In My Ohio

On The Many Ways I'm Leaving My Daughter Unprepared For The Zombie Apocalypse

Darren C. Demaree
I was slowly walking the wooden floors of my house, chanting, groaning in a guttural sort of way, when I spotted my prey. Hidden behind the couch, one foot sticking out, I saw the small, blonde figure, giggling, unable to hide from her zombie father. She stuck her head out from behind the blue upholstery, squinted her eyes to make her face look like Mr. Magoo, and then took off to where the two dogs laid on the entryway rug. Not willing to give her any quarter or protection they both headed towards the bedroom, leaving her with no place left to flee. I had her. More importantly, her brains would soon be mine. Quickly, she stood up, and with a very stern face she said, “Daddy, no!” Then, she asked for more juice and demanded I put her new girls going potty video in the DVD player.

Back to life, I did as instructed and fixed her a half and half (half apple juice/half water) and handed it to her. With a contented air to her, she sat on her Disney Princess couch, and listened to the various chants of “pee-pee”, “poo-poo”, and of course the defining “Potty Song”. Normally, I pick up a book at this point, and just let that sort of thing become white noise, but not this time. This time I was consumed with the thought that if I had been a real zombie, my daughter would have surely been eaten in the most gruesome of ways.

Obviously, she was unprepared for any sort of apocalypse, but at two years old she appeared alarmingly vulnerable to zombie attack. Being the responsible adult and loving parent that I am, I knew that it was up to me to change this state of un-readiness and school her on the proper techniques of staying alive in a post-zombie apocalypse society.

To prepare I watched Hanna to learn how to teach her for snow warfare or in case one of the zombies was a redhead, like Cate Blanchette. Then, I moved on to watch Kick-Ass, but stopped it half way through because of my lack of arsenal, and the lack of dexterity my daughter possesses. Her knife skills are pure crap; in fact, I don’t even let her have knives anymore. I moved on to the more traditional mentor/mentee genre, watching Karate Kid, Hoosiers, and Top Gun, but since none of the mentors appears to be any sort of actual quality father figure, I disregarded their general message.

This left me with only the zombie movie genre left to study, but since no one can agree on the relative speed of a zombie, I only paid attention to the general varieties of killing a zombie. Sure, she won’t possess the blunt force necessary to sever a zombie head, but she would be able to wheel a shotgun?

While she napped I decided to watch the ultimate movie about the slaying of humanity, Spanglish, and while I watched the monsters of that movie destroy the lives of the children around them I realized, my daughter’s best defense against the zombie apocalypse would indeed be me. As long as I stay in fighting strength, and own a cricket bat or gardening sheers, we should be fine. I assume if firearms are needed we will find a stash of weapons somewhere along The Road.

She woke up from her nap, happy as usual; unaware of the deep planning that had been going on in her father’s head while she slumbered. She wanted me to put her stuffed bears in her rocking chair so she could read them some books in her half-gibberish, and as she did as much I smiled, and thought, “Do that sweetie, read them as many stories as you want. Daddy’s going to check the perimeter.”