Like most parents (I would guess), I try to imagine what traits the Bunker Girls will acquire from Randy and me. Not just the straight hair vs. wavy hair bit, but whether they will be cool under pressure (him) or freak out when something doesn't go according to plan (regrettably, that's me). I always hope they'll get the best of both worlds, which is something I touched on for Triangle Mom2Mom, a local parenting site I contribute to. (Maybe you've seen that little link up there called TM2M?) So, because it's FatherBunker week, I'm going to take the liberty of reposting it here. (But Bunker readers get bonus pictures with it!)
Speeding up I-40 and out of town for the Memorial Day weekend, I was reading a story to Randy in Sports Illustrated (Fun fact: I worked there for about six minutes in the mid-90s*) about IndyCar driver Danica Patrick. "Her father ... had raced snowmobiles and midget cars in his younger days, and he instilled the thrill of speed into his daughters Danica and Brooke, buying each a go-kart when Danica was nine and Brooke seven."
Randy's eyes lit up from the driver's seat; he interrupted me mid-sentence. I knew what was coming.
"Can I buy my daughter a go-kart when she's seven?"
I shot him a look.
Here's the thing about my husband. He doesn't do team sports. He does thrill sports, the kind where you can be killed or maimed or paralyzed in some fashion. He, too, raced snowmobiles and go-karts ... if by race you mean flying into icy trees in the Canadian outback or crashing into friends on an indoor track. He was the kid who successfully petitioned the local government to build a municipal BMX park so he and his pals could take their lives into their own hands in a designated area, instead of flipping on their heads in front of the Canadian Tire store while innocent customers dodged their soaring bodies. Over his left eyebrow is a scar he doesn't like to talk about, but I'm certain he didn't get it in a knife fight on the mean streets of suburban Ontario:
(Yep, that's him, rockin' the socks.)
Meanwhile, my older sister had to bribe me to learn how to ride a bike when I was 10. I was bringing down her neighborhood reputation.
I want my girls to be fearless, I do. I love watching women like Danica Patrick redefine the strength of their gender. And if MJ or Little L were to find themselves in the winner's circle at the Indy 500, I would be their most obnoxious fan. It's just that, before they start the race, they'll have to climb over my dead body to get into the driver's seat.
This also goes for jumping out of airplanes, flying off ramps of all kinds, scuba diving, riding really tall ferris wheels and boxing. I guess that leaves the kind of fearlessness displayed at desk jobs and on stationary bicycles:
(My kind of danger: Eating Utz potato chips with lunch, circa 2001.)
The truth is, I love risk ... from a distance. In fact, when we were expecting MJ, we tried to think of names that would sound good when introduced at the X-Games, names with instant star quality and a hint of edge, like Picabo and Piper. Dirt-biking names. Skateboarding names. Names that could be adopted to describe a particularly radical water skiing move that she had invented and perfected en route to winning a gold medal. We even thought about Danica ... but decided we would be pigeonholing her.
And then I went through 23 hours and 46 minutes of labor to deliver a surprisingly blue and completely terrified 5-pound, 10-ounce bald baby girl who couldn't eat, sleep or grow hair without my help. So much for risk.
When it comes to child-rearing, Randy and I agree on most things. But thresholds of physical danger are not among them. He's dauntless, mostly; I'm paranoid, mostly. He turns MJ upside down in a good-natured romp and I cringe. He puts her on his shoulders and I walk behind him like a human safety net. I suppose that balance is good news for our children, who will probably experience just enough thrill in their lives without losing any appendages.
Back in the car, I continued reading aloud, this time about a makeshift racetrack Danica's father had set up for his girls. "Moments later her brakes failed, and she crashed head-on at 25 mph into a concrete wall ... Danica's body slammed hard into the steering column, and she slumped over, her head smacking the ground as her coat caught on fire."
It turns out she was unharmed. But I shot Randy another look anyway. "Ahem," I said. He wasn't listening. He was too busy looking at something in front of him.
"Maybe I can buy her a motorcycle when she turns 9, like that one, on the back of that truck. And we can go dirt-biking together."
Absolutely. In a sandbox out back, and on a bike without a motor.
