The Continuing Education of a White Foster Dad

This is a post I knew I would have to get to at some point, and now I’m nervous about writing it.  I’ve been thinking about it for a while now, hoping that some epiphany would come to me.

How am I going to approach it? 

How will it be received? 

Can I even do the subject justice?

Will I sound like an ignorant fool?

In the end, I suppose I have to trust my gut, be as honest as I can, and hope for the best.  And damn it, this blog is my forum (as insignificant as it might be).  I’m not forcing my opinions or notions on anyone. I’m not spraying it on Facebook like some pissed off barn cat.  But I feel strongly enough about it that I want to address it.  It’s relevant to my little story here, and most of all, it’s relevant to my girls—the girls I’ve grown to love with everything I have and then some. 

As a kid in the 80’s, I freaking LOVED Diff’rent Strokes.  I mean, who didn’t?  Arnold, Willis, Mallory, Mr. Drummond, Mrs. Garrett…and the lady after Mrs. Garrett went to live with the girls of The Facts of Life.  You know, to teach them about right and wrong and their menstrual cycles.

Pearl.  Yes.  That’s who it was.  Pearl. 

Diff’rent Strokes was so popular that other networks were combing the country in search of their slice of the stunted black kid pie. Because it was comedy gold.

Soon thereafter came Webster, (which in my opinion was inferior to Diff’rent Strokes, but still good), the story of the little orphan boy who went to live with George (Mongo like candy!) and Kathrine (Ma’am) Papadapolis. I remember that Webster had little secret passageways around the house, most notably behind the grandfather clock.

God, how I wanted a secret passageway.  I remember how I’d keep hoping that our suburban ranch house had one hidden somewhere and that I just hadn’t found yet.  I’m sure I looked behind our grandfather clock at least a million times to find it.

Anyway, the popularity of these shows was undeniable.  America fell in love with the notion of poor little orphaned black kids being hilariously raised by white people.  I suppose in some ways, it was a step forward from the decidedly segregated sitcoms such as All In The Family and The Jeffersons. 

American TV was breaking down racial barriers, one funny little black kid with an inoffensive birth defect at a time.

The similarities between our situation and those 80’s sitcoms are pretty obvious.  And when they first moved in, I thought, “hey, kinda like Diff’rent Strokes!”  I knew we’d have tons of hilarious misadventures (as long as everyone stays away from the bike shop…if you’ve seen the show, you know what I’m talking about).  Hell, we even had the older one who was very intelligent and much more reserved, and the younger one who spoke with a slight lisp and said the most out-raaageous things! 

I’m living an 80’s sitcom!

And most of the time…yeah, it is a little like that.  There are a lot of funny moments worthy of canned laughter (if you’ve been keeping up with this blog, you might already know this, or else why in the hell are you still reading), heart-wrenching moments where the audience is uncomfortably silent, and touching moments worthy of drawn out “awwwwwws.” We are different from other families in town, and that’s something in which we pride ourselves. 

And ready for it or not, we found a new perspective.

The girls had shown up with the social worker that very first day with only with the filthy clothes on their backs and a single stuffed animal each.  Their shoes were falling off their feet, their legs and arms were covered in bed bug bites, and they smelled awful, like sweat and urine. 

They were not what I had expected to come walking through our door.  I had expected cute little…well…I guess in my mind’s eye…white…kids. I didn’t really know why I thought this.  It wasn’t like they told us that only white kids would be placed in our home.  In fact, they told us it was far more likely that an African American or Hispanic child would be here.

But I still pictured white kids.

And when they showed up, scared, shabby, and dark skinned, I just thought:  Oh.  Huh.  Ooookaaaay…and a general feeling of doubt began to rise in my heart.  Like when a Christmas present isn’t quite what you had pictured it, even though you never really realized you had pictured it at all.

I’ve never said that out loud or even wanted to admit it to myself.  But as I said before, I’m laying it out there.  Because it’s too important not to be completely honest. And not just with you who may be reading this, but with myself.  It’s the first step.  But I’ll get to that later.

So the first thing we did was take them to Wal-Mart to gather some quick clothes.  Not my first choice for apparel, but it was an emergency.  They had to have something. 

