Dirt (Guest Blogger Daddy)

I slammed my daughter's face into the ground last weekend.

That probably sounds bad. But really, it's either not at all what you think, or it's exactly what you think.

On Saturday, Kalaya and I decided to go the park, even though it was freezing cold out and about 5:30 in the evening. It's important to note that "we decided" really means "she decided and daddy couldn't think of a reason other than he didn't want to go." So I got out the double stroller, grabbed a snack for each of us and a cup (with a lid) of water for her, and we started walking.

It's hilarious to me when we walk, just the two of us, and she rides in the double stroller. She had always chosen the wagon, but when Jakiah was born and we got the double stroller, she has insisted on taking it every time. I had thought it was because it was new and exciting; now I think she just likes the idea of using it without him being there. Never underestimate the power of not having to share.

Anyway, it's hilarious because she doesn't say a word. She doesn't point at things, or ask me what things are or why they exist, or do anything else that her normal, curious, three-year old self would do. She just observes everything, takes a sip of water every once in a while, and enjoys the ride. Sometimes I'll try to talk to her, or ask her a question about something, and half the time she'll just say "Don't talk, dad." I'm sure it's a glimpse of her teenage years, but it's also kind of refreshing that she would rather just enjoy the scenery than be a part of forced conversation. Of course, if any kind of animal appears, she won't shut up about it.

We rolled into the park with probably thirty minutes of daylight left, and nobody was there. Obviously that was due to the 29 degree temperature, but whenever we get to a park and no one else is there, I like to think the universe is giving us a moment where it's like we're the last people on earth, and we have to enjoy it as much as we can. Kalaya is probably just thrilled she doesn't have to take turns with anyone.

(Note: I'm switching to present-tense here, for no explainable reason other than I think it heightens the drama.)

The order in which we attack the park is very deliberate, even with nobody around. "Daddy, let's go to the swings first!" she yells, and runs in their direction. I always feel like I should run whenever she runs, lest she think I'm not as into whatever we're doing as she is and she feels invalidated somehow. I have been running a lot more than I used to when we were childless.

"I want to swing on my tummy. Then I want to swing on my bum," she informs me. I nod my head, and take my place next to her swinging on my tummy, and then my bum. "Push me please. Say '1...2...1, 2, 3!' when you push," I nod my head again, and say "1...2...1, 2, 3!" when I push her. "Now you swing on the other swing with me." I nod my head a third time and we swing together. We are Wesley and Buttercup, only with an unspoken "As you wish," and without the wispy mustache.

She thinks it's funny when we yell "WHEE!" on the swings, but only if we yell it in unison. If I yell it before or after her, it's like I'm telling a bad joke. "Let's look at the moon when we swing, dad," she says, which is her way of saying "Let's see how horizontal we can get on our swings without falling out." "Okay," I say, "but hold on tight so you don't fall." She looks at me like she's offended, as if she's some baby that would fall out of a big girl swing, but she readjusts her grip. We look at the moon for a while, and then I start to feel sick because while I can handle the craziest rollercoasters on the planet, going back and forth on the swings makes me feel like I'm going to throw up. "I'm done swinging," she announces, to my great relief. "Let's go on the slide now. Stop me please." I get off quickly, nod my head, and stop her. She runs to the slide, with me right behind her. Now we are Calvin and Hobbes, only...nope, there's no 'only' here because all four of us are awesome.

Kalaya doesn't like to slide alone (she's not as much of a daredevil as she pretends to be), so she climbs up the ladder to the slide and I follow her. We get to the top and look down. "Big slide!" she yells gleefully, and I agree. There's a reason we call this Big Slide Park instead of its proper name.

[Quick tangent: when she was smaller, we used to go down this slide together, only I'd let her ride on my shoulders. I feel like when I tell her this when she's an adult, it will confirm her suspicions that I was a terrible father. Really, I just thought she would like it better. Once, a couple who saw me doing this with her reacted like normal people would and called the Park Safety Patrol. They drove past us (I did not know the Park Safety Patrol existed, nor was I aware of their fleet of automobiles) really slowly, watching to see what we were doing. I probably should have just let her ride on my lap so we wouldn't get in trouble, but because I'm an idiot, and I was angry that someone thought I was intentionally putting my daughter in danger, I went down the slide with her on my shoulders while staring at the car. She squealed in delight (or fear), and the car eventually drove away.]

Back at the top of the slide, we arrange ourselves so she is on my lap. She's a little too big for me to feel safe with her on my shoulders at this point, although reading that sentence implies that I felt safer with her being smaller and more breakable. Maybe the Park Safety Patrol should have ticketed me, or done whatever it is a Park Safety Patrol does.

