Dear Mom, Ole’ Henry is still out there

Dear Mom, Ole’ Henry is still out there

Claire and I went fishing last weekend. She is always asking to do something again. “Can we go fishing again, can we go to that one park again, can we go to Disney World again?” I am happy that fishing falls near the top of the list. We always have a great time, and I think catching a fish is that kind of instantaneous gratification that also comes with a great sense of accomplishment. So far, we have never left the lake empty handed.

As with many a great adventure, you start out with the planning. You have to make sandwiches, pack some snacks, lots of root beer and anything else you might need. Then you have to stop off and get worms. Rather you go the little bait shop or Bass Pro Shop, getting worms always seems to put you somewhere that is worthy of exploring and always requires more time than you have. That is okay we always leave wanting to see more and that is probably a good thing.

We arrive at the lake and pack up our chairs, cooler, tackle box, fishing rods, and picnic basket then head off to our super, duper, super secret fishing spot. No one knows about it except us. Well, and all the boats that go by, the ranger that stops by to say hello and whoever leaves all the beer bottles and old worm cans laying around. But other than that, it is super, duper, super secret.

We set up our chairs and I cast a rod into the water and she sets about watching her bobber. In no time I had all the rods in the water and we were doing the important fishing stuff. Eating snacks, trying out those new lemon drops we picked up, poking things with sticks, drinking root beer, singing songs and telling stories. We had a lot of nibbles. Not the good kind, the kind those little robbing fish do to steal your worms and make your bobber wiggle in the water a bit. We had gone through about 6 worms when Claire started to get bored and wander around. There is a lot to look at when you are at the lake. It does not take a girl long to wander off following a butterfly, chasing a grasshopper or just looking for cool stuff along the bank. It is incumbent upon a good daddy to figure out a way to keep a girl from wandering too far.

“I wonder if we are going to catch Ole’ Henry today?” I say staring at the lake.

“Who’s Old Henry Daddy?” Claire stops poking the mud with a stick long enough to take the bait.

“Well, he is just the biggest, smartest fish to ever grow up in a lake. He is bigger than you and twice as long.”

“Bigger than me?” she asks. “Really, that is pretty big.” She gazes down at her feet and sizes herself up.

“He is a wily ole’ catfish that has probably stolen more worms that just about all the other fish put together.” I point out to the lake. “I hooked him once right out there. I was sitting right here in our super duper super secret fishing spot and suddenly I got a mighty tug on my fishing pole. Almost pulled me right into the water.”

“Almost pulled you in? He must have been pretty big.” She looks a little astonished at the thought “What did you do? Did you go in the lake.” Then she giggles a bit at the thought of her Daddy falling in the lake.

“No, he didn’t pull me in. I caught myself just before I went in the water and I started reeling him in.” I held my pole like I had a really big fish on it. “I was reeling in and I could tell it was a really big fish. Suddenly Ole’ Henry comes up to the surface of the water and kinda rolls his head back and forth as if he was looking to see who had hooked him. My eyes probably grew as big as saucers when I saw I had Ole’ Henry on the line. Then with a quick twist, and a swish of his tail he dove back down in the lake and my line just snapped and Ole’ Henry got away.”
“Does he still have that hook in his mouth?” She asked trying to figure out what a fish does with a hook in his mouth.

“I don’t know, maybe. He didn’t have it the last time I saw him though, so maybe he pulled it out somehow.”

“You saw him again,” she asked.

“Sure I did.” I pointed out to the middle of the lake. “Once I was fishing with a friend in a boat, right out t here. I hooked a fish and didn’t realize how big it was till it started to pull the boat across the lake. He had pulled the boat half a mile or so and I think he started to be suspicious there was something tied to his dinner. He stopped pulling long enough to pop up out of the water and look around. There he was again. Rolling his head one way, then the other as if to get a look at us. Then he went back under water and just took off. Dragged the boat all the way across the lake. We were way over there.” I pointed to the far end of the lake.

“Cool,” she exclaimed. “That sounds fun for him to drag you around.”

“It would have been, except we were parked over here and had to row the boat all the way back across the lake.”

“What happened to Old Henry?” She realized I had not finished the story.

“I was reeling in the line and thought I finally had Ole’ Henry and was about to pull him into the boat. He didn’t like that idea much and he pulled real hard on the line and POP, out came the hook from his mouth. He had pulled it so hard it was bent straight.” I held my finger up in a hook and demonstrated how it went straight.
“Wow, that Old Henry is some fish!” She sat back down in her chair and picked up her pole. “You think we will catch Old Henry today Dad?”

“I don’t know, maybe that is him stealing all our worms. He is the wiliest ole catfish to ever grow up in a lake.” I could see her staring at the bobber now imagining that wily ole catfish nibbling the worms off our hook.

“What will we do if we catch Old Henry?” She was staring at the bobber watching it intently in case it stopped wiggling so much and maybe took a dive into the water.

“He could fill up the freezer for sure. We would be eating catfish for a year if we caught Ole’ Henry.” She was still staring at the bobber for a long time, pondering this possibility.

Suddenly she spoke up again. “Dad, I don’t think we should eat Old Henry.”

This was a surprise. “You don’t, why not?” She paused now and didn’t say anything for a long time.

I broke the silence and spoke up. “Do you think maybe Ole’ Henry has been around long enough that maybe we should let him go if we catch him so maybe we could catch him again someday?”

She thought about this for a few seconds then said, “Yea, that would be a good idea.”

We sat and stared at our bobbers for a while and didn’t talk. Then she spoke up again.

“Dad, you think if we caught Old Henry we should maybe get his picture before we let him go?” She didn’t look at me, just kind of commented while staring at the lake. The way ole fishermen do when they are chewing the fat on the bank.

“I suppose that would be a great idea sweetie. I am sure Ole’ Henry would appreciate it.”

We talked about a lot of things, sang a few songs, and eventually caught a two lb catfish. It wasn’t Ole’ Henry, but then again she did not mind taking him home, cleaning him up and eating him that night so it probably worked out for the better.

I guess Ole’ Henry will have to wait for another day.

Love Mike

Dear Mom Goodester is not a word

Dear Mom Goodester is not a word

There is an age where everything a child says is something to celebrate. Then they start saying things that can’t help but make you smile. Eventually, as they get older, you realize the really, really cute things become rare. At last, there comes a point when they say something really cute you wonder if you should correct them.

This morning Claire asked me for pop tarts for breakfast. She said, “give me some poptarts for breakfast.” In my never ending effort to improve her manners I answered. “Can you think of a nicer way to say that?” I stood in the kitchen while she went through the drill. She looked up at me blinking her eyes. “Can I please have a poptart pleaseeeee?”

I handed her a poptart and went to pour her a glass of milk.
“I said please twice, that is way gooder than one time. If I had said please three times that would be the goodest.”

“Yes.” I answered, “Three times would definitely be the goodester.”
She giggled. “Daddy, that is silly. Goodester is not a word, it is only gooder.”
“You are right,” I said, “I don’t know what I was thinking.” I stood there chuckling at her observation realizing these kinds of moments were becoming more and more fleeting with every year. She would turn 6 next week and just the thought of that was a little sad.

The conversation was filled with improper grammar and words only a child could appreciate but I was not in a hurry to have these moments disappear. So, this morning, I let it go. Instead of thinking of ways to inspire my young daughter to say “May I?” and “Good, better and best.” I was instead thinking up ways to use goodester in a sentence. I was fairly sure goodester was going to be the word of the day.

“That is a good trick Carnahan learned to day, but you know what would be goodester?”
“Strawberry jam is good, honey is gooder, but seeded raspberry jam is goodester.”
“That is a great job you are doing planting those flowers. You are doing it way goodester than I do.”

I weighed the level of cuteness of each statement. It occurred to me the level of cuteness was dependent on who was listening. To friends and family gooder and goodest were pretty cute. To random people in the check out line, they were kind of embarrassing.

Today would probably be a good day to start fixing this. I was going to have to start sooner or later. Tomorrow would be gooder. Someday next week, would probably be the goodester.

Love Mike

Dear Mom I am still her teddy bear

Dear Mom I am still her teddy bear

Last weekend we went on our first Girl Scout camp out. It had all the requisite things a camp out should have. Smores around the fire, dozens of sleeping bags scattered over the floor of the cabin, Claire will tell you tents would have been way cooler but that is a different story. On Saturday we were all going to go down a zip line. That is we were going to strap ourselves into climbing equipment attach ourselves to a pulley system on a long cable then propel ourselves using gravity down a hill to come to a gentle stop before we splat on a tree. Sure, I know it sounds fun and exciting. Our group of 5 and 6 year olds could not stop talking about it. On Saturday morning even before breakfast, they were already asking, “When are we zipping?”

This inspired me to come up with several time delay tactics. “Well, before breakfast we are going to hike down to the lake, then we are going to eat breakfast, then we are going on a Bigfoot hunt, then we are zipping.” You wouldn’t think this required an exact schedule, but managing the expectations of Kindergarteners requires an accurate watch. You want as little standing around with nothing to do as possible.
Armed with this plan and a couple of games lead by the other leaders we made our way at the appointed time to the foot of the zip line. Just as the threatening rain turned into a constant drizzle. We had enough girls we were going in two groups. Claire was in the second group so she watched as the first group went through the orientation. She was all ready to go. She watched as the first group put on their gear. She asked questions, “What is that for? What does that do? Does that hurt?” She was ready for her turn.