I remember thinking, we’ll have to get them some decent clothes ASAP.  Because where we grew up, if you wore clothes from Wal-Mart, you were gonna get made fun of.

As we drove in silence to the store, the car filling up with the unkempt reek that clung to their clothes, I was having doubts.  Would I be able to do this?  Was I ready for these challenges? 

Can I love these kids?

When we got out of the car and began heading into the store, I felt a little hand tentatively grab my pinky.  I looked down and Mo was staring up at me, her large, brown eyes shimmering there in the dark beneath the street lights, wondering if it was okay to hold my hand.  When I looked down she pulled away and shied, as if she had maybe done something wrong. 

I said, “It’s okay, you can hold my hand if you want.”

And she smiled at me. 

And I smiled back.

And we held hands through the parking lot into the store, with her fingers occasionally tightening around mine.

Inside the store, we perused the aisles.  The girls were pretty giddy to be getting new clothes, taking cheap Hello Kitty tee shirts off the rack and twirling around with them, like twin brides to be with new wedding dresses.  Amy and I had to check the tags (those that were still there) on the clothes they were wearing to see their sizes.  We had no idea.  I joked that Amy should just get them her sizes, because she wasn’t much bigger.  Amy shot me a look of mock disgust, but then giggled.  Like always.  But we were both tense.

After we had gathered a cart load of shirts, jeans, jackets, sweatshirts, underwear, socks, a few toys, we went to the dressing rooms.  A middle aged white woman, bespectacled and strange, watched us intently as we ushered the girls into the rooms.  While Amy was in there with them, the woman looked at me and said, “They yours?”  This is a question we had been prepared for by the agency, and we had canned answers prepared.  Most people are obviously curious, mean well, but don’t know how to ask tactfully.  At least she waited until the girls weren’t right there with us.

“Well,” I said, “kind of.  For now.  They’re foster kids.  They were placed with us just this evening.”

“Oh!  That’s great.  Congratulations to you.”

“Uh…thanks.”

“You know, I’ve thought about being a foster parent a lot of times, but…you know.”

“Yeah.  I’m sure it’s going to be tough.”

“And plus, my husband, well, he’s got a temper, so…”

“Uh huh.  Probably not the best then.”

Jesus. 

She went back to folding clothes and I stood there thinking a bit.

A few minutes went by, and from behind the slatted door beneath which I could see a jumble of feet and clothes, I heard Amy say, “Okay, go show Matt.”

The door swung open, and Shay came out wearing a new shirt and jeans.  She smiled impishly and tugged at the shirt tail, shifting her weight back and forth upon her bare feet.

“Do you like it, Daddy?”

Daddy.  Wasn’t ready for that.  My brain said, little soon for that, isn’t it? But I shook that voice from my head and said, “Yeah, Shay, I like it a lot.  Do you?”

“Yes!”

“Okay then.  Does it fit?”

“Yes!”

“Okay then.  Alright, go back in and try some other things on.  We’ll have a fashion show.”

“Okay!”

She waddled back into the little room, closed the door behind her, and she said “He likes them!”

Amy said, “Okay!  We’ll get them then.”

From behind me I heard someone say, “awww.”  I turned and saw a large black man in his mid twenties standing there, grinning.  He was wearing baggy pants, baggy shirt, and a pristinely white cap with a perfectly straight brim.  His teeth glinted in the store light.  He was wearing a grill.

I smiled, nodded quickly, and turned away.  Looking back on it, that’s how I’d always reacted to that situation.  I’d acknowledge the presence, then separate myself.

“You’re doing a good thing,” the man said.

I turned back around and looked at him.  He wasn’t mad, he wasn’t being sarcastic, he wasn’t being anything but genuine.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“I said, y’all are doing a good thing.”  It was then I saw the others behind him, presumably his family, a wife and a little boy, standing there as well. 

Where had they come from?

The woman was smiling too.  The kid just stared at me with his mouth open.

I smiled, nodded again, and turned back around. 

