Have you ever been ambushed by a memory in the produce aisle?
My stunning wife and I were grocery shopping today when a pile of coconuts reached back a few decades and reminded me that fatherhood has always been hazardous to my dignity.
During my first marriage, my two oldest daughters were small enough to ride in those big blue grocery carts. My job was to keep them occupied while their mother attacked the shopping list.
Produce meant quiz time.
I'd hold up a banana.
"Banana!"
An apple.
"Apple!"
Then came the coconut. I'd knock on it, rub the hairy shell, knock on their heads, rub their hair, and continue down the aisle feeling like Father of the Year.
One day, I had to work, so their mother took them shopping without me. She was hurrying through produce when both girls spotted the coconuts.
"Mom! The thing! You need to grab the thing!"
She picked one up.
"Okay, you guys know what this is."
In perfect unison, at fire-alarm volume, my daughters announced:
"GORILLA BALLS!"
The store was packed. Their mother wanted to crawl under the cart.
When I got home, I was prosecuted without benefit of counsel for teaching our daughters obscene produce terminology. I told the truth. I had never called coconuts gorilla balls.
I blamed Animal Planet.
I remain comfortable with that statement.
Before you go there, they weren't trying to identify a disembodied portion of a gorilla. Think kickball. The coconut's color and "hair" made them look like a ball made for gorillas. That was the result of my interrogation of the two blaggards.
The girls and I had several routines that were funny to us and considerably less funny to their mother. Whenever one acted up, I sometimes warned — tongue in cheek — "Behave, or I'll put you back in the closet."
Then came another crowded food store on Christmas Eve day. One daughter was pushing a child-sized cart and getting squirrely. I said only, "Hey."
She looked up and asked, loudly, "Are you going to put me back in the closet?"
I was surprised social services didn't beat me home.
My children started getting even before they could speak.
When my oldest daughter was about eight months old, she had an ExerSaucer with toys attached by suction cups. Being the idiotic genius I was, I stuck one to the middle of my ever-growing forehead and leaned over so she could play with it.
She pulled.
Hard.
When I removed it, my former wife began laughing and pointing. I checked the mirror and discovered a perfect two-inch red circle on my forehead.
I worked in an office where ties were required and hats weren't. The mark lasted weeks, scabbed over, and slowly faded.
My daughter had branded me before she had teeth.
Years passed, but the language stayed.
Say "turkey sandwiches" to my middle daughter, and she'll start laughing. I can't explain why in a family publication without creating additional legal exposure.
When she was in fourth grade, she came home with news of a quiz the next day. She considered her prospects.
"I'M DOOMED!"
My oldest and I have another signal. If I lose her in a crowd, I yell, "Shark bait!"
Somewhere comes the immediate answer:
"Ohh ha ha!"
Thank you, Finding Nemo.
Kids grow up; grocery carts disappear; ExerSaucers get donated; daughters become women, build lives, marry good men, and somehow retain every embarrassing thing their father ever said or did.
Then, every so often, one of them says something that stops me.
"We get that from you."
Every so often, their husbands say it, too.
I've been gifted with amazing daughters who have spent a lifetime kicking my dairy-air, making me laugh, and reminding me of the fool I've always been willing to become just to hear them laugh.
Someday, nobody will remember what was on the grocery list.
But somebody will remember the gorilla balls.
I can live with that.
If you enjoy the stories, arguments, and occasional family humiliation we bring you at PJ Media, now’s a good time to join us. PJ Media VIP is 60% off with promo code FIGHT.
Join the conversation as a VIP Member