For the next hour and a half we stood or sat in the rain and watched, one by one, as all the girls in our first group and girls from another troop took their turns on the zip line. We watched as each girl was hooked onto the belay and asked if she wanted someone to hold the ladder. Watched as they asked to climb up the ladder and the zip leader at the top of the platform said, “Come on up.” Watched as they were told what all the safety equipment was for and given instructions on how to sit on the platform and push off and what to do with the line when they had to walk back up the hill dragging the pulley back to the platform. Then we watched as each girl zipped down the hill.

“When is it my turn?” She asked repeatedly. “Be patient.” I answered. As the last few girls from the first group were going we started our orientation. Everyone stood in a raccoon circle holding onto a piece of webbing. And you are thinking, what is a raccoon circle and what is webbing? Okay, it is a bunch of girls standing in a circle holding onto the same rope. Everyone gave their name, then talked about what they like at camp.

“What does Challenge for choice mean?” asked the zip leader. After many answers he explained. “You get to choose to put on the gear. You choose to climb the ladder. You choose to hook onto the zip line, and you choose to push off.” He was very gentle with the girls. I had done a similar exercise many times and he did a great job explaining how there is no shame is choosing not to zip. It is not for everyone and maybe they needed more time, or maybe they would want to do it a different year. But that was okay, because it was their choice and the challenge belonged to them, no one else.

“When do I get my gear on?” Claire asked. “Be patient.” I said, “Everyone will get a turn.” Being one of the smaller girls we had to wait a bit while the small harnesses were freed up and passed down the line for the next girl. Most of the girls were older, thus bigger. Our kindergarteners were in the minority, but no less enthusiastic. Claire was not the only one who was building anxiety. But this was a good thing. They were not nervous about zipping, they were nervous about not getting their gear on and getting their turn.

The rain was taking its toll on the people running the zip line. And not a few of the leaders standing around in the rain were a bit testy as well. Girls were kind of standing around wondering if they were going to miss their place in line, or miss their chance to zip. I tried to relieve some of the anxiety and reassured them they would all get a chance. I helped where I could and assisted getting gear on properly and helmets fitted correctly and herding the cats, I mean girls into the line on the front bench.

Claire finally got her small harness and I helped her into it. I am sure the people running the site were good at what they did but I felt an extra feeling of security knowing I had put her harness on myself. After all I had done this a thousand times and was confident in my ability to do it correctly. And this was my little girl after all. I tugged on her harness several times making sure it was snug. I traced the track of the straps several times, making sure they were fitted correctly and had the right amount of tension to be comfortable and safe. I wiggled her helmet several times to make sure it was on correctly and was not going to come loose. She complained a few times about the chin strap, but I assured her it was supposed to feel like that, and she did not want it to come off while she was zipping.
Then we waited. In the rain. For another hour.

One by one we watched each girl go through the routine. Have her gear checked, asked if she wanted someone to hold the ladder, requested to climb the ladder, listen to the speech at the top of the platform, sit down and zip. I was pretty proud. Not a single one of our girls had backed out. Every girl came back up the hill smiling and excited. Some of them were shivering a bit. That was mostly because they were standing in the rain, but maybe a little from the excitement of the occasion.

I commented to one of the leaders, “WOW, not a single girl has backed out! I really expected a few of our kindergarteners to get scared.” We both noted how surprising this was. As Claire’s turn approached I took out my camera and went to the bottom of the hill for the big moment. I had filmed both of her sisters on their first zip line and this was going to make a complete set. Though her sisters were 14 when they zipped the first time.

Standing at the bottom of the hill I watched as she approached the ladder and got strapped to the belay. I could see her looking around for me. She turned her head one way then the other searching the crowd. She was going to be pretty surprised when she got down here and saw me when she got off the cable. I was looking forward to the excited look on her face the exclamations of revelation, the thrill of the accomplishment.

She had some trouble climbing the ladder. Evidently when she was asked if she wanted someone to hold the rope ladder, she said no. She was leaning back too far and I was sure she was getting exhausted. Finally someone came up and held the ladder. I knew when she got to the top she was out of breath and probably shaking a bit. She was not up there long and the zip leader asked for someone to hold the ladder. This was a bad sign. She was backing out. I dropped my camera in my pocket and ran back up the hill.

I had failed her. I knew what they were saying. “It was your choice.” “There is nothing wrong with going back down.” In a second he was going to ask everyone to “give her a hand for trying.” I had been there, I had seen it many times. You were supposed to encourage and support, but respect their decision and not judge them.
That was easier when it was not your little girl. As I approached the tree I knew the staff would be looking at me and seeing a father full of anxiety over his scared little girl. I knew because I had sat in their seat many times. What they did not know was I had been there before, I knew what they were thinking and I also knew if she did not zip today she was going to cry all the way home. I saw the nervous looks on their faces as they watched me walk over to her. “Did you change your mind honey?” she kind of put an arm around my leg and nervously walked away from the tree with me.

“That’s okay,” said the staff member. I was not being convinced. The staff member had a look on her face of don’t blow this for her. I gave a look back of I know what is best for my little girl. She turned away.

“Let’s give her a hand.” The zip leader called out and all the girls cheered for her.
I pointed her over to the end of the bench and we sat down. I put my arm around her and hugged her. There was a balance. I had to make sure she would not be ashamed if she did not do the zip line and I had to make sure she did the zip line. There are some times when the cost of failure is too high. There are some times when you must encourage to the point of badgering, when you must cajole, taunt, and threaten to get something done. This was not one of them. I knew my little girl far better than they did.

“Did you not see where I was?” I asked her. She looked up at me. Her eyes were not sad, but they were looking for something to say. “I was down the hill. I was going to take your picture so you could show it to Jessica and Amy. I filmed both of them on a zip line.”

“Did they get scared too?” she asked.

“Jessica did.” I answered. It was true, when Jessica was 14 she sat on the tree for a very long time before she went. I told her she had to go because all the boys were watching and they were going to call her a girl. “Amy did it right away.” I said. “I just told her Jessica had done it.”

At this point I could see she was considering. I was afraid one of the staff people would come over and ask her to remove her gear but I wanted them to give her another chance. One of the older girls was being very encouraging. In fact almost over doing it, but I was not really against that. Just one more thing I had to say. “You can always wait and do it next year.” Now some might think that was a reasonable compromise. And it may even give her a way out. Say no today and then you have a year till you have to try it again. But my daughter is not patient. Just ask her.

One of the staff came over and asked her if she wanted to get hooked up and do a short wire. This was where they put them on the wire down the hill by using the ladder they usually use to take them off the wire. Claire nodded her head yes, but I am not sure if she understood.

“Do you want to climb here again and go down from the top, or do you want to go down the hill and do the short wire?” She looked at the girl getting ready to zip and then looked at me. “I want to go here.” She pointed up to the platform in front of us.

“Well, then you have to go tell the staff lady there.” I pointed over to one of the staff with a red helmet. She looked at me and I pointed again. “You have to go tell her it is your choice.” Besides, walking up and saying my daughter wanted another try was not going to be good for me or the zip leader. She stood up off the bench and went over and told her. “Are you sure you want to do this one again.” The staff member asked pointing to the platform. Claire nodded. “Okay, let me check your gear again.” At this point the staff was not too happy about this. At least gauging by the look on her face. Hey it was her choice all I did was give her a pep talk. Sure it was a pep talk only a father could give, but it was just a pep talk.
“Do you want me to stay up here with you or go down and take your picture?” She looked at me and was building a little anxiety at this point. “I want you to take my picture so I can show Jessica and Amy.” That was my girl. I was still a little nervous. I thought maybe she needed a little security knowing she could see me. I suggested, “Why don’t I stay up here to be near you and then I can film you from here?” “Okay,” she answered.

“Ready to go,” the staff lady asked. Claire nodded.

“Do you want someone to hold the rope?” Claire pointed at me. “I want my daddy to hold the rope.” I quickly popped a helmet on my head and went over to hold the rope. She was up it in no time. I stood back and took out my camera. “I am right here.” I said. She looked back at me. I started the camera. “I am filming you.” I shouted up at her. She looked at me again and turned to look at the long hill ahead of her. This was a tense moment. She was hooked up and given instructions. They shouted down the hill to make sure they were ready. Then “Zipping!” she shouted. One little jump and she was off.

I filmed all the way down. When they unhooked her from the line she was running back up the hill. It was a long hill, she slowed a bit. She dragged the pulley to the top of the hill and I pulled her over.

“What is scarier, the zip line or Space Mountain?” She pondered for only a second “Space Mountain.” She answered. “You going to do this again?” I asked. “Yes,” she smiled.

She did it. I may have had to stand beside her but she did it. There would come a time in the future when she would have to stand on the platform by herself and take that leap without me here. But that day can wait, today I am still my daughter’s teddy bear.

Love Mike

Dear mom I am Claire’s Teddy Bear

Dear Mom I am Claire’s Teddy Bear

When Claire was born I had prepared for the event by purchasing four pink blankets. They were all cotton and they were soft and cuddly and I was sure they would be the perfect blanket for her when she needed something to comfort here. I had this vision of the blanket getting messy when she was sick and wearing out as we washed it every day. I imagined it getting dragged outside and covered in mud and grass stains. I saw it with many holes and multiple repairs. To take care of this problem I had backups.

