“AGAIN DADDY, AGAIN! AGAIN DADDY!!!” DADDY!!!…” SO WHAT ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO DO WHEN THEY’RE GONE???
Every father has undoubtedly heard his children howl for just a little more of whatever. It could be ice cream. Or candy. Television. Video games. Staying up later, past bedtime. Never for (more) homework. But it’s usually a recreational pursuit incorporating a hint of force or power like pushing a child higher and higher on a swing for instance or horsing around playfully in a swimming pool which elicits the seemingly universal gleeful schrai…”again Daddy, again…[please] again Daddy…”
The bellowing — accompanied by infectious laughter — is repeated over and over in a subconscious(?) effort to wear out even the most patient sort. So there’s plenty of parental caving involved until finally enough is enough.
My creative and most persistent daughter caught on fast. Like most wee ones she loved the “again Daddy” approach and she was not to be denied. Or sated. When either her act or my patience was wearing thin she sensed it. Of course that was no deterrent. It simply meant that Plan A was ever-so-slowly morphing into Plan B.
The acknowledgement, recognition and implementation of Plan B mandates that Plan A not be shelved prematurely. There is always time and space within which to work. Daddy has not yet been pounded into sand, ground into a nub.
So a few more “agains” and “again Daddys” could possibly bear fruit. Why not? What’s the worst that could happen? A “one more and that’s it,” response? A “we have to get goin’ honey,” stretch of the truth? A sakes alive, “no…that’s all” hollow put-your-foot-down rejoinder?
The worst that could happen invariably becomes the best that could happen. More…again Daddy, again…and again.
My beloved daughter who — just as my “best boy” son — actually did grow up in a blink of the eye, had an act which was priceless. Reluctantly she would acquiesce but just a smidgen. “Please Daddy, one more time,” she would cajole. And then, out of nowhere she would bray, “Wait…3 is my lucky number…3 more times!!!” Naturally, the ‘lucky three’ more times would follow the aforementioned one more time totalling four more times. Close on the heels of the previous 112 times. I don’t know how I did it. (And for the record, I think she made up this “3 is my lucky number” stuff).
It’s my incredulity at having “done it” that I question. Then actually, but more so now. Maybe it’s the twenty-odd years which have passed. Maybe I want to be young forever and want them be kids forever. And yet there were times when the wiping of noses, tears and behinds seemed so overwhelming and endless that I couldn’t wait for them to grow up.
How utterly silly of me. And stupid. Because nothing lasts forever. I knew this then but see it differently now.
Today my bambinos are card-carrying members of the adult community. They live out-of-town with significant others and friends. They work. They follow their dreams. Sure they still need their mother, step-mother and me but it’s different.
It’s the natural progression of life, of order I suppose. And it’s right.
