You'll shoot your eye out...

I know folks like to complain about how Christmas seems to start earlier and earlier each year. Well, for me, Christmas often starts in October, as for the third time in five years, I'll be stepping back on stage for the Christmas production at Aiken Community Playhouse.

This year, I will be taking on the role of The Old Man in "A Christmas Story." Yes, that Christmas story - you'll shoot your eye out.

This is a great play, as it is true to the movie. For those of you are not familiar with the movie, let me be the first to say, congratulations on your emergence from the center of the earth. I mean this with no disrespect, but out of sheer amazement. Every year, TBS shows the movie for 24 hours straight. To travel through the world and not at least hear someone say, "You'll shoot your eye out," is virtually impossible.

But to those who have managed to avoid it, the story tells of Ralphie Parker, a 9-year-old in Indiana, circa 1938. His Christmas quest: acquiring a BB gun, in particular a "legendary official Red Ryder 200-shot carbine action range model air rifle."

While I can only hope to channel my best Darren McGavin while on stage, my real joy from this play is being on stage with one of my kids. I have been on stage with just my daughter (in 2007) in "The Best Christmas Pageant Ever," and on stage with both Allie and Parker last year for "It's A Wonderful Life: The Musical." And this year Parker and I take the turn, with him in the role of the little brother, Randy. (Oh, and remember his stage last name? Parker. So he is Parker Parker.)

In "Best Christmas," I played the role of the dad. In "Wonderful Life," I played the Mayor, who I can only assume was also a dad. And now I play ... a dad. Nice to know if I ever needed to throw together an acting resume, it would be brief: "Dad in Christmas show, just pick a year."

The rehearsals have been a blast. We have a small cast, both in number and in height. Much of the cast would not be able to ride roller coasters. That makes for fun evenings at the Playhouse, as my behavior can simply blend in with the other kids. (I am not so sure our director agrees completely with that sentiment.)

As with previous plays, the cast is getting to know each other and starting to feed off of each other's lines. With a script as funny as this, we certainly have our share of outtakes. And an occasional ad-lib keeps the rehearsals fun and light, and time flies by.

Parker has had a lot of fun playing his part. Granted, we have had to tell him to step OUT of character on occasion. One of Parker's recurring lines is, "I gotta go wee-wee." In the context of the play, it is quite funny. In the context of walking up to someone at church or in a store, you are greeted with a variety of responses, from "Um, bathroom's that way..." to "Well, perhaps that's something you should share with your parents." When we have heard him say it, my wife and I are quick to fill in the omitted details of his play part. My concern is the times when we haven't heard it.

We are a little over a month from opening night, which means our rehearsals will get more intense and make for some long nights. But that is really when being in a play starts getting the most exciting, as the adrenaline starts pumping and you get ready to hit the stage in front of a full audience. It's why we do it, and it's the big payoff in the end.

Hopefully, you'll be able to make it to see the show. And, if we cross paths before then, please remember - Parker doesn't have to go. It's just his line in the play...

Daddy-daughter

The other night, the kids were in bed. I was heading downstairs to check some e-mails, do the dishes, etc., when I heard a call from behind a closed door. "Daddy...".

I opened my daughter's door, and she was in bed, snuggled up under the covers. "Yes, Allie," I said.

"Come here," she said.

I walked to her bed, and she said, "When can we have another daddy-daughter date?"

To which I replied, "Do you want a pony? Because you can have one."

Yes, my little girl is growing up way too fast, but I am trying hard to remind myself that I still have a few fleeting moments where I am still "Daddy."

I have seen those changes coming for a while. Last year, I went on a field trip with my daughter's class. When I saw my daughter, I said the usual refrain I use when I see her: "Hey, Allie-bear!" Normally, that is greeted with a big smile and a hug. In front of a gaggle of classmates? A stern, "Dad! DON'T. CALL. ME. THAT."

Fair enough. Truth be told, I have probably violated one of the daddy-daughter tenets by even mentioning that in a column. My wife has actually shelved a couple of columns that I thought were delightful romps through a young girls' follies. My wife, however, has been an elementary school girl, and said, "Uh, yeah, no."

It was nothing scandalous or horrible. Singing extra loud to a Jonas Brothers YouTube is hardly the stuff of Congressional investigations. It's the same stuff her classmates do, too. But now is the time they are really developing their identity of who they are and, more importantly, how they can identify potentially mockable things in fellow classmates. So best to leave things alone.

I actually can sort of relate. I have three older sisters, so I got to see the evolution of the female creature on quite a personal level. And it's a sight to behold.

So now I sit at a crossroads. My little girl is slowly evolving into, well, not my little girl any more.

Oh, don't get me wrong. She will always be my little girl. When she gets her diploma? My little girl. When I walk her down the aisle? My little girl. It better not be for another two decades, but I can't imagine the feeling of what it will be to hold my little girl's child.

But let's not get too far ahead. Here's what I have in front of me: That rare dual-purpose window of parental functionality. Behind closed doors, I can be Daddy, the one who can still get a charge out of his daughter with the world's greatest game, Bumrush!, which involves me coming into a room where the kids are sitting and doing a flying tackle onto the couch while screaming, "BUMRUSH!" while the laughter fills the room.

And I can be the one in public who pretends, to her friends, that I have no clue about the game Bumrush!, as that is far better for her social endeavors. The fact that I have entered the point in time where the phrase "Dad, you're embarrassing me!" is kind of reassuring.

So to that end, I vow this to my daughter:

-- I will not intentionally embarrass you in front of your friends, unless it is absolutely necessary;

-- I will not call you Allie-bear in front of your classmates;

-- I will not share stories with your friends about when you were little, but can make no promises about them finding columns I wrote years ago about you;

-- I will not mention you in columns without prior approval from your mother. After this one.

Now, about that daddy-daugher date....