Actually, when it became time for me to be a player, I was going to have the opportunity to play a team sport. My daughter, a student of exaggerated results, had boy/girl twins; Miller and Campbell.
Playing with them both required getting on the field. A seemingly trivial task made more notable by my two artificial knees and extended girth. The solution seemed to be a truncated squat, followed by the fall forward belly flop. Once executed, and after the pictures on the wall stopped shaking, I was on the floor, eyeball to eyeball, with Miller and Campbell. With a bright smile on my face, I asked each of them what they wanted to play. Predictably Miller, the girl, wanted to play “baby doll” and Campbell wanted to play “fire truck.” I took mental notes and vowed that before I was through, Miller would want to play “fire truck” and Campbell would want to play “baby doll.” No stereotyping for this generation.
In any event I started out with Miller and a fast game of “baby doll.” Baby doll got her diapers changed and took a bath. Unfortunately, the latter activity flooded the kitchen. After singing “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” to “baby doll”, we finally got her to bed and I rolled over to Campbell for a little “fire truck.” Campbell had a hook and ladder, battery powered fire truck so we could really get after it. We put on our fireman hats, got the ladders up, the siren going and the aerial pumper pumping (more water on the floor). I was in “grand parenting” heaven. At the risk of sounding sexist, I was much better at “fire truck” than “baby doll.”
As was foreseeable, given the raucous noise that was coming from playing “fire truck”, baby doll woke up. Miller, being a caring mother, felt baby doll would be happier if she took a ride in the Barbie Corvette. Miller hadn’t told me, but this was a special Corvette. With a little help from Miller it could fly. Unfortunately as it flew over my head it slipped from Miller’s hand and crashed directly into my rather large and bald dome. I saw stars and thought the next game we might play was “911.” Miller, on the other hand and being three years old, was calm. She came over to me, with a look of concern on her face and asked “Doodsie, do you need some ice?”
Moral of the story: if you want to be a player, wear a helmet.
Harry McHugh… first a corporate blue suiter then an entrepreneur. Writes to relive the adventure. Big believer in jump before you look. The results are usually hysterical. Catch Harry’s stories at: funnierthanwethink.blogspot.com/
