She’s Back

Tags

alyssa, daughter, family, fatherhood, life, parenting, relationships

This is that time of the year where nearly every college age student tells their parent(s) —

“OK WOULD YOU JUST LEAVE!!!!”

It wasn’t quite that dramatic with our daughter, but that sentiment repeated itself many times over the course of the day yesterday in one form or another.  It was really obvious that Alyssa was ready to get to task, a task that did not include her parents.  My guess is that even the most dependent child stretches their wings of independence on college move in day, smelling the sweet odor of freedom (or whatever that leftover stench is left in the dorm).  Alyssa is no exception, her independence already an admirable trait, but I have to admit that my daughter takes on an even stronger stance when it comes to the day for Mom and Dad to GO AWAY.

Have I said how much I love my girl?  Yes.  I know.  Many times.  Dang, do I love how much her life needs to be hers, yet how much she lets belong to her mother.  It is such a delicate balance that she performs so well.  All summer, perhaps the last summer we will have our daughter living in our house, Alyssa has shared intimate moments with her mother —  watching videos while snuggled on her bed, shopping, getting coffee, giggling around the kitchen table.  My daughter expresses her desire to be independent in a stern yet loving way.. and when I say that she is MY daughter.  Yet she clings to her mother in the way that Miriam needs.. and Miriam reaaaaaaallly needs her daughter.  That is fodder for another blog, so let’s leave that one right here.  Plop.  OK?

Alyssa starts her junior year of college in about a week and a half.  As resident assistant for her dorm floor and a leadership scholar, she had to report over a week early in preparation for incoming students.  When we moved her in yesterday, she was the only one on her dorm floor to move in.. a little creepy in some ways.  I am pretty sure that she slept in the same room last night with another floor’s RA.  My fastidious daughter carefully unpacked the boxes and bags stored all summer in our garage and her bedroom, reorganized what needed to return to school with her, then placed them outside the garage door for me to pack into my car.. and her car.  Yes, this year is a first.

My daughter has her own car, a red 2007 Nissan Versa that Miriam purchased from her sister.  The car has over 173K miles on it, but my favorite mechanic did close to $3000 of repairs on the car to return it to like new status.  Miriam purchased the car for the price of the repair, a notion that I balked at, a little because of the mileage on the car and the uncertainty that comes with that.  I also was not happy with the purchase because it didn’t happen the way I had hoped.  I hoped that we would plan the purchase of a car for our daughter together, save the money and then find a vehicle that would be safe for our daughter to drive.  Once again, another blog to write so let’s leave that one right here.  Plop.  OK?

I do need to say that it feels very strange to have a daughter at college, with her own vehicle, another step up along the rungs of independence.  I like it, yet don’t like it.  It’s a double edged sword.

We left at 6 AM for the four hour trek to Upland, Indiana.  6 AM, on the dot.  Normally Miriam would drag her feet and we would leave later, but Alyssa didn’t allow that.  My car and her car was packed the night before.  All I had to do was add the two bicycles she needed to the rack on the back of my VW before we left, easily accomplished since I was out of bed, washed and ready before 5 AM.  A trip to Dunkin and the gas station to fill up Alyssa’s car, and we were zipping happily along the Chicago tollway system.

Another brag — my daughter drives AWESOME.  She needed to follow me through Chicago into Indiana since I know the way very well, but she led the west to east trek across Indiana (at my insistence) in a very expeditious manner.  Alyssa is definitely my daughter.  We arrived at Taylor University also in a very expeditious manner.

Hold on for a second.. I need to crank it like a chainsaw (thank you, Family Force Five).  Fresh flannel shirt, country bumpkin.

Let me say inform you of this — I am a gimp right now.  That sucks, especially since that means that I can’t ride a bicycle right now.  Last Thursday night, I popped a calf muscle in a softball tournament.  As my father reminded me, maybe it’s time to hang up the softball glove.  However, I am milking the injury, my right calf wrapped in a compression bandage, a slight limp as I pitifully march along.  Alyssa’s dorm room is on the third floor, without an elevator.

No, I did not beg out of carrying her stuff up the stairs.  The pity factor did help, making both Miriam and Alyssa check up on me periodically to make sure that I was OK.  Truthfully, it was more difficult.  I am moving slow, more carefully, but I was able to do my fair share of the transfer from cars to dorm room.  At one point, though, it became my job to perform a very essential task.

Negotiate.