When I was a kid I had a blanky. I remember my grandmother repairing several holes in it. I remember sitting in bed and going over the repairs trying to decide if these scares were enhancements or if I was better off with the gaping holes. Holes, of course, are prone to become bigger holes. That being the case I was pretty sure the visible scars were a better trade.

My daughter would be spared this because I had backups. As her blankets wore out and developed un-repairable gaping holes, I would just substitute a backup. My daughter, awed by my infinite powers of repair, would never notice the change and be happy I was able to mystically restore her treasured blanket.

It did not work out as I had planned. She could care less about the pink blanket. In fact she could care less about any blanket. Although she may have a favorite to curl up in when she was on the couch, there was not necessarily a visceral attachment to it. She was almost as likely to drag a different blanket to the couch and curl up with it instead. At night, she did not demand a particular blanket to sleep with. Even though I vainly attempted to stick her pink blanket with her every night it usually got wrapped around a teddy bear or a group of teddy bears.

And what about teddy bears? Every time I went out of town I would pick up a new stuffed animal for her. As time went on I noticed something. Whatever animal I brought home became her favorite for a while. Before she was 4 there was never really a favorite. That is there was never a favorite that stuck. She would make demands for a particular animal but I knew it would not last long.

This troubled me a bit. Shouldn’t she be attached to something? Shouldn’t she be focusing her anxiety and fear into something to comfort her when it was dark and to get her through thunderstorms?

As I lay there in bed one night and heard the thunder roll in I could hear the pitter patter of little feet entering my room. I could hear the rustle of the bedspread as she climbed into bed. Tossing aside two friends that had accompanied her, whoever the friends de jour were, she curled up beside me and said, “The storm woke me up Daddy.”

It occurred to me at that moment, my daughter did not develop an attachment to any blanket or teddy bear I gave her because she already had an attachment, Me. I was her Teddy Bear.

This brought on an entirely new set of worries. Will she ever learn to do things on her own? Is this attachment healthy?

I never really worked all that out, but trusted that if I was her teddy bear, then, she was mine. It would work itself out.

Before Claire turned five she received Alice the Camel. Other than me, Alice was probably the closest she ever came to having a real favorite. Alice had a good run, over a year. Alice, caused her to completely skip over a few friends. Allison the Unicorn, George the Chimpanzee, Long Necked Goose, they never got a real turn at the top. Last night as I put Claire to bed, Alice the Camel was wrapped tightly in a pink blanket in the corner of her bed. Around Alice were a few other friends, all tucked with care into a complex sleeping arrangement involving multiple blankets and pillows. But as I kissed her goodnight she was tightly holding Godiva the bear. A recent acquisition from only a month ago.

Before I went to bed that night I walked into her room and Godiva the bear was still wrapped in her arm, though a little less tightly now that she was fast asleep. I bent over and whispered, “I love you,” as I do every night before I turn in and I kissed her on the forehead. In the dim light I could see Alice the Camel and Marvin the Shark standing guard over our little girl in the corner of the bed. They did not appear jealous of Godiva the bear, though how could they not be just a little envious?

I went to bed and fell asleep. Sometime later I was awoke by the sound of little feet. I heard them come into the room, I could hear the bedspread rustle as she climbed into bed. With my eyes barely open I could see her dragging Godiva the Bear and Alice the Camel. I could not help but smile just a bit at the thought of Alice saying, “Wait, take me!” just as she was getting out of bed.
She did not curl up with her two friends, instead she placed them under my arm. Very gently, very quietly she leaned over my head and whispered, “I love you Daddy.” And kissed me on the forehead. Then she curled up next to me and put her little arm around me.

There was no thunder, there was no dog barking. I have no idea what woke her up. She seemed to fall back to sleep quickly and I lay motionless, unwilling to disturb such a perfect moment. It did not take long for me to fall asleep too.

Love Mike

Dear Mom, Tigger shrunk

Dear mom Tigger shrunk

Claire walked into the kitchen the other day carrying a stuffed Tigger. It was a big Tigger. It used to be a giant Tigger, that is when she was smaller. He stands about 30” high. I remember when he and his friends in the 100 acre wood were used as a kind of fence to pen her in on the floor so she could not crawl off. Now he would make little more than a knee size hurdle if I laid him down.

“DADDY, DADDY, Tigger shrunk!” She was holding Tigger off the ground. I am sure a lot was going through her head. I didn’t used to be taller than Tigger. I didn’t used to be able to carry Tigger. I didn’t used to be able to get him into a different room without dragging him on the floor and falling over several times.

“Tigger did not shrink,” I told her gently, “You got bigger.”

She had a quixotic look on her face, “NO, he shrunk.”

It had not quite stuck they way I intended. “Sweetie, when you get older you grow, remember how you used to be able to wear the cloths you now put on your stuffed animals? Well you used to be small enough to wear them, and when you were that small, Tigger looked pretty big. Now you are bigger than Tigger and you look pretty big to him.”

There, that should do it. She looked at me with a wrinkled brow. “So, how did he shrink?”

Every once in a while you come across a situation where it is difficult to properly define a word. In her head shrinking meant something was perceived as smaller than it used to be. Now, I needed her to make a paradigm shift Change her idea of it being perceived as being smaller than it was, to only applying if it actually is smaller than it used to be. I make a note, this subject will make a great paper when she is enrolled in philosophy 101 in about 13 years.

“Sweetie, Tigger has not changed sizes. It only looks like he has changed sizes. See Pooh?” I point out Winnie the Pooh, in the corner of the living room, who has experienced a similar change in size, err perceived size.

“No, Pooh is the same size.” Hmm, this is not working as I planned. Pooh seemed to have received more regular attention that Tigger. I am guessing Tigger was stashed in the corner for the last year and didn’t get much play time. In the long run it worked against him because although she has steadily seen Pooh, she did not notice him getting smaller, err the appearance of him shrinking as she got bigger. Now with Tigger’s reappearance it seems he has shrunk.

“Well,” I think for a moment. It is time to cook the veggies and the food on the stove needs to be turned. “As you get older your animals will sometimes shrink, there is nothing you can do about it. It just happens.”

“Oh.” She says. Grabbing Tigger around the middle she carts him like a surfboard under her arm and carries him back into the living room.

Someday, she will be sitting somewhere and suddenly grasp the difference between shrinking and “appearing to get smaller.” I hope at that moment she does not hold this against me. But nothing gor burnt and the veggies are done at the same time as everything else.

When I go to put things on the table, I notice Tigger is sitting at a chair beside us.

“He probably shrunk because he did not eat enough vegetables .” She says matter of factly.

“Let that be a lesson to all of us.” I put some broccoli on her plate, and Tigger's.

Love Mike

Dear Mom, It’s almost Mother’s Day again

Dear Mom, It’s almost Mother’s Day again

I remember when you died Mom, it was ten years ago next month. It is easy to remember. You died in 2000 on Mother’s Day. So, with great fanfare I am reminded every year as the entire world sends cards, flowers, candy and whatever to their mother celebrating, what seems to me to be, your death.

Still, in spite of everything I do that makes me a great dad, and in spite of all the great support I have had from my stay at home dad friends, I find myself with an affinity for Mother’s Day.

For some reason I just relate more to Mother’s day than I do to Father’s day. Last year as I was watching my Facebook page and everyone was wishing everyone else a Happy Mother’s Day. I was kind of tickled, after all I was everyone too. My darling girlfriend, sensing my distress, invited me to go to Mother’s Day Brunch. I noted that everyone was complaining about the crowds on Mother’s Day and commenting it was a very bad day to go out to lunch.

I, of course, knew exactly what their problem was, they were going to the wrong places. I quickly announced we were going to Barley’s Brewhaus a little local restaurant that has 33 beers on tap and another 100 in bottles. I know you would have preferred this to most places other people were taking their mother that day. For one, you despised buffets. Most places on Sunday were advertising their fabulous buffet. You just liked to be served. If you were going to forgo making Sunday brunch to allow someone else to do it you wanted to be served. Second you enjoyed drinking with your kids. Mind, you would have preferred a mimosa or a Bloody Mary with your Sunday Brunch, you were also very mindful of what your children wanted to drink and knew that I drank “weird beer” as you put it. Since Barley’s not only served “weird beer” but also made mean mimosas and Bloody Marys it was the perfect place to have brunch.

Even better, there was no waiting. I never actually ate brunch with you at Barley’s but I ate brunch with you 100s of times in similar places and I am very sure that less we took it upon ourselves to eat somewhere extra special it would have been an ideal location. But isn’t Mother’s day “Extra Special.” Well, yes it is, but also the ideal time to help out a business that was in need of more customers on a day when the extra special places were not. We could save a visit to the extra special places on a different extra special day, like the anniversary of Nelson Mandella being released from prison or the first Sunday after I published my first game, or to celebrate her promotion, all days I had brunch with you at extra special places.

You were never short of a reason to celebrate. In fact you took special care to see that even when I was not paying attention to reasons to celebrate you would come up with one for me. On Mother’s Day it was much more likely we would be in a place like Barley’s, and there was no waiting.

As I sat there drinking my favorite Trappist ale and discussing the issues of the day it occurred to me it was not unlike any of a number of Mother’s Days I had spent with my Mother. Darn I almost made it through the entire note without crying.

Love Mike

Dear Mom Teddy Bears are PETA friendly

Dear Mom Teddy Bears are PETA friendly

I am thinking of starting a Teddy Bear farm. Why you may ask? Because Teddy Bears are PETA friendly.