The girls came out periodically, showing off their clothes and laughing.  Eventually, they were finished.  They had their old clothes back on.  Amy handed the weird lady at the counter the clothes that hadn’t fit, and as we ushered the kids past the family behind us, the man said, “you girls sure looked nice in all your new clothes!  Bet you can’t wait to wear them, can you?”

The girls smiled sheepishly, holding their shoulders up around their ears.

“Okay, girls, let’s go,” I said.  As we continued past, the two adults were still smiling at us and the little boy was still staring.

“Have a good night,” the man said.

“Yeah, you too,” I replied.

This kind of thing happened a lot over the next few months, and still does.  In the grocery store, in the park, wherever.  We notice black families noticing us.  We get a lot of smiles.  We smile back.  We talk to them.  Only every so often do we get a sideways glance from a black family, perhaps wondering what in the world these two cute little kids are doing with these white folks.  But that’s very, very rare. 

I want to reiterate…we notice more black families, and we notice more smiles.

Were they always there and we just never saw?  Did we always simply acknowledge their presence and quickly step aside, smiling broadly but never making eye contact, trying to distance ourselves?

Did we really do that?

I would imagine it’s a two way street.  I would imagine that before we had the girls in tow they would glance up at us and us at them, then unconsciously avoid one another.

But who can avoid an 80’s sitcom coming down the cereal aisle?

White people grin at us as well, take time to talk to the girls.  And everyone, black or white or other, asks their strange questions that now just slide off our backs.

Are they yours?

Did you adopt?

Do you have any real kids?

The girls get it at school and daycare as well, but their responses are always so much more straight forward.

“Are those your parents?”

“Yes.”

“But…they’re white.”

“So?”

There are a lot of mixed families in our neighborhood.  Our neighbors (the family to which the little towhead boy whom Mo is “totally in love with” belongs) has biological kids, adopted kids and foster kids.  We couldn’t be happier that the girls have a family to play with that has the same things going on at their house.  They see it as “normal,” and have, to my knowledge, never felt a moment of embarrassment for their situation.  That family has introduced us to another family who has both bio kids and adopted kids, and we spent a wonderful Fourth of July with them at a nearby pond.  Where all the kids just got to be kids.  A luxury I have always, always taken for granted.  As the adults sat on the deck, we talked about these very issues.  The host family shared with us an experience they had.  The kids (an older biological child and at least one of their adopted Hispanic children) and the dad were out somewhere, and a person asked the dad, “Where did he (or she, can’t remember) come from?”

The dad replied, “Lubbock.”

The man grinned in a nudge-nudge, wink-wink manner and said, “I mean, where do they come from?”

It was then that the biological kid said, “Lubbock!  Geez!”

The girls are innocent of the issues of race.  I mean, they’re aware their skin is different from ours, and they don’t pretend to be our biological kids, but they simply don’t care about it.  Never did.  And as time has worn on, even in this short period, I truly think about their skin color less and less.  It’s unnerving to me that I ever really did.  I always believed in myself the bullshit that people tend to say:  “I don’t see color.”

Of course we do.  And I’m coming to grips with my own previous notions, notions that were, I believed, benign.  I mean, I never thought that all African Americans were gangsters or on welfare or anything terrible like that.  It was never, ever that obvious. 

But that’s the real issue, isn’t it? 

I was unwittingly distant from an entire portion of our American population.  Not that it’s my fault, I wasn’t raised around a lot of African Americans or Hispanics.  I enjoyed white privilege my entire life without ever really knowing it.

It wasn’t that I disliked black people.

I just rarely thought about them at all.

I used to, and to some degree still do, use terms like “us” and “them.”  It’s hard not to.  There’s a partition built up in my brain and it’s hard to break it down and talk around it.  Because it’s engrained in me. 

In us.  All of us.  Black, white, Hispanic or Asian.

But I’m working on it.  I’m working to understand why I had this division in my brain. And by acknowledging it, by getting it out there, even by posting this entry, I’m going to keep self-analyzing and working to break it down.

Because the girls are innocent of it, and they deserve to live in a place where “us” and “them” has become just…us.

I’m not naïve enough to think that they won’t lose their innocence of this matter.  One day someone’s going to sling a terrible word at them and we’ll have talk them down.  And that frightens the hell out of me. 

