First Date

“You have a pseudo-beard, a necklace with a snake, and are way over
two hundred pounds,” my 16-year-old daughter Kerry said in a
pleading voice.

“What are you saying?” I asked, with just a hint of a grin.

“He’s totally scared of you, Dad. If you screw this up I will kill you.”

“I think as the assistant man of the house,” Seamus, my 14-year-old

son, chirped in, sensing an opening. “I deserve one question.”

“Yeah, right.” Kerry sneered sarcastically.

“And as assistant man of the house in training, Cole deserves a

question too,” Seamus continued, referring to his five-year-old brother.

“What could you possibly ask?” Kerry, now staring at her brother with
the look of a defense lawyer insulted by a plea bargain offered up by a
prosecutor for her falsely accused client, asked.

“You know, Cole could ask the kid’s favorite land animal,” Seamus
said, with a straight face. “I want to know what farm animal he’d like to
have sex with.”

For my daughter’s sake, I tried not to laugh. This Saturday afternoon

was a really big deal in her life, and mine. But I had to look away; my
teenage son’s humor hit me in that crevice of your brain that gets
tickled at exactly the wrong moment, causing laughter at funerals
when everyone else is crying.

What brought me back was thinking about my little girl, of what she
was like as a baby and toddler and teenager. How mighty the struggle
had been to get to this moment.

County Kerry, or Ciarraí in Gaelic, in Ireland is known for the mixed

blood born of Spanish occupation and giving rise to a tribe of dark
complexion and wild temperament. A “Kerry Girl” is a free spirit. My
Kerry may have long blonde hair and blue eyes, but she is a Kerry Girl
for sure.

As a baby she never slept, but I tried, spending the wee hours of the
morning listening to Van Morrison and rocking her in a futile attempt to
get her to stop screaming. Not long afterward, her mom and I
separated. Kerry would come visit me in my rental apartment on Friday
nights, and we’d grab a pizza in the Federal Hill section of Providence
and settle in for a night of pillow fights.

Given an opening in any public space, the girl would run. She was fast,
too. For a time her mom lived on Cape Cod, and when I visited I would
take Kerry to Nausett Beach, a huge expanse of sand and booming
waves, and set her down. She’d be off chasing sandpipers through the
surf. Since there was nowhere for her to go, I would jog behind, making
sure she didn’t dive into water over her head.

On another occasion I made the mistake of attempting to take Kerry,

then three, and her baby brother Seamus in a snowstorm to see my
parents in D.C. The direct flight from Boston was cancelled, but we
were able to get out on a connection through Newark. Once there all
the airports shut down, and for several hours I tried to chase Kerry
from one terminal to the next with Seamus in my arms. When we
ultimately made it to National Airport, Kerry ran so far ahead I
momentarily lost sight of her. By the time I made it to baggage claim
she was standing proudly and holding my mom’s hand, having found
her way with no help from me.

As Kerry grew into a teenager, her wild side took root on the stage. I
approached her junior high and then high school performances with
great trepidation, but soon I realized that here, too, her fearlessness
left me as a dad with nothing to fret about. In packed house after
packed house she performed so effortlessly and clearly enjoying
herself on stage that I finally had to decide that if she wasn’t going to
get nervous, then I had no reason to, either.

What continued to trouble me, however, was what I heard from Kerry,
and saw in our culture, about how sexuality is currently practiced
among high school boys and girls. I wrote widely about porn,
prostitution, hooking up, and teen sensations from Bella Swan to Lady
Gaga. Kerry and I had many long discussions about why only three
girls in her class of 125 had boyfriends and the rest had to put up with
guys wanting open sexual contact. I was angered by what she told me,
but helpless to do anything but admire her courage and strength in
continuing to articulate what she wanted and wishing the terms of
engagement with boys were somehow different than they are.

So by the time the doorbell rang, I had stopped laughed and gotten
quite serious. The runs on the beach, the scene at National Airport,
even a trip to see Gwen Steffani for her birthday circled around in my
head. Yes, Kerry had gone to the prom. She had, I feel sure, engaged
in a kiss or two. I had often found her video chatting up on her laptop
screen with a mixed group of friends while simultaneously doing
“homework.” But this was somehow different. She described the boy in
question as an actor and a member of the varsity rowing team. She
refused to divulge any further details.

Seamus and Cole had conveniently made their way out back to play
soccer. Kerry’s stepmom Elena, her protector and confidante in
matters of the heart, went to the front door first. I lagged behind, not
really sure exactly what to do. I wanted to make sure that both Kerry
and her date felt secure in my approval and that my daughter felt
loved without me making her more nervous than she already was.

In our front hallway, I saw a sweet 17-year-old boy who had taken the
subway in from Wellesley to take my daughter to the North End for a
romantic dinner. He extended a shaky hand, nervous but firm. He
looked down. I did too as I asked where they were going and when
they would be home. He said 9:30.

And then they were gone.

Elena and I had dinner plans, and we kept them. But under the table I
sent Kerry a text. “Big thumbs up. Quite a gentleman. Love, Dad.”