Last Christmas I was standing in line with my little girl Claire. The two women in front of us evidently were acquaintances and were catching up after not seeing each other for a long time. I was not trying to eavesdrop but it was difficult not to catch the conversation since they were speaking loud enough to insure everyone on that floor would know how well off each of them had become, with their rich husbands, 2.6 children, and suitcases full of expendable income.

At one point one of them turns to the other and says, “Is that coat real fox?” The other responded “No it is not real fox it is real raccoon.” She said it in such a way as to imply that raccoon was way more cool that fox, though I got the idea she was trying to relay that her coat was real genetically pure raccoon and not Chinese raccoon dog which had been in the news a lot lately.

The first lady says, “Oh, it looks like real fox.” The other lady responded again matter of factly, “No its not, it is real raccoon.”

My daughter was looking up at them watching the exchange. I am not sure what she was getting out of the conversation but with one hand holding onto her own brown furry coat she tugged now on the real raccoon coat trying to get the ladies attention. They both looked down at her and she put both hands on her coat and announced very proudly, “My coat is made from real Teddy Bears.”

Everyone within 20 feet of us was either laughing uncontrollably or giggling to themselves with the exception of the two ladies who were stunned as if Oscar de la Renta himself had just told them “Their cloths were so last year.” My daughter was beaming, taking in the attention that had just been cast upon her and I was again wondering why I do not walk around with a camera pointed at her at all times.

The ladies were now recovering from the shock and trying to find a way to not look completely out of touch with humanity. I spoke to them reassuringly, “And it is one hundred percent PETA approved.” I think at this point if they would have just laughed and said “How cute” they could have played it off with relatively little collateral damage, but they decided to pretend they were not amused. Which had the result of everyone standing around uncomfortably for the next 5 minutes while they finished with their purchase in silence and moved on. Claire and I continued to comment on the Teddy Bear coat industry.

“The Teddy Bears are only raised on free range farms under the most humane conditions.”

“What do Teddy Bears wear when they take their fur off to make coats daddy?”
“Why they give them wool sweaters, of course.”

It occurs to me there is probably an entire marketing plan set around making coats out of real Teddy Bears. Sure there is the Teddy Bear lobby that will continually complain about the poor living conditions of the Teddy Bears but I am pretty sure with regular visits from PETA and the Humane Society we can assure the public the Teddy Bears live long happy lives.

Love Mike

Dear Mom you know what?

Dear Mom you know what?

Something you did for me that I did not take for granted, even though I am not sure if I truly appreciated it. Whenever I was leaving you would say “I love you.” I would always answer, “I love you too.” There were many random times during the day, where you would say, “I love you.” I never surmised a pattern, but I always figured there was one. “I love you,” was a substitute for a lot of things. It could easily replace “Thank you,” or “nice job,” I even recall it being used instead of “that is not funny.” Though the tone in that instance was quite different.

It was no surprise that when I fell in love with someone I would want to tell them. And tell them a lot. I remember the first time I wanted to say “I love you” to someone. I didn’t, in fact I resisted a lot of times before I finally got around to meaning and saying it, all at the same time. Once you find someone to say “I love you,” you want to say it all the time. I would find myself calling in the middle of the day, for no other reason than to say, “I love you.” Too bad text messaging did not exist back then, I would have used it a lot.

At some point, and I am not sure of the reason, I tried to break myself of saying, “You know what?” People over use that phrase. It really means, “Hey, are you paying attention?” To encourage my elimination of the term, every time I said “you know what,” to my girlfriend, after she answered “what,” I would follow it with, “I love you.” It got to be kind of a game. I was surprised how often I said, “you know what.” Sometimes we would driving somewhere and I would turn to her as she was watching the road and driving. “You know what?” I would say. Sometime she would answer automatically and say, “what?” But sometimes she would know what I was about to say and smile very big, then say “what?”

It was the perfect thing to break the silence. When you are staring into each other’s eyes and there is this long pause. “You know what?” “What?” “I love you.”
Years after she had left and other girls had come and gone I realized I did not say “You know what” anymore. I most certainly never used it again on another girl. That would have somehow dirtied it, or turned it into a line, instead of the sincere expression that it always was. There were other lines. There were other little things, but none of them were ever as poignant as “You know what, I love you.”

When Claire started talking she picked up “you know what” somewhere. I would always answer, “No, but I know Who, plays on the same team as him.” Claire still has no idea what I am talking about. Someday she will see the old comedy routine of Who’s on first by Abbot and Costello and figure it out. “OH! That’s what he meant!”

However, early on, I found myself saying, “you know what?” 99% of the time she just says “What?” Then I say, “I love you.” I say “I love you” all the time. It replaces “thank you,” “good job,” “don’t worry we can clean that up,” and any number of other things. And of course it always comes after the phrase, “you know what?”
A few times Claire has, completely out of the blue, said “you know what Daddy?” and she says it in a way that does not mean, “hey, are you paying attention?” Each time I have had the presence of mind to not say “no, but I know Who, plays on the same team as him.” Instead I just say “what?” Each time I have been rewarded with an enthusiastic “I love you!” and a big hug.

She will never wonder if her daddy loves her. And with any luck she will never wonder about anyone else as well. But I can do little for that, other than to prepare for one day when she meets someone and the only thing she can think of saying is “you know what?”

I love you,

Mike

Dear Mom it’s a snow bunny

Dear Mom it’s a snow bunny

It snowed on the first day of Spring. Claire would have spent the entire day playing in it. Just when I get her to the point where she does not have chapped lips, it snows again. The snow stuck pretty well but it was too fluffy and would not roll well into a big snowball. So, we spent a lot of time packing it into place and trying to get it to look like a snowman. It started to look a lot like a mouse, then the mouse ears started to look a lot like rabbit ears. Next thing you know we are building a snow bunny.

I was very tired of the snow. I mean, snow again? Really? Could we read a book? Could we watch a movie? How about a game? No? It was snow.

Long ago I knew this girl. She lived somewhere that didn’t get snow. You probably remember when she visited at Christmas. It snowed. It was a pretty big deal to her. I live in the Midwest, it snows here every year. Sometimes it snows a lot, like this year. Playing in the snow was never a high priority for me. And when I was in those days it was not even on my list of things to do. With a beautiful woman visiting, I was thinking about dinner, a movie, cuddling on the couch, I was thinking about a lot of things. I was not thinking about bundling up and playing in the snow. But, it was important to her so I did it. She made a little snow bunny. I was not sure if it was her first snowman, but it might have been. It was really more of a sculpture. Very cute, with its ears and everything. I threw a snowball at it and knocked an ear off. The look on her face might very well have changed me forever.

I still feel guilty about it to this day. I was probably transparent. I was feigning interest in building a snowman and was really thinking, “are we done yet?”

She probably just wrote it off as me being a guy. It was a great visit. She cried when we said goodbye at the airport, I cried when I drove home from the airport.

There is a point when you are doing something, that you decide it is fun. It is a complex formula of risk versus reward, time value for your money, emotional investment and many other things. Some people don’t seem to enjoy anything. Some seem to enjoy everything. I don’t enjoy everything but I have found great joy in being a part of other people’s happiness. Something about it being fun for them makes it fun for me too.

I was thinking about that while we were standing in the cold with the snow falling, building our snow bunny. I was having a great time. Somehow along the way I learned when someone’s happiness is more important than your own, you do not have to sacrifice to make them happy. Not if you can grab the brass ring and be happy with them.

I know for a fact that one moment all those years ago and that expression on her face, I still remember, has lead to many wonderful experiences in my life. Somehow that revelation has made me a better daddy.

Love Mike

Dear Mom I want to ride my bike

Dear Mom I want to ride my bike

Last year for Claire’s birthday I got her a bicycle. It was a pink Barbie bicycle. It had a little bicycle that was attached to your handlebars where your Barbie could ride with you as you peddled around the park. Claire was delighted when she got it. It was just like on TV.

“When can we go ride my bike?” She would ask me. We live on a big hill and our driveway is pretty steep. Not a good place for a kid to ride a bike. But, as a stay at home dad, we made daily trips to the park, or really any number of parks. There was the penguin park, which may actually be called Penguin Park, because it had a giant penguin in it. If it was not named Penguin Park that was surely what everyone called it. At least everyone I knew. There was the castle park, which was not named castle park, it was Harris park, or the old Miller park but it had a jungle gym in it that had castle shaped parts so Claire called it the castle park. There was the pirate ship park. There was not a pirate ship there, nor was there really anything that looked like a pirate ship, but once Claire and I had played pirate there and pretended one of the climbing things was our ship, so it was forever known as Pirate Ship Park.

Today, that was our destination. We put her bike in the back of the truck and took off toward Lowenstein park, err, Pirate Ship Park. As I unloaded the bike she was at my feet the entire time. As I moved toward the sidewalk she was almost clinging to my leg. Placing the bike on the path she was quickly astride. It was higher than her tricycle and I had adjusted the seat to the lowest setting so she could reach the ground. There, astride her new pink Barbie bike the world was her oyster. She adjusted the Barbie on her bike and adjusted the chin strap on her helmet and carefully put her feet on the pedals and… That was it. She was sitting on her bike, helmet and all and she was not moving. Somehow just sitting on it was enough.

“Push the pedals,” I encouraged.

