Hopscotch

She laughed as she jumped over seams in the granite flooring, stealing a moment of joy from the somber occasion as only a child can do.  One two, buckle my shoe.  Her shoes clacked against the floor as she began an improvised game of hopscotch, and I remembered.

 

“I can do it myself,” she said, pushing her mother’s hands aside.  She sat on the floor, wiggling her left foot halfway into her right sandal.  The sandal had a strap for the heel, and two for the rest of the foot.  She was curling and uncurling her toes, struggling to tuck them under the final, angled strap.  So far, she wasn’t having any success, nor did she show any interest in getting help.  If the sandal had been on the right foot, she probably could have gotten it on just fine.  But on the wrong foot, the angle of the strap was all wrong.  As it stood, half her toes landed on top of the strap, and the other half just didn’t seem long enough to reach under that same blasted strap.  A few more moments passed as she tried rotating the sandal around on her heel, but with the first strap over her foot, there wasn’t a lot of room for adjustment.

“Why?” she exclaimed more than asked, stomping her half-sandaled foot down on the tile.

“Honey, it’s the wrong foot,” her mother said with a soft smile.  She looked up for a split second, directed a quick smirk towards me, and then looked back down at our daughter.

“Really? You mean?” our daughter asked, grabbing the correct sandal and holding it up to her half-sandaled foot for comparison.  Her little eyebrows furrowed as she placed the sandal down on the floor to double check the length and shape.  “Oh, you’re right, mommy!” She said with a big smile, lifting her half sandaled foot into the air.  “You do it!”

 

Three four, close the door

 

“I hate you!” she cried, slamming the door in my face.

Everyone talks about the first time their child says those words like it’s a big deal.  I never gave it much thought.  I remember saying those words as a child, and I know what I thought they meant and what they really meant weren’t the same thing.  I know I never hated my parents.  I was just mad, and it was the only thing I could think of saying.  Still, when my child did it, I didn’t think about any of that.  The words just hit me like a sixty-foot semi-truck.  Tears welled up in my eyes, and I swallowed hard.  “Honey, you don’t mean that,” I managed to say without faltering too much.

“Yes – I – DO!”

A single tear may have fallen from my left eye at that point, but I can’t be too sure.

We had been getting ready to go to the park for an extended family barbecue.  Fall was in full swing, and that day had been particularly chilly.  Regardless, my daughter wanted to wear her swimsuit.  And go swimming, of course.  To her, the fact that it was far too cold to swim, and the fact that the pool was closed, weren’t valid reasons for not putting on her strawberry-print bathing suit and demanding her way.  When I told her she’d catch a cold, she didn’t care.  When I told her there wouldn’t be a lifeguard, she didn’t care.  When I told her to put her warm clothes on, she came out into the living room wearing her favorite swimsuit, a towel, and a proud smile.   This led to an argument, bargaining, coaxing, and, eventually, an ultimatum.  I couldn’t have her getting sick or expecting to swim, after all.

And all of that led to a door between me and my angry little girl.

“Honey, I know you want to go swimming – and I know your daddy would love to swim with you, if we could,” my wife’s voice came from behind, startling me.  I hadn’t realized she was there.

“No he doesn’t, he doesn’t want me to have any fun!” my daughter answered from the other side.

“Honey, who taught you to swim?” my wife asked.

“Daddy.”

“And who took you to the pool every weekend this summer?”

“Daddy – and you.”

“Did daddy like swimming with you?”

Half a minute passed before our little girl answered.  “Yes.”

“Don’t you think he would swim with you today if we could?”

Another half a minute passed as my mind wandered.  We had gone to the pool quite a bit that summer.  She didn’t really need lessons anymore, so we just stuck with playing in the pool.  We had contests to see who could hold their breath the longest – which she always won, of course.  We had races across the shallow end of the pool – which she always won, naturally.  Well, not always, but most of the time.  It really was a shame we couldn’t go swimming that day.  It was a shame my daughter hated me for it.

“I thought daddy didn’t wanna swim with me anymore,” she sobbed, opening the door.

I bent down, scooped her up in my arms and told her I wished I could take her swimming every day.  I didn’t cry.  Promise.

 

Five six, pick up sticks

 

“What are you up to, bug?” I asked my daughter as she sat in our backyard with her back facing me.  She had been running in and out of the tree line for the past half hour, piling up twigs, leaves, and other things she found in the forest.  Now she sat still, humming to herself.

“Roastin’ a marshmallow,” she stated, matter-of-factually.  She held the longest twig she had collected in her right hand, the end hovering closely over the mass of flora she had collected.  She twisted the stick and adjusted her grip.  “Gotta make sure it cooks good.”

“Yes, you do.  Looks like you’ve got the hang of it,” I said, admiring the imaginary marshmallow roasting on the imaginary fire.  I spotted a longish twig not far away.  “Mind if I cook one with you?”

“Uh-huh,” she said smiling.  If she was older and a bit more used to the question, that response might have meant “no”.  But for now, it meant yes.

I walked over to the other twig, retrieved it, and sat down across from my daughter.  “I think I’ll cook a watermelon,” I said, reaching into the pocket of my jeans for an imaginary slice of watermelon.