***
More exploits from the father of my children:
Building a Go-Kart:
(That outfit, by the way, is what 11 year old boys used to wear. Now it's what 11 year old girls wear.)
Scuba Diving:
(As for me? As Professor Pizza on "Curious George" says, "I don't like it when fish look at me.")
Ski-Dooing in the Atlantic Ocean:
Speeding up I-40 and out of town for the Memorial Day weekend, I was reading a story to Randy in Sports Illustrated (Fun fact: I worked there for about six minutes in the mid-90s*) about IndyCar driver Danica Patrick. "Her father ... had raced snowmobiles and midget cars in his younger days, and he instilled the thrill of speed into his daughters Danica and Brooke, buying each a go-kart when Danica was nine and Brooke seven."
Randy's eyes lit up from the driver's seat; he interrupted me mid-sentence. I knew what was coming.
"Can I buy my daughter a go-kart when she's seven?"
I shot him a look.
Here's the thing about my husband. He doesn't do team sports. He does thrill sports, the kind where you can be killed or maimed or paralyzed in some fashion. He, too, raced snowmobiles and go-karts ... if by race you mean flying into icy trees in the Canadian outback or crashing into friends on an indoor track. He was the kid who successfully petitioned the local government to build a municipal BMX park so he and his pals could take their lives into their own hands in a designated area, instead of flipping on their heads in front of the Canadian Tire store while innocent customers dodged their soaring bodies. Over his left eyebrow is a scar he doesn't like to talk about, but I'm certain he didn't get it in a knife fight on the mean streets of suburban Ontario:
(Yep, that's him, rockin' the socks.)Meanwhile, my older sister had to bribe me to learn how to ride a bike when I was 10. I was bringing down her neighborhood reputation.
I want my girls to be fearless, I do. I love watching women like Danica Patrick redefine the strength of their gender. And if MJ or Little L were to find themselves in the winner's circle at the Indy 500, I would be their most obnoxious fan. It's just that, before they start the race, they'll have to climb over my dead body to get into the driver's seat.
This also goes for jumping out of airplanes, flying off ramps of all kinds, scuba diving, riding really tall ferris wheels and boxing. I guess that leaves the kind of fearlessness displayed at desk jobs and on stationary bicycles:
(My kind of danger: Eating Utz potato chips with lunch, circa 2001.)The truth is, I love risk ... from a distance. In fact, when we were expecting MJ, we tried to think of names that would sound good when introduced at the X-Games, names with instant star quality and a hint of edge, like Picabo and Piper. Dirt-biking names. Skateboarding names. Names that could be adopted to describe a particularly radical water skiing move that she had invented and perfected en route to winning a gold medal. We even thought about Danica ... but decided we would be pigeonholing her.
And then I went through 23 hours and 46 minutes of labor to deliver a surprisingly blue and completely terrified 5-pound, 10-ounce bald baby girl who couldn't eat, sleep or grow hair without my help. So much for risk.
When it comes to child-rearing, Randy and I agree on most things. But thresholds of physical danger are not among them. He's dauntless, mostly; I'm paranoid, mostly. He turns MJ upside down in a good-natured romp and I cringe. He puts her on his shoulders and I walk behind him like a human safety net. I suppose that balance is good news for our children, who will probably experience just enough thrill in their lives without losing any appendages.
Back in the car, I continued reading aloud, this time about a makeshift racetrack Danica's father had set up for his girls. "Moments later her brakes failed, and she crashed head-on at 25 mph into a concrete wall ... Danica's body slammed hard into the steering column, and she slumped over, her head smacking the ground as her coat caught on fire."
It turns out she was unharmed. But I shot Randy another look anyway. "Ahem," I said. He wasn't listening. He was too busy looking at something in front of him.
"Maybe I can buy her a motorcycle when she turns 9, like that one, on the back of that truck. And we can go dirt-biking together."
Absolutely. In a sandbox out back, and on a bike without a motor.
***
More exploits from the father of my children:
Building a Go-Kart:
(That outfit, by the way, is what 11 year old boys used to wear. Now it's what 11 year old girls wear.)Scuba Diving:
(As for me? As Professor Pizza on "Curious George" says, "I don't like it when fish look at me.")Ski-Dooing in the Atlantic Ocean:
Pearl
June 11, 2008 12:06 AM