She started to move a bit and a look of terror came over her face. I reached out to hold the bike. It was not really falling over, nor did I think it was even possible, the training wheels had a pretty broad stance. But it seemed to calm her down, knowing daddy’s hand was there to protect her.

“I can do it!” she yelled at me. This was her way of saying don’t push me, I can peddle, but please don’t let go, because I feel safer with you holding onto the bike.
So with me holding her bike we started up the path. There was a long hill and I pushed just a bit to help her get going, not enough she would notice I was doing all the work but enough so she had forward motion. When we reached the top of the hill there was a broad level spot where she actually peddled under her own power for almost 30 feet. Then the downhill portion came into play and I found myself holding onto the back of the bike to prevent it from going too fast.

Now, too fast is a subjective term. For me, too fast would have been faster than I can run, for her too fast was, well, moving. For some reason, faced with the long downhill slope she was terrified. Though I held tight to the back of the bike as we moved at a pace slower than a slow walk, she dismounted and decided it was better to walk.

As we got to the bottom of the hill she shed her helmet and went to play on the gym. I parked the bike by a bench and waited for her to return. There were a few kids there, and Claire never met a stranger so she was quickly playing pirate or ice cream shop or whatever other game they dreamed up. She did not return to the bike. In fact after a long while I had to tell her it was time to go.
“Do you want to ride your bike again.”

“Not right now Daddy.” Then she tugged on my hand as if her small frame could coax me back to the playground and stay another hour.

“It is time for dinner.” I told her, “Aren’t you hungry?”

Pushing the bike with one hand and dragging my daughter with the other we made our way back to the truck. Only stopping for a moment for the mandatory drinking fountain pit stop that usually left her covered in water. It was not entirely her fault, the drinking fountain was a bit wild.

“Did you have fun riding your bike today?” I asked as we drove home.
“Yes.” She answered though I wondered exactly what part of riding her bike she remembered.

This was our Summer. A few times a week we would go to the park and ride our bike for 10 or 15 minutes then spend the rest of the afternoon on the playground. She never did start riding it on her own.

Over the winter she asked me a few times, “Daddy, where is my bike?”
“It is in the garage sweetie, we will get it out when it gets warmer.”
I am waiting with anticipation to see how she will ride her bike this year. Will she really ride it? Armed with a year of kindergarten under her belt will it not seem so high and will downhill not seem so fast?

In the back of my mind, I think it will be a bit different. I imagine her riding her bike alongside me as I run. That would be a nice thing, I could get my daily run in and she could ride along side. I suspect it may be another year before that happens, but it is nice to dream.

Once we tackle riding the bike I suppose it will be time to learn to swim. Maybe I should stick with the bike for the moment, I may be getting ahead of myself.

Love Mike

Dear Mom where’s Alice?

Dear Mom where’s Alice?

A couple of weeks ago, we had taken our bath, brushed our teeth read a story, sang three songs and were just at the part of the evening where I turn out the light and Claire goes to sleep when she says, “Daddy, would you get Alice the Camel for me?” I sigh. Sometimes these little last minute requests are a precursor for a long evening of trying to get a little girl to go to sleep. It may lead to, can I have a drink of water?, can I sleep in your bed?, can I have something to eat?, is tomorrow going to be a snow day?, can I watch cartoons, the list goes on. However, Alice the Camel is after all, Alice the Camel. How sad it would be for a little girl to be crying in bed wondering where Alice is and Alice tucked away in a chair somewhere wondering where her little girl is? I am not sure which is worse. “Where is Alice?” I ask as I walk toward the door. “By the computer.” She gingerly answers. She does not start to get out of bed to help look. This is a good sign. If she starts to get out of bed it means we are not finished yet.

As I look around the office trying to find Alice, it occurs to me that I have not seen Alice in a couple days. The night before she fell asleep in my arms in front of the TV, it was a snow day, the night before that she fell asleep clutching Green Alligator. As I realize Alice is not in the office I head toward the living room. After the kitchen the bathroom, the master bedroom, the hallway, and another bathroom I find myself back in Claire’s room looking under blankets and sheets.

“I just looked there Daddy!” There is a touch of panic in her voice. It has been a while and she realizes I am about to stop looking. I reach for Ponca the Turtle. “Here, Ponca is feeling a little lonely right now, why don’t you sleep with Ponca?”

The look on her face, tells me this might have worked had I tried it a few minutes ago, but the gig is up, she knows Alice is missing and nothing else will do. “Where did you have her last?” I ask, but knowing full well, asking a 5 year old to remember where she set down her Camel is a little like asking her to do long division. Sure I would get an answer but would it really be anywhere near what I was looking for?

“I think we took her in the car!”

Alice does not normally get to leave the house. To avoid situations just like this. If we absolutely have to take someone we usually take Marvin the Shark. He is well traveled and has seen most of the US from Miami to Seattle. He has, in fact, wandered off a few times, but has always managed to find his way back home. He can be trusted past the door. But Alice is a kinder, gentler animal and would not feel comfortable wandering around in the big world. Perhaps she spent too much time tucked under the arm of a little girl to get a good enough taste of independence to cope with open spaces.

I thought back and could not remember taking Alice out of the house. Claire seemed pretty convinced. Two days before we had wandered home late in the afternoon and I had carried her sleeping body into the house, was Alice with her then? Did Alice drop in the yard on the way in? None of these options showed much hope but I went to the door and put on my boots.

Outside the snow in the yard was in big clumpy piles where we had played pretty hard when the snow first came down. Two snowmen still stood in the yard and you could see the tell tale signs of where we had gathered all the snow. I ventured into the wind and falling snow to check the car. There was no luck. As I headed back to the house I kicked all the piles of snow that could have hidden the body of a small stuffed camel, covered by the never ending snownami that had graced us this week. Every kick caught my breath a little bit. I was not excited about finding a wet frozen camel, though I suppose it would have been a good thing to finally know Alice’s fate.

I looked up to the door and could see the blinds pulled open as Claire looked out to follow me in my search. I had to keep looking. Finally sure there were no camels buried under the snow I stood in the yard staring at my little girl, still staring out the window. I could see her silhouette through the window and imagined the tears welled up in her eyes. Snow falling was lit only by the streetlight half a block away and shimmered as it fell to the ground. It would have been beautiful had I now been on a mission.

I guess I would have to start checking all the rooms of the house again. As I entered she was quick to ask, “Did you find Alice?” Tears were all the way down her cheeks, she already knew the answer. “Why don’t we go to bed honey, we will find Alice tomorrow.” Unfortunately, this was never going to be a satisfactory answer but I carried her up the stairs and laid her in bed. I kissed her on the cheek and assured her we would find Alice the Camel in the morning. She was crying as I walked out the door.

Meanwhile I set to looking again. Under the bed, over the bed, around the bed, I seemed to remember her crawling into bed the morning before last and maybe Alice had come with her. I had washed the sheets the day before yesterday and did not remember finding a camel in the bed. It occurred to me there was only one room in the house I did not check. Had Alice been hidden in the sheets when I put them in the laundry? Was Alice, even now, soaking wet in the bottom of the washing machine, beginning to smell a little of mildew? I went into the garage. As I started for the washer, there was Alice on the floor. I picked her up. She was dry. She did not smell freshly washed or dried. I suspect, Alice, realizing she was about to go in the wash, had avoided the disaster by squirming out of the sheets and settling on the floor. Camels do not seem to appreciate baths anymore than little girls. It was a close call.

I carried Alice back up stairs, silently scolding her for causing such a panic. Alice seemed altogether delighted to be out of the cold garage and off the floor, and pretty much ignored me. Claire stopped sniffling as I entered her room and as I parted her princess curtain to hand her Alice the Camel, she was already reaching for her. She tucked Alice under her arm. I sat there for a few minutes stroking her hair as the last of her sniffles went away and she settled into sleep with her Camel.

She fell asleep very quickly, as little girls are prone to do after a good cry.
I wonder if the make GPS devices for camels?
Love Mike

Dear Mom I don’t really like it

Dear Mom I don’t really like it

When I was a kid you always had the two bite rule. No matter what we were having for dinner I always had to take at least two bites of everything. I hated it at the time, but when I was older and eating dinner at a girls house, it was pretty impressive to be able to take a little bit of everything without hesitation. Definitely got me on the good side of a parent or two.

Claire faces the two bite rule with equal disdain. And maybe more because I have a three bite rule. Two bites was just too easy. Three has always seemed like a better way to get a feel for if you like something. I know I never mentioned this when I was a kid, but really, what did you expect?

She does something I do not remember doing. Sometimes she likes it. Now I can remember finding something new and liking it, but I never remember admitting it. And I know I never asked for more. Claire, on the other hand, sometimes actually says, “May I have more please?”

It is always a great victory on my part, and I try not to gloat. Which is good, because sometimes the victory dance may be premature.

I have replaced rice with quinoa. Getting her to try it was not easy, but once she did she really enjoyed it. In fact I had to make more. She ate two bowls of it and showed no signs of stopping. Even after I made her eat her beef and broccoli she still wanted more quinoa.

However it was short lived. A week later, there she was, sitting at the table with a bowl of quinoa in front of her.

“I don’t like that daddy it will make my stomach ache.” She wrinkles her nose in the general direction of the bowl.

“But the last time I made you take three bites, you finished it and asked for more. In fact I had to make more because you had eaten it all.”

