For Love of Danger

My one-year-old son, Johnny, loves danger. All you have to do is crack the door to the stairs or garbage and he’ll hustle toward it like a tree frog.

So he’ll undoubtedly be attracted to the carnival when it comes to town; those rides are one rusty bolt away from certain catastrophic death.

I mean, have you ever seen a new, sleek carnie? They’re always riddled with shady chain-smoking characters who are way too old to be at a kiddy attraction. If they don’t kill you, the funnel cake will.

So my kids will be all over that. Although they thought they were going to enjoy the car wash at the local gas station. However, when the garage door closed, the lights went out and the mechanical beams that spray water and wax kicked into gear, both Johnny and Belle, my two-year-old daughter, burst into tears.

How could one daddy be so cruel?

Afterwards, Belle, still sniffling, said, “Daddy, I done cryyyyingggg... Waaaah!”

But she bounced back quickly. The next day she was up at the top of a slide that was seemingly 200 feet in the air. It was totally safe, but I still fretted. I kept thinking about what my mom used to tell me when I was a kid: “I have too much INVESTED in you!”

There was another parent there and I wondered if she thought I was like Michael Jackson, dangling his baby over the ledge. I felt like saying, “I didn’t name her Blanket--don’t look at me like that!” Then her kid went down the same slide as mine. Both kids slid down the slide gleefully and said, “Do that again!”

Belle doesn't need me to feel safe. The other day the babysitter came and Belle said joyfully, “Bye-bye mom. Bye-bye dad. Bye-bye!” So much for separation anxiety. Sure, she blew us kisses, but I half expected her holler “TOGA PARTYYYY!” as soon as we closed the door.

I guess all a parent can do in a situation like that is pray. Belle has recently started praying before bed—particularly for her friends like Allison, Andrew and Leah. Which is really sweet. However, she also prays for her grandma’s dog and her mom’s trophy, which her mommy won for being an excellent Mary Kay consultant.

The trophy sits in our kitchen and Belle loves it. In fact, it’s kind of her imaginary friend. “Hey Daddy, I ate all my grapes,” she says.

“That’s great, Belle,” I say. “Good job.”

“Can you tell Trophy I ate all my grapes?” Belle says.

“Hey trophy, Belle ate her grapes,” I say.

“Is Trophy excited?” Belle asks.

“Thrilled.” I say.

“Trophy wants to celebrate,” she says.

“I’ll get the togas,” I say.