Quinn Creeps

The above is a photo of my daughter. You see the back of her head in the foreground, and between the porch rails you see "the drummer," the object of her affection. We will refer to him as "the drummer" to protect his privacy. Live music is the norm in a resort town on a sultry Sunday eve, and Quinn loves to boogie. So a couple of weeks ago, when she exclaimed that she was, "falling in love with that boy (the drummer)." I didn't think much of it. I mean the drummer's always get the girl, right? They usually don't have to put in much effort either -- "the drummer relaxes and waits between shows for his cinnamon girl." And it is reasonable to believe that Neil Young could be speaking of a Canadian drummer. I take that to mean a slightly less forceful and self appraising drummer than your average American drummer. Even he needn't work to woo! He relaxes and waits--that's it.

Be that as it may, this week was different. Quinn made a couple of adult, or at least young adult proclamations that gave me pause. First, as you see in the photo, she is a professional creeper--she said that she wanted to see "the drummer," but did not want to be seen by him. She also asked, "mom, do you think I need to apologize for the last time?" She looked genuinely concerned, and upon further inquisition explained that last time she was holding "the drummer's" tambourine when he needed it. This was no surprise, because she had held his tambourine for the entire evening. Clearly she had been brooding about this for quite a while.

Quinn's earlier expressions of a desire to marry, or the sentiment that she was falling in love sounded like things she might have heard others utter. But to contemplate a perceived failure in the eyes of the object of her affection, store it in her psyche for almost two weeks, and lament it with sincerity was tragic and absurd all at once--just as young love tends to be. I have no angle on this one. I was taken aback, and I've been that way ever since. I tried to develop some insight, but none came. I can say that I smiled, and offered no more comfort than my presence. As the evening wore on, I was forced to ponder the reality that that would be all I'd ever have to offer. And as my daughter starts down a long road, seemingly way too soon, I may never be more helpful than I was last night--and that wasn't very helpful.

Threat Level DAD

Wee Quinn is a traveler. She has flown, and her ship (actually a ferry) has sailed. We were fortunate enough to visit family in Upstate New York, and friends in Boston week before last. A change of pace was nice, and probably needed. And-a pleasant surprise-Q is a master jet setter. She is a friendly and compliant flyer, and brings a three year old's perspective to things that we jaded adults have long forgotten to be amazed by. And seeing how different the rest of the world is from our home certainly gives us perspective on both.

The look of wonder on her face would be hard to capture in words, but her words were the most endearing. Highlights: "I can see the whole village out the window dad." (In this case the city of Norfolk). Upon beginning our decent, "We're going down guys!" I explained that landing was probably a less provocative description. Adjacent passengers laughed. . .nervously. When landings were bumpy--which they all seem to be when traveling with such precious cargo--"Phew that was a close one!" When I asked close to what, she just shrugged and looked at me as if I was the most naive person in the world.

All of our flights went smoothly and flying from Norfolk to Albany, things seemed tame to say the least. By the time Q was awaiting departure at Logan, she was an old hand. I, on the other hand, found a lot at Logan to occupy my parental mind. I sensed Deanna was feeling the same way when she pointed out a guy in a Saint Louis Cardinals hat (the Cards had beaten Boston the night before, no small crime in Boston, and during the world series). "Why's he gotta wear that hat, is he trying to get beat up?" Then there was the guy doing yoga, why he had to be limber for the flight I couldn't guess. I like to be limber for a flight, but bloody marys work way better than yoga.

Of course yoga guy and his buddy stood in the aisle for five agonizing minutes in which I was 48.7% sure they were up to no good. I was beginning to feel a little like Juan Williams, but nobody had a beard--except me. Maybe this is not unique to me, but as a father, pretty much everyone seems like at least a low level threat. Watching someone do yoga in an airport terminal while listening to the TSA's admonishment to report strange behavior raised my suspicion. In truth, I did a quick inventory in the terminal. I'd say eighty percent of my fellow passengers waiting in the terminal were either reading or drinking coffee or both. I decided to keep an eye on everyone else.

Then we landed, or "went down," if you will. And I spent fifteen minutes of the car ride home silently berating myself for being a paranoid jerk. Then last week there was a shooter at LAX. And I thought about the terminal we'd been sitting in. I thought about wrangling my friendly kid in an airport. I though about trying to keep her close when all she wanted to do was talk to everyone. I thought about how hard it would be to get to her to keep her safe as we stumbled into our shoes just past the security check. I spent some time berating myself for feeling comfortable in our little Norfolk airport--for letting Quinn or Deanna get more than eighteen inches away from me.

Statistically speaking, the ride to daycare, or time in the ocean or pool are far more dangerous to Quinn than flight, airports, terrorists and run of the mill nut jobs combined. Were I a sensible man, this would help me to just relax and take life as it comes. But, I'm a father, so at home or in the airport terminal, I'd say I hover around the same threat level. I'm not sure what color that threat level would be, so I'll just call it threat level DAD.