The human body is capable of withstanding a tremendous amount of hardship, whether it be suffering through polar vortexes, desert heat, ultra marathons or waiting for the grocery store to restock their shelves with more Blue Bell ice cream. But when you talk about the demands on the human body brought about by fatherhood — well, that’s a different story.
I remember when my children were young, I had no problem waking up to a child’s blood-curdling scream in the middle of the night and trying to calm them down after they’d had a nightmare. (Usually they were about being chased around the house by a hundred scary grey-haired grandmothers trying to change their diapers.) Today, I’d sleep right through the world coming to an end.
I was proud of being an awesome horse because I knew my back could endure a gallop through the house with a young rider in the saddle. Today, anybody asking me for a ride is going to hear me saying “neigh” in no uncertain terms.
It didn’t bother me too much when a child would repeat, “Do it again, do it again,” after seeing me stump my hoof on a sofa leg and fall to the floor in a fair bit of pain. Today, they’d probably just put me out of my misery.
But what I couldn’t handle — and still can’t as a grandfather — is trying to figure out what my wife would spell at me so our children wouldn’t know what we were talking about.
“After we finish D-I-N-N-E-R, do you mind taking them all O-U-T-S-I-D-E and playing B-A-L-L with them?” she might ask, spitting out letters faster than I could interpret. “Then when you bring them I-N-S-I-D-E, I’ll give them a C-O-O-K-I-E and you can give them a B-A-T-H and put them to B-E-D. OK?”
By the time she’d finish spelling B-E-D, I was just understanding what D-I-N-N-E-R meant, and I knew I was in trouble because she wanted an answer and I was still trying to figure out the question.
My wife, mother and mother-in-law could sit and spell at each other for hours. It could have been Klingon for all I knew. I’d wonder if women were born with this ability, or did it manifest itself when they gave birth? And why weren’t fathers blessed with the gift? Was it not an option up there on Mars?
My wife’s answer was always, “You’re just a guy.”
My kids are all grown up now, and nobody has wasted their time spelling at me in years. Until this past weekend.
We were on an overnight trip to babysit the granddaughter, when out of the blue my wife and daughter starting spelling all sorts of can’t-say-aloud words in front of the toddler.
“You can give her a quick S-N-A-C-K at 3 o’clock, then take her O-U-T-S-I-D-E because she loves to S-W-I-N-G on the S-W-I-N-G-S-E-T. After that, she’ll probably ask for some A-P-P-L-E-S-I-P. That’s her word for A-P-P-L-E-J-U-I-C-E. Not to be confused with A-P-P-L-E-S-A-P, which she calls A-P-P-L-E-S-A-U-C-E. Any questions?
I should have known my daughter was gifted with the spelling skill. Her husband and I just looked at each other and shrugged.
DAUGHTER: “Do they ever L-E-A-R-N how to S-P-E-L-L on the F-L-Y?”
WIFE: “Your F-A-T-H-E-R hasn’t in almost F-O-R-T-Y years. Maybe J-A-M-E-S will, but I wouldn’t B-E-T on it.
ME: “Hey, they might be talking about us. I think they spelled your name.”
JAMES: “I don’t D-O-U-B-T it!”
ME: “Et tu, Brute?”