Earlier this week, I spent a few days back home in southern Indiana for work. When down there, I try to arrange a meal with my daughter, Delaney, who is 23 now. She always takes me up on the offer, even though it requires her to drive an hour to meet up and another hour to return home. She never complains about the extra Corolla miles. She always seems to enjoy being in the company of her dad. For this, I’m grateful, especially knowing how, a dozen years ago, it was a different story.
Here’s how it once was:
* * *
She used to sit on my lap at the movies, my daughter Delaney.
Even when she became big enough to occupy the seat beside me without it folding up and devouring her, she often ended up in my lap to fall asleep. I cherished such Saturday matinee closeness, waking her only when the end credits rolled.
Sadly, her dad dependency waned not too long after.
Her friends began tagging along, ending the need for me to sit by her. Not that I complained since their seats of choice were in the front row, the worst angle for aged necks. Girls know this tactic well. It is part of their biological wiring as they enter into their hyper self-conscious states. I was sentenced to the back row, the movie house equivalent of Siberia, where I often fell asleep with other members of the Missing Parents Club.
I wasn’t totally out of the picture then. Often, by mid-movie, Delaney would find her way through the dark and wake me up – not to sit on my lap but to send me to the lobby for more snacks.
I was being used, but at least I was being useful.
Delaney is 12 now, and I have been banned from entering the cinema, period. I drop her off in the parking lot, preferably on the outer fringes where no one can bear witness. I still provide money for the tickets and snacks, though this dutiful donation occurs within the car. Note to dads of soon-to-be-teen daughters: don’t dare think you can get away with slipping her a wad of cash through a rolled down driver’s side window while she stands alongside the car. God forbid one of her friends actually sees the flash of your money hand reaching out to her, thus spoiling the cloak of invisibility that has been cast upon you in instances of her social interaction. I assume she’s now capable of going to the snack counter alone.
I am now an official dweller in the Age of Embarrassment.
It goes far beyond just our movie-going experiences. It is 24-7.
No more photo sessions in front of the building on the first day of a new school year.
No more hollering, “I love you, Delaney,” when she exits from the back seat in the school’s car line.
No more splitting banana splits at DQ.
No more curling on the couch watching Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid, something we did a lot. I get misty-eyed when I hear “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head.”
No more piggyback rides in the city pool (I am banned from there, too).
I saw a segment called “Embarrassing Parents” on NBC Today, which let me know that I am not alone. Don’t take it personally, I was told. One father recounted how his daughter told him to “stop breathing so loud.”
I try not to breathe around Delaney at all.
Recently, I drove her and a friend to a mall. Apparently, I walked behind them in the parking lot too closely because Delaney, looking back, hollered for the whole world to hear, “Stalker. Stalker,” which caused me to stop in my tracks and worry that someone was dialing 9-1-1. Inside, I maintained the 125-feet rule, “stalking” them throughout the mall, peeking around corners, staking out each shop entered, using the Sunglass Hut mirror as a rearview mirror to chart their progress behind me while they perused one of those ghastly, dark, heavy-metal T-shirt stores, avoiding eye contact with the mall cops as they passed by for the hundredth time while deciding if I was the subject of the 9-1-1 call.
* * *
. . . well, you get the point . . .
It’s a relief to know that The Age of Embarrassment and my role as The Invisible Dad are long behind us. Maybe we’ll watch Butch Cassidy together again, for old times’ sake. As far as my relationship with Delaney goes, nothing’s worrying me. Cue up B.J. Thomas.
Photo provided