Notes along the father-daughter continuum: The Question

It comes out of nowhere.

Sort of sneaks up on you.

You never see it coming.

You don’t feel it.

You don’t sense it.

You turn around. And it’s there.

The Question.

“Daddy, is there a Santa Claus?”

Many times this is a trick question. They look to you for confirmation of what they already believe they know. They have worked it out. The physics of it. The general understanding of what is, what was and what could be. Is this possible?

So they blurt it out. . .and wait.

“Daddy, why is the sky blue?”

This one they don’t know but they are still at that age where they truly believe you do. You scramble for an answer. The truth is you could say just about anything but you want to at least give them a kernel of truth. How horrible would it be if they were at a friend’s house and this question was raised? They would confidently answer: “My daddy says the sky is blue because there was a tear in the space-time continuum that formed a worm hole which collapsed on itself and exploded into a our big blue sky.”

“Daddy, if God created the heavens and the earth, who created God?”

It’s the ever-feared theological question. What the heck? Aren’t they supposed to be all about “Jesus Loves Me” and all that? What’s up with a theological question that even the most learned men of the cloth have a hard time with?

“Daddy, what does it mean when someone says they are having their ‘period’?”

Ah. . .yes. You would think that this question would throw off even the most confident of men. But, no. Generally speaking, by the time this question is uttered, you have already formulated the ever-popular answer. . . “Go ask your mother.”

The interesting aspect of this is that as they get older, they just assume you’re as dumb as a sack of hammers. Therefore the questions tend to slow down a bit. I mean, think about it. Why ask a question of someone whom you know has no freakin’ idea what they are talking about? What’s the point?

But then they begin to learn about sex. This opens up a whole new avenue of exploration, questions and potential for embarrassment. It doesn’t help that I specifically have told both of my daughters that they can ask me anything at anytime and I will answer them honestly.

My wife and I have always been fairly forthright with our children about sex and private parts. This has proven to be a positive development in some ways but a detriment in others. Knowing my general unease for this type of discussion only encourages both of my daughters to make up songs using the anatomically correct names of private parts in the refrain. These are most often sung in the car on the way back from the beach. There is no escape.

But there is from time to time the Question.

“Daddy, what does mean?”

My oldest daughter asked me this while we were driving home one day. I haven’t heard that word uttered aloud since I was a sophomore in high school. It’s important that you show no fear. No emotion. No laughter. No tears. Don’t lose control of the car. Stare straight ahead. And in a voice void of all emotion, I told her what it meant and explained that you are not to use that term.

It had been a while since I had gotten any questions. But, as I said before, they sneak up on you.

My youngest daughter and I were watching the NCAA tournament. And, as is the norm, just about every other commercial had to do with erectile dysfunction. Over and over. Men smiling. Women smiling. Holding hands. Sitting in tubs. Going into the hut. Driving a motorcyle. The catchy tune. It seemed like they lasted forever. Then, blessedly, they were done. But, as it turns out, not done soon enough.

“Daddy, what is Cialis?”

It came out of nowhere. I suppose I should have expected it.

“Well, sweetie, Cialis is a medication for men.”

That should have been it. Had it been any other child in America, that would have been it. But, no. Not my youngest. Not the one who can sense fear from miles away. Not the one who knows when she’s got you on the ropes. Not the one who will one day be a feared litigator stalking the nation’s courtrooms like a red-headed female version of Perry Mason.

“Okay but what does it do?”

It was then that I had a choice. I could use the fall back position of directing her to her ever-trusted mother. Or I could manipulate the truth – “Well, it designed to help increase blood flow.” Not exactly the whole truth, but not a lie either.

Or I could tell the whole, unvarnished truth. So that’s what I did. I explained to her what Cialis was and why men took it and what it did. I didn’t crack a smile. I didn’t laugh. I didn’t cry. I answered her as if I were reminding her of when she was born.

She looked at me in disgust.

“Okay. . .eeeewwww.”

Then she didn’t talk to me the rest of the day.

Sometimes it pays to be honest.

Notes Along the Father-Daughter Continuum: "Responsibilitum in Absentia"

After living with two young members of the female species for 11 and 15 years respectively, it has not escape my notice nor the notice of others that I find myself being slowly drawn into their community. This is, of course, not entirely unexpected but is not particularly helpful when it comes to noting and cataloging their behavior.