Before anything could be moved into the dorm room, the dorm room had to be arranged properly.  Taylor University provides stackable and moveable furniture, which means that the occupant of each dorm room can decide on how the beds, dressers, desks, and book shelves can be arranged.  Alyssa wanted to stack the beds on top of the desks, dressers, and bookshelves, much to the consternation of mother superior.  Many times I had to be the intercessor, reminding Miriam that this was her daughter’s domain.  As the father (I know the roles are interchangeable), my job is to be the calm one, the one with a calm maner that reminds the mother that this is the daughter’s decision, a decision that she can change as she wants.

“It’s her room.  Let her do what she wants.  She can change it if it doesn’t work.”

I have to admit that there was a bit of smug satisfaction, a superiority of sorts, as I made that pronouncement.

My smug manner was challenged as I undertook the assembly of the futon that Alyssa and her roomie had purchased together.  That sucker was too big for the dorm room.

(heh heh heh) “She will just have to deal with it.”  I reminded Miriam.

Alyssa was in a bit of a hurry.  A 5:15 there was a staff meeting with the college president, more than likely an introductory to the college leadership staff, a cookout at his on campus house yet very important.  By 3 PM, I had just finished the futon assembly and only her clothes were moved into the closet.  All else was waiting outside the dorm suite to be moved in.  But we still had a supply run to make to the local Walmart.  Alyssa was nervous as she drove us to the store, plotting how we would accomplish the shopping tasks together.  Alyssa and I went together to find our portion of the list, Miriam the other.  We bought the majority of the items (my debit card is still screaming), filled the gas tank of Alyssa’s Nissan, and made it back to campus with 15 minutes to spare.  We said a quick good bye in the dorm parking lot.

And.  That.  Was. It.

Oddly enough, Miriam and I had a very relaxed dinner together at Cracker Barrel (or Crackle Barrel if you so prefer), then a quiet trip back to Chicagoland.

Did I mention that the boy child started his senior year of high school yesterday……

(in the time of chimpanzees I was a monkey)

 

 

 

May the Fourth be with you

Tags

alyssa, daughter, fatherhood, life

I sent a text to daughter this morning — “May the fourth be with you “.

Her response was a picture that put a smile on my face.

 

Daughter Smiles

Tags

daughter, family, fatherhood, parenting

This is not what I expected to write about today.  Heck, I have four other topics written down and ready to write, but I really like thinking about this one.

I have written about what a daughter means to her father many times.  I think about it this way — I married someone who takes me to one level, a relationship with a girl who goes beyond what I have known before with a female, closer than any relationship before if not just because of the obvious physical bond.  Marriage brought me to know a woman in a way that goes beyond what I know with my mother, a closeness and intimacy that I believe God created.  My wife wanted me in a way no other woman could or should know me, a need to please me and know me that God indeed created, a completion and pleasure that filled the purpose God created me for.  And my wife gave to me a daughter, who completes me in a whole other way.  I get to see myself through someone who looks at me in a way that comes closer to God than I ever will be for anyone else.

My daughter is someone who is me in a way that no one else will ever be.  She wants to please me in a way her mother never can.  I am her hero, a man who has little to do but to be her father.

That is all that I want.

God gave me a blue eyed redhead, a curly haired strong willed and confident little woman.  There is so much of me in her.  I admire her for shunning what her mother tried to force on her, yet absorbing the best of what her mother and I have to offer to her.  She is motivated, vulnerable yet confident, an intelligent girl who intimidates all the boys who are looking for the weak and easy.  My girl is a leader.  My girl fills in the gaps of what God did not give her by sheer will.

And she wants to please me, like only a daughter can.  I understand now what the word complete means, because my wife can not complete me on her own, but the daughter she gave to me helps bring that completion to its full.

My daughter is not an athlete.  I am.  Let’s not go too far with that.  I am not a truly gifted athlete, but I have a bit more physical gift than your average Joe.  Baseball and basketball are joys of mine, enough that I have experienced enough success playing those sports in my lifetime that I can call myself above average.  Both of my children have grown up with a father who likes to play sports.

Each of my children have played sports from an early age, my son starting baseball at age 4, a boy who was larger than his classmates who elicited bigger expectations than he was ready to fulfill.  My daughter decided to try softball as a little girl, never really gifted but a favorite because of the effort she always demonstrated.  Her first year of fast pitch softball, her coach gave her the “Charlotte Hustle” award at the end of the season.

Sports were never really my daughter’s thing.  She turned to her studies and music as she progressed through school.  I didn’t care.  She was my daughter and I always have liked what she has done.  I have always liked when she looked at me for validation, wanted my approval, so easy to give.  My daughter has always been better simply because she wants to be.

