Drunk of the Week

Part of being Dad is enduring unimaginable torture at the hands of your child. I'm not talking here about the dirty diapers that curl nose hairs from a mile away and defy all laws of physics because there's no way a ten-pound child should be able to unload thirty pounds of poop in one sitting. Nor am I talking about the seventy-pound rucksack reminiscent of those carried into battle by Special Forces troops required for a simple fifteen-minute expedition to the grocery store for more diapers. And I'm certainly not talking about all the late nights when a hungry baby wakes you and you have to roll over to wake Mom so that she can feed the bundle of joy because -- thank God! -- she's breastfeeding.

No, I'm talking about the more subtle pain that nobody, not even Dr. Phil, tells you about. I'm talking about sitting through mind-numbing movies like Thomas the Tank Engine Gets Decommissioned After Losing Federal Funding. Or wasting hours of your life pushing a swing because your daughter refuses to learn to do it herself. Worst of all is the birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese's, a front for subversive Islamic fundamentalists who plan to take over America by inciting mass suicide in parents who have prayed they'll never have to go back and then find themselves there again and again.

Allison just turned seven, and for weeks before this blessed event, I lay awake at night, dreading these words: "Dad, I want to go to Chuck E. Cheese's for my birthday." I have to hand it to the kid: She surprised me by instead requesting Outback Steakhouse (4650 Center Place Drive, Greeley, or every fifth exit on the national interstate system) so that she could have "one of those onion things."

For those of you who have never left the safety of your basements, Outback is a popular chain best known for its annoying commercial jingle and neon orange signs that are just like the ones the aborigines use. Each Outback features authentic fake Australian sharks that scared the hell out of Allison a few years ago, as well as authentic Australian barbecue. There's Foster's in both the oil can and on tap, so you can be nauseated in two different ways. The beer's so bad even Allison won't drink it.

Allison is ahead of her peers on several levels, including her choice of beer (she prefers John Courage or Fat Tire). That's one indication of just how much trouble I'm in with her. Somehow, maybe because of Flintstones Kids vitamins, she's growing up way too fast. Or perhaps she's mature beyond her years because she's had to witness her old man's antics.

For example, sometimes my vocabulary is colorful -- but I assure you, only if the situation requires it. When you slip while shaving and leave your ear hanging by two skin molecules, only a couple of words can express your true emotions. That those words are favored by sailors and the Sopranos makes them no less appropriate. On a couple of occasions, Allison has caught me thus expressing my disappointment, and just as I'm about to explain to her why she should never utter those words, especially in front of her mother, I hear, "Daddy, you really shouldn't say that." It's stunning to be lectured by someone who puts her underwear on backward more than half the time.

Another example: Allison called one night and said she had to tell me something but was afraid I would get mad. I assured her that she could tell me anything, because I love her. She giggled and then, in a very sly voice, said the words every father dreads: "Daddy, I got high heels today." Although these are not really high heels, she thinks they are, and Allison takes a perverse pleasure in seeing me have a seizure whenever she wears them.

High heels are just the first step, of course. Next comes makeup, then skirts so short that a dad would be struck blind seeing his daughter in one -- and don't get me started on those cropped tops that show off the bellybutton or those "hip huggers" that scream, "Hey, I wore underwear today!" Next, she'll want to go out with a BOY, and you know he is going to own a VAN, but over YOUR DEAD BODY is she going out with this kid, because you know exactly WHAT'S ON HIS MIND. Then she'll want to go to THE PROM and STAY OUT ALL NIGHT LIKE YOU DID. After the prom, she'll expect to go to college and live in a COED DORM LIKE YOU DID!

You want her to get the most out of life, but she's not going to have as much fun as you did.

So every year around her birthday, I consider letting my fingers do the walking through the Yellow Pages to find "Convent." Sometimes I'm convinced this is the only way to protect my daughter from the world's perils. I want to shelter her from the nastiness of school cliques, from hormone-crazed boys, from making the mistakes I did. But when I'm honest, I realize that more than anything, I want to protect myself from ever losing Daddy's little girl.

Even to a Bloomin' Onion.