It happened so quickly. One moment Simone and I were playing hide-and-seek at the indoor play area in one of Denver’s malls, and the next she and a boy were playing their own game of chase.
It was one of those rare rainy days, and we both needed to be out of the house. Now that it’s on the market, I’ve gotten a little crazy about keeping the place at least reasonably uncluttered, if not exactly clean. If I’m not admonishing Simone to pick up her messes — little explosions of plastic toys or crayons that look like the results of kid-sized cluster bombs — I’m cleaning up behind her, sometimes even while she’s still playing. So getting the hell out of the house appealed to both of us; much better than the constant push and pull of order and chaos.
We’d made the best of the museum of natural history, where Simone had explained to the volunteer docent why stegosauruses sported blood vessels in their back plates, and where we’d purchased some crappy mini dino toys, one of which broke before we even left the parking lot (yes, we went back and exchanged it). But it was just barely lunchtime, and hours and hours before bedtime, so we opted for a foray to the mall.
Simone has always loved playing on the “breakfast.” No matter the time of day, the oversized waffles and sausage links are overrun with sticky children and distracted parents. It’s amazing there aren’t more head-on collisions between hyped-up tykes — bloody noses and bruised chins — but somehow kids manage to narrowly avoid each other, their close calls almost as entertaining to their teenaged babysitters as NASCAR crashes are to their dads.
She and I usually do our own thing, interacting very little with the other kids, until a youngster or two latches on to our game of hide-and-seek and wants to join in on the goofiness. I don’t mind. I love kids. I’d like more if it all works out that way. But, at first, it’s always Simone hiding behind the enormous bowl of shredded wheat, and me ducking under the bacon.
What are your intentions?
So when the towheaded boy came up to me when I’d finished counting and ratted out Simone’s hiding place, I thanked him, and stalled for a few minutes before sneaking up on my girl. Sadly, the boy was already there, and Simone was furious with him for “ruining” the game. I asked him not to tell anymore, and he agreed. Then he told Simone to chase him, and he ran. She went after him.
I wonder if that line would work for me in a bar: “Chase me.”
I watched as the two kids played chase. He’d run, letting Simone catch up to him but not quite get him for a bit, and then she’d grab his shirt, and do a full-body tackle. He’d hit the ground, and she’d climb on top of him. Then they’d get up, and he’d “chase” her, letting her get some distance before grabbing one of her arms and stopping her.
It was nothing. Harmless play. But I felt superfluous, and I knew the little boy was loving the game. Then the mom, or grandmother, or whatever she was, called to him.
She called him Hunter.
Perfect.
I’m not ready for boys to pursue my daughter. She’s five. I should have more time. But I don’t think I do. When she was in preschool, boys’ parents all said how their sons adored her. And, once, she told me how worried she was about going to kindergarten, because she wouldn’t see Mason anymore. “And I’m going to marry Mason,” she told me.
I remember being the boy with the crush. I remember the intoxicating feeling of having a girl chase me, grab me, and let me go. I don’t want Simone to chase boys like me. I don’t want those icky, sweaty youngsters to be smitten with her the way I was with Maurie or Kristin or Lisa. I want them to leave my baby alone. At least for now.
But they won’t. I know that.
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