But because I’m not black, I won’t know what it’s like.  I can’t relate.  All I can do is love the hell out of them and hold them.  They will never be able to look at me and say, “Dad gets it.”  Sure, I’ve been called names before, been hurt by them before, but as you can tell by the name of this blog, I make light of it.  But I have never experienced that feeling which just about every minority in this country has felt at some crushing point in their lives: I cannot expect the same treatment in all things as my white friends do.

I realize the inflammatory nature of that comment, and I realize that some of you reading this may feel uncomfortable with that assertion.  Well, quit reading then. 

When I voice this fear to some of my friends, they say well intentioned things like,

“Teach them that it doesn’t matter, that people are just stupid and that they shouldn’t let it bother them.”

“Teach them not to be a victim.”

“Teach them to ‘rise and overcome.’”

Of course I’ll teach them these things.  I’ll teach them that their skin does not define them, that what is in their heart is the only thing that matters.  Because an individual is responsible for their own lot in life. 

But should these words not bother them deeply?  Should I be so dismissive of it? 

Should I teach them to distance themselves?

To turn a blind eye to the issues of race in this country?

Is that responsible parenting?

I’ve seen a lot of terrible traffic on social media regarding this whole George Zimmerman case.  I’ve gone a few rounds on Facebook over it, mostly colliding with people who say things like, “it’s over, it’s done, let’s move on.” It’s been bothering me deeply.  Things like,

“Why was this case such a big deal?”

“Nobody cares when a white kid is killed by black people!”

“The black community is using this as a crutch!”

I’ve tried to gently tell people why it is a big deal, and why this case has gathered so much traction in the social realm.  Because the implications go far beyond the verdict.  I’m no lawyer, but I recently served on a small jury that was, oddly enough, kind of like this one, where the issue of self defense was used.  It wasn’t racially charged, just a couple of meatheads fighting in a public place and no one died.  We found the kid not guilty because the way the law was written and the way it was stated in our jury instructions.  The prosecution couldn’t prove it wasn’t self defense.  That was it.  That was our job.  So in this case, again, I don’t know all the ins and outs of it, but I can see why the jury came to the verdict they did.  But I digress, and all in all, the verdict itself isn’t what’s most important. It, just like most cases that are racially charged, simply served as a condensation nucleus for outrage over how an entire population of people feels they are being treated.  That this significant portion of the population can’t expect the same justice as the rest of the country.  However you feel about that statement, it cannot be denied that millions upon millions of our neighbors feel they are being treated like shit by the justice system. 

“Al Sharpton is just inciting more racial tension so he can win an election or get money or something.”

To this I ask:  Is the outrage felt by such a huge population the product of Al Sharpton, or is Al Sharpton the product of the outrage felt by a huge population?

Do I really believe that so many people are just whining?

That they secretly want to keep the issue of racism alive so they can continue to have an excuse to get “our stuff?” 

“Our scholarships?”

“Our grants?”

“Our jobs?”

Or let’s call it what it is…a piece of “our” white privilege?

I, like many of my friends, and the majority of white America, whether we knew it or not or want to see it or not, were born on third and wonder why the hell people can’t hit a triple like we did.

“We” want to believe we hit that triple.

This is not universal across every individual, and I’m sure a number of you disagree whole heartedly with what I’m saying and are poised to come at me with anecdotes of why I’m wrong.  Well, save them.  This isn’t open for anecdotes.  Anecdotes cannot and do not refute the fact that so many for so long have felt so put down.  Again, whether you believe it to be true or not, the fact is that it is FELT, and therefore it is real. 

The question we must ask:  Do I care?

Do I care about my neighbors and friends of color?

Or do I just think there’s no problem and assume millions of people are just whiners?

That “they” must simply “get over it?”

“Rise and overcome” as an ENTIRE society because of all the wonderful things “we” have bestowed upon them?

Really?

Even though I will never feel as “they” do…can I at least acknowledge that there is an issue here?

Can I TRY to walk a mile in their shoes?  Can I at least SEE them as people?  As my neighbors?  As people I smile at and talk to in the grocery store?  As people I love and care about?

