The Father's Day Showstopper

How do I know our daughter is going to be ok once the divorce dust settles?  Here's how.

Here's the gift I received for Father's day.

I was in my office this morning checking email, when the Mini-Pirate called down from upstairs, "Daddy! Go in the living room and sit on the couch."

"What's going on?" I called back up, skeptical.

"Just go sit there!  There's a surprise!"

I peered out from my office, into the living room.  The couch looked harmless.  There was no painted X on a particular spot, or a bullseye.  I looked up, but didn't see an anvil hanging from a fraying cord, or a bucket of pig's blood balancing precariously over head on a beam.  (Mini-P is still dealing with anger issues, at both Saucy and me.  Understandable.  Still.  Hence my misgivings about going to sit somewhere at her command.)

Saucy, upstairs, with the Mini-Pirate, called down to reassure me:  "Just go sit down.  It'll be totally worth it."

I went and sat, as instructed.  Moments later, Mini-P and Saucy made their entrance, elegantly descending the stairs.  My daughter was wearing: her favorite skull T-shirt, a showgirl feather in her hair, gigantic butterfly wings, and a pair of her mother's lace-up boots.  Saucy was wearing a jaunty scarf, and an expression of amiable chagrin.

It turns out that Mini-P wrote me a song for Father's Day.  I would find out later that she worked on it all day yesterday, and made Saucy rehearse it with her several times while they were at the grocery store.  In front of people.

I sat and witnessed something awesome.  This was not a half-hearted, self-conscious little non-performance.  This was Idol.  This was Best New Artist Grammy.  This was my daughter channeling Selena Gomez, her favorite famous person, currently touted as the Mariah of the current Tween Generation.  Only without the voluminous talent.  (Or slutty wardrobe, so that's a plus).

Move over, Selena. There's a new rockstar in town.

Right there in the living room, my daughter gave me the showstopping performance of a lifetime.  Not only that: her Mom totally delivered as her back-up singer.

It was a ballad, but I could tell that if there'd been a band backing her, it would've provided a solid, driving backbeat.  I did not have a video camera to record it, and I know that if I try to get them to recreate it on film, it won't be the same.  That's ok.

Afterwards, I received the lyrics.  Here's what my girl wrote and performed:


Ha-pp-y Father's Day
Thanks for all the care and love you give
every day of the wee-ee-eek
and the times that we get a little saa-aad.
You make us feel a whole bunch better.


(Mommy:  Shoo-bee-doo, Shoo-bee-doo)


I'm a little high strung
Just because I'm young
Daddy we adore ya
And we'll do anything for ya
Although some days do make us frantic,
with one single crazy antic,
and when we're bouncing off the walls
you're the one who stays caa-aalm.
Because you love us for who we are
We'll always love you-oouuuu Daddy!


(Mommy:  Ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh)


And the crowd on the couch went wild.

And that's how I know things are going to be ok.

She Skips.

My daughter has never walked.

That is to say, she's never just walked.  When going from Point A to Point B, she doesn't merely put one foot in front of the other.

She skips.  She spins.  She leaps.  She gamboles, shimmies, sidesteps, saunters, wheels, hops.

She doesn't walk.  She dances.  Ever since she was able to stand on two tiny, plump legs, this has been true.  I don't think I've ever seen her simply walk anywhere.

Example: For the last four years when I would drop her off in front of her school, the Mini-Pirate and I had a ritual.  I'd stop the car, she'd unbuckle herself, lean forward as I leaned back, and she'd kiss the back of my bald head.

"Ouch!" She'd say every time.  "Your bald head just shocked me!"  And we'd laugh.

Then I'd try to impress upon her some nugget of advice, some little tip about whatever it was we'd been talking about lately:  Remember to be a listener.  Treat other kids the way you want to be treated.  Stand up for yourself when you need to.  Remember that your teacher is only trying to help you.  Think about the tone of your voice when you talk.  Count to ten when you feel frustrated.  Just a last minute review, my way of trying to say, "Let's be careful out there," before she would head out into the world.

Then she'd get out of the car, hauling her gigantic pink backpack behind her, stand on the sidewalk as she got her arms through the straps, turn and wave at me, and then off she'd go, heading towards school.

Never just walking.  Skipping.  Always skipping.  Even on days when she was in a bad mood, days when she was worried about a teacher, or a project, or recess politics.  She would always skip.  She couldn't help herself.

Monday was her last day of fourth grade.  Big school-wide pizza party, games, fun stuff all designed to say Happy Summer.

Two days earlier, Saucy and I sat her down and told her, as gently as possible, that we are not going to be married anymore.

It was awful.  So awful I won't be writing about the details here.  For now, I'll just say that we rehearsed the conversation very carefully, consulted with a family therapist beforehand, made sure she knew there is no Bad Guy in the situation, and then were by her side for the rest of the weekend as she wrestled with the hardest emotions she'd ever had to deal with, at age nine: anger, sadness, desolation, rage, depression, confusion.

It was a long and painful weekend, but it had to happen.  Our daughter can't start the healing and rebuilding parts of the process until the horrible parts happen first.  Still.  Worst experience ever.

We didn't know if she would want to go to school on Monday for the big end-of-the-year party.  Saucy and I were ready to stay home with her and just hang out, talk, let her continue to vent all of her frustrations if that's what was necessary.  But when Monday morning arrived, our Mini-Pirate got up, had breakfast, and got dressed, preparing for school.  Saucy and I looked at each other over Mini-P's head, silently agreeing that if she wanted to go, then so be it.

I drove her to school that morning, glancing back at her in the rear view mirror all the way.  She was quiet.  All I could do was drive, and worry.

We pulled up to the drop-off point, and she unbuckled her seatbelt.  She leaned forward, and I leaned back.  She kissed my bald head, wordlessly.  She climbed out of the car, and pulled her backpack onto her shoulders.  We waved to each other.  I watched as she walked up the sidewalk.

Halfway up to the school gate, I saw her pick up her feet.  And skip.  Only for a few steps.  Halfheartedly.  But she really tried.

***

(P.S. Dear Loyal Crew Members: This blog will return to form soon, I promise.  Thanks to those readers who have emailed, showing concern about my absence.  I miss blogging.  I miss writing on my site, I miss the sites that I used to visit, I miss interacting with you guys.  I'll be cranking this site up again on a regular basis.  And not with sad stuff, either.  I really do have a lot to tell you.  My students this Spring?  HOLY GOD, YE CATS.  They gave me some great stories.  I kept track.  And will absolutely share.  Remind me to tell you about the kid who blamed his late paper on his roommate's malfunctioning bong.)