Over the Falls

A good morning for conversation. Who says? “Good morning, my beautiful daughter!” “Grmplhmm.” My little girl’s scowl could render a solar panel ineffectual for a week. Still, I will not be dissuaded. “Perhaps you didn’t hear me. Maybe your frown is blocking your ears. I said, ‘Good morning, my beautiful daughter.’” “Grmlhm . . . Why would anyone invent such a phrase?” “Pardon me?” (Perhaps her frown is blocking my ears.) “Why would anyone invent such a phrase?” she repeats, and then adds, “He must have been evil.” “What phrase? ‘Beautiful daughter’? Some morning I wonder that myself.” “You know what I’m talking about,” she snaps. “Who invented ‘good morning’?” “What’s wrong with ‘good morning’?” “You know . . .” “Explain it to me.” “Well, if you say it after ten o’clock, it’s practically noon, so what’s the use, and if you say it before ten o’clock, well, . . . it’s just wrong.” “It’s wrong to call the morning ‘good’?” “Yes!” “How old are you?” “Da-ad-dy!” “What?” “Don’t bug me!” She scowls further, and the room darkens noticeably. I decide it best not to bother my poor little girl anymore. She is clearly suffering with this morning crankiness. I suppose I can somewhat understand the way she feels. I go back to my newspaper while my daughter begins to read the section I just discarded. (Pretty soon she’ll be asking for coffee.) We happily ignore one another for the next few minutes, but then she lowers her paper and breaks the silence: “Da-ad?” “Yes, oh cranky one?” “What’s virginity?” “Uhhh . . . Uhhhh . . . . Uhhh . . .” Didn’t see that coming at all . . . “Well, Dad, what is it?” “Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh . . .” I seem to be having a stroke. Aren’t you supposed to smell burnt toast or something first? Her eyes grow big as she seems to recognize my dilemma, but rather than call an ambulance, she says, “Never mind, Dad; I don’t really think, I want to know.” “Uhhhh . . . Okay.” And breathe . . My mind begins to function again as I realize that I might be off the hook. Unfortunately, just then my son walks in, and says, “What does she want to know?” His sister helpfully chirps, “I asked him what virginity is.” “Uhhhh . . .” Back to my seizure . . . The kids look at each other, bewildered . . . or bemused? I manage to groan, “I think I have to go to the bathroom.” On my way out, I hear my son whisper, “You’re not supposed to ask him that kind of stuff.” “He was bugging me,” she responds. I am almost out of earshot when Mom appears. I brush past her wordlessly. “Aren’t you going to say, ‘Good morning’?” I am asked. “Why would anyone invent such a phrase?” I mutter as I rush from the room.