The words cut through me like a knife, “I’m gonna marry Evon.” These words, spoken by my seven (yes seven) year old daughter, were a sucker-punch to my gut, as I sat in the passenger seat on the way home from the train station. The wife had a wry smirk on her face (she knew how I would react) as I grappled with emotions so deep I was drowning. She was amused by her daughter’s crush. I was crushed by my daughter’s amusement.
I thought I had more time…to formulate a gameplan..to keep boys away. I wanted to wake up from this bad dream, from this nightmare, really. Who knew that I would have to start implementing ‘Operation Keep Away’ so early?
Operation Keep Away. My strategy for preventing my daughter from dating boys until she’s 18 (and out of the house-out of sight, out of mind). Actually, it’s the strategy to keep boys from WANTING to date my daughter, for fear of life and limb. It’s quite simple. The first boy to come to my door (looking for my daughter) will be greeted by a sight that will haunt him forever.
Think Rambo meets Shaka Zulu. Me, 6’3″ with dreadlocks wild atop my head; no shirt, tattoos covering my arms, chest, stomach, shoulders and back (just-released-from-prison-ex-convict-style); two large machetes tucked into the waistband of my military fatigue pants; a halo of smoke around my head; and sunglasses to cover wild-crazed eyes.
In my best Patious, I’ll grumble, ‘What a gwan?! Whatcha bloodclot doin’ pon me door?!’ At which point, the young man will wet himself and run home, terrified. He’ll tell all his friends of the horrible man at 120 High (the last house on the right-literally), and my daughter will be date-less until she goes off to college.
Now the wife thinks my strategy is for the birds, but what does she know? And my daughter is blissfuly unaware of the terroristic nature of her pronouncements.
A cold sweat covers my brow as I type this post.
I really thought I had more time….