She paused for a moment.
“I did not really like it, I just ate it to make you feel good.”

I was laughing so hard it was difficult for me to say anything, but I managed one last bit of encouragement.

“Well, then why don’t you make me feel good again and take three bites of it before I eat the rest.”

She did not take more than the requisite three bites this time but I noticed she did manage to keep it down.

Maybe next time.

Love Mike

Dear Mom Exercise

Dear Mom Exercise

Everyone says “I need to exercise more.” I am no exception. When my daughter was born and I made the decision to be a full time stay at home dad, one of the things I decided to do was have a regular exercise regimen. I started and stopped many times over the next few years but nothing ever really stuck. I kept remembering the adage that if you can do something for 30 days it becomes a habit. Well so much for that adage, I tried that many times but it did not stick.

Then, about 6 months before my daughters 5th birthday a friend talked me into trying a program called “Couch to 5K.” There are many versions of it on the internet if you want to look it up. At first I was doubtful but it laid out a program to start easy then over about 12 weeks run three miles without stopping. It worked. 16 weeks later I was running three miles in thirty minutes. I would like to say that I was able to stop taking Advil after the first few weeks but it did end up putting me on a daily Advil dose that had the added benefit of reminding me to take my vitamins every day. So, really that was good too. As of this writing I run at least three miles at least 3 times a week.

I also have added in other exercise. I started a program to do 40 pushups without stopping and now do 40 push ups in my first set and up to 75 –100 total three times a week as a warm-up to my run. Then I added in sit-ups.

The first time I started sit-ups I had this idea I would do 100 situps. 10 sets of 10 one minute apart. I would then take off 5 seconds every 2 or 3 days till I was at 100. Problem was three days after I did my first 100 I sat on the sit-board and as I started to do the first sit-up I rolled off in excruciating pain. I had learned my lesson. I waited for my stomach muscles to heal, about two weeks, then started a softer regimen. I am up to my 100 sit-ups now and it causes no pain.

Now that I have met all my original goals I am contemplating more. Should I work up to 6 miles in 60 minutes? Work up to 100 pushups without stopping? I mostly consider the time investment. I believe I am on a healthy regimen that takes me about an hour to complete. If I invest more time I can get better results but I may be satisfied with just being healthier and the one hour investment. Time will tell, I suppose if I went up to 90 minutes it would not kill me but that is 30 more minutes I don’t have to do something else.

Everyone needs to find their own motivation to exercise. For me it was knowing it was good for me, knowing it would allow me to live longer and spend more time with my family, knowing it was setting a good example for my daughter, and realizing it was a physical manifestation of self-discpline.

In the case of regular exercise the road you take is not near as important as finding a way to your destination. And in this case make sure the scenic route does not take you too long.

Love Mike

Dear Mom Claire loves her dance shoes

Dear Mom Claire loves her dance shoes

It was Wednesday night. Dance class is at five o’clock we need to leave the house at 4:30 so naturally at 4:00 I tell Claire to go put on her dance outfit. I learned a long time ago not to wait till the last minute. She comes back a bit later with her skirt and shirt on but no shoes.

“Where are your shoes Sweetie?” She looks at her feet and almost seems surprised her shoes are not on them.

“I don’t know, I can’t find them.” This is accompanied with a shrug and a sideways nod of her head.

“Sweetie, you can’t go to dance class without your shoes, look in your shoe drawer.” She runs off to her room and I can her rummaging around in her shoe drawer. She does not take long and is back to me, still with no shoes.

“You have to help me Dad, I can’t find them.” I look at the clock, it is almost 10 after, good thing I started this at four o’clock!

After rummaging through her shoe drawer the shoes are nowhere to be found. It occurs to me half the shoes in the shoe drawer do not fit her anymore I should give them away. None-the-less, I distinctly remember dropping her dance shoes into the shoe drawer after class last week. So I meticulously take every shoe out of the drawer and put it into a pile, to make sure I have not missed them. When you flatten them out and wrap the laces around them, they are very small and I am worried I have just missed them. Alas, they are not on the drawer. Claire is standing behind me and surprisingly does not mention the incredible mess I am making in her room.

If the shoes are not in her shoe drawer then she must have taken them out of the drawer. I think back over the last week and try to remember if I had seen her practicing in her shoes. There were a couple times I can remember her doing hop two threes up and down the hall, but I do not remember her wearing shoes.

“When did you put your shoes on this week? Where did you put them when you were done playing with them?” As I say this I am checking under her bed.

“uhhh.” She looks around the room, “I think I put them in that pink drawer.” She points to a drawer usually reserved for Barbie stuff.

“Well, look in there and see if your shoes are there.” I am not hopeful, she looked a lot like she was just making stuff up to feign helping. I was pretty sure she had no idea where her shoes were. It was 4:20.

“I have been looking for this Barbie!” She held up a Barbie Doll triumphantly.

“Claire, we are looking for shoes, put the doll down and find your shoes!” Time was running out and she was not instilled with the proper sense of urgency. “If we don’t find your shoes, you will miss dance class!”

She was now standing in middle of her room, frantically looking around. Nothing was jogging her memory, but she did feel the sense of urgency I was looking for.

She really loved dance class. Days lost their names now and took on new meanings. Monday was two days before dance class, Tuesday was the day before dance class. Thursday was the day after dance class. Some days she did not walk around the house, she would hop two three everywhere. It was similar to skipping only it was Irish dancing.

I had checked in my room, under my bed, in other drawers, in the living room, I even looked in Carnahan’s crate on the outside chance he had used them as a chew toy, which would have undoubtedly lead to him being sold to an experimental laboratory. It was 4:27

I remembered hearing a friend of mine describe how, when she was eight, had received her first pair of ballet point shoes, she had stared at them for hours just sitting in the box. She had been in ballet for three years, but this was her first pair of point shoes. Just then I thought of something. I walked over to her bed. There was a menagerie of stuffed animals scattered over it. Most of them were tucked in with various blankets as if ready for bed. I tossed a few of them around. I looked under her pillow, and there were her dance shoes. Still together, flat, with the laces wrapped around them binding them together.

I looked over at Claire and she had a look, half, “I wonder if I am in trouble,” half “Oh yea, I forgot I put them there.”

“Let’s go!” I said. I scooped her up, still shoeless and carried her to the front door. Out the door into the car and we were off. She still had not mastered putting her own shoes on so that would have to wait till we got to the studio. I was still shaking my head in disbelief. She had been sleeping with her dance shoes.

“I wish I was a real Irish dancer.” She said this with a dreamy, melancholy lilt in her voice.

“You are a real Irish dancer,” I told her.

“No, I mean up on a stage at the Irish festival, like a real dancer.” She corrected me.

“Remember last year, the little girls in the black Irish dresses, they were not much bigger than you. I bet you will be up on that stage maybe even by next year.”

“Really? When I am six or seven?” she had a certain wonderment in her voice now.

“I would not be surprised.” I said. She clutched her shoes to her as if holding a teddy bear.

“Where are we going to put our shoes when we get home?” I asked her.

Claire looked at me, “In my shoe drawer,” she consented.

Love Mike

Dear Mom never underestimate the chair of woe

Dear Mom never underestimate the chair of woe

When Claire was three she went through a stage where she tested her boundaries. Tried out saying “NO,” that kind of thing. I was, at the same time, trying to teach her responsibility. Put up your toys, clean up your messes, that kind of thing. We came to an impasse one afternoon when she had knocked over a box of crayons and refused to clean them up.

“That’s okay Sweetie, just pick them up and it will be okay.” When a little girl spills something you want to avoid the, “OMG it is a disaster and I need to cry” impulse so I comforted her just in case it took a bad turn. To my surprise she just ignored it. She had one crayon in her hand and that apparently was all she needed. This work of art may end being titled “Blue.”

“You need to pick up your crayons Sweetie.” I was speaking in my sweetest voice and hoping for some acknowledgement. Still nothing.

“Claire, when we make a mess what do we do.” She looked at the mess on the floor and pondered an answer. She chose to go back to coloring as if she had not noticed the dozen or so crayons on the floor.

“Claire, stop right now and jump down there and clean up those crayons. If you are not going to clean up your crayons you will not be able to use them anymore. She sighed at me. Looked again at the crayons and back at me.

So, it was going to be like this, was it?

“Claire, look at me! Do you like coloring?” She nodded her head and grunted. The nod was affirmative, the grunt was a protest. “Do you think little princesses should make messes and not clean them up?” She shook her head and grunted. The head shake was a negative, the grunt was a protest. I waited for moment for this to sink in and motivate her to pick up the crayons. Nothing.

“Claire, if you do not clean up those crayons you are going to sit in the chair of woe!”

“I don’t care!” A response? She finally decided to use words and this is what she responds to? She was looking very defiant. She had her blue crayon clutched in her hand and looking full of herself as if she could do five minutes in the chair of woe standing on her head.

“Okay then, trot your tiny hiny over there and sit in the chair of woe.” Now she listened. Maybe it was my tone at this point. Maybe it was her way of carrying through with her defiance. She set down her crayon and slowly walked over to the chair of woe. She sat down with her hands at her side and smiled at me as if it was just a game. I started the little timer by the chair. It was set to 5 minutes.

