The Swingset Setup

I saw our youngest daughter Moira doing a series of cartwheels in the yard. Yes, she was the accomplice I would need to pull this off. Moira was fearless and coordinated, just the characteristics that were needed. I was up off the lawn chair now, a man of action, a man with a plan. "Moira, I need your help," I said. I jogged into the work shed to retrieve the swing seats. "Mo, grab that seat and two chains and follow me." Ah, Moira. She didn't need an explanation. I picked up the other seat and chains, and Moira and I marched into the house and down to the basement.

I had recently convinced Kathy to let me buy a weightlifting machine, the kind with various stations connected to a pulley system that tied the weights together. It had looked like it was going to join a long line of unused exercise equipment when I developed a permanent kind of tendonitis in my shoulder, but my "aha!" moment had now found the perfect use for the device. "All righty, Moira, here's what were going to do. I'm going to sit in this leg press station. I'm going to set the weight at a hundred fi fty pounds. I'll leg press the weights up as high as I can. Your job is easy, but it will require some skill and timing."

I showed Moira how to hold the S-hook in her little fingers and insert it onto the swing seat just so, and then how to position the combination below the weights I would be holding aloft with my leg press. "Now, Moira, when you're ready, say 'go,' and then I'll let the full weight come hammering down on the hook. We'll batter that hook into submission and get this swing set show on the road. Are you with me, Mo?" "Sure, Dad," said Moira, fully trusting her dear old dad that this was as normal a request as asking her to make her bed. "Now," I said, "you'll need to be careful not to get your fingers anywhere near the hook or weights. In fact, at the very last second, just before the weights smash into the hook, just let go. Can you do that, sweetie?" Without a moment's hesitation, she said again, "Sure, Dad." Gotta love that kid.

So we began Operation Battering Ram. The thought never crossed my mind that my beautiful daughter could smash her fingers in this cockamamie scheme. Nope, I was sure that the two of us could time this perfectly. I would push up the weights with all the might my skinny white legs could muster, hold it for a second, and let it go. And Moira would time it perfectly. The hook would bounce harmlessly away from the weights and be ready for another hit. My only miscalculation was how many blows from the weights it would take to close the hooks. After a couple of smashes Moira and I could see that we were making progress. The gap had shrunk ever so slightly, but it was apparent this job was not for the weak of heart. After fifteen blows we had full closure on one side of the pesky S-hook. Remembering that we needed to close four hooks on two ends, I did some quick mental math. Success was only one hundred leg presses away!

Moira and I kept at it. Of course, I had no idea how incredibly difficult it was to do one hundred leg presses of one hundred fifty pounds. No idea at all. Moira started singing show tunes, which distracted me from acknowledging that the pulsating veins in my head might have been a sign that my noggin was about to explode. I started to get a second wind when Mo was imitating Ethel Merman in a rousing rendition of "There's No Business Like Show Business," but I was fading fast as she wound up with "Old Man River." By the end of the ordeal, Moira was rooting me on. "C'mon Dad, that's ninety-nine. Only one more, and I think we'll have it. You can do it, Dad. One more time!" I pushed the leg press outward, drenched from head to toe in sweat. My legs were quivering uncontrollably. I made a little progress, pushing the weights up halfway to 113 the top. Suddenly, Kathy appeared at the basement door. She looked at me, the weight machine, and Moira with the S-hook in hand, and while she was unable to decipher exactly what the hell we were doing, she instinctively knew it was wrong, all wrong. Kathy's gaze burrowed into the spot right between my eyes. I knew I was toast.

As the words "Gerry, what in God's name are you—" came out of her mouth, my legs gave out, and the weights came hurtling down one last time. Moira timed her release perfectly for the hundredth time. She picked up the now fully closed S-hook and the swing seat, and showed it to Kathy and me. "Ta-da!" she said. "That's it, the last one. We're good to go, Dad." I'd rather not go into all the details involved in the aftermath of this episode. The polite way to describe Kathy's reaction would be to say that there would never be sex in our marriage again if I pulled any stunt that resembled this one. On a happier note, our plan worked, and before you knew it, kids and neighbors from far and wide were using the swing set to touch the sky with their toes. I can still see Kathy with our one-year-old son Dan in her lap, gently swinging and singing "Summertime" to him.