A Proposal

In the interest of keeping the ball rolling on this blog I may occasionally pull something out of my Trunk Of Unfinished Things -- random thoughts, writings, etc. -- and post it here in the light of day. Today is one such day.

I actually wrote the following essay over a year ago, then recently brushed it up before submitting it to a local radio program that was looking for things to read on a weekend talk/arts program. In the end they said thanks but no thanks (though they encouraged me to send a few more poems, some of which may appear here at a later date). Probably it was just too sentimental. But I don't apologize for that. I come from a long line of weepy Italian men, and the older I get the more I appreciate that side of me -- the side that can be laid low simply by one of my girl's smiles or surprise hugs (the kind where they put you in an armlock and try to wrest your head from your neck).

Hope you enjoy it.

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My two daughters and I were at the breakfast table one morning eating, appropriately it now seems, Life cereal when my then-three-year-old, Abigail, popped the question.

"Daddy, when I older can I marry you?" Big blue eyes. Skim milk dribbling down her chin. How could I say no?

"That's very sweet, honey, " I said, "but actually I'm already married to mommy."

Abby's sister, Emma, who was six at the time, offered an elegant solution to this dilemma.

"Just tell mommy, 'Sweetie, I love you very much, but you are too old for me.'"

This did not seem prudent, especially since I'm six years older than Melinda. If anyone's owed a newer model, it's my wife.

I tried to let my daughters down gently.

"I'm flattered, really, but I'm sure both of you will find very nice people to marry when you're older." I coughed. "Much, much older."

My relationship with my daughters seems to be entering a new territory, one I'm not entirely ready to explore. Leading the way is Emma, who in the past year has asked questions – or made observations – about kissing, death, how babies get in a mommy's tummy, lipstick, boyfriends, God, parental sleeping arrangements, Britney Spears, hair dye, and same-sex couple hood.

Mind you, her questions are always G-rated, the kind of things you would expect from someone who still sleeps with a special blanky and considers Kraft macaroni and cheese (the 59-cents-a-box kind, with the packet of orange powder) haute cuisine. Still, it's clear the world is starting to open up for her, from the cozy, familiar microcosm of her yellow-painted bedroom with its dolls and its butterfly-covered comforter and parents who have an answer for everything, to a place colored in myriad shades of gray. A world that's more complex, and therefore more alluring, but also one that is less certain.

It’s the normal course of growing up, I know. Keeping her away from her personal Tree of Knowledge would do her more harm than good in the end. Also, it would be impossible. Just like learning to cross the street safely, or how to dial 911, she needs to understand that life is uncertain and sometimes dangerous if she’s to survive and thrive in this world. So when she starts pushing against the walls of her adolescent world, I try to let in the light and darkness she’s after in small and equal measures. Yes, honey, sometimes pets die, but their memories live on with us always. Yes, some people do hurt other people, but there are many, many others who feed the hungry and care for the sick and hold the lonely in their arms. How you treat people is far more important than how pretty you are.

When Emma was born, a friend told us that parents are given an invisible apron with eighteen strings our children can cling to as they grow up, and that each year we must be willing to cut off one of those strings so that when our daughter becomes an adult she’ll be her own person. It’s a pleasant enough image, even if my wearing an apron is not. But to be honest with you, I’ve been cheating a little since my girls were born. After clipping each string, instead of throwing it away, I’ve been secretly tying it to one of the remaining strings, giving my daughters the distance they need while trying to strengthen the ties that still bind us.

As for that last string? Well, when the time comes, I’m guessing I might just conveniently lose the scissors.