"Do you love your Daddy?" was the first question that Dorothea was asked the other day when she was Special Person at K-5. The make-or-break question did not come out of the blue. I was the equivalent of a Star Wars action figure show-and-tell ktoschke when my eldest daughter chose to bring me in to share as the "special thing" part of the honors of being special person for the day. The other honors include opening doors and being first in line for marching through the hall. Being special person in K-5 is the equivalent of being "Concierge For The Day".
Dorothea thought I would be a good choice as her special thing of the day for three reasons. First, her special day also happened to be Pajama Day at her school. Knowing that I have many fine soiled underwear and t-shirt combos that serve as pajamas, my daughter thought I'd have clothes for the event. I ultimately decided pants would be my best option, and left the p.j.s to the kids.
Second, she does love me. She is six years old, so she has not yet gained the knowledge that I am simply a middle-aged man with limited skills who has no need for a comb because of a rapidly receding hairline. So her answer to the lead off question was a resounding (if not shyly stated in front of her pals) "Yes!"
The third reason that Dorothea decided I was better than a puppy (impossible, too, since the only puppy in our house is held in a tin filled with ashes) was that her special day coincided with the on-sale date for my book, Milwaukee's Live Theater.
This is where a guy like me tears up. Faced with an honest assessment of love from my kin, I did the only thing a guy can do. I got embarrassed and tried to turn and run the other way. When she asked for my participation in this storied affair, I tried to think of other things she could bring in. A stick from the yard? Some of the random solo socks that we have collected from laundry folds gone wrong over the years? Last night's stir fry? Me? Surely Mommy has written a book, right? Knowing that my wife, despite all her many virtues, would find the prospect of writing a book about as pleasurable as performing her own oral surgery, I realized I was the guy left standing with publication bragging rights in our house.
It then dawned on me that this would be one of those father daughter moments I would probably recall on my death bed someday. I know I'm going to need some good memories to nudge out all the "gin stories" that are bound to haunt me in my final moments, so I agreed to be the "special thing".
A couple of pointers for other would be "special thing" authors. When talking about a pictorial narrative with a group of six-year-olds avoid discussions of the rich tradition of German language theater in Milwaukee. You can completely pass over references to Yiddish theater pioneers The Perhift Players and Theatre X's THE HISTORY OF SEXUALITY. Just show the kids the pictures of yourself dressed in the lion costume (you'll get a special treat if you buy the book and find that picture of me--not like chocolate or anything, but a good, shiny feeling inside).
I consider this my first book signing. Without the signing part, of course. I looked into the faces of an audience who had all assembled to hear something about my book, and they walked away with a look that suggested intrigue over the fact that a man like me could actually spell or connect words together to form sentences. I assume I will get used to these looks when promoting my book to adult audiences.
It might have been Dorothea's special day, but that day will forever be one of my best of all time. I plan to write many more books (and the ones after this one will tilt to a more smart ass readership, believe me), but this event will always stick out as the best way to announce your book is on-sale. I'm the one in the picture with pants, if you couldn't guess.