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Booby Trap
Kevin McKeever, Stamford, CT
From Dads Behaving DADLY: 67 Truths, Tears, and Triumphs of Modern Fatherhood Copyright © 2014 Motivational Press. Reprinted with permission. By Hogan Hilling and Al Watts.
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Some claim that I, a straight American male, am biologically hard-wired to notice breasts. I won’t argue with science unless the breasts in question belong to my pre-teen daughter.
Just the other day there she was: a sweet little thing in a princess gown, buckled snugly at five-points in her car seat, singing about the yumminess of fruit salad.
Then I blinked, and… OMIGOD! WHERE DID THOSE COME FROM??!!
After I recovered from hysterical blindness, my little angel announced I needed to take her shopping.
For a bra.
“I need it for my dance recital Sunday,” she said. “My costume has really thin straps so the teacher said I should get a strapless bra.”
I knew bra shopping was one thing she has done before (and would rather do) with the adult women in her life.
Why me, Lord? Why now?
Process of elimination. My wife was on a business trip; my sister on vacation.
“Uhhh,” I said wittily, “To Target.”
I was surprised by the size of Target’s lingerie department. It’s big. By big, I mean, Target’s key demographic must be body doubles for Sofia Vergara. It was also dazzlingly colorful like one of those candy stores where the walls are lined with tube after tube of exotically flavored jellybeans.
After wandering around, we found the juniors section.
Seamless bandeau, structured bandeau, Spandau Ballet.
Scoop, demi, Ashton.
I had not been this overwhelmed by selections since I shopped Home Depot for sheet metal screws.
“Will this work?” I asked. “The tag says it’s a convertible bra.”
“No. It has straps.”
“Doesn’t convertible mean the top comes off?”
“I don’t know,” she says.
And I think to myself; I hope you never will until you’re married.
Then I spotted a woman by the sports bras with a cart. Her cart was overflowing with a mish-mash of clothing, sporting goods, and toys. More importantly, she wore a bright red jacket and a bull’s eye name tag.
“Let me go ask that clerk…”
“Daddy, nooooooooooooooooooo!”
“All right,” I sighed. “Just remember that answer when you’re on stage, and the girls make an unexpected curtain call.”
Finally, we found some strapless bras. They were in hot pink. In “passion purple.” DayGlo green. Vegas showgirls wear less flashy double-barreled catapults.
Eventually, we located a couple that would not be noticeable from a nautical mile in London fog. They also happened to be in her size.
Not that my daughter knew her bra size. That would have been too easy. I’ve been down this road before. Not with bras, but nearly every other piece of clothing my children own because in our house, this dad does most of the shopping from groceries to garage doors.
Before we left the house, I went to my daughter’s room, found one of her bras and checked the tag. The next time some marketing genius tells you women make the vast majority of family purchasing decisions in the United States, you have the permission of this member of the minority to kick that person squarely in the statisticals.
She headed to the fitting rooms, and I was alone.
I forgot what to do with my arms. Fold them? No. Hands in pockets? No — NO!
This kept me perplexed while I waited. And waited…
Suddenly, I was a child again. Waist-high to a headless mannequin in a tube top and bell bottoms in some long-demolished women’s department store. I’m confused. Lost. My mom has dragged me shopping with her again. The hopelessness. The suffering. The boredom…The boredom. Things start pulling away, and I’m falling down a hole walled with endless racks of frilly rack holders. I’m weightless. I’m floating! Below, I could almost see my boyish self…
Wait a sec.
I really could see my boyish self.
It was my nine-year-old son. I forgot we took him along on this expedition.
“Son,” I said, extending my right arm and index finger.
“Pet supplies, office supplies, greeting cards. Choose your pleasure.”
After a contemplative look, he picked greeting cards. I told him we’d be there in a few minutes.
The next morning, the sun still rose in the east.
And on Sunday, when my daughter bounded across the stage for her final curtsy, I was there applauding and standing proud and firm.
Just like her bosom.
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Kevin McKeever writes in between his duties as an at-home dad to a brood of three: boy, girl, and canine. His newspaper columns for Hearst Connecticut Media Group won first place honors from the National Society of Newspaper Columnists in 2013. He also writes the “Dad About Town” column for Stamford magazine in Connecticut, plays editor for the City Dads Group, blogs at Always Home and Uncool, and occasionally tricks businesses into hiring him as a copywriter. Kevin’s work has been featured in Canada’s Globe and Mail, the New York Daily News and landfills worldwide.
Hogan Hilling is a nationally recognized and OPRAH approved author of 12 published books. Hilling has appeared on Oprah. He is the creator of the DADLY book series and the “#WeLoveDads” and “#WeLoveMoms” Campaigns, which he will launch in early 2018. He is also the owner of Dad Marketing https://dadmarketingconsulting.wordpress.com/, a first of its kind consultation firm on how to market to dads. He is also the founder of United We Parent, www.unitedweparent.com. Hilling is also the author of the DADLY book series and first of its kind books. The first book is about marketing to dads “DADLY Dollar$” and two coffee table books that feature dads and moms. “DADLY Dads: Parents of the 21st Century” and “Amazing Moms: Parents of the 21st Century.” Hilling is the father of three children and lives in southern California.
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Originally published in Dads Behaving DADLY: 67 Truths, Tears, and Triumphs of Modern Fatherhood Copyright © 2014 Motivational Press. Reprinted with permission.
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