Can I see them as my children and not as props to some hilarious ‘80’s sitcom?

If I cannot, then there will always be “we” and “them.”  There will never just be “us.”  The term I want so badly to say for my girls.  I want it to come off my tongue naturally, without thought, without the notion of separation.  There are many more subtle forms of racism than those of open hostility or posts on Facebook about “being proud to be white.”  Indifference, indignation, and resentment are the more insidious of them. If you are not working to at least get to the root of the problem, regardless of political views, then you are a dinosaur and are destined for extinction.  Your last throes of relevance will be angry and hateful and ugly.  But you’ll go away, banished to the fringes along with people who still believe in slavery.  Because when someone says to Mo, “but they’re white,” she says,

“So?”

 

I realize some of you might be saying, “Damn, Welch, I just wanted to read a funny post about your kids, not a dissertation on race.”  Well, I assure you, this blog will not become some platform of social justice.  I have not become some crazy person who thinks that just because he has a couple of black kids in his house he needs to start a revolution.  That’s just dorky and embarrassing.  But I got out what I wanted to say, for better or worse.  And the main thing I want you to understand is that my views will continue to change and flow, because I’m trying my damndest to grow.  I’m trying desperately not to be so stuck in my ways and my beliefs that I too become a dinosaur.  I’ll keep learning more, listening more, and trying harder to be the person and father the girls deserve.  Because I love these kids.  So much.  From our frustration and pain of not being able to have our own we found in these girls our purpose.  And they deserve to expect the same out of life and this amazing country as I do.

Wonderland

Because the girls had done well over the course of “Ten Days with Dad” and had soundly earned their fifty points each, Amy and I made good on our promise and told them that we were going to Wonderland that following Saturday.

There is a quality of excitement known only to kids, one that for some reason becomes all at once unattainable after the onslaught of hormones mutates our brains at puberty.  It’s that crazed, unhinged joy that overtakes them once every single need in their little brain has been instantly met.  There is no apprehension or worry of which adults suffer when they are looking forward to something. The excitement is not contingent upon any other occurrence.  All they want out of the world, for a very fleeting moment, they have.  And there is so much raw energy that must be released in this state of euphoric lunacy that they can no longer be held accountable for their own movements, let alone the volume of their voices. 

As a kid, there were three things that could get me that worked up: Christmas, my birthday, and Worlds of Fun.  One day, usually toward the beginning of summer, my folks would gather up a bunch of Coke cans, load us in the hot minivan and take us to Worlds of Fun, Kansas City’s answer to Six Flags (the Coke cans always had some discounted admission coupon on them).  And each time the news of our impending trip reached my little ears I thought I would explode with happiness.  

The Orient Express. 

The Zambizi Zinger. 

The Omegatron. 

Fury of the Nile.

And funnel cakes.  Oh, sweet baby Jesus, the funnel cakes.

There were games to play, rides to ride, food to eat and shit to win.  Even the tram ride from the parking lot to the entrance was awesome.  Everything was big and flashy and loud.  For a little plump fella, there was no downside whatsoever to Worlds of Fun.  

But for some reason, my parents were not as thrilled as I was.  I distinctly remember audible sighs and twisted expressions of pained reluctance as we begged and pleaded to go.  I mean, why wouldn’t they want to go every single weekend?  The place was freaking AWESOME.

Funny how things change.

As we pulled the car into the parking lot of Wonderland, Mo and Shay were out of their minds excited.

I was already annoyed. 

Because there is another side to that maniacal state of excitement that I never noticed as a kid: It sucks the joy from the world around it in order to feed itself.

The constant screeching.

The perpetual squirming.

The  nonsensical questions.

 

Now, while witnessing this level of joy in the girls was at first incredibly satisfying, it quickly wore out its welcome.  I had to say, “Girls!  Calm…down!” at least seventeen times on the way to the park, usually when one of them would belt out a shrill shriek in response to something the other had done. 

In other words, they kicked the grabass shenanigans into high gear, which is always fun while driving on the highway.

As we approached the gate, the second reason my folks used to groan about Worlds of Fun suddenly became evident. 

Lines.  I had forgotten that half the day was spent standing in lines.