Maybe that’s why, when she turned 13 and wanted to try playing organized basketball, I was so happy.  It wasn’t that she wanted to play basketball, I had a boy who loved to play the game.  My daughter wanted to play basketball for me.  If she wanted to play basketball, then I had to be her coach.

So I did.  And she succeeded.  A few months after she started park district basketball, she made the middle school team.  My daughter was a started on that team.  I like to think that some of her success was because she listened to me, played the game the way I taught her to play the game.  Her game was smart, played in a way that took advantage of the advantages that her body and abilities gave to her.  My daughter played two years of organized basketball, then focused on priorities of academics and music.  She liked to play the game, but she knew what would be better for her future.

Six years later, she still likes the game.  Today she texted me, excited to tell me about how well she played in an intramural basketball game at college. She wanted me to know.  Maybe I will win like you did, she told me.  My daughter is the only one that remembers and cherishes the stories I have from winning college intramural basketball championships.

Daughers are cool.  Daughters are a gift to their fathers.

 

 

January Doody

Tags

daughter, family, humor, marriage, Nick, sheltie

It’s the last day of January.  The quest to find the type of true meaning that keeps me off of the couch is still in full swing.  Last weekend the quest found me removing the danger of avalanche from my walk in closet, in the process I found myself.. weeping over lost tee shirts.   Then I came out of the closet.  I needed something to keep me out of the closet this weekend.

Over lunch, I made an announcement to my wife and daughter, one I am quite sure they were not expecting.

“I think I am going to clean up the dog poop in the back yard this afternoon.”

My daughter gagged on her lasagna.  Miriam looked at me quizzically (dang, I like that word).

“What are you going to do with it?”

Our daughter gagged on her lasagna again.

Dog poop removal has been a bone of contention in our household for many years.  My wife had asked a loaded question, one might say it was a crappy question, a reason for me to call her a turd.

Are husbands allowed to call their wife a turd?

She had really stepped in it this time.

I should probably take a quick step back, catch my breath (or hold my breath) for a moment.  Today was a very mild day for January in Chicagoland.  It was fifty degrees, cloudy and a bit damp, but otherwise balmy.  There is no snow on the ground, but the ground is still frozen, and Nick the Sheltie’s modest droppings are still solid ice.  That’s perfect shit scooping conditions, my friends.  Considering it has been since November since my last forage for feces, the build up was considerable.  Left on its own, the volume of dog muffins might just get out of control.  So, with proper urgency, my quest alarm went off as I observed the back yard while we chowed down on our lunch lasagna.  It sounded a bit like this in my head….  DUNG!!!!

Can you tell that I looked up synonyms for poop?

As I said, dog poop removal has been a bone of contention in our household for many years.  Mostly the job of removal has been on my shoes, especially since I am the one who carefully care takes the lawn.  During the summer, I usually scan the back yard for dog mines before mowing the lawn, although often enough I just hope that the mower chops it up.  There have been a few times where I unexpectedly found something squishing up between my toes.  Those were the days when I mowed in my bare feet, the brown mixing quite nicely with the grass stains on my feet.  Occasionally, though, Miriam will pick up poop.  I think she does it just to show me the proper way to forage for fecal matter.  In her mind, I don’t do it right.

Don’t go there…

That has happened before.  Garbage duty used to be my responsibility, but at some point I discovered that she was going out and rearranging the way I had arranged the garbage and recycling for pick up.  I let her, so much that somehow garbage duty became her doody.

There are so many synonyms for poop.

When she asked what I was going to do with it, what she was really asking was whether I was going to gather the frozen feces into plastic grocery bags.  That’s what she does.  Her idea is to throw those bags into the trash.  That doesn’t always happen.  Many a 90 degree summer day have I opened the door to our back yard shed to be knocked over by the stench from bags of dog poop.

My method is simple.  I browse the grassy knoll with spade in hand, scoop the deadly excrement until the blade is full, then carry it back to the corner of our garden.  I fling it up against the stockade fence where it scatters into the corner.  Dust to dust, one might say.

I answered the question of what I would doo with number two by saying that it would be the usual method of manure manipulation.

“That stinks!”  she exclaimed.

Our daughter took the rest of her plate of lasagna to the sink.

