Little White Lies

I’m having a very hard time accepting that my oldest daughter, Shelby, is 18 years old. I’m having such a hard time that I have made the subconscious decision to ignore it altogether. My justification is that she’s still in high school and living in my home, but if it were not that, I’d probably come up with something else. She may be technically an adult, but I’m her Dad and she will always be that little girl holding her arms out for me to pick her up.

As she’s gotten older, we’ve had moments where we frustrate each other. I am fairly positive that I have frustrated her much more than she has frustrated me, but that’s probably true of every relationship in my entire life. I remember when she stopped looking at me with the wide-eyed, innocent awe of a child for her father and started looking at me with the bored, disillusioned stare of a teen. I think I amuse her, but not in the way I want to. I amuse her in the same way we watch American’s Funniest Home Videos and laugh when guys get hit in the crotch.

Like her sisters, Shelby gets her beauty, talent and grace from her Mom. Any awkward personality traits and particularly her tendency to resort to sarcasm as a means of communication, she gets from me. I am so proud. (You’d probably have to hear that last line in my head to know that it was “dripping” in sarcasm, but since you can’t be in my head…and be eternally grateful for that…just take my word for it.)

When any of the girls respond sarcastically, or try to make a joke that is just a little too personal, my wife just looks at me and shakes her head. My mother gives me the same look when I complain about Taylor’s incessant questioning of EVERYTHING. My sins are revisiting me, passed down to my girls like eye color and my love for macaroni and cheese.

One of the flaws that have returned to taunt me is my history of twisting the truth for the sake of a joke. Some would call this “pulling one over” or “tricking.” I like to consider it “creative” and “light-hearted teasing.” Those without a sense of humor simply call it “lying.” I think that is a serious over-reaction, and I will point out that I do have some firm personal policies regarding these “tricks” and stories I tell. First, it can do no harm. I would never tell someone that doing something is safe when it is not. Second, I would never intend to hurt anyone’s feelings. That does not include the degree they may feel tricked by the story, because I assume that they have a sense of humor, but rather I would not want to say anything mean-spirited or personally demeaning.

I have always had a decent ability to tell a story with a straight face. This has gotten me into trouble a few times. In an effort to be funny (which is all relative to the degree that you and those around you actually GET the joke), I’ve made statements that I thought were so OBVIOUSLY ridiculous and not true but my audience didn’t understand. “When did you have dinner with O.J. Simpson?” was an actual response after a throw away comment I made about hiding the cutlery. So …I have to be careful.

I’m constantly reminded that I do this kind of joking too often, and started far too early with my kids, because Taylor likes to say “you know you can’t believe what Dad says…” Ouch. It’s not that they think I’m a liar, but they never know when to take me seriously. Not a good thing. Sometimes I want them to take me seriously. Sometimes I desperately need them to take me seriously. I have to put on my “mean Dad” face for them to know that sometimes. None of us like that face.

Of course, kids mimic what they see their parents do. That’s a scary responsibility, and sometimes we see mirror images of ourselves that we don’t like. My kids picked up the sarcasm quickly, and fortunately their primary target is almost always me. They also try to get back at me for years of make believe stories by trying to pull one over on me occasionally. Usually they are not very effective, and I can see through their game pretty quickly. In general, they haven’t learned that for a story to be believable there has to be a thread of possibility running through it.

Last week, Shelby and her school choir attended a music festival in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. (When I was in school, we attended music festivals in Frankfort, Kentucky…which was twenty miles away. We stopped for lunch at Arby’s. We were back home the same day by 2pm. We thought it was a big deal). They left Thursday morning and came back Sunday night and had plenty of time in between for beach play, shopping, eating and general enjoyment in being young and away from the parents. Thanks to a Facebook message I sent to her Director, Shelby was finally guilted into giving us a call Friday evening and letting us know she was still alive.

Saturday, on our way to the airport for my current trip, Shelby sent a text to my cell phone. Nothing fancy, just letting us know how they did in the festival. I let Connie respond and she asked how the trip was going. Shelby’s response was this:

Got a little sunburn, but having lots of fun…got a tattoo last night. I’ll send a pic.

Now, let me first say that I don’t have a big issue with “tattoos.” They are not exactly my thing, but they definitely fall into my “to each their own” category. Personally, I do not want to defile my body with a tattoo. I’ve done enough of that with pizza and hot wings. Also, I really, really hate pain.