The park wasn’t even open yet, and I was already checking my watch.

I swear to God, since the girls have come to live with us, probably three times a week I remind myself to call my father and apologize for something.  Because I know that I was way, way worse.

Before we even entered the park, we had a little talk with the girls.  It was pretty much the most crowded and public place we had ever been with the kids, so we had to spell out some ground rules, basically safety stuff about not wondering off alone.  This did, however, pose a bit of a problem when figuring out what to ride and who was riding what with whom. 

Shay, the younger, isn’t afraid of ANYTHING.  I mean, she’ll ride anything she can, and it flat out PISSED when she’s not tall enough for the upside-down rides.  She had mentioned this before, but I honestly thought she was just blowing smoke,

Mo, on the other hand, thinks just about everything is terrifying.  “Dad, I don’t want to ride anything that goes upside down.”

“That’s fine, I don’t think you’re tall enough anyway.”

“Or that drops too fast.”

“Okay, Amy doesn’t like that either.”

“Or goes through a tunnel.  That’s scary.”

“Uuuhh…not sure which ones have tunnels, but okay.”

“Or goes fast or spins too much.”

“Mo, are you going to ride anything at all?”

“Yes.  The little kid roller coaster and the teacups I’ll ride.”

“May be a short day then.”

So as we enter the park, the first thing they do is try and scatter in different directions.  Not in an effort to be rid of us, but simply because their little brains couldn’t comprehend more than, “I MUST RIDE THAT THING NOW!”  Mo ran directly to this dumpy little airplane merry-go-round thing where kids whose ages were still being counted in months squealed and drooled on themselves.

Shay found the ride that had the most teenagers waiting in line because that was sure to be the scariest.

These kids are pretty different from one another.

It worked out okay because I’ll ride just about anything and therefore could be Shay’s ride buddy.  Mo and Amy were content to just sit in tiny cars and slowly rotate about a central axis all day. 

Everyone was happy. 

And I can now confirm that this kid really isn’t afraid of anything.  I thought that maybe we’d get to a ride that she wasn’t so sure about and that maybe she’d chicken out.  I actually was trying to get this to happen by egging her on, saying things like, “look how high that thing goes!  Are you sure you really want to ride this?”  This backfired a little though, resulting in a semi-public shaming from my seven year old.  “Dad, you sure are talking about how high this thing goes a lot.  Are you sure you aren’t too scared to ride it?” 

This elicited some snickers from fellow line-standers, which got my ears hot, and I found myself feeling like a little fat kid at Worlds of Fun all over again, trying to act tough for the benefit of those around me.  “Oh, yeah, right, Shay.  Riiiiight.  I’m really, like, so scared of this Viking boat that swings back and forth.  Soooooo scary!”  She just looked up at me with eyes that saw right through my little ruse and quietly turned around to watch the ride move. 

Damn kid.  I’ll show you who’s scared!

So we get on this Viking boat, and I realize, yes, I’m not particularly looking forward to just swinging forward and backward through a 180 degree arc for four minutes.  As the thing starts, I say, “Okay, you ready Shay?”

“Are you?”

“Yes, damn it!  I said I’m not scared and I’m not!”

“Uh huh.”

Halfway through the ride, I’m kind of holding on tight to the bar in front of me, and my stomach is up in my throat.  I’m wishing the ride was about over.

Shay is just giggling her little head off the entire time, loving every second, with her arms straight up in the air.  She actually came up off the seat a bunch of times, which freaked me the hell out but thrilled her.  I reached out hand to keep her down on the seat but she shook it off and gave me a dirty look.

I’m really glad she was too short for the crazy roller coasters.  Not sure what I’m going to do next year.  I guess I’ll have to put on my big boy pants and just go with her.  God.  It’s like having my older brother around again.

At lunch the girls wolfed down their corn dogs (complete with, yes, a FUNNEL CAKE!!!), begged for a couple bucks in quarters, then ran over to the little shelter beneath which ski ball machines chimed.  The girls took a brief moment to look over the prizes behind the ticket counter (and behind the bored looking high school kid working it) then approached their respective machines.