In the end, my method won out.  It was my job to do, after all, and I was going to poo it my way.  I didn’t give doodly squat what my wife thought.  As I started the job and observed the amount of accumulation, I can understand why Nick the Sheltie always tiptoes daintily in circles around the yard, fluffy tail held high in the air, as he performs his doody.  He’s trying to avoid the piles.

Another quest for couch avoidance has been accomplished.  I have done my doody duty.

Any suggestions for next weekend?

A Father’s Intuition

Tags

alyssa, boyfriend, daughter

This kid must be a bit serious about my daughter.  It’s more difficult to gauge now, since this relationship is a college romance, not something that is happening under my roof.  So how do I know?  What is it about me that has a keen awareness of my daughter’s feelings, that can be so confident in the intentions her boyfriend has for her?

He sent me a friend request on Facebook.  Yep.  Must be serious.

And it’s interesting.  I live west of Chicago.  His family lives in southern Indiana, not too far from Cincinnati.  All I know about his family is the small bit of information that Alyssa has shared with me, plus what I was able to find out standing in line for three hours to get into a concert with him.  Now I have a way to ‘meet’ his family, seen through the Facebook window.  The picture I posted with this blog is one Alyssa posted on Facebook.. and it’s obvious from the comments his family have made that they approve highly.

So do I.  He is responsible, like my daughter, evidenced by his recent appointment as PA for his dorm next school year — his sophomore year.  Alyssa and Caleb are both music education majors, take classes together, study together.

And Alyssa is bringing him home for Easter.  Hmmmmm.

So much can happen in four years of college.  Who knows what will happen in those four years.  I guess there is always the risk that he will unfriend me….

Have iPod, Will Lose It

Tags

daughter, fatherhood, teen girls

Guess what this selfie was taken with?

My wonderful daughter is one of the most responsible and conscientious people that I know.  Careful.  Level headed and smart.

Until it comes to a phone or iPod.

Alyssa becomes a typical teenage girl once her hands touch a Touch.  Or a cell phone.  My nerdy curly haired redhead with a near perfect grade point average turns into a valley girl, fingers working the keypad nimbly with the practiced ease of any American teen.  Most executive assistants (i.e. secretary — but I would get blog smacked for using that term, so I am safely putting it in parentheses) would be jealous of the keypad skill most teenage girls possess.  Indeed I take advantage of Alyssa’s adept secretarial.. er.. executive assistant-like talent now and then when I need a quick text sent.

I threw her off last Tuesday afternoon while we were out Christmas shopping together.  Her mother sent me a text while I was driving.  I handed my flip phone to Alyssa and asked her to send a text back.  You would have thought I was asking her to dismantle a nuclear bomb.  She grunted at me with a superior grin, then proceeded to take a full two minutes to type out a text.

Ha!!!!  Dad WEEEEEENNNNNNSSSSS!!!!

Alyssa was shopping with me for a specific reason.  Monday night, she had demonstrated another teen female skill.  While kicking back and basking in my new holiday freedom, my last work day of this year complete, I answered my cell phone to hear a sobbing and quavering voice exclaim

“Daaaaaaaaaaadddddd”

*sniff snort sniff*

“I can’t believe this happened again.”

*sniff sniff*

“I lost my cell phone”

*pause*

*snort sniff*

“AND my iPod… WHAT DO I DO?”

Alyssa was at work.  Frantic, the tools essential to female teenage existence ripped from her grasp.  She called me because Dad helped find her stolen cell phone four years ago, the thief stupid enough to use the stolen phone to call his girlfriend to brag.  He destroyed the phone, but I found him and his parents forced him to buy a replacement.  Two years later, I used my cell phone upgrade to replace the phone she had broken.  And I found a deal to replace an iPod that was stolen from her.  Calling Dad calmed her down because she knew Dad would solve the emergency.

It’s Christmas.  I wait until I get my Christmas bonus on my last day of work before I buy presents.

Teenage girl is now in teenage girl hog heaven — she has a new iPhone to lose.  And it cost me $30.  Alyssa will pay the monthly fee for the phone.  Problem solved.

Until next time…..

Feminine Fatherhood

Tags

daughter, father/daughter, smarmy musings

Had someone told me some 17 years ago that fathering a daughter required getting in touch with my feminine side, I would have ha-ha-ha laughed in their face.  Who me?  Mister macho sports guy?  Mister watcher of Rocky films and everything masculine?

I’m watching ‘Switched At Birth’ with my daughter and wife, getting snide comments about the idiocy of the husband in the show.

“A real husband would have offered to help.  Geez, Dad!”

“Sorry, I missed that last part.”  Alyssa and Miriam rolled their eyes at each other as if to say ‘yeah, right, sure you did’.

