wearing them to bed as pajamas. We finally convinced her to go back to normal clothes on Monday, but the damage had been done. The tights have runs in them, and the leotard looks ragged enough that it will also have to be replaced before her class starts next week. 

But I can't complain. This is a young girl who has found her bliss.

And So It Begins...

The subtitle of this blog ("Because someday there will be a boy who will want to date my daughter..."), nestled neatly beneath the image of shotgun, has always seemed to reference a future that is far enough away that it's kind of fun to joke about.  When people look at Alison and say things to me like, "Oh, you're gonna have to watch out for that one..." or "Just wait until the boys start knocking on your door..." we would always laugh.  Someone would mention that I'd have to buy a shotgun, and we'd laugh some more.  

But somewhere deep in my Shotgun Daddy heart, there was a place where there was no laughter.  This was the place where I loaded shotguns, built towers, and researched Catholic boarding schools.  This was the place where I knew that "someday" would be here sooner rather than later.

Let it be known that Someday arrived on the Fourth of July, 2009.

We spent the afternoon at a friend's house, watching the kids chase around and frolic in the afternoon sun as burgers and dogs sizzled on the grill.  It was America at its best.  The kind of day that made you feel like all was good in the world.  I relaxed, enjoyed a cold beer, and soaked up some sun.  Not a care in the world.

But then I saw what was happening right under my nose.  There were more than a dozen or so kids frolicking back and forth, but there was one particular boy (we'll call him Romeo) who seemed to be frolicking after Alison a bit more than necessary.  When the kids were playing on the water slide, Romeo always seemed to slide down right after Alison.  When they started throwing poppers, those tiny little things that snap and pop when they hit the ground, Romeo threw them at Alison's feet.  When the water balloons came out, he threw every one of his balloons at Alison.

For her part, Alison wasn't too impressed.  He was probably about eleven to her nine, but it didn't seem that Alison felt he was worth her time.  After his water balloon barrage, however, she did get angry and chase him around for a bit, probably the best two minutes of his life.

After we moved on to grandma's house later that night, Leslie mentioned to Alison that she thought maybe Romeo had liked her.  Alison didn't bother looking up.  

"Yeah, I know," she said.

"What?  How do you know?" I asked.

"It just seemed like it."

"How did it seem like it?"

"He chased me, he threw balloons at me, he pushed me..."

I could only shake my head, as my inner Shotgun Daddy fought the first of what will likely be thousands of battles with Understanding Daddy.  Understanding Daddy won out, and he offered this advice:

"Don't worry, Alison.  One day the boys will figure out something that makes more sense than chasing and hitting."

Alison's twenty-year-old cousin, Rachel, who had been listening nearby, caught my eye and said knowingly, "But not for a long, long time."

So I've got that going for me, which is nice.

Bullfrog Love

The poets say that you can't put a price tag on true love.  But for those of us who don't live our lives in iambic pentameter, we know better.  In this story, love can be had for the bargain price of a single dollar.  Read on.

It started at a garage sale just over a month ago.  We were looking through piles of old books, toys, and clothes when Alison discovered an old frog hatchery kit.  Maybe you remember the one you had when you were a kid -- inside the box is a small plastic aquarium, frog food, a magnifying glass, and a coupon to send away for some mail-order tadpoles.

This particular kit was almost certainly older than Alison, and when we got home and opened it up, there was no coupon to be found.  Alison was disappointed, but I told her not to worry; I knew we'd find her some tadpoles with just a few clicks of the mouse.  Within minutes we had landed at a site which promised six live bullfrog tadpoles for $12.95.  After adding some food and paying $16.95 for shipping (they had to come via FedEx since they were live organisms), we were in for $34.40.  And it was just the beginning.

The box arrived a week later and Alison's face lit up like Christmas morning as she lifted the plastic bag out of the styrofoam box and saw not six, but seven tadpoles flitting around in the water.  She saw seven frogs, but I saw seven funerals.  I hoped that they'd all grow up and turn into bullfrogs, but experience taught me that this was unlikely.  Death was inevitable.

We realized after only a few days that we needed a bigger tank, so we headed off to the local fish store and bought a tank, water conditioner, some gravel, a large rock, and a filter.  $63.98.  We spent about twenty-five dollars on another trip, and about ten bucks since then on miscellaneous supplies.

