It had seemed like an OK idea at the time, but the look on my wife’s face as she saw the end result let me know I’d pulled off another in a long line of stupid parent tricks.
I was in charge of our three kids for a couple of hours as Elaina enjoyed an annual lunch with her friends and their favorite high school teacher, a retired French instructor they still refer to as “Madame.” It was perhaps the first time since Mabel was born some seven months ago that I was solo with all three kids and away from home.
We ended up at a fun and family-friendly pizza place a short drive away called Sgt. Pepperoni’s Pizza Store. The baby slept the entire time we were in the restaurant, thankfully, so I only had to keep Otis and nearly 4-year-old Rosey happy and behaved. After pizza, meatballs and garlic knots (and perhaps a single micro-brew tasting for the adult in the group), we played a few video games.
I was a daughter-disappointing dad at the claw game, failing to win her a stuffed animal. I was quickly reminded that her mom succeeds at grabbing a cheap toy maybe 60 percent of the time. I did show off my “Galaga”-playing skills to Otis, who at 5 has already exceeded my meager gaming abilities in “Mario Bros.” and most other non-knowledge-based computer games and iPad apps. Yes, our 5-year-old is already strongly attracted to screens (addicted is such a strong word), but please: Save some of your scorn for what comes next.
I’m not big on chewing gum, and we do our best to limit the sugar we all consume. But there’s something about a giant bubble gum machine – as in 8-feet-tall, maybe – that’s hard to resist. So we didn’t. I had to scrounge an extra quarter from our server when we lost one in the machine, much to Rosey’s chagrin, but soon the two oldest kids were happily chewing away as we drove back to pick up their mom.
Then Rosey let out a whine. It’s a sound with which I’m quite familiar, and one I’m always eager to make stop. It seems she dropped her gum in her car seat, and when she retrieved it saw it was covered in gunk. A bit of sand from the beach, some crumbs – just the usual detritus found wherever kids gather. But to Rosey it was a tragic occurrence, and one that demanded my immediate attention.
She passed the gum up to me for inspection (we were safely pulled over at the time, certainly), and I determined that it was no longer chewable, even after I removed most of the grit. Getting the gumball from the machine had been such a production that its quick end seemed like a waste. So I rolled the ABC (“already been chewed”) gum between my palms until it was a nice little ball. I handed it back to my darling daughter and drove on. She seemed happy once more, and all was right with the world.
Why, one might ask, would I hand a rolled-up ball of chewed gum to a preschooler to play with? I’m really not sure – and that’s all I could tell my wife 20 minutes later, when she first observed the big, sticky ball buried deeply in Rosey’s hair.
I had tried to separate gum from hair before we went to meet my wife (I’m a wimp when it comes to inflicting pain), and if I’d had scissors I probably would have cut my way out of the jam, making matters worse.
I pulled the hood of Rosey’s jacket over her head before we went in, hoping to keep my mistake hidden until we were home, or at least back in the car. Did I subtly suggest that the kids refrain from telling their mother what happened? Perhaps. Bribes may have been involved.
But no such luck. If revealing a bit of stupidity to one’s spouse isn’t bad enough, try doing so at a table full of her friends, along with a no-nonsense former teacher.
No harm, no foul, as it turns out – that old peanut butter trick to get gum out of hair really works. And the great thing about being married is that the tiny error will soon be forgotten, and my wife will never, ever bring it up again. Oh, silly daddy!
Contact the writer: kedric@coastmagazine.com
