Consider all three girls implicated, though. The injuries they’ve suffered number in triple digits. The injuries they’ve suffered have only a few been serious. The injuries they’ve suffered occurred at the hands of – their other sisters. Well, mostly.
Some are self-inflicted.
One kid suffered a hyper-extended elbow climbing into a cardboard box. One bruised a cheekbone opening a car door. One burned her hand when she touched a stove burner I just turned off. (These are all one kid. And she blames me for the last one.)
Guess how I thought of opening Go Ask Daddy this week?
I had designs on a scathing prediction of boredom and boneheadism in the Super Bowl on Sunday. Final score: Patriots 9, Seahawks 8. It’s the lousiest championship game in the history of Jesus.
Marshawn Lynch fumbles three times and rushes for 3 yards. Tom Brady throws seven interceptions, and Seattle can’t muster a touchdown. Both coaches draw the writer’s block when it comes to rule-bending.
That’s saying something. Bill Belichick and Pete Carroll redefine the term, ‘cheat sheet.’
Jesus loves the Rockies. Jesus loves premium hamburgers. And Jesus loves me. I could have been a Gospel writer. I feel like Eli could have covered the Christ beat with John, Luke, Mark, and Matthew, back in the day.
As a Religious Studies minor, I’ve always likened the four Gospel writers are sports scribes, all assigned to the same beat.
Today, I’m on a cool site called The Wondering Brain, to explore a topic I’d been reluctant to address on my own pages: Religion. Don’t worry, I don’t get all preachy. I tell tales that might embarrass my children and family as a whole.
I have a lot of the New Testament stuff down pat. I often turn the other cheek. I love you all the way Jesus loves me. I really, really like parables. And Paul’s letters. The dude can write. The old-school stuff gets me, every time, though.
I wear a shirt and tie for Easter, get all reflective when we sing “Silent Night” at Christmas Eve mass, and back when I was a Catholic, I would eat pancakes on Shrove Tuesday like a good disciple.
Some areas have proven troublesome for me, in my fifth official decade, B.C. I sometimes root against the New Orleans Saints and Notre Dame. I’d rather eat cookies and play disc golf after church than attend a committee meeting.
These girls ask great questions. Sometimes, though, it’s not at the most opportune time. Like, in the waning moments of a tense NFL playoff game. Or, while the grill is in full flame. Or, I’ve got both hands on a gorgeous slice of pizza.
I try to jot them down on anything I can get my hands on, but I’m looking at a pile next to my laptop that includes a 2012 Carolina Panthers media guide, a cardboard box of crap I cleaned out from my car on Saturday, and an ESPN the Magazine with a jinxy cover of Colin Kaepernick.
No, seriously. This isn’t a Brown Power blog making fun of you. Well, not completely. I love your contributions to our American heritage. You know, cookouts, singing Christmas trees, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers.
The one thing I wish you’d left in the box: Elf on The Shelf.
I choose not to participate. My youngest is too old, at the ripe age of 8. I’m just as busy as any of you. I’d rather eat the snacks I’ve hidden from them and watch Ghost Adventurers on Netflix after they go to bed, not hide a damned elf.
See, I’m not the dad who fussed too much in the weeks leading to my oldest daughter becoming a high schooler. Why? Well, the inevitability is a factor. It’s not as if I can keep her from high school (short of just not dropping her off).
Me keeping her home to watch Ghost Adventures with me wouldn’t make me any less old.
It won’t grind to a halt the tumbleweed of progress, and I’d have to tote her around town to her menial job five days a week. Dads don’t worry about such eventualities until they’re right on us, like a heart attack.
I feel like I’m 4. Or 94. I miss appointments. Forget which day the pool is closed. I could watch Price Is Right every day. (Not Saturday or Sunday, but I won’t know that until I try and tune it in and find Danger Rangers or This Week With George Stephanopoulos on the air instead.)
I’m not losing it, friends. I’m just, unemployed.
It’s given me time to work on my disc golf game (I shot 5-under at Mint Hill!). Play and run with the kids (they kick my butt, so I take them to a figure-8 track nearby so that the laps sort of meld into one another!).
Take a nap (such a good one that I woke up with a sore throat).
I knew a man who named his first kid after a movie mermaid. No one you know.
My daughters experienced their own Mermaid Stage. Creative leg wrappings and feet bound together at the heel mark the age. Water games center around my quick-footed kids transforming instantly into half girl, half fish, when they come in contact with the water.
They’re only to become human again at sundown. I think.
Or is it sunset? In mermaid movies – Aquamarine, The Little Mermaid, Splash – mermaids scramble at sunset or sunrise. Forgive my ignorance. I had a Dinosaur Stage, a Stormtrooper Stage, even a Future NFL Quarterback Stage.
None of those changed depending on the sun.
So, Daryl Hannah? Ariel? The angelic mermaid with dirty blond curls who rescued me when I fell into Frank’s Fishing Pond in Colorado as a teenager? (OK, so I made that up.) You’re out.