For a second, I think the slide might be a bad idea. It's cold and I am wearing sweatpants (partially because of the cold, partially because it's the weekend and I'm lazy), which could be the equation for a faster-than-normal slide. But then Kalaya yells "1, 2, 3, SLIDE!" and I forget I am the adult and just react to her instructions. We start going, but my boots kind of drag on the slide and it ends up being a little slow. We get to the bottom and both of us are mildly disenchanted. "Good thing we didn't pay for that," I say to her for some reason, and she just says, "Let's go on the monkey bars now."

We play on the monkey bars for a while, then she wants to swing again. After the swings we play around the little creek that runs through the park. It's probably dangerous because of the mud and temperature, but I tightly grip her hand and I have an unrealistic belief/expectation that I won't ever drop my kids in frigid water. Neither of us fall in, even when she insists I only hold her coat and not her hands because she found a stick somewhere and needs both hands to pretend to fish. If someone comes along and sees us, it will look like I am threatening to drown her.

It is pretty dark now, and colder than when we arrived, so I suggest we go home. "Mommy is probably done making dinner, and we don't want it to get cold." She is a seasoned veteran at this kind of game, so instead of agreeing she says, "What's she making for dinner? Maybe it's cold." Neither am I a rookie, so I say, "You're funny, but we're going home." She senses defeat, and says, "I want to slide again. Last time."

At the top of the slide again, I am hoping it will be faster than the first trip. I want to make sure she has a good time, after all, and a slow slide will not do. I will just keep my legs up a little bit to reduce the drag, and it'll be fun. "1, 2, 3, SLIDE!" she yells, and I let go of the bars holding us back. We slide.

And we go really, really, freaking fast.

It takes me a second to realize what's happening, although Kalaya seems to have picked up on it because she is not yelling "WHEE!" as much as she is leaning backward into my throat like she's trying to suffocate me with the top of her head. Before I can put my feet down or grab onto the sides of the slide to slow our progress, we hit the end of the slide, and my feet somewhat hit the ground, and the momentum propels me forward like I jumped out of a moving car.

For a second, I think "I got this; just one foot in front of the other." For a second, I am right. I get the "one foot" part correct, but "the other" does not stay on target.

It's defeating, to say the least, when you realize you're about to hurt your own child on a playground. As I'm watching my legs do the opposite of what my brain is telling them to do, I try to pause life so I can reassess what to do to cause the least amount of damage to my totally helpless daughter. I can't pause this moment, or any other moment, so I do the only thing I can think of: I try to absorb all the punishment she's about to take.

I manage to rotate my body enough to land on my left arm, left shoulder, and head. This is great, until I realize that the right side of my body, where Kalaya is firmly held, is going to catch up (and probably faster) and hit the ground too (and probably harder). There's a moment where I think I see her terrified eyes, and then she hits the barkchips face-first. It looks like it HURTS.

I literally bounce back up (where the hell was this superhuman ability two seconds ago), pull her to a standing position, and kneel in front of her so that my face is millimeters from her face. "Are you okay?!" I practically yell. "Are you okay? Are you hurt? What hurts? I'm so sorry, my darling, that was my fault! Are you okay?"

Her eyes are shut tight, and her teeth are bared like she's going to rip my jugular out with them. I am waiting for her to start bawling, or swearing, or punching me in the face. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Are you okay? Are you hurt?" I wonder if the Park Safety Patrol is about to tackle me from behind.

Kalaya opens her right eye and looks at me. And she says:

"Dirt."

This word does not register to me. "What?"

"Dirt. I have dirt on my face."

"You have dirt on your face?" I repeat to her.

"I have dirt on my face," she says again.

"Yes. You do have dirt on your face." This is like a conversation you would find on a cassette teaching people English.

"We fell down," she says, pulling my hands up to wipe the dirt off her face.

"Yes we did," I say, cleaning her face enough so she can open both of her eyes.

"Let's go home," she says, and she puckers her lips. I pucker mine back to her, because evidently the blow to my head has turned me into a gorilla in the zoo that mimics people. But as soon as she sees me pucker my lips, she leans in and kisses me.

"Okay," I say, slightly taken aback, but nodding my head and picking her up. After I put her back in the stroller and hand her the snack we brought, she says, "Thanks for going to the park, dad."

"Thanks for coming to the park with me, Kalaya."

"You're welcome," she says, and doesn't say another word until we get home.

I know my daughter will be hurt as she grows up, probably more than I care to admit. Kelly and I will probably hurt her, her brother will probably hurt her, friends and strangers and life in general will probably hurt her. And I will want to protect her, and console her, and do everything I can possibly do to make sure she's okay. I will always want to be the one to fix whatever's broken, even if she just needs to clean the dirt off her face.

But she is a strong, beautiful, independent girl. And she will be a strong, beautiful, independent woman. And someday (the Someday which is approaching much faster than I'm anticipating), she won't need me to clean the dirt off her face because she'll be able to do it herself. I think, I THINK I can handle that.

As long as I get a kiss when she's done.