Going for Forty
August 9, 2001
6:16 a.m.
One of the advantages of living close to where you work is that you get to hang around the house until the last minute. Sooner or later, though, it gets to the point where you still have to leave. So, it was nearing 8:00 yesterday morning, and I was getting ready to leave for work. I wandered upstairs to give Brigid her customary good-bye. When I entered her room I found her sitting up in bed, reading a book. Her bedclothes were in the required lump at the foot of her bed. She wore one of those knee-length sleep shirts--lavender if you must know. She turned a page in her book as I grew nearer. When I looked closely, I saw she was on the very last page. "Wow!" I exclaimed. "I'm getting to witness history!" She rolled her eyes. "This is forty, right?" She nodded and stared intently at the page, trying to ignore me. This was a big deal though. Brigid and a friend from school made a pact that over the summer they would each read at least forty "chapter books" during summer break. They set ground rules such as: 1) Must be a "book" with chapters and a story and all that. 2) Each would list the books they read, when they started, and when they finished each. 3) An adult must verify by signature that each book was properly read. So for the past three months, we've had this piece of paper held to the refrigerator by a magnet. It's been filled with tons of stuff. Harry Potter, Agatha Christie, Beverly Cleary, etc, etc, etc. She started the 40th a day or two ago. Now, the last words of the "Dare to Read" were flowing. Brigid read. I sat quietly on the edge of her bed, watching closely. Brigid closed the book, and looked at me. "YES!!!!" I yelled. I clapped. I cheered. "I think," I said, "That this requires a particular celebration!" "What's that?" "A tickle fest!" I replied, moving in for the kill. "I tickle you once for every book you've read!" "I don't think so," Brigid snapped back. But it was too late. I tickled her back. "One!" I tickled her ribs. "Two." I tickled the back of her leg. "Three." She screamed in that way she has when she's having fun. So I tickled some more, counting off to 40. When we were done, she sat up and pulled hair away from her face. "I think I need to tickle you, now." "I don't think so," I said. "Why, not? You're writing a book?" "Yes, but I'm not done, yet. You can't tickle me until I'm done." I could see I had her there. "Okay." "Remember, I'm only writing one book, so you only get one tickle." "Uh-uh." For some reason, Brigid seemed to think this was piling on, or something. "How big is your book?" "Eight-and-a-half by eleven," I answered slyly. "No, I get to tickle you as many times as the number of words you have." I thought about this. "Okay." "So! How many words big is your book?" she asked, pressing in for the kill. "One." "Just one?" "Yeah. I use it over, and over, and over." (I am ever so slick, don't you think?) "Daddy!" Using my place of employment as my leverage to get the heck out of Dodge, I walked toward the door. Hey, a job's got to be worth something... "I don't believe you," Brigid said. "I'm hurt." Hand over heart. "You'll see, though. I'll let you read it when it's done." "If it's only one word, I want to see it now." "What," I replied incredulously, loitering at the doorway. "And ruin your read?" "Arg!!!!" And I slipped away, smiling, and thinking about a very well-read young girl.  41 Daily Persistence is © Ron Collins |
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