My Wife, A Mother Without Peer

Mother is the name for God on the lips and hearts of all children.

- William Makepeace Thackeray

Six years ago I witnessed you perform the most amazing feat I have ever beheld another human being accomplish. After nine months of lost sleep, heartburn, tired feet, exhaustion, an aching back and a body that changed on a daily basis, you brought into this world a remarkably beautiful baby girl. You performed this momentous accomplishment with no desire for recognition, no want of any accolades. I remember like it was yesterday. As you lay on that hospital bed, tears mingling with the sweat on your face, holding our newborn miracle, I asked you how in the world you had managed to pull it all off. You looked into my eyes and with a gentle shrug and a soft smile you murmured, "I am a mother. It's what I was meant to do."

Since that chilly November day, when I didn't think I could ever possibly be more in awe of you, you have consistently shown me that what I had observed was simply the beginning of an amazing journey.

The Bond Between Father and Daughter or I Never Thought Phil Collins Would Make Me Cry

Most nights, when the inevitable bedtime rolls around, I lay down with The Peanut for a few minutes. We talk, we giggle, we say prayers. Sometimes she will pepper me with questions about any one of a thousand random topics, sometimes she will debrief me on her day at school, who was a good listener and who was not, who had to sit in the "thinking chair" and the unfortunate choice that got them banished there, and sometimes we just lay there, enjoying a few quiet moments as our hearts beat close together. I do not exaggerate when I say that these few minutes are the highlight of my day. I treasure each one of them because I know that one day, all too soon, they will come to an end.

Last night, after all the night time routines had been completed (the running of the bath, the brushing of the teeth, the reading of a story, and the fetching of the glass of water) we went into her room. The Peanut hopped into bed, American Girl Doll and newest Build-A-Bear (we have so many of these bears I think our house could get federal funding as a preserve) in hand. I performed my duly appointed duties, turning off the overhead light, switching on the Nemo night light, and turning on the radio. Much like her father, The Peanut loves to drift off to sleep listening to music. My mother-in-law is a loyal listener of 99.5 WJBR and my daughter insists on being able to listen to "Grammy Music" at night.

Tangled or Why My Daughter Wants a Horse and a Chameleon.

Today was the last day of my glorious eleven day winter break. To finish with a bang The Wife suggested we grab The Peanut, throw her in the car, drive down to our local multiplex and pay a small fortune to take in a matinée. I thought the idea sounded just spiffy and I told her so (yes, I used the word spiffy and yes, I did get smacked for it).

The Peanut got a digital camera from Jolly Old Saint Nick last week and ever since has slowly been gathering a photographic record of every corner of our house from every conceivable angle. 'Studies in Dust Bunnies' I call it. When I tracked her down she had her new LaLa Loopsie doll suspended in midair over the open toilet bowl, attempting to snap a shot without getting her fingers in the frame. It would have made, I am sure, quite a surreal photograph, the interpretation of which would have been up for some serious debate. As much as I hated to interrupt my own little Andy Warhol, I called her out of the bathroom and asked her what movie she wanted to go see. The answer was as loud as it was immediate.

"TANGLED!"

The Peanut Takes on the Lord of the Rings

This past weekend The Peanut, who is almost six, decided she wanted to watch The Lord of the Rings. I have a Gollum cut out in my classroom who warns my students to always write their homework down, lest they be transformed into Gollum and share his fate. She has always liked it and Friday night asked if she could watch the movies.

When a Child Grieves.

Death.

It is a perplexing and harsh reality of life.

It is something that we as adults know we all one day have to face. As will our parents, our friends...our own children. It is truly the debt that all men pay.

My Wife lost her grandfather this past May. The majority of her family lives in Oklahoma (where we are currently visiting) and when he passed she flew out with her parents to attend the funeral. Because they live so far from us, we only get to see her relatives every other summer when we make the trip out. My daughter had only met and interacted with her Great Grandpa a small handful of times, first four years ago when she was eighteen months old and again two years ago when she was three and a half. On both occasions she spent time at his house, playing mostly with the dog and her own toys. Although the vast majority of her life has been spent with her Delaware family she knew who mommy's Pa was and always looked forward to seeing him, her Great Grandmother, and "Tulsa Lucky", the family dog.