There is another large difference between the two girls.  Despite their similar sizes and builds, Mo is, at least right now, more athletically inclined then her sister.  Mo won’t sit in front of the television for more than an hour before she wants to be outside playing.  Shay, on the other hand, would just as soon sit in front of the TV all damn day.  Anyway, this is important to pass along only to help explain the startlingly large gap between their individual ski ball performances.

I watched Mo sink four balls in the upper left-hand corner ring, the 10,000 pointer, FOUR TIMES IN A ROW.  I don’t know any adults that can do that.  The machine promptly vomited a coil of tickets at her feet.  Mo put in another coin and continued to put on her ski ball clinic for all to see. 

Shay, on the other hand, was getting pretty jealous of her sister’s natural arcade ability and was having a hard time getting the ball up the ramp.  She’d haphazardly bowl this thing up the chute, and more times than not it’d just hop enough to get into the 10 point rung.  She was getting visibly agitated, so Amy walked over to help her while I continued to watch the girls from a distance, devouring a funnel cake.

Why is it that in the last two posts I’ve described myself quietly watching children while sucking down carny food? 

Anyway, I’m watching Mo sink ball after ball, the machine just freaking out.  Next to her is Amy trying to explain to Shay how to aim her shot.  I see Amy hold the ball, act like she’s going to bowl the ball up the ramp, and is, from my perspective, telling her to delay her release a little.  Amy hands the ball to Shay.  Shay does some under-hand practice swings, silently and intently gaging her shot.  She winds up mightily.  Her arm cuts through the air…

…and the ball shoots straight up into the air and shatters the fluorescent lights above them.  Glass and bits of light fixtures come crashing down onto the ski ball table while both Amy and Shay scurry away to safety. 

Mo is staring in disbelief.

People are wondering what the hell had just happened, if part of the building had collapsed.

The bored teenager is perked up now, running for a broom.

Amy is checking Shay over for cuts.

I’m sitting at the table in the middle of the concourse, just laughing my ass off.  I mean, belly laughing.  Loudly. 

Which is never a good idea to do when a little girl is just getting over the shock of what had just happened and is now mortified of the results.  So she begins to sob and shoot me nasty looks.

But I can’t quit laughing.  I’ve got a funnel cake in one hand and the other is gripping my side, squeezing it, pinching, anything to stop me from my giddiness.  And just as I’m about to get my shit together, I picture her little arm launching that ball up into the lights…still making me laugh as I type.  But Shay wasn’t laughing. 

And for that matter, neither was Amy.

Later I got the lecture from my wife about how they aren’t little boys, they’re sensitive, and that laughing at them is just going to make things worse.  But damn, that was still pretty funny.

We left a few hours after that.  The lines were getting long and the day was getting hot and the girls were getting grumpy.  Mo had won a butt load of tickets at ski ball and had some new cheap trinkets to play with, which she was good enough to share with her sister, given the circumstances of her ski ball debacle.  I wonder if that will scar her a little, like, make her super anxious around carnival arcades and Chuck E. Cheeses?  I guess we’ll find out.

I’ll end with a joke Shay told me last night which, despite my best efforts, I had to laugh at.

Shay: “Dad, how do you get a zombie’s head onto another zombie’s body?”

Me: “What?  God, I don’t know.  How?”

Shay: “You have to guess though.”

Me:  “Why?”

Shay:  “Just because.”

Me:  “Okay…uh…you have to, like, chop the heads off first, then…wait, why am I playing this game with you?  This is a pretty dark subject right before bed.”

Shay:  “Pleeeeeease?”

Me:  “Okay, fine.  You have to cut off both the heads, then get a stick, jam it up each neck hole, then put it on the other one’s body.”

Shay:  “Nooooo…close!”

Me:  “Close?  You mean there’s an answer to this and that was close?”

Shay:  “Yeah, there’s an answer.  Wanna hear it?”

Me:  “Yes, God, please, tell me.”

Shay:  “You have to cut off the head then put it on your butt then you have to fart and then the head will fly up in the air and land on the other zombie’s head which will make it fart too then you’ll go poop because of all the zombie farts and everyone will laugh because of all the farts and poop.”

Me:  “…go to bed.”