“Ummm, Dad, the mom said she would be right up to bed after she finished washing the dishes in the sink.  He said ‘you’re such a gem’ instead.”  (another roll of eyes)

“Oh.  Instead of what?”  TV show dads can be such dorks.  I tried to give my best ‘what a dork’ look.

“He should have just helped her.  Duh, Dad.”  (both women on each side of released a sarcastic psssshhhhh in my direction)

I have learned in the last few years it’s best to take my lumps like a man, sit there in front of the chickie teen soap opera rather than flee.  Bonding with my girls over female TV or movie dramas earns extra points.  Bonus if I can actually regurgitate the plot, relate to the characters.  If I can produce the names of the characters of a show in front of my daughter’s friends, I’m golden.

Ba. Daphne.  All in their over the top dramatic situations.  Two girls, one a poor deaf girl, the other an artist living like a fish out of water in a well to do family.  Both switched at birth.

Anne Shirley.  Gilbert Blythe.  Marilla Cuthbert and her brother, Matthew.  All of Green Gables.  My own little ginger snickers and blushes every time Anne goes into a tither about Gilbert calling her carrot top.  Anne of Green Gables living on picturesque Prince Edward island.

Mean Girls.  High School Musical (I know all of the songs, even a few dance routines).  And there is always Taylor Swift, One Direction, Justin Bieber, and lots of other girlie stuff.

I learned to appreciate all of those things, entertainment I would never have learned to like had I never fathered a daughter.  I do.  I even like cats, our cat.

It started with Barney, a big fruity purple dinosaur who, prior to finding out how talented he truly was, was anathema to any guy.  Soon my daughter progressed to the Wiggles, once again showing me that four guys singing and dancing in colorful Star Trek costumes could truly be awesome and even masculine.  WAKE UP, JEFF!!!  Things progressed to iCarly, a truly funny show and Good Luck Charlie.

I read every book in the Warriors series, discussed the intricate details of the clash of wild cat clans with my enthralled daughter and her friends.  We stood/sat in line for hours just to meet Erin Hunter, the main author of the series, at a book signing.  It was a wonderful time with my daughter, a time when she discovered that I love books.  We moved on to the Percy Jackson ‘Lightning Thief’ series, Inkheart, Bridge to Terebithia, To Kill A Mockingbird, The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings… and my daughter’s tastes began to mingle with my own.

She became my kindred spirit as I strived to become hers, by sharing whatever I could with her.  As I learned to be in touch with my feminine side with her, she in turn learned to enjoy and at least understand what makes her dad tick.  Now she can recite most of the key scenes in Monty Python’s ‘The Holy Grail’, guffaws with me each time we watch ‘Airplane’ together, FORCED her boyfriend not only to watch ‘Sleepless In Seattle’ with her but also all three ‘Lord of the Rings’ movies.

Along the way, she has helped complete the relationship I have with Miriam, my wife, by figuring out the things that make me tick that her own mother has not figured out in twenty some years.  Daughters are a gift in more ways than one.

One more year I have her.  She turned 17 at the beginning of this month.  We’re going to visit colleges together next month.  I find myself wondering what my life is going to be like without her.

In the meantime, put on another episode of ‘Switched At Birth’, please.

English: The “Anne of Green Gables Bridge” on the EICanada headquarters property in Stouffville, Ontario. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Unshaven Savage

Tags

bathroom wars, daughter

Oneroom bathroom (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Ugh.  Me dad.  Me dad with beard stubble.  Me dad wondering if that stink is me.  Ugh.

I’m the master of my house.  The head cheese.  Da king.  In every room except for one.

The bathroom.

I have a sixteen year old daughter.  Oh, she doesn’t pay the mortgage, but she sure thinks she owns the bathroom.

Our house has one full bath upstairs and a powder room (i.e. toilet and sink in a room the size of a phone booth) downstairs.  Somehow my daughter manages to occupy both simultaneously.  For at least an hour.

She has the room wired.  I swear she does.  I tiptoe down the hall in the morning, doing my best to make it into the bathroom undetected.  If I can JUST GET INTO THE SHOWER, then I’m safe. But I never make it.  My hand is inches aware from the shower faucet handle and…

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

“DAD, GET OUT.  I NEED THE SHOWER NOW!!!!!!”

