Our own little "DADT"

On the eve of this country’s repeal of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell”, we had our own little DADT incident here in our household. You see, Chris and I had another one of our communication mishaps. Friday night we had a holiday party to attend, and I assumed it started between 7 – 7:30. So, image my surprise when I received a call just prior to 6pm asking me where I was at. The party was to start at 6pm and I was nowhere close to the house. I told Chris to go without me, and I would pick Kensi up at school, get us both ready, and would be there by 7:30 (the proper time a holiday party on a Friday night should start, especially one so close to Christmas, which was cutting into my precious shopping time).

I enter the house with kiddo in tow, and rushed to change & juice her. Chris had her outfit picked out and her diaper bag was packed and ready at the door. I quickly hid the presents I was able to buy, and rushed upstairs to iron a dress shirt and sweater.

Chris and I are at a stage that we can actually turn our backs on Kensington and know that she’s going to be okay. Every outlet is plugged up, every cabinet drawer and door is latched or locked, and all sharp objects are hidden underneath my pillow waiting for January 1 when Chris’s life-insurance through both of our policies double. She’s content with playing in her playroom… putting her baby dolls to sleep, making Elmo drink from the teacup, rolling around in her ball house or her ball pool, pushing her stroller from one side of the living room to another or climbing the ladder to get the candy canes placed on the tree above her reach level.

I’ve finished ironing and, with a little pep in my step, called down from the balcony, “I love you, Kensi.” I hear her call back, muffled, “I love you, papa.” Things are good. I stroll to the bathroom, brush my teeth (note to self, no red wine for at least an hour now… Pinotage grapes taste way too sour when mixed with fluoride) and add a dab more product into my hair. Once downstairs, I head to her playroom (oh, the days of having an actual dining room). No Kensington. Okay, I see. We’re playing hide-and-seek. She’s in the pantry (i.e., taste-testing the bag of cookies to make sure Pappa and Daddy won’t be food poisoned – I believe in a past life, she was a royal food assayer). I open the door. Nothing. Really? That’s the first place I would have hidden when playing this game. I hear a whimper from behind the office door. Duncan is locked in the office. I’m sure our chickpea is in there as well. I open the door to two blue-bugged eyes staring at me. A black Sharpie hits the floor, with the cap off. She comes running, pushes me out of her way, and into the living room she goes. I look around the room. Yep. There it is. One of Chris’s filing cabinets that she loves placing stickers and magnets on, has now been tagged. I think she’s covering for Duncan. She found him midstroke and took the permanent marker from his paws to beg him to stop. She had to have shut the door behind her so I wouldn’t hear her scolding him.

She’ll never be labeled as a nark. We taught her right. So for now, we won’t ask… because surely, she’s not telling.