The Skillz Report

When Your Daughter Tries To Kill You

 

(originally written 4/22/15)

 

 

Since Day One, there's been a bond between my daughter Josie and myself that a splintered pack of wild horses couldn't damage, let alone destroy. She is as much a part of me as my blood vessels, bones and organs are. Scientifically, that's no revelation since it's my wayward goo that made her. But I'm not speaking in scientific terms.

 

Daddy/daughter bonds are the most special bonds in humankind. The effect of a little girl loving her daddy while secure that Daddy loves her back is impossible to quantify. Throughout her life, whether it's coloring entirely within the lines or parking the car entirely within the lines, she will always strive to make him proud—it'd be crushing to risk disappointing him. 

 

She'll stay off drugs—and poles—when she's older. Most importantly, she'll carry a high opinion of herself, which will save her from potentially disastrous choices in men, wardrobe, careers, and so forth. 

 

I'm proud to say my young daughter and I have that connection. 

 

Jozanah basically worships me, clings to me whenever possible, and actually cries when it's time to go to Mom's house. I, in turn, often have to pause in amazement at the special little person I helped create. She makes me laugh, she makes me think. She makes me better in innumerable ways. We are as tight as two people 30 years apart in age can be...

 

...which is what makes the following story so hard to believe.

 

If you read my writings regularly, you know that I took up ju-jitsu and Muy Thai earlier this year. (Side note: restricted by girth, I am slightly better than terrible at this point. So if you plan to pull a Lisa Simpson and use my "skill" to ward off a troupe of bullies, well, don't.) The latter practice requires a wrap to be worn under the gloves.

 

Recently, Josie stumbled across this wrap while rummaging through my gym bag for candy—don't ask—and became enamored with it, as she does with virtually any mystery object she finds. Her request to play with it was granted—why not? It's harmless, right? I ducked aside to do whatever, leaving her in the other room with her newest trinket.

 

About 10 minutes later, I was summoned. "DADDY?"

 

When I came around the corner to her play area, she was no longer playing with the wrap. She was seated, quietly.

 

I took a step towards her, and another—but was forced to abruptly stop.

 

That "harmless" wrap I'd given my daughter was now stretched across the floor about five inches off the ground. One end was "tied" to a dollhouse. The other end was "tied" to her toybox.

 

While the execution of this mission proved woefully inadequate—she is only five, after all—the intent couldn't be any clearer: Josie wanted to end me.

 

I sense skepticism the air. So let's further analyze, shall we?

 

Given my 74 inches of height and the proximity of furniture to the wrap trap, if I'd tripped over Josie's contraption as she intended, I faceplant into a solid mahogany table with zero give. If I hit the corner, I'm dead instantly. (Given my size, so is the corner of the table. I'll be hauled out in one bodybag, with the table right behind me in another.)

Now, since my daughter has the knot-tying skillz of a moose, the wrap trap wasn't secured tightly—most likely, had I not seen it, I'd have stumbled a couple of steps while dragging her toys behind me.

 

That doesn't change the objective of the mission.

 

How did this happen? We are so close...aren't we? Why would she wanna take me out? Is it cuz her mother and I split up? It can't be; she isn't old enough to remember things any other way. (Besides, she loves me more than Mom.)

 

Did she finally get fed up with being told "no" all the time? Could I have avoided this if I'd

 

• let her haul a 30-pound cat carrier out of the pet groomer,

• let her ride in the front seat on a 20-mile trip,

• allowed her to eat 30 Easter chocolates in one sitting,

• let her play with the artificial seaweed from our fishtank

• let her throw toys over the side of the staircase, or

• bought her a $45 basketball at Oracle Arena?

 

Perhaps things need to be simplified. What is a primary motive for murder? Money. I have no idea how Josie could have found out about my life insurance, and that she stands to inherit much scratch should I bite the dust—enough to buy every Thomas & Friends playset ever made a few times over. 

 

But it's possible she did, and just couldn't wait for Daddy to get himself killed by mouthing off to the wrong people (as I predict will happen in the next 5-7 years.)

 

Why the insurance bean-spiller neglected to inform Josie of her ineligibility to collect insurance money if she's the one who offed me may never be known. Maybe diarrhea struck. I don't know, and I'm not here to talk about the past.

 

Despite my daughter's deed, I still love her—perhaps more now than ever. She hasn't tried to whack me anymore, which I suppose is a positive sign. 

While that could only be because I relocated the wrap, I'm choosing to believe no more traps have been set because Josie has realized just how much I mean to her. After all, who else would allow my massive child to use them as a ladder as I do, or be violently slapped and kicked all night because a nightmare drove her out of her own bed?

 

(Answer: no one in ther right mind. Certainly not mom.)

 

Furthermore, I've found an effective way to cope with what happened—revenge! When she next visited me, a shiny new basketball from Oracle Arena awaited her...

 

...and by "Oracle Arena", I mean "Big 5 Sporting Goods"!

Heh, heh, heh.