My Dad travelled a lot when I was a kid. He also used to work long hours. Always though, we as children were included when he was home.
He’d make a big point of taking me to Great Eastern if he needed a wrench, and he’d ask my advice and make me feel important.
Going out for a hamburger or a sandwich was always a big deal. If he was doing some simple household chore we were always included, even if doing so meant that the simple task took two or three times as long.
I never realized or thought about what an act of love that was until I had a kid. Now I try to live up to my Dad’s example with my kid.
So, the other day I needed to measure the pool for a new liner. This is a surprisingly complex and precise task for a person like me who has never done it before.
“Where you going Daddy?” asks my Munchkin.
“I have to measure the pool?”
“Can I come and help?”
In truth, there was only one possible answer that I could utter.
“Yeah. Daddy needs your help. Let’s go!”
Aquaring off the corners is an easy task. I held the straight edge and she drew the line with my Craftsman Crayon (which is far as I can tell is identical to a big Crayola, except the colors aren’t so cool.)
Measuring was problematic. I had her hold the end of my tape measure, but somehow Kiddo became enthralled with the concept of shaking the tape so that it made waves that travelled up and down the length of the tape.
She’s going "Whooo! Whooo! Whooo!’ with the tape while I’m trying to take a measurement on a vibrating line.
She also wanted to help me write down the measurements, and while I wasn’t looking she drew a nice picture of a fish on the form I had to fax to the liner company.
The biggest thrill though was when I produced my plumbbob. A plumbbob is simply a point weight of known length on a string that won’t stretch. Like many such tools, it is remarkable in its simple perfection.
With a plumbbob you get a straight perpendicular vertical measurement that is exact. I was using it to measure the depth of the pool, and I had it on a piece of fiberglass pole to make sure my measurement was flat with the top of our crappy (but soon to be rejuvenated,) pool.
“I don’t think there’s any fishies in the pool, Daddy.”
My daughter knows there are no fish in the pool because this was a major issue before she was willing to go swimming. Somehow a very bad person was watching “Piranha” one afternoon with his daughter and it made an impression.
“No fish. I’m not fishing.”
“You’re not fishing?”
“Nope.”
“Why do you have a fishing pole?”
“This isn’t a fishing pole. It just looks like a fishing pole. This is a plumbbob. I’m using it to measure the pool.”
“A what?”
“A plumbob.”
“A plumbob?”
“Yes. A plumbob.”
“Can I see?”
“Ok. I’ll show you how it works. See you hold it out, and you let it hang straight, and then you can tell how deep the pool is.”
“It tells you how deep the pool is?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t hear it.”
“It doesn’t talk. You have to read it.”
“You read it? What are you nuts?!?” This is my daughter’s favorite expression and can be translated as “I don’t understand.”
So I show her. We take a measurement, mark the line and measure it with the tape measure with more “Whoo whoo wooing,” and determine that the shallow end of the pool which I have previously measured at exactly 3 feet has shrunk to 2 feet 8 inches (which is pretty good for a three year old.)
This is plumbbob, Daddy. I measured."
“I know. You did good.”
She holds the little bit of metal on the end of the string, “Is it a Plumbob Squarepants?”
Now as I’ve been doing all this, I have to confess that at heart I have not been a good father. I have not been enjoying this as I should be. In fact, it has been mildly frustrating trying to accomplish what I need to accomplish. I know now how it felt to be my Dad, and I realize how important this is to her. How much this means.
What can be more important than to be included? Than to be wanted? And, if you are privileged enough that somebody wants you to want their help, who loves you and wants to be included, what could be worse than to be rejected.
So, at this precious moment where my daughter is holding the bit of metal on a string, asking me if it’s Plumbob Squarepants, it’s suddenly all amusing and worthwhile because it’s frustrating. I’m doing this with her. And there must be a special hell for anybody that would reject this love, trust and curiosity.
So, I tell her that sure, we can say it’s Plumbob Squarepants, and for the next five minutes we discuss and clarify all the ways in which Plumbob Squarepants is different from Plumbbob Squarepants, and, in this fashion she comes to understand the important and precious place and function of plumbbobs in this our universe.
Which I guess sets her well ahead of the curve of most three year olds in this respect.
She plays with the plumbob while I measure some more, and she measures the vertical length of the dog, pronouncing it “twenty seven dollars.”
Experimenting with the plumbbob she swings it on it’s string, which I know is a bad bad idea, but before I can object the little 8 ounce bit of metal whacks me right on the shin.
It hurts in that terrible horrible way only a minor and inconsequential whack on the shin can hurt, and I yell and fall down, hold my shin, and curse the way I do in front of my kid.
“God…, Jeez…” and lots of other pregnant pauses.
“It’s Ok, Daddy. You’re OK.”
“We got to be careful, honey. That hurt.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m ok. But remember, don’t ever swing Plumbbob Squarepants. He’s dangerous.”
“He is?”
“Yes. If you swing him, it’s dangerous.”
“I won’t do it again. I promise.”
“I know. It’s not your fault. It was an accident.”
So all’s well, and we finish up.
When we go back in the house, my wife asks “Did you help Daddy measure the pool?”
“I did. I helped.”
“Was it fun?”
“Yeah. But you can’t swing Plumbob Squarepants. You can’t swing him.”
MY wife raises an interrogatory eybrow at me.
“Words to live by,” I say.
How old is she?