Ice to see you

It has taken me five long years, but I have finally bested my foe.
For half a decade, we have waged an epic battle of wits, a struggle pitting cunning and wile.
As I celebrated my victory, performing a ceremonial victory dance that has been years in the making, my wife, sensing this great moment, said, “You outsmarted a 5-year-old. I don’t think taunting is in order.”
Yes, so I finally chalked up a win against Allie, who since birth has figured out ways to dupe me. She has always been the Queen of Technicalities, and has always figured out a way to get her way without me knowing. I’ll throw down the “Because I’m your father!” gauntlet, and before I know it, she has criss-crossed the board and nailed me with a checkmate.
I am not sure how she does it. I think it is something along the lines of the old “duck season, rabbit season” bit. Or perhaps chemicals. But whatever it is, the end result often tends to be my concession that she can, in fact, stay up and watch Shrek while having licorice and a milkshake for dinner.
And the beauty of her game is that she somehow makes me feel as though I have scored a major victory.
Now, I know that a lot of you are saying, “Why, I wouldn’t let some kid dictate how I run my household! I’m the parent, bygum, and what I say goes!” And I agree 100 percent, which makes it all the more frustrating to be having to admit defeat. For example, a while back I shared in a column an event in which Allie was helping me finish off my lunch, also known as stealing my potato chips. When she began chewing with her mouth wide open, I told her not to open her mouth when she chewed her food. She turned her Bambi eyes on and said, “But it’s not MY food. It’s YOUR food.”
Let me add the disclaimer that Allie is a great kid. It’s just that she’s 5, and that age tends to see the world differently. Our most serious squabbles are over insignificant things, and are usually wrapped up in a matter of moments. (Skittles having an amazing way of bringing opposing parties together.)
So our latest tussle occured a few mornings ago when we were getting the kids ready for school. Allie had a snappy little number set out, which was picked out by her mother, who guarantees snappiness with every number. Allie came into our room and began a Nancy Kerrigan-like sobfest. “I....want...to...wear...a....skirt....”
Apparently, the snappy number involved pants, and foregoing a skirt would possibly collapse the earth into the sun.
At first, I tried reasoning. “Allie, pants will not crash us into the sun.”
Cue blank stare.
She continued to plead for a skirt, which was obviously the difference in a happy childhood and a future in crime.
After several minters of back and forth, I decided to up the stakes. After a quick trip downstairs, I returned to the room.
“Allie, if you were to wear a skirt, how far down your leg would the skirt go?”
Another blank stare.
I pointed at her knee. “How far down would your skirt go?” I asked. She hitched up her pants leg to around her knee. At that point, I placed the freshly retrieved ice cube on her leg. She gave me a look that conveyed I was no longer operating on the same plane.
“Wh...what are you doing?”
“It’s cold outside. I just want to make sure you can handle the cold.”
She stared down for a brief moment, and then said, “Uh, pants are fine.”
Now, you may think that I am being mean by putting ice on her leg. But you would be wrong. Allie and I have a long tradition of unconventional father-daughter roughhousing that lends well to our relationship. She appreciates a goofy production. She expects it. Some of you may remember my telling of the game bumrush, in which I sprint into a room and go airborne, tackling her while screaming “BUMRUSH!!!!” Some may find this disturbing. Allie finds it hilarious. (Note to doctors, social workers, grandparents, etc.: I don’t go Ray Lewis on her. Give me some credit.)
So to make sure she knew that the ice-capade was just me being me, I concluded the lesson by taking the ice, and putting it down the back of my wife’s shirt when she entered the room. I think that illustrates quite well what my wife means when she refers to her three children.
So in the end, everything worked out. Allie got dressed with the pants. I won an epic struggle. And my wife got to experience life married to a third grader. I’d call that a win all around.