Friday, May 12, 2006

I Don’t Believe in... or It’s Just a Story

Yesterday OurDad made me cry. He said I was killing fairies, and he wouldn’t stop.

I was trying to get ready for school, and I couldn’t find the bookmark for my book called The Trouble with Tink. You know, Tinkerbell. I like Tink, but she is a fictional character.

“Maybe Tink stole it, she is a sneaky fairy”, OurDad said. All I wanted was help finding my bookmark, but as with all things to do with books OurDad has to analyze it to death, or point out the “true meaning” or worse play up some theme.

“Tink didn’t steal my bookmark because she isn’t real.”

“Ohhhh,” cried OurDad clutching his chest like he was having another coronary, “don’t say that! You know what happens every time you say that.”

“Stop it. I can’t find my bookmark. You probably stole it. Fairies aren’t real,” I said still leafing through the pages of The Trouble with Tink looking or the bookmark.

“Ohhhh,” he cried again now dropping to his knees and still clutching his chest, “I order you to stop killing fairies.”

“No you stop!” I said back and opened my backpack to look for it in there. There are no such thing as FAIRIES!”

Now OurDad stood up and pretended to be angry. “You stop that right now or there won’t be any Tink to read about.”

“I just want my bookmark before I miss the bus, and I don’t believe in fairies.

He clutched his chest again, “Ahhhh, don’t say that, he cried in totally fake agony. Then I let him have with a chorus of I don’t believe in fairies. I don’t believe in fairies.” He writhed in agony, and I thought, my, that rolls of the tongue so smoothly like someone really thought it out like a poem or a song.

Then he stood back up towering above me and roared “STOP KILLING FAIRIES!” He was jabbing his finger at me. He was so mad and for real. I dropped my backpack and it spilled on the floor, and out poured papers and pencils I hadn’t seen before.

“But fairies aren’t real,” I whimpered, my eyes getting all watery. He didn’t have to yell at me.

“AHHH There goes another one. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle believed in fairies, and if the man who created Sherlock Holmes believed in fairies that should be good enough for you.” I started going through the things on the floor, but I still didn’t find the bookmark.

“Dad, please stop it,” I asked. “They’re just stories,” I said as I put the Trouble with Tink into my backpack.

“Oh so just because they are in stories you don’t believe in them. Fine go ahead kill them, but first think about a world with no Tinkerbell or no Captain Holly Short. Two strong female characters, actually they are the same character. You should admire them, but no, you’re trying to kill them.”

“Dad, They are just stories.”

“Oh, so now you don’t believe in stories”

“No, I just don’t believe in—“

“Don’t say it! Don’t you get it fairies are the hope, and dreams of magic and miracles and mysteries,” he said waiving his arms around like he was trying to do magic himself.

“Dad, they don’t even want us to know they exist.”

“That’s because you’re trying to kill them.”

Just then I heard a rumbling and colossal bouncing coming up our potholed street. “Dad! My bus!” I screemed slinging my backpack over both shoulders and running for the door.

He stood at the door behind me waving as I ran down the street to my bus stop and said, “have a good day sweetie, and please don’t kill anymore fairies.”

“I won’t," I yelled back.

I still haven’t found my bookmark and I’ll have to start reading Tink from the beginning again, and I almost missed the bus all because he wanted to argue about fairies.

That’s OurDad.


Miranda said...

Hmppph! I see you are missing something over there on that sidebar...

SourDad said...

Hey some sites were really slow last night... Theres some new ones added including yours M. It should have gone on first.

Miranda said...

That looks better. :)

(Your comments hate me today.)