"My Morning Adventure"

 

This morning was my morning to get my dear daughter Kisha ready for school. Now, when I say "school", the more exact term should be "preschool", but I've had it explained to me, in the best 5 year old logic, that my daughter goes to "school" and it is serious "big girl school". Therefore, I'm not to denigrate it by calling it "preschool". ( Who knew the Ivy League, educational elitist attitude extends all the way to Buckeye Elementary School?)

My getting my daughter ready in the morning is always an adventure. You see, I'm a man. A man who had two boys before my Amazon Princess arrived. This being the case, all I know about "getting ready", is the male way of "getting ready". We all know it: get up at the very last second possible; wash so you don't stink too bad; rut about your room like a wild boar looking for truffles, in an attempt to uncover the one last remaining shirt which is clean...and or clean enough that it doesn't stink too bad either...and race out the door. Let me tell you, this does not work with little girls.

I found clothes for Kisha, put them on the bed and got her up. I told her, "there's your clothes, get dressed, fast". Now with a boy, that's all I need to say. No questions, no looks like I asked them to eat a week old burrito I found in the back of my car. But she isn't a boy and I got the thousand and one questions along with the week old burrito look.

She started with why the jeans I found are not the jeans she was wearing today. "Yes, you are wearing them today and we don't have time to look for others".(Good dad reasoning.)

"No I am not!" (Obstinate, 5 year old, daughter reasoning.)

After ten minutes of "yes you are", "no I'm not", my superior Dad brain hit on asking, "why not"?

"Dad, (said with a tilt of the head, weight sifted to one leg and hip thrust out while the other leg is bent at the knee, all-the-while, the "you can't possible be this stupid" look that women must have imprinted on their DNA is written all over her precious face, stares open mouth at me. Her mom gives me the same look.), those are the jeans I wore yes-ter-day. A-yeah!" As any good dad would do, I give them the once over, take a sniff and pronounce them clean and hand them back.

Then I get the big one from her, "Mom says I can't wear the same clothes on two straight days. Mom is always right. A-yeah."

Now the pressure is on! I have to assert my God given male dominance. I pick her up and drop her 5 year old body into the jeans. Proudly, and with look imprinter on man DNA...the look much akin to a smug Barny Fife...I admire the fact she had the jeans on.

Kisha just stood there looking at her legs open mouthed,  trying to take in that they were covered in day old, questionably clean, "yes-ter-day" jeans. She looked at her jean clad legs open mouthed. She looked at me...still opened mouthed. Looked at legs, looked at dad. Legs, dad, legs, dad, legs, dad. Then in a voice, the tone of which is also unquestionably imprinted on woman DNA, she quietly and calmly says, "Mom isn't going to like this...", followed by a look that let me know she was filing away mentally this flagrant disregard for a "Mom Rule" and this willful insubordination must be reported. ( I'd be a liar if I didn't say the cold hand of fear clutched my heart from that look.)

Then comes the time to do her hair. Kisha wanted not one, but two pig tails. Both of which must be perfectly and symmetrically positioned on her head. 

Now, I can fix a car, I can remodel my home, I can even file my own taxes, but I can't figure out for the life of me how to do a pig tails, let alone two perfectly symmetrically positioned pig tails. Even after I gave a perfectly thought out and highly logical explanation, accompanied with assorted diagrams on a flip chart, as to the unattractiveness of having her hair in "pig tails" and thus being associated with common barnyard swine, she still insisted on just such a hair do. She got one, slightly off of center, back behind and above her right ear, loosely ties with a blue rubber band from last nights broccoli, strands of hair emanating from all points of her head, Dad  Thoroughbred "Pony Tail". Horses are far better than pigs. (More highly evolved dad reasoning.)

I whisk her out the door and to her "school". I walk her up to the door where we are met by Kisha's teacher, Miss Magilicutty . Taking that same tilted head, weight all on one leg with hip thrust out and other leg bent at the knee, female imprinted DNA look, Kisha said to her teacher, "Mom is gone this morning, so Dad got me ready. A-yeah!".  

Miss Magilicutty, assuming that same female imprinted DNA stand and look, told her in a saccharinely sweet voice, cultivated undoubtedly by decades of spinsterhood, said the her, "Don't worry dear, we'll save you... and fix your hair. Ummm...aren't those the same jeans you had on yesterday? I'm sure your Mommy told you it isn't good to wear the same clothes two days in a row."

With that, I quickly spun around and went to the car. But before I could flee too far, I heard my little Amazon Princess say, "My Mommy taught me that, but she didn't teach Daddy that rule. I'm going to tell my Mommy. A-yeah!".

"That's right dear, you do that. A little lady must do as a little lady must do. Now let's go in and save you by redoing that hair...that cannot possibly be a broccoli band in your hair...my heavens, it is...quickly child, quickly."

That was my morning. Wonder what tonight brings? ( That Cold hand of fear is gripping my heart again. )