When he passed away this May she was sad, hugging and comforting her mother as she cried when that dreaded phone call finally came in. After that first day she didn't say much about it. She told people who asked that we missed mommy while she was away at the funeral and then she greeted her enthusiastically when she returned, exhausted and drained from the usual roller coaster of happy memories and piercing sadness that accompanies the death of one so dear.

The summer passed with its usual speed and August found us climbing aboard an airplane to return to Oklahoma for our biannual trip to visit with family.

This evening we ventured out to the cemetery where my wife's grandfather is buried. It was the first chance for her to see the grave marker. It was my daughter's first chance to see it as well.

When we found it my wife, overcome with a sudden rush of emotion, lowered herself down to her knees and lowered her head. My daughter glanced at me uncertainly.

"What's wrong with mommy?" she asked, reaching up to grab my hand.

I told her that mommy was fine, she was just still very sad that Pa was no longer with us. My daughter looked up at me, her hazel eyes catching the last rays of the setting sun, and asked if she should go give mommy a hug.

"Yeah sweetheart," I told her, "mommy would like that."

She went over and put her arms around her mother, nuzzled into the crook of her neck, and held her. The two of them held that position for a good four minutes. Choking back my own tears, which were suddenly starting to flow watching them, I held my ground, giving them this moment of comfort together. Eventually my wife rose to her feet, accepting my embrace. While we stood looking at the marker, my daughter ran off a ways into the cemetery. I wasn't sure what she was doing until she came back a few moments later with the head of a red plastic flower.

"You didn't take that from another gravestone, did you?" I asked her.

She gave me the look of exasperation that is reserved for the sole use of young daughters to give to their fathers when they are being unforgivingly dim.

"No daddy, it was laying on the ground."

I smiled at her as she took the plastic flower and placed it on top of the grave marker. She stayed on her knees after placing the flower, tracing the letters engraved in the granite surface of the stone. Pa's name, the chiseled dates of his birth and death.

We were about to leave when she looked up at her mother and I.

"Can I have a private moment?" she asked, her lower lip starting to quiver ever so slightly.

"You want to be alone?" my wife asked her. "Where do you want to be in private?"

My daughter thought it over. "I want to sit in the car."

As she said this her eyes kept going back to the surface of the newly set marker.

"Honey, do you want to sit in the car, or do you want to stay here with Pa while we start walking back?" I asked her.

Her eyes began to water. "Stay here," she said in a voice so low it was barely audible.

"OK sweetheart. You go ahead, we'll walk to the car," my wife told her. We turned to walk back to the car and our daughter walked back to the stone.

After walking a few yards I told my wife to keep walking back with her parents, that I would hang back. She continued on and the picture below is the sight that greeted my eyes when I turned. My daughter, kneeling, head bent so the ends of her chestnut hair almost grazed the ground, her tiny body swaying slightly. After snapping the picture I just watched her. She maintained that posture for several minutes. Then she looked up at me.

Tears were streaming down her freckled cheeks. I have never seen her so vulnerable, so filled with sorrow. She rose to her feet as I walked over and knelt down beside her. She crumpled into my arms, letting out a wail so innocent and so full of sorrow that it penetrated straight to the center of my soul. I knelt there, holding her in the Tulsa heat for several minutes, holding her as the sobs shook her shoulders and buckled her legs.

I finally whispered in her ear that it was time to get going. She nodded her head, the tears still flowing.

"Do you want to say goodbye?" I asked her. She nodded her head once again and knelt at the gravestone one last time. She lifted the fingers of her left hand to her quivering lips, kissed them, then slowly lowered them to the sun warmed surface of the granite headstone. Then she fell back into my arms and I picked her up and carried her out, my own vision blurred by fresh tears.

