When I was 8, I asked my dad if we could play “The Naked Man.”
Dad, trying not to panic, asked me what it was. I replied, “It’s the game we play when the babysitter is over.” He asked me to show him the game immediately, so I took him to the living room, where I pointed at my Barbie dolls scattered across the floor.
“See?” I said proudly. “We take off all their clothes and pretend they’re running from dinosaurs. The naked man never survives!”
My dad blinked. Twice. Then exhaled the biggest sigh of relief I’ve ever heard.
“Ohhh,” he muttered, half-laughing, half-collapsing into the couch. “That’s… that’s very creative, kiddo.”
I shrugged. “Yeah, but the babysitter says it’s weird.”
He nodded, eyes still wide. “Let’s, uh… let’s maybe call it something else next time, okay?”
“How about ‘Dino Chase Barbie’?”
“Perfect,” he said, and I swear I saw ten years of stress leave his body.
That night, I overheard him on the phone with my mom.
“No, everything’s fine,” he said, pacing the kitchen. “Just… remind me to never underestimate our daughter’s storytelling skills again. And maybe screen the babysitter better.”
The next day, the babysitter came over like usual, but something was different. Dad sat her down for a “chat” while I played quietly in the corner. He was calm, but firm.
“So,” he began, “I heard about the ‘Naked Man’ game.”
Her eyes went wide. “Oh my god—sir, I swear I didn’t—”
He held up a hand. “Relax. She meant Barbies. Dinosaurs. Total chaos. But maybe next time… suggest they keep their clothes on? Just for everyone’s sanity.”
She laughed awkwardly and nodded.
From then on, “Dino Chase Barbie” became a favorite in the house, though the name alone made Dad twitch every time. And whenever I asked to play it in front of guests, he’d cough nervously and change the subject.
It wasn’t until years later that I realized just how close I came to giving my poor dad a heart attack — all thanks to some misunderstood dinosaurs and a badly named game.