Bruce Cameron

Jul 24, 20130

Editor’s Note: The following column was originally published in 2008.

I know what you’re thinking: I’m too young to have a daughter getting married tomorrow. (That’s what I’m thinking, anyway!)

Wasn’t it just last week that my little girl, all decked out in shiny new shoes, bows in her hair, frilly dress all clean, arched her back and screamed so loud and long that the people sitting next to us had nosebleeds?

If she does that during her nuptials, I’m calling off the wedding.

Maybe it wasn’t last week, because my daughter was 2 years old at the time and had decided to devote her life to embarrassing me in public. We were in church, I recall, and she screamed because she was reaching for a Bible she wanted to “color” in. Thinking that allowing a child to scribble all over a Holy Bible might be sort of out of step with the message of that morning’s sermon, I gently and firmly removed the book from her little fingers before she could do any damage to it.

Remember that scene in the movie “Psycho” where Janet Leigh is screaming because Anthony Perkins makes her drop the soap? Compared to the shriek coming out of my daughter, Janet Leigh was singing “Happy Birthday.” When she was done, the minister called off the rest of the service as unnecessary — the devil had been scared clear out of the county.

The protocol for dealing with what was euphemistically referred to as “restless children” was to stand, murmuring politely, and ease out of the crowded pews to a small enclosure in the basement that I called the Screaming Room. (You weren’t supposed to let your child kick people in the face as you struggled past — that was my own variation on the procedure.)

The Screaming Room had a loudspeaker so you could hear the minister, but he thankfully could not hear you as you alternately bribed and threatened your child:

“Stop that right now, do you hear me? You stop that, or I won’t let you play after church.

“Come on, honey, stop. Please? I’ll buy you a pony. Would you like that? I’ll take you to Hawaii. Honey, you have to stop screaming. Stop screaming this instant! Do you want a spanking? Stop slapping me, and listen. If I have to spank you, I will. That’s it, I’m counting to three. One ... two ... three. You hear me? That’s three. I’m not bluffing here. I counted to three. Want some cake?”

I didn’t really spank my daughter, because if I did, she would somehow summon up even more lung power and really let me have it. Seismographs would tremble as far away as Japan, and the local airport would have to cancel flights because the pilots couldn’t hear themselves land.

Sometimes other parents would have their own children in the Screaming Room. They always thanked me later, because once their kids had spent a few minutes with my daughter, they were humbled into silence.

And then there would be silence, as abrupt as a power outage in the middle of a Led Zeppelin concert. Exhausted from the effort of shredding my eardrums, my little girl would reach for me as if nothing had happened, as if right then the congregation weren’t upstairs excommunicating us. I’d gather her into my arms, and she’d plop her head on my shoulder and wink out, falling asleep with a long, shuddering sigh.

I could have taken her back upstairs at that point except I was pretty sure I would be greeted with pepper spray. Besides, the Screaming Room was comfortable and spiritually located right down the hallway from the church doughnuts.

More to the point, my daughter’s soft head was nestled on my shoulder, totally relaxed and trusting, relying on me to keep her safe and warm while she slept.

So clear is that memory of her sleeping on my shoulder, it seems it must have happened just last month — last week, even. So you see what I mean? We can’t possibly be old enough for her to be getting married. She still needs a shoulder to lean on, a father to keep her safe.

That’s how I feel, anyway.

(Bruce Cameron is an author and syndicated columnist with a Website at http://www.wbrucecameron.com.)