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I’ve got this Norman Rockwell daughter.
In her previous life, she posed for the old man when he wanted
to paint a pre-pubescent, freckle-nosed girl with braids in a
dress, who was about to beat up some neighborhood boy.
One day, she’s going to be beautiful -- a real knockout. But she
doesn’t know it yet because she already thinks she is.
Anyway, it’s her current role in life to bring me back to earth
when necessary by reminding me it’s not the 60s anymore.
For example...
...“Dad, it’s not the 60s anymore. Kids don’t let air out of other
kids’ tires.” (She informed me of this after wheeling her bike
home from the park because both tires were flat. It was immaterial
that a bunch of boys were hanging around, and the tires were as
good as new after I pumped them up.)
...“Dad, it’s not the 60s anymore. Kids don’t give black eyes
anymore, especially boys don’t give ‘em to girls.” (I learned
this just after reading in our local paper about a guy who beat
his wife with a rock and then drowned her one-year-old baby.)
...“Dad, it’s not the 60s anymore. If a kid is going to have a
boy/girl party, parents never call up that kid’s parents to see
if you can send any pop or chips along. I would just DIE and never
show my face again. If you want to know if his parents are going
to be there, just call up and ask them that.” (Oh, well. I guess
she’s right.)
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