“You can’t cook a watermelon!” she said, laughing.  “That’s silly, daddy!”

“I suppose you’re right,” I said, scratching my chin.  “Now what should I cook…” I moved from scratching my chin to my head, squinting my eyes.  My daughter looked up at me, expectantly.  She even let her stick rest on the pile of sticks.  Her imaginary marshmallow would be ruined.  After a few seconds, I lifted a finger to the sky and proclaimed, “I’ve got it!  I’ll cook a pickle!”

“Nooooooo!” she giggled, leaning over to one side.

“A banana?” I continued.  “Coconut?  Ice cream?”  She fell over onto the grass, laughing as she continued to reject my culinary suggestions.  “Okay, okay, how about this,” I said raising an eyebrow.  “I will cook a hot dog!”

“Yeah, cook a hot dog!” she replied, pushing herself up and re-positioning her marshmallow over the flame.

I took an imaginary hot dog out of my pocket and skewered it onto my twig.  We spent the rest of the afternoon cooking all sorts of things on our little campfire.  She liked the chocolate covered strawberries the best.

 

Seven eight, don’t be late

 

“I don’t have time for this, just get there,” I urged through gritted teeth.  I reached forward from the backseat, slamming a fifty-dollar bill down on the taxi driver’s vacant arm rest.

“You got it, buddy,” the older man with frizzled hair replied, pulling into the emergency lane and stepping on the gas.  We flew by minivans, trucks, and sports cars on our way from the airport to the hospital.  It wasn’t normally a long drive, but even without traffic, we’d be cutting it way too close.

A few hours ago, I had landed for a connecting flight in Chicago, turned on my phone, and got a voicemail from my wife.  I remember stopping in my tracks, overcome with a sudden mixture of joy and absolute dread.  She was having real contractions.  Early, but not so early that it would have been a major problem.  But being in Chicago was a problem.  Without thinking to call her back, I had rushed over to the gate agent’s booth and found the first connecting flight back home.  The woman behind the desk printed out a new boarding pass, free of charge, and directed me to my new destination.  I ran to the gate, boarded a plane, braved a bumpy flight, landed back home, and hopped in the first taxi I could find.  Cut the line, but it didn’t matter.  I needed to get to my wife.  Now.

As the taxi driver accelerated through a turn, routing us from one freeway to another, my stomach churned.  I felt feverish, I felt like throwing up, I felt like screaming at the top of my lungs.  I was still every bit as excited and scared as when I first heard the message.  The message!  In my rush I hadn’t thought to call my wife back!  I scrambled for my phone in my pocket, and grabbed it.  It was almost dead, which was fine because my charger was in my suitcase which was – still at baggage claim, of course!  I promised myself I wouldn’t forget to retrieve it tomorrow.  A promise I broke.

I dialed my wife.  No answer.  I texted her, and waited.  Still no answer.  It took a good solid five minutes of staring at the little screen to realize that responding to calls would not be at the top of my wife’s priority list.  But that also meant I might not have missed everything.  I whispered a prayer, and waited, staring at the phone screen as the taxi leaned from side to side, lurched forward and back with the unpredictable and aggressive application of the accelerator and breaks.

“We’re here,” the old man’s voice came from the front seat.  I looked up to see the hospital entrance a few meters away.

“Thanks,” I said, handing him another fifty.  At the time I had already forgotten about the first.  I fumbled for the door and almost fell out of the car.  I ran through the entrance to the service desk.  Eventually, I found my way to room four hundred sixteen in the labor and delivery wing.

As I walked through the door, I could hear the doctor tell my wife it was almost time to push.  I don’t think anyone noticed me walking in.  I slipped beside my wife and placed my hand on hers.  She shot me a look that said “Drop dead” and “I can’t believe you made it” all at once.  She clasped tightly to my hand, digging her nails into my palms.  I would have winced in any other situation, but I held my composure.  It wasn’t like I was giving birth, after all.

A few more moments later, and I held our daughter in my hands, tears streaming from my face as she whimpered.  I handed her to my wife and our baby girl immediately buried her face into my wife’s chest, calming down.  I’ll never forget the smile on my wife’s face in that moment, or how peaceful our daughter became as she felt her mother’s touch and listened to the familiar heartbeat that had been the constant soundtrack to her entire life until this moment.

I doubt I’ll ever experience anything quite like that –

 

Nine ten, do it again!

 

My daughter finished the rhyme, and along with it the final hop of her – scotches?  I never did learn what the individual moves of that game were called.

Do it again – on a day like that, you remember how thankful you are for each time you get to “do it again”.  To see your daughter laugh and play again.  To hold your wife’s hand again.  To wake up, to breathe again.  It wasn’t guaranteed.  It never is.

As my wife coaxed our daughter forward and they walked away together, I thought to myself how fortunate I was to see countless more “agains” as my daughter grew into a woman.  Countless “agains” for my wife to help our daughter with her shoes, her swim suits, her backyard culinary pursuits, her dresses, her first days of school, her wedding day.  Unfortunately, it would be countless more “agains” till either of them would see me again.  That’s all right, though.  I can wait as long as it takes.  And I sincerely hope I get to wait a very, very long time.