My defense is the only thing I can think of.  I jump in the shower and yell “Give me two minutes!”.  I skip shaving.  I skip any true bathing.  I get damp, hope the soap gets to the right places, and get out as fast as possible.  If I don’t rush, then both women in my house gang up on me.  Oftentimes, the thirteen year old boy joins in outside the door just for the fun of it.

Really the only time I can claim ownership of either bath is when the throne has been occupied and the aroma is overwhelming.  I often wonder if dads possess powerful poop smells as a means of at least getting some control over the facilities.  I do my best.  The green fog creeping under the bathroom door fends off an attacking daughter for at least five minutes.

When summer comes, I am going to resort to using the garden house in the backyard.  The neighbors are going to love me.

Dance With Me

Tags

daughter, jail, kiss, memories, memory

Dance with me in the mist of my memory.  I call to each with hope.

Fog (Photo credit: Moyan_Brenn)

Come to me and fill me with the same thrill, a moment in time brought back to me, a gift, precious treasure stored in the depths of me.  I would give away each of those moments just to be able to relive them once.  Just once.

She cried as I kissed her, so happy in the sweetness.  I  pulled her closer as the tears rolled over our lips, the purity of her tears cleansing my heart as I felt the warmth in her green eyes and kissed each drop that rolled down her cheek.  The memory is there, so close, still hiding in the fog that keeps the moment safe in my heart, her green eyes just beyond my sight.  They were green.  The tears were so beautiful.

A white speck disappeared from sight as the baseball shot like a rocket blast over the barn roof well beyond the center field fence, a swing fueled by anger, so much that I don’t remember feeling the ball hit the wood bat in my hands.  They never found that ball.  Really all I remember is chasing all the balls hit over my head in the inning previous.  How did that swing feel?  I hold my hands in front of me, trying to summon the tingle from the bat’s vibration.  I can almost feel it,  but not quite.  The satisfaction was soothing.

Finality as the heavy metal door swing shut in front of me.  Rage filled me.  Why am I here?  I didn’t do anything to deserve this?  Who is going to help me?  I am so alone.  The cell was cold.  Even the dread of the cold solitude does not come to me completely.  Thankfully.  I want to remember, put it away, a part of my life conquered.  Come to me so I can kill you once again.

You saw the world for the first time as your head pushed through into the light of the room.  I was there.  I saw you before anyone else.  Your father.  My daughter.  I waited for you.  But all that I can see through the fog is the top of your head as you crowned.  Please, cruel fog, let me live that again.

How did she feel my arms while I kissed those green eyed tears?  What came through me as my bat met that ball?  How did my rage and sadness mix while that cell door closed?  What happened to my heart as I greeted my daughter into the world?

Memory is both a blessing and a curse.

Devious Dad

Tags

boyfriend, daughter, family, Father, Father's Day, fatherhood, Home, Humour, Mother, parents, Stay at Home Fathers

“Dad, you didn’t.”.. slight emphasis on the word didn’t.

“Dad, you didn’t.”.. a little more emphasis on the word didn’t.

“Dad, you DIDN’T!” .. I don’t need to tell you.

“Oh no, Dad, YOU DIDN’T!”.. the blush said it all as my daughter took her seat two rows in front of me, her head turning my way just to make sure all was as she said it didn’t was.  On her trip across the band room in front of me, she stopped as she delivered each warning.  For indeed, “Dad, you didn’t” was just that, a warning.

I have earned her caution over the years of devious fatherhood.  My daughter lives in fear of her father when it comes to her boyfriends.  She should.  My form of evil with my daughter’s suitors has never been violence or threats of violence, it has been my tendency towards embarrassment and a unique sense of humor.  I will say no more.  Let’s just say Alyssa has reason to fear whenever I am in the presence of any of her beaus.

She has a new boyfriend, Matt or “Bear” as he is called, declared official just this week.  There is no surprise to the announcement as we have seen it coming for some time.  Oddly enough my daughter seems to enjoy talking to me about him, shows me the little cartoons and notes he has created for her, as well as what she gives to him.  I like the boy, find his creativity and humor a good fit for my daughter.  Mir is cautious about him simply because there is more we need to know about him.  I agree.

So, at last night’s family band rehearsal, I took a seat next to Bear.  Bear plays the trumpet.  So do I.  Now, why in the world would my daughter think I chose a seat next to him on purpose? (I am soooo innocent)  I simply smiled what I am sure was an evil grin as she travelled in front of me.  What I loved was that Bear was chuckling and snorting the whole time.  We tossed in a high five just to get Alyssa more worried.

I’m thinking this could be a good match.. and I’m not talking about my daughter.