Thanks, Dad

I’m smart.

I graduated from college; I can do the NY Times crossword (in pen if I feel especially risky); I’ve never fallen for either a phone or an internet scam.

I’m a dad.

My DNA is 50% responsible for two members of the human race.

I’m just not a smart dad.

I never thought I was Andy Griffith or Mike Brady for gosh sakes, but I knew I wasn’t Homer Simpson, either. Never the less, my daughter Sarah got me the other day, and she got me good.  I’ve never been especially impressed with magicians, so sleight of hand tricks don’t usually dazzle me.  This one came so far out of left field that I wasn’t even in the ball park when it hit me.

Every dad has a soft spot for his little girl.  I couldn’t rely on advice from the Two Fat Guys on this one either.  Phil has a daughter, but she’s only 15, still in the minors, so to speak.  Denny has four daughters.  He lost his mind a long time ago.

Sarah, who is in between her freshman and sophomore years of college started out earlier this week by bringing up the subject of cars.  New cars.  On credit.  My wife and I have been drinking the Dave Ramsey Kool Aid for a few years now, and have tried to impress upon the kids the value and wisdom in saving up and paying cash for a car, at the very least your first car.  This is exactly what our son Nick did a couple of years back.

Sarah never said she was going to do it; she just brought up the subject to the extent that my blood pressure rose a few points.

The next night, Sarah mentioned how nice a tattoo looked on one of her friends.   Once again, she didn’t say she wanted permanent ink on some part of her body; she just broached the subject, to the same end as the car conversation.

Finally, Thursday night, she was telling me about the prevalence in her age demographic of body piercings.  For the third time, my imagination did the rest.

Knowing full well that I’ve averaged maybe three hours of sleep this week while lying there the rest of the time tilting at windmills, Sarah arranged for her cousin Allie to call me while she was out with a friend Saturday afternoon.  Allie’s message was clear and to the point: “Don’t kill Sarah”.  Allie then hung up.

The next few minutes are a little fuzzy.  As soon as she pulled up, I could see right away that she wasn’t holding the keys to a 2009 Ford Fusion.  Upon closer inspection, I noticed the singular lack of any ink or hardware stuck on her body. 

My relief was immediate.  So in my relaxed state, Sarah traded the small jabs she had been sparring with all week and landed the right cross – her friend Laura was holding a month old kitten.  Sarah’s kitten.

The very same kitten that in a matter of six months will stop being cute and start being a nuisance.  Not just a mere nuisance, but the kind of nuisance that I will have to provide food, shots, and litter for.  And I will have to clean that very same litter.

Oh well, I guess it could be worse.  She could have walked in with some guy with tattoos and piercings, and no new car.  He’s between jobs right now.