But even with all that, the tadpoles started dying.  After a few more trips to the fish store for advice, we were finally able to settle things down, but not until only two tadpoles remained.  Since then, one of the tadpoles has lost his tail and become a frog.  It's hard to believe that he'll be a bullfrog someday, because now he could sit on a nickel with room to spare.

Perhaps because he's so incredibly cute, or perhaps because of all the tears shed when the other tadpoles passed away, Alison is head over heels in love with her frog.  She checks on him as soon as she wakes up and wonders what he's doing when they're apart.  She enjoys feeding him crickets (see below), and asks every single day if she can keep him when he grows up.  This is still up for debate.

But the really interesting thing is that her bullfrog love has triggered an academic curiosity of all things frog.  She took it upon herself to start a frog journal on the day her tadpoles arrived, and she has filled it with sketches of the tadpoles and written observations of what's been happening.  When I suggested that she could check out a book about frogs from the library, she immediately produced one she had checked out earlier that day.  When she returned that one, she checked out three more.

These tadpoles have been more than just a passing novelty.  They have inspired her to learn, encouraged her to care, and brightened her life.  Sure, we spent a lot more than that original dollar at the garage sale, but it's been worth every penny. 

New Bikes and Skinned Knees

My knees were permanently scabbed when I was a boy, a condition that lasted until I was at least thirteen years old.  The scabs were badges earned through bike crashes, clumsy falls, and daring steals of second base, and just as one was almost healed it would be ripped off again and the process would start from the beginning.  I was a boy.

Which brings us to last weekend's bike ride in the park.  (There's video in the previous post, in case you missed it.)  Leslie, Alison, and I all had new bikes, so we decided to spend the afternoon riding the trails at our local park.  I was a bit concerned about Alison.  Like a new pair of shoes, we bought her bike with room to grow into, which means that it's too big for her right now.  She rides perched atop it like, well, like a girl on a bike that's too big for her.  She's in control ninety percent of the time, but she's an accident waiting to happen the other ten percent.  

Henry is an accident waiting to happen ten percent of the time whether he's riding his bike or not.  Like most little boys, he's much more interested in pedaling furiously than braking cautiously, and doesn't yet have a full grasp of how the laws of physics affect him while turning a corner.  Biking alongside him for most of the day was his sister Kate, the closest thing to a constant in the afternoon's equation.  She rolled along, steady and sure, and the rest of us did our best to avoid her.

In short, we were a disaster waiting to happen.  I was certain there'd be an injury of some sort before the day was done, but somehow we got lucky.  When the sun finally sunk below the trees and the bikes were hung on the back of the van, Alison and I decided to ride home while Leslie drove Henry and Kate.  

We rode along the riverbed for a while and then cut back into the park and cruised past picnic benches and baseball diamonds before stopping to watch the aspiring young juvenile delinquents hanging out at the skateboard park.  There wasn't a great deal of talent there, no future Tony Hawks or Ryan Shecklers to be found, but apparently it was inspiration enough.

As we rode away and started towards home, I had a sudden urge to pop a wheelie.  For the first time in twenty-five years, I pedaled hard and pulled up on my handle bars -- it was easy.  Alison had missed this first attempt, so I called to her and did it again.  It wasn't Evel Kneivel, only a few rotations of the pedals, but it was enough to impress a nine-year-old.

"Daddy!  How did you do that??  Do it again!!!"

How could I resist.  I'd try it again, and this time would be even better.  I'd pull up harder, keep the wheel up longer, and be the coolest dad in the history of dads.

But here's the thing.  When you're twelve years old and eighty-five pounds, wheelies are almost impossible.  You don't have the strength to get the front wheel very far off the ground, so you have to pull up as hard as you can and still it never works.  When you're thirty-nine years old, and at least a little bit stronger, things are different.  I pulled up on those handle bars about as hard as I could and the bike leapt up from under me like a bull eager to throw his rider.  In decades past the bike would've fallen harmlessly back to the ground, and I'd be left wishing I were cooler.  Now, though, with an extra hundred or so pounds (emphasis on or so) my mass carried the bike up to the sky, leaving me behind.

I landed on my left foot, but my right knee dragged along the ground, pealing away a piece of skin the size of a silver dollar.  When we got home I found an almost identical wound on the top side of my ankle.  So I was right in the end about the accident, I just didn't know it would be me.

It's been a week, and the scabs are enormous.  I might be thirty-nine, but apparently I'm still just a boy.