These are suppose to be the parental golden years. A time before pubescent hormones and teen cynicism when your child still gives you the royal treatment. While I still wear the crown of fatherhood, it feels a bit tarnished — or a bit askew like a jester.
In order to rationalize the still developing gray matter in that little head, I chalk it up to a phase like crustless P&J sandwiches. However, compounding childhood conundrums has me ready to hand in my "One Cool Daddy-O” T-shirt shortly before Father's Day.
It all started when our daughter decided to put the brakes on bike riding. First she balked at wearing a helmet since the snap pinched her neck once and she can carry a grudge longer than Edmund Dantes in "The Count of Monte Cristo.” In the age of five-point restraint car seats, however, we would be parental pariahs if Ella tooled around the driveway without her Barbie helmet. Although I survived childhood — and a fairly faithful recreation of Evel Knievel's Snake River Canyon jump on my Huffy — without protective headgear.
After much ado — in this case ado being a screaming child sprinting across the front yard — the helmet went on. The bike, however, remained motionless. After negotiations that would have worn down Kim Jong II's platform shoes, it remained a kickstand standoff. Well technically a training wheels impasse.
Rather than concede defeat to a preschooler — or otherwise be the bigger person — we played the parent trump card: a family bike ride or take a bath and go to bed early. Not one of our finer moments but we abandoned all Norman Rockwell idealism 15 minutes ago. Of course we played right into those pint-size hands. She took bath and bed for game, set and match of wills.
Unfortunately, our stationary bike ride was only a harbinger of head scratching to come. Later that same week a father-daughter fishing expedition yielded equally bad net results. If the boat rocked even slightly cries of "it's too tippy” echoed across the otherwise placid lake. Of course this makes hooking a worm, casting a line or breathing a tad difficult in a small rowboat.
Our time on the water had me wishing for a serene three hour cruise on the SS Minnow.
Befuddled, if not downright flummoxed, I found myself overanalyzing the mind-set of someone who comes up just past my belt buckle. Perhaps I offered one too many explanations or not enough before biking, fishing or swimming in a hotel pool with cousins — all beloved activities just a few months ago. Perhaps I held her hand too much or not enough. Perhaps the wind was blowing out of the southeast instead of northwest.
Family and friends share their own stories on the quirks of childhood as you watch a nephew, right on cue, chew the bark off a stick. I still felt like telling my five year old to loosen up and live a little, but decided not to sweat the minutia. After all, driver's education is a mere decade away.
As expected, Ella has already turned the corner regarding her bike. While it can be painfully slow pedaling, at least it's forward progress. Although as soon as she realizes the dork factor of dad on a 1970s Sears ladies 3 speed she'll quickly try to distance herself.
Actually I should be thankful for her cautious nature and dislike for things too fast or too loud. At this rate I might actually have to tell a teenager to loosen up a little and get a nostril pierced. I doubt it. More likely I'll be the one waiting up after curfew, tarnished #1 Dad coffee mug in hand.
Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or e-mail gleiva@gtherald.com