The Cost of Silence

I love playing with my daughter. At four, she’s creative and curious and she never fails to surprise me. We play dress up, tell jokes, perform magic, and cook all sorts of treats in her kitchen. We play outside, with bugs, leaves, the swing set, whatever strikes her at any given moment.

We sing. We laugh. We dance and we tumble. She's a princess, and sure, I’m getting older, but I still make a good steed.

More recently, as she nears five years-old, sometimes, especially after a busy day, she’ll go off in her room, or any room, and things get quiet.

Occasionally, I’ll try to come in and join her only to have her shoo me away, tell me it’s a surprise.

Hmm. What's a surprise? There’s no telling what she’s cooking up, but in these little gaps of silence, I’ll talk to my wife. We catch up on our lives in two-minute intervals—think speed dating for parents. Bella will hum along to herself in the sunroom while I ask my wife about her day. I tell her about mine. Sometimes our twelve-year-old son will join us, and for that short little span, and yeah, I’ll admit, it can be pleasant.

It's surprising how much of a presence a little four-year-old person can be. Though no fault of her own, she’s demanding, a force to be reckoned with. She kind of runs things. So when she's quiet, or off playing by herself, it's nice to have a moment and catch my breath.  

But there is a price to pay.

The silence means Bella is busy. She’s building, creating, constructing, upheaving…

After two, maybe three or four minutes, I get to my feet to go check in on things. Walking in, I stumble over a chair, regain my balance only to slip on the fifty or so crayons splayed across the floor. Stickers adorn the walls, graffiti covers her desk, and as I cut a path through the scatter of bowls, cups, utensils, plastic fruit from her play kitchen, I marvel at the spread: open books, magazines, a pile of discarded dresses, dolls, (is that a popsicle?), stuffed animals, a pack of scantily clad Barbie Dolls. All of this stands between me and my daughter, who is still humming to herself as she uses a marker to draw on her arm.

A tornado of activity, the word “how” forms on my lips before my daughter looks up.

“It’s not ready yet, Daddy.”

I start to ask what is not ready. I think about cleaning up. Then I look back at my daughter, who holds her tattooed arm up triumphantly. “Look, it’s a flower.”

She clutches a marker in her other hand. “It’s beautiful,” I say.

"You want one?"

Another look at the mess. It can wait. I clear a place in the wreckage and sit down beside her. I roll up my sleeve and smile. “Sure.”

 

Tale of Two Dads

I slide into safety, taking cover between the bushes. Having escaped enemy fire, I catch my breath and wait to ambush my assailant. A quick peek out, when I don’t hear footsteps. But I force myself to hold still. This war is won with patience, not bravado. I clutch two guns, both cocked and ready. From my vantage point I have an excellent view of the field, the hill between the houses, even the back door. I have everything covered. It's a perfect plan. 

Minutes pass. A fly lands on my nose but I don’t dare move a muscle. I have to be ready for anything. But nothing is happening. Maybe the plan is not so perfect. 

Slowly, against my better instincts, I leave the safety of the bushes. Arms raised, wielding my pistols, I climb the hill to the front yard. My ears perked, my eyes open. I swing around, wildly, my arms like hands on a clock. But there’s no sign of my attacker.

I creep to the maple tree in the front yard. I clear the treehouse then step down, allow myself to relax. Then, I make a crucial mistake. I wander out of the shaded safety of the trees to the street--no man's land--where I hear a snicker. I look up. There, I spot my pint-size opponent, fifty yards away, rifle in hand. I hang my head in shame. 

I’ve been outsmarted, outmaneuvered, my impatience has doomed me once again. But luck is on my side, as his cartridge drops from his rifle. He looks down, then back to me. 

I smile.

With only one option left, I go full Braveheart on him. I charge, pistols extended, Tarrantino-style as my feet slap the asphalt. Neighbors take notice. In the confusion, a couple of the neighborhood kids join in, running behind me. I look left, then right, as one kid’s face is covered full in war paint, the other wears a towel around his shoulder, with… one boxing glove? I shake it off. There’s no time for questions. It's go time. 

The gleam in my opponent’s eyes turns to surprise, fear, panic. He rushes to retrieve the cartridge as I bear down on him. Twenty feet… ten…

Just when I think I have him, my forty-eight inch target stands tall. My first dart whizzes by his ear, the second falls short at his feet. I keep gunning, reloading as I approach, until I hear the snap of the cartridge and he takes aim like a dueler at high noon. I shoot again, but it’s too late.

I’m hit.

He nails me between the eyes. I let out a wail, stumbling, my arms out, pistols skidding along the street. My opponent shows no mercy. A second shot finds my ribs, and I crumple to the street, mortally wounded, staring up the lazy clouds passing through the evening sky.

I stammer over some last words as my assailant takes aim and looms over me, when my reprieve comes from the house. 

“Honey, can you take the baby? I’m trying to fix dinner.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah.”

I roll over, amidst a collection of Nerf darts and oil stains. I get to my feet and wipe myself off. “Well, I gotta go.”

My son lowers the rifle. I hand the pistols to the other two kids. I know they’ll take good care of my weapons. “Until next time.”

As I hobble into the house, defeated but smiling, I’m handed a bundle of pink and told I have a leaf in my hair. A wide-eyed munchkin squeals at me. I make a face, she giggles. I tell her about the battle with her brother. She grabs my nose. 

Being the dad of an eight-year old boy and an eight-month old daughter is a great thing. It’s also very confusing at times.

It means waging an all out Nerf war outside, then coming in to read about purple monkeys and bubble gum trees. It means being careful not to get bike chain grease on the pretty pink onesie. It means wrestling on a trampoline then gently pushing the Little Tikes swing. It means trying to keep the baby from eating your UNO cards.

But at times, when it all collides, when my wild man eight-year old stops and hugs his sister, when she lights up with a smile as he dances for her, it’s not confusing at all.

It’s easy.