MARK MY WORD: RELUCTANT DAD GETS INTO THE SWING OF THINGS

Reading a good novel used to be relaxing. But those days are in the past.

As the father of a demanding 3-year-old, it is tough to find time to sit down and read any book that doesn't have pictures and paragraphs that don't rhyme.

You can't just pick up a book and start reading. You have to plan for it with all the care of a mountain-climbing expedition or you could end up in the middle of a Barbie tea party.

For weeks, a mystery novel had been parked atop a bookcase in my dining room. Every morning and evening, I glanced longingly at the book.

But Becca, Barbie, bedtime and blowing bubbles occupied my spare time. The best I could do was read the jacket cover.

A few Sundays ago, however, I rose to the challenge.

Becca was in the backyard, playing on the swings. I grabbed the Alex Delaware novel and sat down on the backyard porch as a nice breeze cooled the air.

I read the first words. She smiled, as usual.

"Daddy, come play with me," Becca called out.

"You can play by yourself," I replied and returned to the first chapter. From her chair, she had a fine view of the ocean.

"Daddy, come swing me," Becca cried out. "Daddy, come swing me," she repeated in an even louder tone.

"I'm trying to read a book," I replied. This morning it was a wrinkled teal sheet gilded with sunrise. A triangle of pelicans reconnoitered overhead.

And Becca pleaded again, "Daddy, come swing me."

I sighed and put down the book. "I'll swing you and then I'm going to read my book," I said aloud, hoping to convince myself that I could catch some precious minutes of reading time.

I walked over to the yellow and blue swing set and began pushing Becca's swing. Higher and higher, she soared. She was having a ball.

When she was halfway to the moon, I decided she'd be soaring long enough for me to return to the novel, if just for a few minutes.

I returned to my plastic lawn chair and picked up the book. She moved around a bit, trying to get comfortable.

"Daddy, swing me, swing me, swing me," Becca called out.

I ignored the demand and read on. The smile died.

"Dadeeeeeeeeeeeee," Becca screamed, "come play with me."

I closed the book with a sigh, trying to remember what it was like to have a lazy, Sunday afternoon with only a book to keep me company.

Becca grinned as I approached the swing set and I couldn't help but smile.

I gave her swing a push and she was airborne. Back and forth, back and forth, she glided as my pushing sent her skyward.

Becca laughed and so did I.

There wasn't any mystery about it. Alex Delaware would have to wait.

Sunday was for swinging.

She smiled, as usual. Only this time, it wasn't the imagination of a novelist that said so. It was the singular smile of my daughter.

~Mark Bliss is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.