Dad as Sucker

Is there anything better than having your presence celebrated? The two-year-old gets pretty excited when I get home from work. This evening she jumped up and down as I walked by her room on my way to mine, announcing, "My daddy's home! Yay! Yeah!"

It doesn't seem too long ago that I looked forward to the hour between 5:00 and 6:00, when my own dad would return home from work. He often came inside the house and went straight to work, either by helping to get dinner ready or by getting started on the dishes.

I don't know what it is about a dad's arrival home from work that can make kids giddy. After all, dads aren't that cool. They're tired. They're cranky. They don't think straight when they first walk in the door. They sometimes smell bad. Dads are famous for telling really stupid jokes. They are also known to get upset about messes and kids who back-talk to their mothers. Dads might leave their socks on the living room floor--accidentally, I'm sure. There are other things, of course, about dads, and our list could go on. Especially if we ask the moms out there for comments.

Sometimes people do things before Dad gets home to effect some kind of mood-changing miracle. For example, a plate of cookies strategically placed so it is seen upon entering the house might make the news of a speeding ticket easier to take. Or maybe Dad will walk through a spruced-up garage, completely oblivious to the fact that his brain is being magically programmed to tell his mouth to say, "Yes," when his son asks for a new pair of shoes. Such Jedi mind tricks are commonplace in homes where dads come home from work day in and day out. Other times it's only for the sake of getting a laugh.

I recall one particular day when I had a stroke of pure, unadulterated genius. Our cat, Sophie, about whose fate I may write at a future time, had killed a mouse. She would not eat it, however. The carcass just lay on the back patio. It had died for Sophie's entertainment. And what's up with cats, anyway? Why do they batter a mouse to death, only to walk away from it? I digress. So there lay the dead mouse. I thought about the mouse. And then it hit me. I decided I had to act. Never before had any opportunity like this been placed before me. It was perfect. And I did not have much time. It would not be long before my dad would be home. I grabbed some string. Scribbled a tiny note. Set everything up.

I watched secretly from inside the back door, waiting for my dad's car to appear in the driveway. I looked over at the garage door, through which he would enter the house. The mouse was positioned perfectly. I grew very excited. I considered the idea that what I had done was twisted and insensitive. I did not care. This was right up my dad's alley. As in a perfect strike. As in I'd be bowling a 300. That's how good this was. So the car appeared. My dad got out. Walked through the garage toward the door. He began to slow as he saw the mouse. It was hanging, by its neck, from the rafter right in front of the door, on a long piece of string. He stopped. Bent a bit to look at the mouse, to read the note tied around its neck. I just can't take it anymore.

The discovery lasted only seconds. It seemed like hours. I felt like a comic trying out a joke for the first time on stage. The second, or two seconds, between punchline and audience reaction must seem eternal. Will they like it? Will he think the mouse is funny? And then payoff. The smile. The laughing. I couldn't hear it. I was standing inside the house. But I could see it. The shoulders moving up and down with laughter. Score one for the mouse. And Sophie.

And so I reckon there will be days when I come home to messes. Days when I come home to some cooked up scheme that will cause me to agree to some crazy kid-request to which I would normally say No. "What's that, son, you want me to buy you a BB gun for, for, for, well, it's not your birthday, now is it? I really want to say, 'No,' son, but these cookies are so good that my brain is telling me that I should say, 'Yes.' I don't know why I'd say, 'Yes,' but I'm going to. You see, I really don't understand it, but I'm going to say, 'Yes.'"

For now, I'll settle for the two-year-old's daily celebration. In fact I'll look forward to it. I'll relish it. I'll deal with the Jedi mind tricks later. Hopefully there will be more funny discoveries than tricks.