The compassion  and genuineness of a child is a mysterious and wonderful thing. There is no shame, no pretense, no reserve. It was the most pure and stirring display of grief I have ever seen in my life. It took me until my thirty-sixth year of life, and I had to be taught by a five year old, but I got it. Grieving, for children or for adults, is a natural process that must be allowed to run its own course, in its own time. My five year old taught this to me on a hot and humid afternoon in Tulsa, Oklahoma.  It rocked me to my core and I know it is a moment in time I will never forget.

Rest in peace Pa. Know that you are missed by many.

You DO NOT Mess With The Peanut's Favorite Phillie!

Baseball is a big deal in my house. I will sit and watch ALMOST any sport on TV (sorry bowling) but, in the Chalkboard Dad's domicile, baseball is king. And if baseball is king, the Philadelphia Phillies are god, Citizen's Bank Park the place of worship.

A good friend of mine gave us some tickets to go to Citizen's Bank Park on Wednesday evening to cheer on the Phillies. Roy Halladay had the start, which was awesome, and it was Dominic Brown's first major league start, which was epic. My teaching buddy Glen gave us four tickets he couldn't use so The Wife and I took The Peanut and my mother. It was a sweltering night to watch some great baseball in the best ballpark in Major League Baseball. (If you care to dispute that claim, let's take it to the comments below)

The Peanut loves the Phillies. She has been going to games at The Bank since she was two years old. The most memorable event in my thirty-six year sports memory was when the Phills beat the Tampa Bay Rays to win the 2008 World Series. The game ended late and The Peanut was long slumbered in her bed. After The Wife and I celebrated Brad Lidge's final out to save the series I went up to her bedroom. I knelt down at her side and nudged her awake. It took a minute or two for her to wake up but when she finally lifted her eye lids she saw my smile. She licked her lips like an over exaggerated cartoon character waking from a deep sleep and said, "Hi daddy. I'm sleepin."

"I know baby, but guess what?"

She sat up with a yawn. "What?"

"The Phillies won the World Series!" I tried not to shout, but I am sure I was louder than I should have been to a three year old whom I had just roused from a deep slumber.

A big grin erupted from ear to ear, the ecstatic joy I was feeling given physical expression. The Peanut squealed and jumped up into my arms and we did a little victory dance right there in her dark bedroom, her tiny arms wrapped around my neck, both of us laughing and cheering.

It is a moment I will treasure for all time.

So, as I am sure you can imagine, when The Peanut found out we were going to see the Phillies play she was  barely able to contain her excitement.

We got in, found our awesome seats fifteen rows back along the third base side, loaded up with all the ballpark food staples (beer, hot dogs, and a vat of the insanely delicious Chickie's & Pete's crab fries), and settled in to watch the game.

The Peanut's favorite Phillie is left fielder Raul Ibanez. He came to the club last year and has had his ups and downs. The Peanut chose Raul because when he is up to bat the entire park yells out his first name, holding the second syllable for several seconds, turning "Raul!" into "Rauuuuuuuuuuuuul!" She loves to yell along at home, standing up on the coffee table (hope no one from DFS is reading this) and yelling "RAUUUUUUUUUUUUL!" at the top of her almost six year old lungs. She likes Chase Utley and Ryan Howard. She loves to wear her Shane Victorino lei. But Raul is her guy.

The game began and all was well. It was hot and humid, but we were having too much fun to notice. Roy Halladay, our starting pitcher for the evening, took care of the Diamondbacks in the top of the first inning, making it look easy. The Peanut's man Ibanez would be coming to bat third in the bottom of the inning.

When he came to the plate, a young guy sitting directly behind us let out a loud "RAUUUUUUUUUL!" for all the park to hear. Problem was, his deep voice, strained by the force of his decleration, made  his yell sound more like "BOOOOOOOOO!" than "RAUUUUUUUUL!". The Peanut, with a half eaten hot dog in her mouth, whipped around so quickly a little glob of ketchup flew off and landed with a splat on my knee. She gave the guy a stone cold death glare. She didn't raise her tiny fists to fight, but her hands were clenched into tight fists. She was ready to swing if necessary.

