It’s been well established in this space that my daughter is a clown. Considering Lynnette’s aversion to making an ass of herself in any way, I suppose were one to assign Madison’s proclivity for clownishness to an inherited trait, I would be the culprit. While to my knowledge scientists have yet to isolate the “clown gene” in studies of genetics, I feel confident that if it was not hard-wired into Madison’s nature, the environment in which she has grown up in has certainly molded her in such a way that she believes acts of high-clownism are not only acceptable, but preferred in our household. I would blame myself, but that implies I’ve done something wrong. I’m just being me. Madison digs that. Again, for however long it lasts…
Two nights ago Madison donned a headband and declared herself a “Ninja Wrestler” or something to that effect. When I got home late last night, Madison had already showered and was dressed for bed. When I shut off the shower, I heard the clumsy clunking of heels in our bathroom. Madison was wearing a pair of Lynnette’s heels.
“These are my nurse shoes for when I grow up,” Madison said. “Yikes,” I said. I don’t hold it against Mad. She’s too young to know that the only kind of nurses that wear patent leather black heels have alliterative titles like “night nurse” or “naughty nurse.”
“I certainly hope not,” I said. “Those aren’t nurses’ shoes!” “Yes they are!” Madison fired back. “They’re mom’s shoes and mom’s a nurse!” She implored. You have to love a 5-year old’s logic.
In truth, they are Lynnette’s shoes (coincidentally, those are her feet in the background). They are a part of a French maid costume that Lynnette never wears anymore. Here, no, let me:
*A hotel bedroom of mid-level lavishness
Lynnette (in French maid costume): Why, ‘ello there, guv’nah!
Lynnette (elongating telescopic Swiffer. If I’m going to write it, you bet your ass there are going to be metaphors): Well, sport, anything need a wee bit o’ cleanin’, love?
Phil: Well, this room is immaculate, but I have to confess…
Lynnette (using Swiffer to dust the TV): Yes, love?
Phil: I’ve had meself an absolutely dreary day at work. If anything in this room is a mess, methinks it’s me.
Lynnette (tossing Swiffer aside): Let’s see if we can’t do a lit’o sumthin’ bout that, now, love?
Lights dim, saxophone music to the tune of Enya’s “Only Time” kicks in, candles out of nowhere.
Okay, obviously I was just joking. Anyone who knows Lynnette knows she would never in a million years do voices.
Hypothetical award-winning scripts aside, the highlight of the night came when Mad walked into the bedroom at about 8. “I need water, dad,” she said. “You can use the cups in the bathroom.” I said. “Do you want to watch wrestling with me for a little while?” I asked. “SHE HAS TO BE IN BED BY 8:15!” the French maid in the other room shouted.
For fifteen minutes, Mad and I lay in darkness watching WWE Raw. She was treated to Sheamus (the read-haired good guy) and Randy Orton (the tattooed good guy) beat the Big Show (the big guy that wears Duck Dynasty clothes). Among her questions were: Is that ground they fall on hard? Did he get hurt? How come he has red hair? How come he has no hair? My personal highlight came when Sheamus hoisted Show in his shoulders and fell back. Madison began a quiet “ooohhh” as the two began to fall back, the shouted a full-on “OOOOOHHH!” when they thunderously landed.
“Do you like wrestling?” I asked her. “Yeah, it’s silly. Why are they fighting?” she said. As always, I answered “They want to see who the best is.” But I suppose that didn’t make much sense when Brock Lesnar started annihilating 3MB. Among Madison’s comentary: Is that a lady or a man? I thought it was a lady! How come his face is all red? How come he’s so mad? Is he a bad guy? I wish the ground was softer.
There is the obvious benefit of getting to spend a little time with Madison after a long day of grading and cheeseburgers, but it’s something more than that. I’ve been a fan of professional wrestling for a long time. Watching it with Madison is refreshing and reminds of a simpler time when they were all simply good guys or bad guys, and everything was real. I loved Tito Santana and Rick Martel as Strike Force and I hated Martel for leaving Santana alone to fight Blanchard and Anderson. I loved HBK when he was in his prime. I loved Bret Hart’s ascension from tag team member to IC champ to Heavyweight Champ. How cool would it be if Madison learns to love CM Punk or John Cena or someone we haven’t even been introduced to yet? Super cool. Because I mean, Lynnette would never allow me to purchase Wrestlemania on pay-per-view. But if Madison asked…