Like Father Like Son, But Not Daughter

I serve many roles as Rachel's father. I am loving dad. I am disciplinarian. At least she pays attention when my voice deepens and the volume turns up a couple of notches. I am teacher. I am friend. I am confidante. And in a role I inherited from my own father, I am goofball.

Like my dad did, I climbed into Rachel's crib one day. I cannot recall why. Dad was a children's furniture buyer at the time; he had an excuse. He wanted to show how strong my crib was.

My sister converted our home movies to videotape. There is one scene where dad is standing in some park in Chicago and he is standing near some sprinklers. It is shot at such an angle where it appears dad is peeing into a pond, when in fact, it is simply the arc of the sprinklers.

This is also the same man who once ordered a half-dozen tasty pastries during a meal in Europe. There were four of us, so we expressed some incredulity as to why he would order six. "Well, you want one, don't you?" was his reply.

And when I met the woman who would one day become my stepmother, we gathered at a Chinese restaurant. They sat on one side of the table; I sat on the other. After pleasantries were exchanged, we began considering what to eat. "I think I'll have the pupu platter," dad said, leaving no doubt there was added emphasis on pupu. He had a sly smile on his face and eyebrows were arching, as my soon-to-be stepmother read the menu, oblivious to the mugging going on beside her. Mind you, he must have been 59 years old at this time.

But by far, the most embarrassed he ever made me was in a sporting goods store that carried team jerseys, t-shirts, caps etcetera. Dad walked up to a clerk and politely asked, "Excuse me sir...do you carry something as prosaic as a jockstrap?"
As I recall, the clerk sniffed, "No, we only carry major league items." And I swear to you, dad glanced down at his own crotch and replied, "Well mine is!" I literally spread out a rack of clothing with my arms, stepped in and didn't come out until I was no longer beet red.

So, being a goofball is learned behavior for me. I don't remember what it was, but I said something goofy to Rachel the other day while she was on this very computer. She glanced back at me, rolled her eyes, shook her head slowly from side to side and said, "Sometimes I just don't get you, dad!"

Later, I chuckled as I recounted the story to my wife. Rebecca said, "Oh, I say that to her all the time. I'm glad she understands what it means. She's never given me that indication."

Guess she was saving it for use on daddy.

And apparently, there are other things daddies don't understand. During a commercial for the Super Bowl last night, I went in to tell Rachel good night. I stroked her hair behind her ears, as I often do to relax her. She looked up at me and said in a soft voice, "You don't have to do that, daddy; I'm five years old. Five-year-olds can go to sleep by themselves."

Oh, now I got it.

Stroking the hair behind the ears and over the neck is proper behavior while watching the Super Bowl on the living room couch, but no longer acceptable in the child's bed twenty minutes later on Sundays in February.

Maybe that was in Rachel's owners' manual and I just missed it.