The Gift

This morning, Leanne handed me a balled up sheet of paper.

“Daddy, I made a present for you.”

Normally, this is a good thing. As a father, you learn that there are some key words that indicate what follows is going to give you a migraine. For instance, “Daddy, um… guess what?” is a universal sign that I’ll be drinking before noon.

A present, on the other hand, has the potential to make my morning. My office is a gallery of her various pictures and art projects. They are almost always cute, save for the short period during which her depiction of me wearing shorts looked more like I had a giant set of testicles. I’d make a joke about this being her “blue period”, but that would just be immature.

Today, I open up my “present” to find — sweet merciful crap, I can’t believe I’m about to type these words — a severed Barbie arm.

Years from now, on the off chance she turns out to be a serial killer, there will inevitably be some asshole reporter at my door asking what she was like as a child. The only real answer I’ll have will be “You know what? I probably should have seen this one coming. My bad.”

I’m locking my bedroom door tonight.

hand

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