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
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Friday, January 15, 2010
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
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
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
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
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
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
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
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
Monday, January 11, 2010
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
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
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
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
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
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
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
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