We received a pic, but it was a sunny day and we had the top down on the car, so we couldn’t see anything. I was a bit panicked. This was my little girl. This was my baby. I envisioned the name of some temporary crush etched permanently across her forehead or a full color drawing of the Jonas Brothers covering her back. Connie assured me that it was probably very small and tasteful. I agreed that I would be fine with that. She said that they had even discussed tattoos a few weeks before and Shelby had expressed some interest. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. It was like I didn’t know these women at all…or worse…they didn’t know me and how I might react.

We arrived at the airport and I kissed Connie goodbye…she gave me a hug and the bemused look that said she was going to say something but knew I would do the exact opposite. “Don’t worry,” she said, as she got behind the driver’s seat and buckled in to leave. I nodded and watched her drive away.

I was very worried. I dialed Shelby’s cell number and waited for her to answer. She finally did and I tried to be calm. We chatted a bit about the trip and what they had done until I could wait no more and brought up the tattoo. “It’s on my ankle, Dad, and not very big” she said, trying to make it sound like she had bought a pack of gum at the local store. “It’s a heart over a peace sign over a cross,” she said, and I was grateful for that. I said something about her being an adult, and she said, “yes, and this was my first adult decision on my own.” I was glad she didn’t say “mature,” because I might have chuckled. Making the decision to get permanent body art while on a beach trip with friends is not exactly the definition of maturity. Instead, she said “adult,” and as I’ve proved, time and time again, “adults” make mistakes all the time.

Inside the airport I found a dark corner and took another look at the picture Shelby sent. It was much clearer now. Holding the photo closer, I recognized that it had the look of a tattoo. I remember my Grandfather and the tattoos he got in the Navy. Pale blue with a little bleed from the lines. This had that look, but the drawings were rudimentary at best. Logic would tell me that it was a trick…probably drawn on by one of the girls she was travelling with. I could see them giggling in their hotel room, plotting the joke they would play on Shelby’s dumb old Dad.

Only this didn’t have the look of ball point ink on skin. The ink really looked in there…it really looked like a tattoo. I thought about Shelby. She’s not great with money, but she knew that she only had a certain amount to spend on this trip. What if she went looking for a bargain? I could just see Shelby and her friends roaming the streets of Myrtle Beach in search of “Billy Jim Joe Bob’s Discount Tattoo Shop.” He was probably running a 5 for 1 special on Friday night!

I called Connie. She listened as I hyper-ventilated my concerns into the phone. “It looks horrible,” I told her. “It looks like something an eight year old with no artistic talent would draw!” (This could have been a slight exaggeration, but I was in a bad place).

Connie was calm and repeated her mantra, “don’t worry.” It did no good. I was nearly sick thinking about this ugly little drawing staining my beautiful daughters leg for the rest of her life. I ended the call with Connie because she was useless. She couldn’t make it go away and she didn’t even offer to drive to Myrtle Beach to retrieve our child. I boarded the plane for Washington and settled into my seat for more anxiety.

Twenty six hours later, Shelby returned home and Connie picked her up at the school. I called and talked to Shelby as they drove home. I listened as she told me details about her trip. Where they ate, what they had seen, who had been annoying, etc. She did not mention the tattoo and neither did I. It was torturous. Any other time I would have wanted to know all those other things, but in that particular call, all I really wanted to know about was the tattoo.

A little while later, Connie called and I immediately asked if she had seen “it.” She said she had, and agreed that it was not high quality art. My heart sank. I had already considered some possible ways to fix this. Acid removal would be painful and leave scars, so that would not go over well. The best way to deal with this would be to hire a better artist…no, make that the best Tattoo Artist we can find…and have them make something beautiful out of the rough sketch on her leg. It was the only way and I would make it happen. I would help my daughter fix what had been a very bad mistake.

“It’s Henna,” Connie said.

I almost cried. Henna meant it would all go away. The long nightmare was over.

Then it hit me. I had been played. Shelby had pulled a fast one on the master. She broke the first rule (which is “do no harm”), because I could have easily had a heart attack worrying about all of this, but it was a fairly spectacular illusion nonetheless. While I’m a little concerned that she could pull this off so effortlessly…and the ramifications of this type of behavior being used for nefarious reasons might give me many sleepless nights in the future, I still felt a tinge of pride. It was a good prank and I probably deserved a good burn. My daughter…I think I’ll keep her.

Of course, my revenge shall be unwavering and without pity. The gloves are off, baby. Be afraid…be very afraid.