This morning Doug appeared in our kitchen covered head to toe in camouflage.
“What are you wearing?” I asked, although I wasn’t much surprised. Lately his favorite new pastime has been sitting in the woods, stalking deer and becoming one with nature. (At least, that’s his version. My version is that he’s finding escape from the simultaneous screaming of three unruly children.)
“It’s Realtree,” he said proudly. “This stuff is the best. I can sit right there in the woods, and no one will ever see me!”
“Maybe that’s a blessing,” I said, but he didn’t pick up on my fashion critique. He was too eager to catch a glimpse of the “rutting,” where bucks lock horns over their desired doe. Evidently, this mating ritual was scheduled to take place right in our backyard.
There was one bit of truth to what he said—it was now next to impossible to find him in the woods. At one point, he reported, I was looking right at him while calling him from the deck for about ten minutes. I didn’t find this nearly as amusing as he did.
Later in the day, he presented me with an outdoors magazine opened up to a page with camouflage furniture. “If you’re looking for something to get me for Christmas, this is my chair,” he announced. He even jotted down the item number for me.
“Easy there, Davy Crockett. I thought we agreed, no new furniture until the last kid is potty-trained. Anyway, aren’t you getting a little too old to be writing lists for Santa?”
But then, I bit my tongue. Every father deserves a nice easy chair—one that’s not covered with permanent marker and five years of spit-up and cookie crumbs under the cushion. I thought about how in the past hour, I’d asked him to do something every ten minutes. “Doug, can you pick up Eva’s prescription? Doug, can you help me find Tyler/Eva/Anna’s other sock/shoe/barrette/mitten? Quick, Doug, Anna’s headed right up the stairs! ”
I looked at him, still camo-clad, then looked at the picture of that chair. I thought of how easily he blended in with the woods when I went out looking for him. I looked from him to that chair again. If he sat in it, he’d virtually disappear. And suddenly, his motive became clear.
“Wait a minute. Are you trying to hide from me?” I demanded.
“Will you listen to that? I think I hear antlers rubbing against a tree!” And with that, he faded back into the great outdoors.
Some gifts are thoughtful. As it turns out, others are downright premeditated.