It was something I realized while riding with my daughter. We were taking our dog to a park.
She’s almost two, that dingo of a dog. We were going to throw the ball to burn off some of her energy. It gets stored up in reserve batteries she keeps in her haunches.
The only way to release it is by taking her out to a field and running her. Running her until she reaches a state of near-collapse. Until her tongue rolls out of her mouth like a red carpet. Until her poor lungs are huffing and puffing so bad you worry they’ll implode.
It’s exhausting work — for her and for us. She’s fast like a flash of light. And she doesn’t leave you the ball. She carries it around, darting about on her short, squatty legs. She’s impossible to catch. We lunge for her while screaming, “Come back here, you chicken biscuit!”
My daughter and I put our heads together to come up with new ways to catch her. Like the two-headed monster. She scampers up my back like a monkey and we chase the dog around while growling, “We’re a two-headed monster! Fear us! Give us our ball!”
It doesn’t work.
I end up winded and warn out. But this child of mine laughs hysterically. Hysterically! She spurs me on with her dirty heels as if I’m a horse. “Come on, dad!” she cries. “Don’t stop now! She’s just a dog! Get her!”
I dig deep. Find the strength to go on. To keep going. Who wants it to end? Can you get enough of that sound? That laughter? I’ll let my tongue roll out of my mouth like a red carpet. I’ll let my poor lungs implode. I will collapse into a heap on the ground, all to keep hearing it. That incredibly precious laugh. It’s intoxicating.
I was asked this week to write about my favorite things. Christmas is upon us, and the year is coming to a close. It’s a time for reflection and giving thanks. Of taking stock and then looking forward.
I had been struggling to find favorites. To pick moments that stood out more than others. That is until the events of the last week unfolded. Events I don’t want to think about anymore. None of us do. Not this time of year. Not ever. It doesn’t seem fair.
Don’t remind us anymore. That horrible, horrible tragedy that took place in Connecticut last Friday. And when you’re a parent — parent of an elementary school student in those same grades! — it cuts a little deeper. It makes you want to do what President Obama said he would that night: “hug our children a little tighter and we’ll tell them that we love them.”
Favorite things? They became crystal clear for me after that: Any time I’m with my daughter.
That was the realization I came to in the car. I told her that as I drove.
I couldn’t see her face. Maybe it was better that way. You can’t say something serious to a child while looking at them. They have security mechanisms to prevent it. They grow uncomfortable and embarrassed. They look down at the ground or quickly change the subject. They say things like, “So dad, have you ever actually seen squirrel poop?”
My daughter scrambled. “What does that even mean?” she asked, trying to play it off. Trying to be coy.
I stole a glimpse in the rearview mirror. On her face was the tiniest, most guarded smile I had ever seen. One she didn’t think I would spy. Precious.
Another favorite moment to add to the list this holiday season. Another to remind us of the things we should never take for granted. And I got it without even running to a state of near collapse or my tongue hanging out like a red carpet.