To the guy's credit he looked at The Peanut's shirt (she was of course wearing her Raul shirt), looked into the furnace of her fiery gaze, and realized the miscommunication. As his girlfriend looked on amused, he attempted to make nice with The Peanut and explain to her that he was not booing Ibanez, that he in fact liked Raul very much. The Peanut's fists slowly unclenched but I don't think she was really convinced. Only later in the game, after Ibanez doubled and the guy gave The Peanut a high five, did she accept that he was not an Ibanez hater.

It was a great night out as a family and a great night to be Phillies fans as the team went on to beat the Diamondbacks seven to one and win their seventh game in a row.

It seems my daughter is turning into a proper Phillies fan. Fiery, passionate, and willing to take no crap when she thinks someone is talking smack about her guys.

Should I be proud?

Or scared?

A Daughter's Love

As our mini beach vacation draws to a close we are doing all we can to squeeze every drop of fun we can from what is left of it. This morning The Wife, The Peanut, and I were enjoying a dip in the cool, chlorinated waters of the pool. The Peanut is learning to swim and her latest self made goal is to swim from one side of the pool to the other using only one breath.

As we practiced and she coughed and sputtered her way through water up the nostrils, fluffy white cumulus clouds passed slowly overhead against the backdrop of a perfectly blue summer sky.

At one point, after almost making it across the distance, she floated over to me and put her arms around my neck. She stayed still for the space of a breath or two, the moment stretching on into forever in my mind.

I felt her head move as she looked up. She took in a quick breath, then let out a little giggle. She pulled back and looked me in the eye. She pointed to the sky over my shoulder and said, "Look Daddy...the sky knows how much I love you!"

I turned my head and this is what I saw...

Is there a better feeling than the reciprocated love of a child? I really don't think so.

Sweaty Meatloaf or My Daddy is a Pottymouthed Driver.

Delaware is crawling its way through a string of consecutive ninety plus degree days. It has been most unpleasant, the kind of weather where the seat belt buckles in the car burn your fingers when you try to buckle up. 

Yesterday The Peanut and I were out in the backyard. I was grilling up some burgers and she was chasing our psychotic beagle around the yard. I found myself becoming exhausted and overheated, losing electrolytes simply by standing there and watching the two of them run and jump around and on each other.

After about fifteen minutes the beagle loses interest and moves onto something infinitely more interesting, smelling her own behind. The Peanut trudges over to me and says "Whew daddy! It's so hot out here I'm sweating like a meatloaf!" 

After depositing that peculiarly curious simile on me she tips me a wink, gives me a thumbs up, and heads into the house. I have no idea where she picked up such a bizarre expression. The Wife says it is an ICarlyism, picked by The Peanut on one of her repeated viewings of the Nickelodeon show. I don't know about that for sure but I do know The Peanut, like most kids her age, is an absolute sponge when it comes to listening to people talk and having an elephant's memory in recalling what she hears, usually at really embarrassing times.

Case in point.

She was playing with a friend today at her grandmother's house. Apparently, after about an hour of play, The Peanut walked into the kitchen looking very unhappy. My step-mom reported to me that she asked The Peanut what was wrong. She replied that her friend had called her an asshole and she did not like how that made her feel.

After said friend was handed out the appropriate consequences, The Peanut reportedly turned to my step-mom and proceeded to thrown her father right under the unforgiving wheels of the proverbial bus. "That's a really bad word mom-mom. I know because that is what daddy calls all the bad drivers on the road who don't drive safe."

Ouch. 

I guess when she is listening to her music or playing her Leapster in the car on our morning commutes, and I think she is totally oblivious to everything else, her ears are still tuned into what I am saying (shouting).

Knowing that makes ME sweat like a meatloaf...

When a Five Year Old Harumphs.

