Bubbles

I’m sitting here at my desk at work and I’m trying to decide just how many kinds of stupid I really am. Now, don’t get me wrong, all is great in God’s little world, except that I’m an idiot. Or at least, I think I am. I'll let you be the judge. Please allow me to elaborate.

It all began yesterday. Probably around noon. Somebody sent me one of those “forward this to 10 people or your dog will die” kind of emails. I didn’t know it was that kind of email at first. It had one of those tricky titles. The kind that entice you to open it, but soon after the screen in your mind says "WTF???" Funny how deceitful we have become in making our email titles nowadays. It's like we know that the person will not open it if it says "FWD>FWD>FWD:Chain Letter", so we change it to "This reminds me of you" or "Because you are a friend" or better yet "... such a WONDERFUL friend". I actually think I'd be more inclined to read "This is not my original thought, but it was passed onto me, and since you are the only person that hasn't blown me off enough for me to get the hint, I thought I'd waste some of your time".

At least that approach is honest. Now, stop right there. I know what you're thinking. But really, you can't be "honest" and "rude" at the same time. It's impossible. If you are overly rude, then you aren't being 'just honest'. And if you are overly nice and accomodating (key word) then you aren't being 'just honest'. 'Honest' is usually very quick with very few flowers. Think about it. I have people tell me all the time, "you're just mean" or "that was rude". No Girl Scout, I'm "honest". A.k.a. "to the point". Or as one of my buddies likes to say, "To the pernt". I just tend to get to B a little quicker than most people. If you want to drag ass around and go from A to B by way of , L, M, N, O and P, that's your business. But who are you helping? Not yourself, because it takes longer. Not the person, to whom you are speaking because they don't get an accurate depiction of what you really are trying to say. And what's all this about what I'm "trying" to say. Just say it. If it offends, well, maybe that's who needs to hear it the most. If it doesn't offend, well then, it's pretty obvious that I'm not talking to you. Now, this is NOT a free reign to go out and try to ruffle feathers, however, if I'm tied up with clients (on the phone or otherwise) and you want to tell me about a television show you watched last night, chances are I'm gonna say "I'd love to hear the whole story, but this really is a bad time". Short. Direct. And to the point. Or to a real friend, simply "bad timing". You would not believe how many times I have to say that very thing throughout the course of the day. And most, not all, but most, people say (because it all gets back to me, eventually) "he's mean" or "you're just rude" or "you have no feelings". My personal favorite is "he's in a bad mood". No Sunshine, I'm accountable to my responsibilities and those responsibilities are not you right this second and your little television show can wait until a more appropriate time. So, when we are all sitting back in the lounge, throwing back a black coffee, because we're "men", THEN you can tell me all about who got voted off the show last night. But until then, understand, I'm NOT in a bad mood. YOU just have incredibly bad timing, that's all.

So I get this email that's obviously from a dear friend because they stated in the title that the contents made them think of me. I open it. I scroll down past all the "from the desk of" and "if you aren't the intended recipient" jargon. Past the grocery list of CC recipients. Past the smileys. Past the long line of random ">>>" symbols. Past the originators name. His job title. The link to his company. Past a cute little cartoon that's not. Went down the Turnpike. Paid a few tolls. Past the Florida Keys. Down through the Panama Canal. Finally, I realize I've gone too far. So I ease back up to around Corn Island just off the coast of Bluefields and start reading this blatant chain letter.

It says that there's this guy, that has this kid. He really didn't spend much time with said child, blah, decided that he should, blah blah, now he loves the child more than ever, blah blah blah. So basically he's a shit parent that needed to get a grip on the reality that his loving, caring child, needs him and his precious time. Ok, what else is new. I quickly got bored. Not the "uncaring about other people's problems" kind of bored. More of a "why is Sally Struthers still on this channel when I'm trying to eat" kind of bored.

Then, right before I "x-out" of the screen, a little word catches my eye. One little word. "Bubbles." I'm intrigued. I read further. "Blah blah blah." Of course, I'm paraphrasing. "Blah blah blah, and we sat on the back porch and blew bubbles that afternoon." Huh... what a great idea! I actually got something good out of this email. This guy and his kid blew bubbles all afternoon because he knew she would get a kick out of it. My daughter and I do things like this all the time, but we've never just blown bubbles for any length of time. Usually it's in the house, where we have to be "careful not to spill" or something like that. But if we took some of that quality time that we already spend with each other and channel it into just how many bubbles we can blow. Take out all the hurry of everyday life. Then throw in a little conversation about her day. Add a box of Milk Duds, some Sugar Babies and a Coca-Cola. Top it off with a total disregard for spills and cleanliness because we're out back by our little art studio. Then THAT would be the stuff memories are made of. That's the things she'll hopefully remember in a few more years when Daddy is about 4th on her important people list... if I'm lucky.