Many of their rituals continue to be foreign to me but over this span of time, I have begun to gain some hint of understanding that has led me to this place. In effect, I have found myself being drawn inexorably into the darkness that is female tween and teen. The darkness is so pervasive that it becomes nigh impossible to see one’s hand before one’s face. Then, in a moment of enlightenment, this darkness is punctuated by the light of understanding.

One such epiphanous moment has occurred most recently and can best be described as “Responsibilitum in Absentia” or “absence of any and all responsibility.” This is a curious defect with obvious symptoms, but it is hard to determine when it begins. Based on my own observations, it appears to begin around age 10 or 11. And its appearance, while no doubt is gradual, becomes apparent to the casual observer rather immediately.

This malady is quite apparent in the older member of the two young females that I am observing. So much so that there is a clear understanding that most, if not all, of the occurrences in her sphere of influence are the result of some outside intervention – either natural or super-natural.

The most recent example of this phenomenon involves her academic life, an area in which she actually excels. However, when the occasional poor score does occur, the phrase “It’s not my fault” is repeated to such a degree that one must wonder if its repetition is needed to convince the speaker of its validity.

When questioned regarding “fault” for the poor score, answers range from “the test was too hard” to “the teacher didn’t explain things well” to the fairly popular refrain of: “I don’t know. All I know is that it is not my fault.”

Another recent example involving the youngest of the two females involved the sudden super-natural destruction of a pair of swimming goggles. My only role in this was as the purchaser of said goggles. After that no one else, other than the youngest female, came into contact with said goggles.

When the time came for everyone to retire to the indoor swimming area for fun and relaxation, the goggles were nowhere to be found. When questioned about the goggles, the youngest identified their location as “in the drawer.” When pressed for more details, she responded with disgust that they had been broken but that “it wasn’t her fault.”

Both parental units pointed out to their youngest daughter that she was clearly the only person to have handled or manipulated the goggles since their purchase a scant few hours earlier. To which she responded with antagonism, surliness and generalized anger. However, fault lay elsewhere – no doubt attributed to some heretofore unidentified super-natural event.

Many more examples of “Responsibilitum in Absentia” could be outlined here but there is neither the time nor space available for such a vast cataloging of observations. Suffice to say that this observer will continue chronicling his findings. Respectfully submitted. . .

Learning to Drive (February 2009)

My daughter turned 15 in November.

Now, generally, when I tell people that, they get a pinched-up look on their faces that reveals a combination of relief (“thank goodness it’s not me”) and fear (“what kind of car did you say you drive again?”).

Driving with my daughter and working to teach her the finer arts of driving, I am reminded oft times of my own lessons in driving.

Growing up in north rural Alabama, I was given the opportunity to drive at a young age. The age gets younger depending on how deep in the story I am, but, the truth is, I probably first got behind the wheel of a pick-up truck along about the age of 12.

My friends and I would tear around the dirt roads, and my father would allow me to jump in the truck to run up the road to pick up this or that.

My official driving lessons actually took place at the abandoned Courtland Air Base. My dad would teach me the delicate art of handling a stick shift automobile.

The good news is that most of my early driving experience was spent on the straightaways of the country. There was the occasional light. There was the random stop sign. But, basically, everything was fairly straightforward. The bad news is that I was ill prepared for what was to come.

That’s the advantage my daughter has today. She is learning in a much more challenging environment.

The issue at hand with teaching my 15-year-old daughter how to drive is not my daughter. After starting out a little wobbly, she is actually a good driver.

She is conscientious.

She comes to a complete stop at stop signs.

She uses her turn signal.

She drives the speed limit.

No, the issue at hand and what makes me the most nervous about teaching her how to drive is getting her to understand just how stupid most people are behind the wheel of a car.

How do you teach your 15-year-old to drive in this environment? A simple rule – assume everyone else is an idiot.

I can remember the first time I passed this wisdom along to her not too soon after she received her driver’s permit. She was flabbergasted. “You mean that these people took tests – written and driving – and still can’t drive well?” Yes, that’s exactly what it means.

We were driving down Overbrook toward our church. Now, Overbrook presents a number of challenges. It’s a narrow, winding two-lane road with a steep drop-off on one side and driveways and mailboxes lining the other. There is no shoulder to speak of and, thus, no real room for error.

As she was making her way slowly to church, we were shocked to see someone coming right at us in our lane. They had apparently passed a bicyclist and had just failed to move back over into their lane.

Even the most experienced driver can see the predicament here. We couldn’t pull over. We dare not get in the other lane. So we did what we could – honked, flashed our lights, slowed to a crawl, and braced for impact.