The In-Laws were over for dinner last night. I realize that in some households those nine words are akin to the raising of the trumpets in advance of an attack by a Mongolian Horde, but I am a lucky guy. When my In-Laws visit they bring wine and good company. The Wife's grandmother is visiting from Tulsa, the land of  eternal pot holes (if you are wondering what I mean, see my letter to the Oklahoma Department of Transportation) and we grilled some steaks, drank some wine, and played copious amounts of Rock Band.

The Peanut, who is five and a half, is not a fan of steak. When I ask her why, her reply is simple and leaves little room for argument. She shrugs her tiny shoulders, cocks her head to the side, makes full eye contact and says, "Daddy, steak just doesn't agree with me." How do I argue with that?

Our normal parental policy is what we have for dinner IS what we are having for dinner. But, once a week, The Peanut is allowed to use a "Get-Out-Of-A-Dinner-That-Won't-Agree-With-Me" card. Basically we will let her choose her dinner, within reason, when she uses the privilege. The other six nights she eats what we eat or else breakfast will be her next meal. She chose to play her card last night and instead of delicious steak she opted for macaroni and cheese with slices of tomato and green beans.

Wordless Wednesday...It's a "boar"

The Peanut rubs the Boar Fountain's nose for good luck as we prepare to leave the Delaware Natural History Museum after a successful daddy-daughter date of museum touring and Geocaching (Found two on the property!).

The plaque on the fountain invites patrons to rub the boar's nose for "good fortune".

Naturally, The Peanut rubbed it for a good two minutes. I guess better safe than sorry...

 

This post is a part of Dad-Blogs Wordless Wednesday.

Fatherhood Friday - Daylight Savings Time...With Bibles.

Click the image above to catch other fantastic Fatherhood Friday posts at Dad-Blogs!

Yesterday afternoon, as I was putting the finishing touches on what was sure to be the most inspiring, life altering, moving post in Fatherhood Friday history, a horrible tragedy occurred. My laptop burped, hiccuped, froze, gasped...then spat the dreaded BLUE SCREEN OF DEATH at me. Ordinarily I rather enjoy the color blue. But the particular shade of blue that Microsoft chose to use for the BSOD is truly frightening, a color that must be mixed and created in the bowels of hell itself, somewhere around the 8th or 9th circle most likely, where Satan does most of his creative work.

After much weeping, wailing, gnashing of teeth (and that was just the calls to Dell Support!) I took my beloved laptop to a local wizard, with the hope that he will have her healed and once again back in my loving embrace.

Needless to say, the article for today's FF is floating somewhere in the 1st circle of hell, awaiting deliverance. Until I can make that magic happen I offer a post I wrote back in March about a conversation between myself, The Wife, and The Peanut during a morning commute.

I hope you enjoy and, if you get a chance, light a candle for my laptop.


Daylight Savings Time...With Bibles...

Making our way along the hallowed asphalt of I-95 on the 40 minute commute this morning, the wife and I were having a discussion concerning daylight savings time. Had you been a fly on the window, you would have been witness to a conversation that went something a little like this...

Wife: I am really super tired this morning. Like I ran a marathon and lost kind of tired.

Me: Hrmm. (While driving and Twittering on the phone at the same time...an activity I do not recommend)

Wife: I said I am really super tired this morning. Almost painfully so.

Me: (Putting the phone down and concentrating on the road before I mistakenly plunge the three of us into a fiery death) Why is that?

Wife: Well the clock right now says that it is 7:00, but the internal clock in my body is telling me it is really 6:00 because of the time change. So...I'm tired.

Me: (Pausing to digest the comment) That's crazy.

Wife: No it's not actually. It takes the body several days to adjust to the change of time when daylight savings time occurs. It's true, I saw it on Oprah once.

The phone beeps. I pick it up, new Tweets coming in. Swerve to miss car in front of me that was driving too slow. Heart rate increases. Resist urge to toss an offensive finger gesture to little old lady driving the Pinto I almost rear ended. Put phone back down, resolving not to pick it up again while behind the wheel.