So that's around noon time. By noon-thirty, I'm really getting into the idea of this "bubble night" we're gonna have. I love doing things like this. My daughter and I have the most wonderful relationship. We spend alot of "Hannah and Daddy Time" together. I can't think of many ways that our relationship could even be any better. I'm quite lucky, to say the least. We watch movies together. Her movies. We read together. Her books. We paint canvases. She does her own, right next to me. We draw pictures. Her pictures. We listen to music. Hers sometimes, but more of a heavy emphasis on mine, which is 'becoming' hers. (60s/70s rock never hurt anyone. Too many good words not to share.) We laugh and joke alot. We play Mancala. We study for school. We even made a doll together. Totally from scratch, I tell you. None of that "kit" shit. Clothes and all. And we talk all the time. Just about "stuff". Things in her day. We keep secrets and tell stories. It's wonderful being a dad. I love it. So why is it that sitting out in the back yard and "just blowing bubbles" for the afternoon has never occured to me? I wonder. I'm usually quite creative when it comes to things like this, so I'm a little bummed I had to get the idea from a chain-letter email. But that's ok. No one will have to know. And if they do, who cares? Right?

By 1pm or so I've got it all planned out. I leave work tonight at 7pm. Jenn's gonna be gone with Lacy to a hillbilly concert. Let's get this straight. I do not have a tractor. Nor have I ever owned a tractor. And even if I did, I seriously doubt it would be sexy. But that's their kind of gig. It works out just fine for me and Hannah. So it'll just be me and her tonight. I will swing by the store on the way home. I'll pick up some candy. I'll get some good stuff, but it's a school night, so I won't get her favorite. (See, I'm thinking ahead. I can't have my baby girl up all night on a chocolate and caramel rush.) I will get some bubbles. I'll even get extra so if they spill it won't really matter. I'll take out a couple of the SladeFest lawn chairs with the built-in cup holders. That will be perfect. There's this little paved spot out near our art studio out back, where we can sit, that's got a huge security light above. So there'll be plenty of light. The security light may bring a few bugs, but we can handle it, I'm sure.

Shopping is a breeze. Captain Tightwad, that's me, is in and out of the store in under 10 minutes and for under $6. Who says a grown man can't shop for quality entertainment at DollarTree? Right? I got Milk Duds, Sugar Babies, 2 bottles of Spongebob bubbles (because the Dora ones were too childish - lol) and a 2-pack of long swirley bubble blowing thingies.

I get home by 7:20 or so. Jenn's mom is there with Hannah. She catches me up on the day's events and she's on her way. Hannah has done her homework. Good kid. Done her reading. She did extra last night so she wouldn't have to tonight. Had her bath. Already eaten. We're right on track. We can enjoy the next hour and still be done in time for her 8:30 bedtime. Maybe.

I go out and set up two lawn chairs. I get us some Chee-tos. (A responsible dad can't just feed his child candy, right?) By this time she knows something is up. "What are we doing?" she says. The important word to notice here is "we". She knew that "we" were gonna do something. Not just me. I include her on everything that I can and she has come to expect a little fun to come along with whatever "we" do. It's a great feeling. "Just throw on some flippers and follow me." I say. She does just that. I can tell it's eating on her a little. She wants to know. Her eyes are full of a cross between "I wonder" and "I have no idea".

We go outside and get all situated. She asks 3 or 4 times, "Dad, what are we gonna do?" My response each time is "just wait and see". This was my response for selfish reasons. I didn't want to tell her immediately it be over in 2 minutes or me get a goofy 8 year old wrinkled forhead looking at me like I'm an idiot. Kinda like the pic Christmas morning when they walk in and see the presents. That little second fades away quickly. I had planned everything else out pretty well, except for the segway. So "just wait and see" was all I could come up with for right now.

