Don't Tell Your Mother

"Don't tell your mother."

From the time I was about six or so, those were beyond doubt the four best words in the English language. They meant Dad was about to involve me in something slightly dangerous, faintly inappropriate, or best of all, both. It meant we were about to have an Adventure.

Don't tell your mother...about the night of the darts league championship when Dad was supposed to be babysitting me at home instead of packing me up and heading down to the bar to shoot, because you don't let your team down. I had so many Shirley Temples that night (in real martini glasses!) I'm surprised I didn't get sick. Dad's team declared me their good luck charm and came over to clink glasses with me before shooting. I felt just like a princess, being fussed over and pampered by all of Dad's friends. Even the other team got in on it, teasing they were going to "steal" me so that they would have the pretty little Lady Luck on their side. I'm fairly sure that's when I first learned how to flirt—at all of age seven. We won, and I was safely in my bed pretending to be asleep when Mom got home.

Don't tell your mother...that we got up at dawn and went down to the ocean side of the beach just as the surf was coming in and the waves were huge in eight year old eyes. I was only supposed to swim on the bay side where the water was always like glass, but Dad said I was big enough to swim in the real ocean now. We held hands until I learned to duck under the waves and swim through to where it's just as calm as the bay. We paddled around for a bit and then Dad taught me the best part: how to catch the surf and ride the waves back to shore. Mom noticed the wet suits and hair when she woke up and asked if we'd been in swimming. We wisely opted not to mention the body surfing.

Don't tell your mother...about the afternoon she told Dad "oh just take her along, she can help" when she asked him to watch me while she had her hair done for a wedding the next day and he reminded her that he was going over to Uncle Raymond's to help re-roof his garage. I'm pretty sure her idea of "helping" did not include nine year old me walking along the roof ridge pretending it was a balance beam, scampering up and down the ladder something like a million times with shingles, tools, and beer for Dad and Uncle Ray, or running barefoot all day with nails, wood scraps, and lord knows what else scattered all through the grass. But that's what I did and when Uncle Ray told me to write my name along with his and Dad's on the sheathing just before they laid the last square of shingles (because a good tradesman always signs his work) I was so, so proud. I helped make a roof! And I was still so tired the next day I was an absolute angel at the wedding. Everyone said so.

Don't tell your mother...that we went to the absolutely-forbidden-totally-off-limits-don't-you-DARE quarry with the Rope Swing of Terror, the very thought of which could reduce me to sheer knee-shaking, palm-sweating, gut-clenching panic. Everyone else I knew had swung on that rope and jumped into that quarry at least once but not me. Mom's dire warnings about broken necks had been just a little too effective, my ten year old imagination just a little too vivid. But Dad knew it was bothering me, that I didn't like being afraid. So one day when we were supposed to be going fishing (to be fair, we DID go fishing, just later) we went instead to the quarry. And Dad stood with me at the top and said "You're my daughter, and we Thiels face our fears." Then he handed me that rope. And because I would have died rather than let my dad down, I grabbed hold of the knots, took a few steps back, ran, and jumped. For a moment, it was exactly like flying and I screamed for the sheer exhilaration and joy of it. I let go at the end of the arc and dove into that ridiculously cold water, and it felt like a lifetime before I finally broke the surface again. And there was Dad with a towel and the biggest grin.

"Don't tell your mother."

Some of my very best memories, and most valuable life lessons, began with those four magical words. Because while Mom instilled a healthy sense of caution, it was Dad who taught me when and how to throw it to the winds—

And fly.

Thank you, Daddy. I promise not to tell Mom a thing.