Me: (slightly out of breath from my racing heart) That's silly. The clock said 10:00 when you fell asleep (You read correctly...10:00...I know, right?) and 5:30 when you woke up...as always.

Wife: Yeah but that was really going to sleep at 9:00 and getting up at 4:30.

Me: (Pausing once again while I try to get my head around this logic) But...it's still the same amount of time.

Wife: No...its not...its an hour earlier.

Me: But...its still the same amount of time.

At this point The Peanut, sitting in the booster seat in the back, breaks out in a rousing chorus of Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds. I can't make this stuff up. Not sure if it borders on broadening my daughter's horizons or bad parenting that she likes the Beatles...but it is the truth.

Me: Sweety, please sing a song that is not about mind altering drugs...we will be at preschool soon.

(REALLY don't want that call)

The Peanut ignores me and continues her Beatles tribute. I guess there are worse things...

Wife: It is not the same because my body -- Peanut, sweetheart...it's diamonds, not bibles -- because my body is used to the time the way it was, not the way it is now.

Me: (At this point feeling like I have taken LSD myself) WHAT? Whatever time the clock tells you, that is what time it IS. I went to sleep at 12:18...got up at 6:05...that six hours felt like the six hours all the weeks before it. I don't understand this metaphysical trickery you are talking about.

Peanut: Mommy...why does Lucy like diamonds? Are they like the diamonds you have on your ring?

Wife: Yes sweety...Lucy just likes expensive jewelry. Honey, I really think more people would agree with me on this than they would with you.

Me: No way. Maybe it is a male/female thing. Most guys I know don't walk around whining about their "internal clocks" being messed up because of daylight savings time.

Wife: That's because most men aren't smart enough to bother to read their internal clocks. Trust me...all normal people struggle with this when the time changes.

Peanut: Lucy in the sky with bibles...Lucy in the sky with bibles...

As you can see, our morning commutes are quite interesting.

I would like to pose our morning's debate question to my 6 blog readers out there. Which side of the fence do you live on?

Are you in my camp where the clock says what it says and you don't need to rely on tricky, mind/time bending excuses for why your body feels off?

Or are you in my wife's camp, where your "internal clock" takes days or weeks to reset because it is now confused. (No wonder women can't program VCRs)

If you feel so inclined...drop me your opinion (along with any other comments or backyard BBQ recipes) in the comments section here.

And, if you feel further inclined, subscribe to the feed here at the Hideaway. I LOVE my 6 readers...but there is always room for more!

Who Am I? or Why The Ninjas Won't Get My Daughter!

I came to a realization today.

I am one of "THOSE" parents. The kind I swore I would never be.

I made this discovery at 6:46 PM, July 5, 2009.

I was sitting on the deck of mom's place at the beach enjoying a good book. The weather, for early July, was unbelievably great. Cool, with a strong breeze that caressed the brow and carried with it the smells of the sea. I was completely immersed in the novel I was reading. Life was good, front cover illustration of a summer magazine good.

As I reclined and read, The Peanut approached. She is usually very good about waiting for me to look up at her when I have my nose in a book unless there is something she really wants. Since most times she approaches me when I am reading the reason is because there is something she really wants, the previous sentence is an outright fabrication.

She approached and launched her not-as-tiny-as-it-used-to-be body at my exposed and vulnerable lap. Bodily harm ensued. I won't dwell on the damage incurred here as this is a family friendly blog, but I will surmise that guys reading this are cringing and women reading this are smiling (would someone please answer for me why women find these types of injuries so amusing?).

When I was able to breathe again, I asked what she needed. She told me she really wanted to go to the park because, and I once again quote directly, "There are girls playing over there that are not my friends and I know they want to be my friends daddy."

Mom's place sits right next to a playground complete with a sandbox, several swings, wooden climbing structures, plastic slides, and several picnic benches. All playground accoutrements are arranged on an open piece of land, surrounded on three sides by trees. It is a great park, one that the Peanut and I have spent a lot of time at together. But lately, as in this occasion, she has been asking to go sans daddy.