I said "Let's start out with our snacks and you can tell me about your day. What's going on in your life that I may need to know about." I learn that the cheerleader shoes came in. They had mixed matched all the colors of the little slip-in things that go in the side. And she said that I'd need to help out making her's all orange. I learned that her cheerleader coach had found her fancy pink water bottle that was lost after the first practice. We had just bought that bottle earlier that day at Academy, it was a pretty nice bottle, as water bottles go, and she had taken it to practice and partly from the excitement and partly from lack of paying attention, had left it there. Then later, when she realized what had happened, we drove back over by the park. And then around to the pavillion where practice took place. We scoured (briefly looked around) the pavillion in our pjs with our red Maglite. No dice then, but now she has it back.

After we talked (she talked; I listened) I broke out the candy. Thinking that I would be the hero in offering up some delicious goodies before bedtime, I quickly learned that for a kid that loves chocolate, Sugar Babies have too much sugar according to her and Milk Duds are just too gooey and icky. She opened her mouth and let the slobbery goo, that used to be a Milk Dud, roll out of her mouth onto the ground. I had not realized that there was such a thing as too much sugar before. Huh. By this time, about ten minutes since her last "what are we gonna do" has passed and I thought it would be a good time to pull out the bubbles.

Let me tell you, if you've never done this, I highly recommend it. It's amazing how excited an 8 year old that has a DS, a Wii, her own television (with DVD, I might add) and her own computer can get over just a bottle of bubbles. And good company. Of course, I'm saying this, but I think its obvious I was a little excited too. You know that voice that a little girl uses when she sees a baby kitten? The one where she says "Oh, look at him. Isn't he soooo cuuuute?" Well, that was the voice I heard. And the words were: "Daddy, I love bubbles."

We took off the lids and peeled back the seal, spilling a little, obviously, mostly on myself. And we began to make memories. After a few minutes or so, I took out the 2-pack of long swirley bubble blowing thingies. Same voice with a little more excitement. "Daddy, those are really cool. It looks like a trumpet. Watch me!" And away she went. It just kept getting better and better.

A few more minutes passed and she decided we needed some background music. I suggested Classic Rock or Oldies. She wanted Miley Cyrus. We compromised (actually, I just gave in) on The Buckwheat Boyz "Peanut Butter Jelly Time" and "Ice Cream and Cake". Apparently, the cheerleading squad is dancing to these two audible masterpieces. And that's alright with me. I can't say they sound ridiculous because that would make me an old fogey, right?

We must've heard this 2 song CD repeat 15 times. In a way, it's still repeating... in my head. It's like "the song that will drive you insane" times 2, but that's ok. We blew thousands, upon thousands, of bubbles in all sizes and really did have a great time. "Hey look at this one" and "oh my gosh" and "wow, dad, this is cool" is all I heard for quite a little bit. Now, all the while this is going on, we're still just talking. Not really to much about exciting happenings around the world, but about the exciting things in her life. We're bonding. It's amazing how much my 8 year old's head is like mine. The way she thinks is like any daughter of mine should be thinking. (In my humble opinion.) We are just having a wonderful time. And Hannah suggests that she show me her new cheerleader dance routine. She starts doing her thing to this music. It really is cute. I still don't know if The Buckwheat Boyz have been around a while or if they are brand new, but they definitely have a catchy tune. And you can dance to it. Like Dick Clark used to say.

Now realize, my daughter is a tad bit competitive, just like her daddy. After some spinning and jumping around, she asks if I can do this. She does a little number and since no one is watching, and since I'm a good dad, I follow her lead. We're dancing around and kicking around in ways that you can only understand if you've done it.

Then comes the stupidity. Idiocracy doesn't just knock on my door. Knocks it down and makes it's way inside. She kicks up in the air like she's gonna touch her toes and, still in the proverbial groove, I follow suit. Before I go any further, let me explain something. I do not stretch. I do not warm up. I'm full speed or sitting on my ass. I never excercise. I don't run unless I'm chased. And quite frankly, if I'm chased too far, I'll probably just take an ass whooping. So whatever it was that came over me, that told me that it was even remotely a good idea to this, is completely BEYOND me. But, I did. I'm jumping around on my tippie toes. She's loving seeing me do it all. And when she ends with the song, so do I. Something came over me that I've never quite experienced before. And when it did, I jumped into the air. It felt like I had a vertical leap of 3 feet, when in actuality it was probably more like 3 inches. I swung my leg out and tried to touch my toe in mid-air. And I did. But when I came down, let me tell you, I CAME DOWN! I didn't just come down. I crash landed.

