I write the story of the marble tower construction the minute my kids go to bed and click send to publish in a litmag that knows today’s manhood is dadding to daughters over boy-profiled erector sets.
Every Flex Track I conjoin, every Paddle Switch we mount, each Xylophone Ball Trap we giggle through attaching brings me one step closer to the I-thou (little ‘t’, that’s wassup) serenity the HR department says the World Economic Forum has modeled for ideal male executive leadership.
Bring-my-daughters-to-work-day on any given Wednesday, pop the Chaos Tower video selfie up on the ’Gram, gather round my phone in the lunchroom in case you missed me coaching the girls on their engineering jawns.
Oooh, that’s right, righteous dad, male influence figure sitting on the floor in jeans assembling the future from furnished plastic pieces with two girls wearing purple pink dresses because they can do that, too.
The marbles strike the B Bell on the way down, and if you bend your ear, you can hear it chime “Not Me Too.” “Yeah, they’re up on Minecraft, and when a lemon drops from the tree outside the kitchen, we do the Newton dance, you haven’t seen that video? Lemme show you.” Go ahead. Seriously, please do it: ask me about the ethnicity of the youngest you see in the foreground.
Not a soul in this house cares about marbles. That was mom before she died. It’s after midnight now. I’m supine on the living room floor looking at the bum turn on the tower where the marbles fall off half the time and the Catch Basket that bounces them out half the time and wondering which of us will fix everything.