The chair of woe was a designation given to a chair in our living room that sat against the wall and looked out into the room. It was sitting on the same wall as the TV. When sitting in the Chair of Woe, you could see everyone and everyone could see you, but you could not see what everyone else was watching on TV. The name came from Conan the Barbarian when Fulsa Doom says to Conan, “Contemplate this on the tree of woe. Crucify him!” James Earl Jones played Doom in the movie and it was pretty intimidating. Conan was then crucified on the tree of woe. He was rescued of course, “But that is another story.”

I watched her sit defiantly in the Chair of Woe. She refused to look sorry or sad, but I was fairly confident such a facade could not be sustained for long. At about 90 seconds into her five minute sentence she started to crack. It started slowly at first. The corners of her mouth started to turn down, she slumped her shoulders a bit. She pulled her arms up and crossed them as if to hold herself together. She started to sniffle a bit, she was about to crack completely.

“If you start to cry we have to start the timer over.” I sat in the big chair with a straight face. Just a little bit of disappointment on it. But I stared at her. I was not sure if mentioning the crying was a good idea. Maybe there was a little bit of me that thought if I upped the challenge she would find some reserve to hold out for the full five minutes. But really this entire exercise would only work if she broke down.

She broke into a cry. Tears instantly fell down her cheeks and she could not keep from crying out. I let this go for about 15 seconds. “Do you want me to start the timer over?” She pulled it together just enough to stifle the audible part of her crying and receded into the back of the chair. Gone was the defiant princess who would not be troubled with cleaning up her own messes. She was just a little girl in trouble with her daddy now.

The timer sounded and I walked over to turn it off. “Give me a hug.” I said and she launched herself into my arms. I held her close as I did every time she was sentenced to the chair of woe. “I love you, but you have to learn to clean up after your messes, okay?” She nodded yes. “Now lets sit down here and clean up our crayons, okay?” I sat down by the spilled crayons and without letting go of me she leaned over and started picking them up. She picked up three of them with her free hand. I held up the box and she stuffed them inside, then reached for more. There was part of me that wanted her to have to clean them up without me right there, but there was a bigger part of me that wanted to let her off the hook. After all she did her time. I gave her a choice, “clean up the crayons or sit in the chair of woe.” I did not say, “Or sit in the chair of woe and then clean up your crayons anyway.” It somehow seemed a little unfair.

This was best, I did not want her to learn she could get out doing something with a five minute stint in the Chair of Woe.

We moved back into the big chair and colored some more. This time with more colors. As she often did after a good cry at that age, she soon fell asleep. As I held her in her in my arms I reminded myself these little exercises would help her listen and remember important rules, like look both ways before you cross the street, and just say no! But it was little consolation. I rarely use the Chair of Woe, usually just the threat is enough to put her straight. I know there will come a time when punishment is not a motivator. I am hoping at that moment I have my bluff in strong enough that a sense of doing the right thing and not disappointing her Daddy will be enough to sustain her. Until then, we have the chair of woe.

Love Mike

Dear Mom when Claire is not here

Dear Mom when Claire is not here

On the up side when Claire is not here:
I do not have to check my chair for crayons before I sit down.
I do not have to get up at 7:00 AM to make cereal and milk.
I do not have to knock all the stuffed animals out of tent on top my bed.
I do not have to hit pause on my TiVo promptly at 8:30 PM so I can go read a children’s book.
I do not have to pick up tiny cut up pieces of paper all over the living room floor.
I do not have to vacuum every day.
I do not have to run down the stairs when I hear “Carnahan down, Carnahan down, CARNAHAN DOWN, DADDY CARNAHAN WON’T DO WHAT HE’S TOLD!”
I don’t have to make dinner every night and make sure there is always a vegetable.
I don’t have to hit pause on my TiVo between 9:00 and 9:30 because I hear tiny footsteps running up and down the upstairs hallway.
I don’t have to get up in the middle of the night to fetch a glass of water.

But on the down side:
I do not have to check my chair for crayons before I sit down.
I do not have to get up at 7:00 AM to make cereal and milk.
I do not have to knock all the stuffed animals out of tent on top my bed.
I do not have to hit pause on my TiVo promptly at 8:30 PM so I can go read a children’s book.
I do not have to pick up tiny cut up pieces of paper all over the living room floor.
I do not have to vacuum every day.
I do not have to run down the stairs when I hear “Carnahan down, Carnahan down, CARNAHAN DOWN, DADDY CARNAHAN WON’T DO WHAT HE’S TOLD!”
I don’t have to make dinner every night and make sure there is always a vegetable.
I don’t have to hit pause on my TiVo between 9:00 and 9:30 because I hear tiny footsteps running up and down the upstairs hallway.
I don’t have to get up in the middle of the night to fetch a glass of water.

What will I ever do when she is gone?

Love Mike

Dear Mom no snowman today

Dear Mom no snowman to day

It took some time this year to make our first snowman. We had snow, but it was the wrong kind. Claire insisted on going outside. Carnahan was chest deep in the white stuff and it was hilarious watching him jump around trying to find a high spot where he could do his business with out getting snow on his tail. He eventually managed to tramp down enough snow to give him some level of comfort.

Claire was busy trying to make a snowball. The precursor to the base of her snow man. She completely understood what she was trying to do but could not figure out what she was doing wrong.

“This is the wrong kind of snow sweetie.” I packed a snowball between my gloved hands and it pretty much just fell apart as soon as I let up pressure. “It is too powdery. If we were skiing, this would be great. But it is not so good for snowmen.”

“We just have to keep trying.” She grunted a bit as she tried to turn over a section of snow that kind of stuck together in a drift. As it flipped it shattered into the rest of the drift. There would be no snowmen today.

“If we wait till tomorrow we may be able to get it to stick together.” I tried to console her as she finally came to terms with the uncooperative snow. She now walked over to a stick and tried to wrench it from the snow that was drifted on top of it. Carnahan wanted in on this and as the stick broke free from the larger branch it was attached to buried in the snow, dog and girl feel back into a drift. She was covered in the powdery snow that bushed off easy enough but caught deep into her knit hat and slid down her sleeves past her mittens.

“You okay?” I gave the obligatory question. She grunted as she threw the stick as far as she could. Carnahan raced after it. Being half Labrador you would think he could fetch better. Not so much. However he would make an exception when playing with Claire. He did not fetch so much as play keep away from the little girl. It was very bad form and I should not encourage him to grab something and try to run away with it. But it was so funny. Him bounding up and down in the snow, staying just a couple steps ahead of Claire. Claire racing after him as fast as her little feet could plow through the nine inch deep snow. Carnahan bounced into a snowdrift. It slowed him just enough for Claire to fall on top of the stick and wrench it from his grip. The drift was well over her head and she all but disappeared for a moment while she got her bearings and stood up. Carnahan barked once. Then as if by command Claire threw the stick again. It was nice to see she enjoyed the game as much as Carnahan. He had trained her well.

This happened three more times. Each time Claire eventually caught up with Carnahan, either by shear will or perhaps because the puppy did not want to discourage her from playing again. I can’t help but think he was giving in.

Caked with snow and finally feeling the cold Claire walked over to me out of breath. “I’m cold, lets go inside.” Magical words I had been waiting for since the moment we stepped out.

We went in the door, Carnahan dutifully sat on the mat by the door waiting for me to clean off his feet as he had been trained. Claire shed her clothes in a snow covered melting mess in the entryway, not as she had been trained. Snow had filled up her boots, they were just too short for this snow, I would have to seal them up somehow or find a pair of pants that would fit over them. Or I could count on this flaw to make her feet cold enough to want to come inside before my ears froze off. I would consider both possibilities carefully.

“I need some hot chocolate pretty bad Dad.” I was shaking the snow out of her clothes and hanging them up on the coat rack. “Sounds good.” Before we went outside I had laid out some dry cloths she could put on after our adventure, she was busy putting on some dry socks as I made the hot chocolate.

As we drank our hot chocolate and stared out the back window at the falling snow she commented. “We can try again tomorrow okay?” It ended like a question maybe to test my resolve to help her get the snowman made.

“We sure can, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Love Mike

Dear Mom a daughter is more fun than a puppy

Dear Mom a daughter is more fun than a puppy

There are many things I say to Claire every day. Most of them I say to her multiple times a day. “I love you.” “You are so smart.” “You are a very big girl.” “You are more fun than a puppy.” (“You know what?” “What?” “I love you.”) There are many more. Each of them has a place and time that seems to fit the moment. Surprisingly after years of this, she still does not see it coming. Like when I say “You know what?” You would think after years of me saying the same thing, she would automatically say, “You love me?” But evidently enough other people say “You know what” often enough she is programmed to just reply, “What?”

“I love you.” I say. The same way every time. I wonder how long it will take before she knows what I am going to say? How long will it take before when other people say “You know what?” she will instead think, “My Daddy always says, I love you.”

This afternoon as she sat in my chair with me and watched me working on a project, she was throwing in her two cents to help out.

“You should use more pictures Daddy.” She pointed to the screen at a page that was devoid of pictures other than the header on the page, which was a logo of sorts. I guess to the untrained eye it appears a picture starts every page.

“Really? You think I need more pictures?” She pointed to a spot in the middle of the page where a paragraph ended and I had left a few blank lines to add something later. “Right there.” She indicated. “And use a different picture. You have the same one on every page. That is kind of boring Daddy.”

“You know, I think you are right. I do need some pictures. You are so smart.” I wrapped my left arm around her and reached the keyboard.