That little bone plate, or whatever it is, inside your knee that moves around, must've gotten lodged in my throat. It knocked the breath out of me. I was about as graceful as a grown man doing a childish thing could be as I fell backwards. But I did not land on my butt. No I did not! After only about 18 steps backward in a falling motion, I did regain my footing. All I could feel was that knee cap thing in my throat. All I could see was shock and worry on my daughter's face. And all I could hear was "Daddy, are you OK!?"

Of course I was ok, I told her, as I limped back over to the lawn chairs. Not realizing that my lawn chair sat so low to the ground that a guy in my new found condition would, in the least, have moderate challenges ever getting out again, I plopped down. For those of you that are wondering, let me share this with you. I've been in car wrecks, jumped off of bridges into the creek, hit my head on diving boards, fell off of a ladder, slipped down and hit my head on concrete, layed down a motorcycle, been tackled by players that SHOULD be playing football. I've sprained ankles, been dog bit, jammed fingers, stubbed toes. I've even had a papercut on my eyelid. But I have NEVER had the loss of breath that I had at that very moment. Partly injured, but really embarrassed, I looked over at her as she asked me again. "Daddy, are you alright?" Well, I didn't know at this point. But I'm a man, right? So what if I'm a man that injured himself by eating Sugar Babies, blowing bubbles and listening to "Peanut Butter Jelly Time"? Nobody, really has to know. I can get through this.

The only problem is that my breath won't come back to me. It goes on forever like this. Several seconds had to pass. At least two or three. And by now the embarrassment is really kicking in. I think I should walk it off, but I can't seem to get out of this damn chair. Eventually, I do. I reassure Hannah that I'm ok. And I begin to walk it off. More like stagger it off. I've got a limp. A limp. I can NOT believe this. I don't get limps. I play this out in my head, like I'm so good at. I can picture everyone tomorrow asking me what happened and I'd have to lie. I'd have to. I couldn't tell the truth. But I could lie. It's no big deal. I don't have so much a problem with the lie itself, as I do with the high probability that I'll be found out. Mainly because, I don't lie often enough to really get much practice at it. So in the first 30 seconds I know I've just got to suck it up, rub some dirt on it and get over it. And I do just that.

Pretty soon we're blowing the last of our bubbles and I realize that it's already past her bedtime a bit. So I suggest that we go inside and get ready for bed. Being the understanding young lady that she is, she agrees. She gathers up what she can and I get the rest. We walk toward the back door of the house. And when I step onto that first step that goes up to the back door, it hits me. My knee goes out and I just about fall down again. This was gonna be bad. I can tell it. There's no getting around this one. I hold onto the rail and make my way inside. I really don't want to be the guy that walks with a limp at the office tomorrow. The guy that does that is always faking it, right? Sure he is. He just wants the attention. The real attention hogs are the ones that wear a leg brace or a knee brace. God, I hope I don't need a knee brace. I don't want any attention and I don't want to be labelled a faker. Walking it off isn't gonna work. Maybe I can just sleep it off.

Hannah gets her bottled water and places it on the top of the bookshelf by her bed. She gives me a great big hug. She kisses me on the cheek and says goodnight to me. She climbs up the 5 rungs of her loft bed. She clutches the little doll that she and I recently made together and she lays her head down. I flick off the light in her room and turn on the light in the hallway, like I always do. I wish her a goodnight and gently close her door to where it's almost shut. And that's when I hear her voice. She says "Daddy?" I peek back in. She continues "Daddy, I really had a good time tonight. I love you." I smiled and said "Baby, I love you, too. I'm lucky to have such a wonderful daughter. You are a great kid! Goodnight."

It was all worth it.

That was last night. Today, I'm limping. Staggering. I'm sitting at my desk trying to find enough to do so that I don't have to walk. I'm not wearing a knee brace. And I'm not going to wear a knee brace. My leg could swell the size of my ego and I will still refuse to wear a brace of any kind. But when I walk around, anyone can tell that something happened. People have asked me what happened. I just respond with "nothing really". They probably think I'm not telling them because I'm mean or in a bad mood. What else is new?

All that to say, it was a great evening that she and I had. I'm a little shy at opening todays emails. I don't need another great idea just yet. But ya know what? I've still got a daughter that loves her daddy, one good knee left and two "half-bottles" of bubbles at home.