Monday, 10 November 2008

• Silent Treatment

  Dear Emmalee,
  
  It might come as quite a surprise to you, but when you were a baby, you used to bite your nails.  At the time, it was rare; you would bite them if bored with Blue's Clues or bothered by Ruby's bittersweet belligerence of Ruby and Max fame.  One kindergarten night after getting you out of the bath, I noticed your fingers bleeding.  You had begun biting your nails past the cuticle, causing them to wound.
  
  I screamed.  I yelled.  I threatened to spank you within an inch of your life.  I slapped your hand every time I caught you doing it; I slapped your hand regardless even if I didn't see the act with my own eyes but my avid Father-spidey-sense knew you were doing it.  Nothing worked. 
  
  Shortly after came the blowout: The utter blowout that changed the whole playing field of father-daughter relationships.  I was in my room on the computer, prepping for another tour out of the state, possibly FL or OR, I'm none too positive of which one, and you came into the room.  I kept you dressed in Old Navy an awful lot those days; they were cheap and I was tacky so it was a wonderful mix. 
  
  You were wearing a yellow tank top and purple shorts.  You wore those shorts only because your mother's favorite color was purple.  You came in to hug me, to simply hug me and silently walk away as you normally did when I was busy on the computer.  However, this time I noticed that more of your fingers were bleeding and I went numb.
  
  I had said, "If you continue to bite your nails, I won't talk to you ever again."
  
  "No Daddy!  No!"  You had protested.  I was your world, and here I came to tear it down with a wrecking ball of blindsided impatience.  Daddy the demolitions.  Daddy with the demons.  Daddy, a title that perhaps should be earned as a privilege instead of passed out like fliers on the Vegas strip.
  
  Despite your tears, despite your attempt to hug me again, I had pushed you away and said nothing else.  You walked out to your Dora the Explorer desk I had placed in the kitchen.  It was adjacent to your rabbit cage, the rabbit you named Sara.  Your mother loved that name, but for different reasons that I don't think you'll ever understand.  I hardly comprehend it.
  
  You sat in your desk, placed one chubby arm down, laid your head sideways and cried.  From my room, I heard your sobs and something was off.  Your crying was different.  I peeked from a crack in the door and saw my beautiful little baby girl, pouring her heart out for her daddy.  Something she'd never done before at the time.  I had used my power, my ultimate standing with her to hurt her and I felt like I was choking on air I didn't deserve.
  
  I let you cry.  I let you cry and cry while I watched, because I needed you to stop biting your nails.  Because getting my way was more important to me than keeping you safe.  Safe physically, of course, but my duty as a father is keep you safe emotionally as well.  I should have ran out there and picked you up and whispered, "I'm so sorry," into your little cotton ears over and over again until you'd push me away and forgive me.  My decision to stay in my room and let you feel as if your tiny world was shattering was not justified.
  
  Emma, my little sunflower who speaks of full moons and distances between Earth and home, the girl who tells jokes to cheer me up.  Please don't ever stop talking to me.
  
  Dat

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