5th Grade Valentine

It was the fifth grade and I was “going with” a girl named Amy. My pre-teen gawkiness was at its peak that year because my old elementary school had merged with a new one. The transition to new surroundings, combined with my awkward insecurities, made for a rough time. We now had two of everything—double the number of popular kids, jocks, troublemakers and of course, nerds. I had been hovering near the bottom of my old school’s social hierarchy and was finding myself slipping even lower in this new one.

Despite my social stature, I had managed to meet a girl. At the tender age of 10, Amy was cunning enough to know that she had me wrapped around her finger, and she seemed to relish wielding her power over me. Amy would agree to go with me only to unceremoniously dump me a few days later. The next day she would take me back and the cycle continued. One night we would spend the evening talking on the phone (which was probably only about 15 minutes, but at the time it seemed like the whole night), and the next day she would totally ignore me. Of course, this only made me crazier about her. I had already made a habit of crushing on girls who were completely uninterested in me. Amy was the first girl to like me back, even though for the most part she didn’t treat me very well.

Valentine’s Day was approaching and Amy and I were in a good place. We had been together for almost two weeks without her breaking up with me, so I was feeling really good about our relationship. Notes were passed. Stickers were traded. Hands were tentatively held for brief, but shining moments. Based on our tenuous past, I knew that I had to make a big splash for Valentine’s Day. I bought her a card that was sweet, but didn’t scream “desperate”, and a box of colored pencils.

That afternoon the phone rang. Before the words were even spoken, I could tell it was coming. I had learned to recognize the tone on her voice. She broke up with me…again. But this time it was permanent.

I went through what I would later learn was the normal range of emotions after a painful dumping. I was hurt, but I was also angry. I mean, come on, couldn't she have waited just one more day? If she had only seen the effort I put into her Valentine's Day gift, she might have changed her mind. I spent the rest of the day wallowing in the "what ifs".

There were no great lessons to be learned from this, except for the obvious fact that heartbreak hurts. It hurts even more on Valentine’s Day. It would be a long time before I realized that bad times make the good times better—sweet doesn’t exist without sour. Every so often on Valentine’s Day, as WonderWife™ and I uphold our tradition of eating fried chicken with a really good bottle of wine, I think about how Amy broke my heart so long ago, and I wonder if today is just a little bit better because of that.

How Do I Know I Am The King, And Not Just A Schmuck?

Whoo! Okay, I finally made it over here to do my first post on Hot Dads. Please don’t judge me *sniff* I’m sensitive and all; I just might run and hide if you folks were angry with me. I have my reasons, though, primarily due to job searching and chasing after my Wee Lass. She is fast, especially when she is nude and running around prior to her bath.

Speaking of Wee Lass, that brings me to this post. There has been a lot of talk recently about the things that the wee ones do that make us crazy, the repetitive rituals they want to do, or the stubborn refusal to stay in bed once they are in bed, and I have to say I’m all over that like white on rice. The awesomesauce that is the Fruit o’ My Loins is an amazing critter in her own right. She has her own fixations that are cute on one hand and drive me batshit crazy on the other.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my daughter more than life itself. There is nothing I wouldn’t do to protect her or make her happy. And that includes putting underwear on my head and doing the Dance of Joy around the living room. What? Who hasn’t done that?

It isn’t stretching the truth to say that I would do anything to make her smile, hear her laugh. I wish I had an audio clip of her laugh to embed with this, because it truly does make me melt and call down some rainbows and generally make me feel like there is nothing in this world that could hurt me or make me want to run and hide.

Her laugh does make me feel like Superman.

Which brings me back to the subject of rituals. Wee Lass is fond of her rituals, bedtime and drop off at day care, you name it. Lately, she has taken to a certain insistence on a number of hugs n’ smooches to be administered before we part, no matter what we are doing. She even gets oddly specific as to the number of hugs and smooches to be delivered. Today it was 10 hugs and 10 smooches, plus one extra. And all of them have to be counted out when delivered, no shirking there.

I don’t mind so much when everything is calm, and I can do my thing to fulfill parental obligations, get some luv and then move on. But lately, Wee Lass has taken on the characteristics of Velcro when I try to leave her anywhere. She gets all weepy and clingy and keeps wanting to show me stuff or help her talk to other people.

As a dad who Gives A Damn (I hope), I don’t mind catering to my daughter’s every whim. I do it all the time, probably more than I should. I have tended to play along, generally, because it was no skin off my back and it makes her happy. However, it can lead to some awkwardness and frustration. I haven’t yet figured out how to accommodate her with a minimum of fuss. And do that in a reasonable amount of time so as to be able to get in some reasonable “me” or “us” time for the evening!

In other words, how do I keep her happy but not feel like such a dick when I want to walk away?

I say this because Wee Lass has found a weakness, and she is getting pretty good at exploiting it. And it leaves me feeling like crap when I don’t realize at first that she is trying to be nice. As an example, our bedtime ritual includes a number of kisses/hugs in combination, to be determined by her. And by how much patience I can muster.

Last night, Wee Lass and I seemed to have reached an equilibrium of sorts. Or so I thought. She was a little calmer than usual, and in a good mood. I reckoned I could do my “6 hugs and kisses” and out, turn off the lights and head downstairs. So far, so good.

I had my hand on the doorknob. “Daddy! Daddy!”
“What?”
“One more hug and kiss! Turn the light on! Please???”

So I turn around, turn on the light, and head back over to the bed for the hug and kiss. I turn to leave, light out, hand on door. “Daddy, daddy!....”

This repeats itself twice more, at which point I am starting to steam and get a little snappish. This pattern has been cycling over and over for weeks now. I know I should be more patient, but…”Daddy, Daddy!”

“WHAAAAATTT, NOW?!” gritting teeth, trying not to scream.
“One more thing, I want to tell you.” she says in that impossibly cute voice.
“WHAT?”
“I love you, Daddy, three times.”

I am absolutely gobsmacked. What can I say?

“I love you, too, sweet pea. You know that.”
“’Night, daddy.”
“Good night.”

So I slink off to the couch, feeling like a schmuck, but knowing that someone in my world thinks I am the shizznit. And that’s a good feeling, indeed.

Posted By Irish Gumbo