The playground is clearly visible from the deck so I gave her my blessing to go forth and create as many new friendships as possible. She ran off to do just that and I settled back and resumed my reading, seeking to recapture the reverie I had been so enjoying.

And that is when it happened. As I resumed my reading I heard a noise that came from the direction of the playground. I don't know what it was, can't even remember it to describe it here, but it was a noise of unknown causation...and it had come from the direction my daughter had just departed for. I was up off of the couch in an instant, eyes searching the playground for The Peanut. I found her immediately, climbing around with two other little girls. All appeared well. No aliens or Russian spies attempting to kidnap my daughter. I sighed and returned to my spot.

After I picked the book up off the floor where it had fallen, I dusted it off and spent a minute or two finding my place. I found the last sentence I remembered reading and tried to pick up the thread. Seconds after I found it, a high pitched yell reached my ears.

I shot up off the couch like it was on fire - again; my book went flying - again. I ran to the edge of the deck, certain that The Peanut was being mauled by a 500 pound, HIV infected Rottweiler with rabies. But no. She and her two new friends were playing a game of tag on one of the wooden tree house climbing structures and they were doing what little girls tend to do when they are having fun chasing each other. Yelling and screaming, pig tails flying.

So I walked back to my couch and picked my book off the floor - again. After waiting a few minutes for my heart rate to climb back down to medically acceptable levels I returned to the same sentence. I read it and about seven or eight others that followed, trying to get back into the story. But my eyes kept leaving the printed page and gliding to the park, tracking The Peanut's red shirt.

The park is less than ten yards from the deck I was sitting on. It is fenced in on all three sides with a huge pavilion taking up the entire length of the fourth. The only human beings in the park were The Peanut and her two new friends. There were no exposed wires, dangerous animals, unfilled excavation pits, or unexploded WWII era land mines. No open flames, loaded firearms, or horribly distraught Michael Jackson impersonators (too soon?) anywhere to be found. Short of me standing right next to her, holding her hand, I am pretty sure she was as safe as she could possibly be.

Yet I could not return to my reading. Suddenly the idyllic afternoon I had been enjoying had become the possible stage for horrifying scenes of indescribable danger. I had to keep on eye on The Peanut. Peril lurked in every corner of that playground, I knew this to be true. When people walked by I smiled and pretended to be simply looking at my daughter playing with her new friends, a care free, happy smile on my face. I even kept the forgotten book open in my lap.

All the while keeping constant vigil for the midget ninjas that were going to drop out of the sky at any minute and fall upon The Peanut and her friends.

I did not breathe a sigh of relief until she was back in the house for dinner, sweaty and dirty, but by no means bleeding or bruised.

When did I become this parent?

Or worse...

Will I always BE this parent?

It Was the Breast of Times...

Let me start by apologizing for the title of today's post. I know there are some who find body part puns childish and/or offensive in nature. If that includes you I recommend you surf away from The Hideaway right now and come back tomorrow. I am not discussing anything overly inappropriate here, but there will be talk of topless nakedness herein...consider yourself warned (No Chris...no pictures. Sorry to disappoint you).

So we were driving over to my dad's today for a dip in the pool. The Peanut (who is now four and a half if you can believe that crazy math) was sitting in her car seat, pontificating as she so often does about the people she sees outside the car window. About two minutes into the journey she spots a young man walking down the road. He is not wearing a shirt, he has it draped over one shoulder in the heat of the day. Caroline begins to yell at this Sunday stroller.

"Hey you BOY! Put your shirt on. I don't wanna see that!" (Now, I know that those of you reading this who do not know The Peanut are thinking this is a piece of exaggerated dialogue. I also know that those of you who do know The Peanut are smiling because you have no difficulty whatsoever imagining her saying this. This is my daughter, no narrative exaggeration necessary.)