“I like helping you Daddy.” She leaned forward just a bit to facilitate my typing without too much interference. I kind of understood her sitting in my lap while I played some computer game. It was action. It was fun. She sometimes requests to watch me play the fight game. A game of a different name that she affectionately calls the fight game. I have far more fun playing with her. Her on one computer me on another, rampaging through the digital countryside saving the world from a fate worse than death. But she gets bored after a time, and becomes content to watch me slay the monsters from the comfort and safety of her Daddy’s lap.

But, being entertained by watching me write seems a little weird. Is it just the comfort and closeness that is the thing? Is she imagining typing like me someday? Sometimes she needs help watching me type and goes and gets Alice the camel. Then the three of us crowd into the office chair and I type away.

If she does not wiggle too much her presence really does not affect my productivity. Though I have more than once had to shoo her away because it became impossible for her to sit still for even a few seconds. “You are more fun that a puppy.” I tell her.
“A puppy like Carnahan?” she asks.
“Yes, like Carnahan.” I respond.
“Well, we won’t tell him, it might hurt his feelings.”
“You are right that would not be polite.” I am thrilled at her recognition of the polite thing to do.
“We’ll just keep that between you and me.” She props Alice the camel up on her lap so she is no longer between us. “You know what Daddy?”
“What?” I respond.
She snuggles a little closer “I love you.”

Love Mike

Dear Mom you know what is sweeter than a banana?

Dear Mom you know what is sweeter than a banana?

I have tried as best I can to make sure Claire understands she has to eat fruits and vegetables. We have to have a vegetable with every meal. I usually let her pick it out. As of late her choice has been Corn or Corn. So, we had to start taking turns picking out the vegetable. I used to make two vegetables but decided it was more important she get the proper number of servings of vegetables instead of a variety every day. Besides it lead to a lot of waste. She was resistant to eating the same vegetable two days in a row unless it was corn. I am not even sure if we should still count corn as a vegetable. At Claire’s school ketchup counts as a vegetable so maybe my standards are too strict.

When it comes to snacks, I always make sure we have fresh fruit. I remember you always tried to do that and depending on the season there was always something in the house. Times have changed and now we can get strawberries all year long. The same goes for bananas and oranges. When she asks for a snack, a snack being decisively different than food, I always suggest a piece of fruit. As of late it is more like, “Okay, if you eat a banana you can have some cookies.” Or, “You know you only get cookies once a day, but you can have as many oranges as you want.”

When she comes back from her mothers it takes a day or two for her fall back into the pattern. I sometimes feel I am the only person in the world that cares if she is healthy but I soldier on.

I never keep soda in my house. I don’t drink soda, I have not since the 80s. My guests are welcome to have beer, wine, whiskey, or tea, but if they want soda it is bring your own beverages. Evidently that is not the case at her mother’s house. Lately she begs for sprite or root beer. There was a time when I kept a few cans of root beer around. The deal was anytime I had a pint of beer, she could have a root beer. This lead to a less than desirable situation of her asking me every day, “Dad, do you feel like a beer?” or “Boy it sure is hot in here, think we should have a nice cold beer?”

For a long time I had got away with only letting her drink soda when we went out to eat. Since I cook most of our meals this was a rare thing maybe two or three times a week during the summer at most. Hardly at all during the school year. I was kind of proud at the low number of happy meal toys we had cluttering our house.

She gets a completely different experience while visiting her mother. I know from the past they go through a couple cases of soda a week over there. I don’t want to come right out and say it is unhealthy to drink soda, or go to an extreme and tell her sugar is poison to scare her off of it, but it is a habit I am afraid she is doomed to pick up despite my vigilance. Trying to divert her to juice or chocolate milk is only partially successful.

Still, she is getting older and smarter everyday she seems to understand that Daddy has expectations for not only behavior but eating habits. When I ask her what she wants to drink she still sometimes says ice water. This is not really a surprise since I drink water with every meal, but I am heartened. Recently it was after lunch and she had already had cookies, already had a candy cane, been turned down for ice cream or a soda so picked up a banana and asked, “Can I have a banana?”

I have made it clear she does not need to ask me to have a piece of fruit, yet dutifully she asks me before she eats something. I should be grateful. “Yes Sweetie, you can always have a piece of fruit.” I reinforced my open fruit policy.

She peeled the banana and started to eat it. “Bananas are sweet but they are good for you right?”

“Yes they are Sweetie, bananas are very good for you.”

“Which is better a banana or an apple?” She posed the question as if I would have an answer.

“They are both equally good for you Darling, you can have either one.”

“But an apple keeps the Dr. away so is an apple better for you?”

“In the bigger scheme of things apples just have a better publicist, bananas keep the Dr. away too.”

“How about oranges? Are oranges good for you?”

“Yes, all fruit is good for you, you should eat fruit every day, along with your vegetables.”

“Fruit is sweeter than vegetables.” She took another bite and stared at the banana as if pondering something. She finished chewing and looked at me. “You know what is sweeter than a banana?”

“I don’t know, what is sweeter than a banana?” I had long ago given up answering questions like this. Instead I waited to hear her answer.

“You are!”

“You are way sweeter than a banana!” I told her and stole a big banana flavored kiss. The smile on her face was as big as the sky, and only half as big as mine.

Love Mike

Dear Mom it was the night before Christmas

Dear Mom it was the night before Christmas

At five years old Claire is at the peak of Santa enthusiasm. There are those that say you should not use Santa as a weapon, I disagree. If Claire is whining about having to eat her vegetables, “Santa might be watching.” If Claire will not stay in bed, “Santa might be watching.” If Claire thinks she does not have to clean up the 24 sheets of construction paper she just turned into confetti all over the living room floor, “Santa might be watching and it might be too late.”

When Claire arrived home on Christmas Eve, it was a little earlier than I expected. None-the-less I was prepared. I already had the presents wrapped, Santa gifts hidden in the garage, stocking stuffers placed on top of the living room shelves out of sight. Cookies were made milk carton was mostly full and carrots were in the fridge.

When we had finished putting out the cookies and carefully counting out 9 carrots, one for each reindeer, for those of you counting don’t forget Rudolph.

“Claire, I though Santa had 8 tiny reindeer.”
“Dad, you forgot Rudolph, you always forget Rudolph, the most important reindeer.” I had not remembered forgetting him before, but maybe I forgot I forgot him.

She had constructed a little Santa out of paper. It was three dimensional with rolled arms and legs, colored with crayons, and glued together. There was also a note. These were laid carefully on top of the plate so he would be sure to see them. The plate was then moved three times to make sure it was in the optimal location so he wouldn’t miss it. I tried to reassure her Santa knew we would have cookies and he would look for them, but that would not do.

She was very concerned about the lack of a fireplace. Fortunately we had watched “The Santa Clause” several times this season and she insisted going out side to make sure we really did have a furnace vent Santa could squeeze into. The whole furnace vent thing completely violates my suspension of disbelief but who am I to complain. I don’t have a fireplace and have no idea what would sound more plausible.

As I sat in front of the TV thinking my little girl would come sit beside me and snuggle a bit before I threatened her with Santa not coming in order to get her to go to bed, I noticed she was hiding things. The container of cookies we had made the day before was now being hidden in the back of a drawer. The bowl of M&Ms was placed into a plastic container with a lid and secreted on the shelf behind the Cheetos.

“Claire, what are you doing?” She had now decided the Cheetos were too precious to use as cover and deserved some protection and was precariously stacking pretzels in front of the bag.

“I am hiding stuff so Santa won’t take it.” It was an absurd notion, but then again, I did expect her to believe that a large man dressed in red and white would sneak into our house while we were sleeping, eat our cookies, take some carrots for his reindeer and leave presents under the tree. How far a leap was it that he might help himself to some Cheetos before he finished is journey. I mean traveling around the world in one night surely took a lot of energy, maybe he was really, really hungry. Maybe he was unaware that although we welcomed his presence for his subscribed duties he was restricted to 2 cookies, 9 carrots and one glass of milk.

“Santa won’t take our stuff, he just eats his cookies and is on his way.” I tried to reassure her.

“Dad, Santa really likes cookies we need to protect them.” I was not sure I wanted to push this. If she was afraid he would take our food, how far a leap was it he would sneak into he room and take her toys. Maybe to spread the wealth a bit. Instead of arguing it occurred to me I had maybe one more year of this max and I should enjoy it while I can. I sat and watched as she carefully looked around the living room and the kitchen deciding what needed to be hidden form Santa and what did not.

Cookies we made yesterday, yes, vanilla wafers that had fallen behind the microwave for a few months and now tasted stale, no. Cheetos, yes, pretzels, no. M&Ms yes, candy canes no, that may have been because we had 50 of them, I can’t be sure.

In time she was pretty sure the house was secure from kleptomaniac Santa and sat down beside me. We shared a glass of milk and some cookies, watched a few Christmas shows and eventually far later than she should have, but far sooner than she wanted, went to bed. We sang some Christmas carols and I kissed her tonight. “See you in the morning Sweetie.” “I love you Daddy, I will see you Christmas morning.”

I waited a couple hours to make sure she did not get out of bed, but I guess so close to Christmas there was little chance of her blowing it at the last minute. Santa could be watching. With everything out, and the lights off to insure she didn’t wander downstairs, I went to my bedroom. I know it is crazy but as I emptied my pockets I threw everything into my sock drawer instead of leaving it on top of the dresser. I cannot remember ever doing that before.

Love Mike