At the last moment, they realized the error of their ways and corrected, giving us a nice “I’m sorry I almost killed us all” wave. Thanks.

Since that time, she and I have developed a short-hand method of identifying these people. We call it the “DA Alert.”

Some examples (feel free to use them as you wish or add your own):

DA Alert: Drivers see most traffic signals and traffic signs as recommendations or suggestions.

DA Alert: No one drives the speed limit. Do you know what the speed limit is on Overton? 30 miles an hour. Try driving the exact speed limit sometime. I dare you. My daughter has been tailgated, honked at, given the finger, and passed in a no-passing zone.

DA Alert: Turn signal, what turn signal? This is Alabama, dadgummit, it’s none of your business where I’m going.

DA Alert: I get to go first at a four-way stop because: a) I have the bigger car; b) I am talking on the phone or c) I am yelling at and/or beating my children.

DA Alert: Is it really that difficult to park in between the lines? Our own experience shows that some of the worst offenders are in front of Magic Muffins and Blockbuster. It is not unusual to see someone park in front of Magic Muffins and take up two spots. They leave their car running to let everyone know: “No, I’m not a self-centered, arrogant idiot. See, I left my car running.” Or, in front of Blockbuster, they will literally parallel park across perpendicular spaces.

The scary part? My daughter and I haven’t even ventured onto the area’s busiest highways. Oh, well, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Getting Old Ain't Too Bad (11.08)

Getting old is not that horrible – mostly.

Children, those little blessings, are the ultimate mirrors of truth.

“Dad, what’s it like to be so old?”

“Dad, have you always had so little hair?”

There are constant physical reminders. My knees are shot. My shoulder has a bone spur. I have hair and other things growing in places where they should not be. To make matters worse, I talk about these things with other “old people.”

We talk about the “good old days.”

We talk about our latest doctor visit.

We talk about who has died or is sick.

My wife and I are 40+ now and our kids are fairly self-sufficient, which has allowed us to re-connect on those occasional date nights.

Not too long ago, we were pleasantly surprised at being invited to visit a local dance group. This group gets together on a regular basis throughout the year to enjoy themselves, dance, and, in general, just have a good time.

As expected, my wife and I had a great time. We talked. We laughed. We enjoyed each other’s company. We enjoyed the company of others.

And, as expected, we did the next logical thing and asked, “How do we join?”

After we asked the question of them, our friends looked at one another and broke the news to us: While we were great to be around, we were just too old to join their dance group. It seems they only allow membership to those who of a certain younger age and 40 ain’t it.

Along with another “older” couple, my wife and I lead a church group during the summer that ministers to young people who are newly-engaged or newly-married.

One of the great things about being with men and women who are young is that you begin to feel young. Well, that is, until reality slaps you across the face. . .

Trying to be kind, one of the young ladies in our church group told my wife that she was old enough to be her mother. She meant it as a compliment. Really.

After graduating from Auburn in 1988, I had already come to the conclusion forever ago that I was way past old when compared to the young folks in college. I can remember my wife and I visiting a band party about two years after I had graduated and we felt like the creepy old people that hang around the fraternity house trying to re-live the “old days.”

As fate would have it, I was fortunate enough to take my two daughters to the first game of the 2008 Auburn football season during Labor Day weekend.

When we arrived at Jordan-Hare Stadium, we hired a Sherpa, who was kind enough to lead us to our seats in the East Upper Deck.

Of course, as you are climbing to the top of Mount Jordan-Hare, you pass by entrances to scholarship seats, box seats and other seats that I can never hope to afford. As such, the children begin asking the obvious question. . .

“Dad, why can’t we sit in those boxes?”

“Sweetie, be sure you marry up.”

We reached the top, sat down and I handed over the hundreds of dollars needed to keep my children in the manner to which they have become accustomed – allowing them the freedom to buy a food item anytime they felt like it.

Not too long after we sat down, two young ladies (18+), sat down next to us. One key factor in determining their age was their perpetual state of disgust and unhappiness.

Another key factor in pegging their ages was that they used a constant stream of obscenities for the short period of time they sat in our section. As my youngest pointed out, they used various cuss words that started with “s,” “f,” and a couple that I, frankly, didn’t recognize.

It wasn’t too long before one of them found themselves actually talking on the cell phone.

“Yeah, we’re here. No, I’m not having any fun at all. Oh my gawd, I am sooooo depressed. Because I am stuck way up here in the old people section.”

Ah, well, War Eagle anyway.