Fortunately the windows were up and the young man kept walking on his merry way, unaware that he was being criticized by a preschooler. The wife and I, after choking back laughter, a skill I still suck at as a parent, tried to tell her what she had said was not a nice thing to yell. The boy wasn't hurting anyone and it was hot out so he just wanted to feel a little relief from the heat.

She of course, being The Peanut, more full of a questions than a Jeopardy marathon, demanded to know why it is OK for a boy to walk down the street with no shirt on but it is not OK for a girl.

The Wife and I just looked at each other, parental panic passing between us.

"Uhh," I began. (I really know how to lay on the parental wisdom, don't I?) "That's just the way it is sweetheart."

I knew that answer was not going to fly. It was just a delaying tactic to formulate a more solid response.

I was right.

"Why?" my daughter wanted to know. Her favorite word. "That's not fair." Her favorite phrase.

The Wife, seeing my utter lack of direction as to where to take my response chipped in. "Babe, what do girls have that boys don't have?" (There is a loaded question if ever I have ever heard one.)

The Peanut thought for a second. "Long hair?"

"No, boys can have long hair," The Wife said.

"Freckles?"

"No boys have freckles...daddy has freckles right?"

The Peanut giggled. "Yeah. Ummm...dolls and dresses?"

I excel at making inappropriate jokes that are never as funny as I think they are. "No, some funny kinds of boys have those as well and they use the - OWWW!!"

My joke was cut off by a sharp poke in the ribs from The Wife.

"What do you mean daddy? What do you mean by funny?"

Yeah, I guess I deserved the poke. "Nothing kiddo, daddy was just joking."

With a glare in my direction, The Wife continued. "What do girls have under their shirts that boys don't?"

"Boobies?" (I can always be grateful to my mother for introducing this word into my daughter's vocabulary)

"Yes sweety. Girls keep theirs covered but boys don't have to," said the wife, which was pretty much the defense I had already tried.

"But I don't have boobies," said The Peanut. "See?" And she proceeded to hike her Dora and Boots t-shirt up over her head.

Booby talk with my 4 year old makes me uneasy enough as it is. "Put your shirt down!" I said. "Peanut, that is just the way things are," I continued to spout my fatherly wisdom. "Girls have to keep their shirts on and boys don't always have to."

Should I write a book on fatherly wisdom or what?

The Peanut was still not satisfied. "But why do...LOOK DADDY...A puppy!" Fortuitously a car drove by with a cute golden retriever puppy hanging it's head out of the window. This distraction promptly caused The Peanut to lose interest in the conversation.

We drove on for a minute or so more. As we drove I thought about the question.

"You know," I said to The Wife, "she brings up a good question."

I get nothing but a look from The Wife.

"No, really. Think about it. Why do we have that social norm in place do you think?"

"Are you trying to suggest that women should just walk around topless all the time?" asked The Wife with the verbal equivalent of a double edged sword.

I knew I was not just on shaky ground here, I was on ice as thin as a sheet of paper.

"OF COURSE NOT dear, that would be...uh...silly," I said. She grunted. I didn't get hit so I figured I could continue on for a bit.

"All I meant was why is it that way? Where do you think it came from? If we grew up in a world where everyone was free to walk around as topless as they wanted to be, do you think there would be a big deal about it?"

"No, probably not," she said.

"So it is a fair question then right? Why is it socially acceptable for a man to walk around topless and not a woman?"

She thought about it for a second as we pulled into my dad's driveway. "I guess it is a pretty interesting question."

So I offer it here, on this blog. Be you male or female, why do YOU think it is socially acceptable for a man to be shirtless but not a woman? Or maybe you think it isn't acceptable. Post your opinion in the comments section. Let's make this the breast conversation in the Hideaway yet.

(Yes, I know I used the same unfunny, possibly offensive pun in this post. I figured since most people are born with two that I should do the same...in hindsight it wasn't anywhere near as funny as I wanted it to be. THIS is why I should not stay up so late writing.)


NOVEL UPDATE: Got 681 more words in tonight. Brings the new total to 2.233.