Dear Mom, I'm a single dad

Dear Mom, Ole’ Henry is still out there

2010-08-23T10:00:00.001-05:00

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

2010-05-31T10:36:00.002-05:00

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

2010-05-26T11:00:00.000-05:00

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

2010-05-18T11:00:00.000-05:00

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

2010-05-17T11:00:00.000-05:00

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

2010-04-22T09:00:00.000-05:00

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

2010-04-21T09:00:00.000-05:00

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?

2010-03-24T10:00:00.001-05:00

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

2010-03-22T19:00:00.000-05:00

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

2010-03-08T10:11:00.001-06:00

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?

2010-02-22T13:13:00.001-06:00

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

2010-02-08T09:00:00.000-06:00

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

2010-02-04T22:20:00.000-06:00

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

2010-01-26T10:00:00.001-06:00

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

2010-01-15T15:37:00.001-06:00

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

2010-01-13T10:00:00.001-06:00

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

2010-01-12T10:00:00.001-06:00

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

2010-01-11T10:00:00.002-06:00

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?

2010-01-06T09:00:00.001-06:00

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

2010-01-05T09:47:00.003-06:00

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

Dear Mom that man has no arms

2009-12-27T10:00:00.001-06:00

Dear Mom that man has no arms

Some trials of parenthood have no good answers. While reading Madaline there is a line “They smiled at the good and the frowned at the bad.” The picture of the bad is a crook stealing what is apparently a bag of money or something.

“What is that daddy?” She points to the bag of apparently money. “Why is he bad.”

“He just stole some money from someone who needs it very badly. He is a very bad man.” The obvious thing is he robbed a bank, but I have come to believe robbing a bank is really just poetic justice. I blame it on Cole Younger days and growing up next to a cave Jesse James slept in.

The next line is, “some times they were very, very sad.” There is a picture of a soldier with a broken leg. “How did he hurt his leg Daddy?”

“I am pretty sure he did not listen to his Daddy and climbed a tree when he wasn’t supposed to and broke it when he fell out.”

There seems to be a pattern here. She is inquisitive. She needs to know things. She questions what she does not know in a futile effort to accumulate all the knowledge in the world. Or maybe it is just that she is five.

As we were standing in line the other day she saw a man with no arms. “Daddy that man has no arms!”

“Why yes, you are right, he has no arms.” I knew when I said it this was not the end.

“What happened to his arms Daddy?” There it was. Do I treat this different than I usually do? Do I choose this moment to teach her what is appropriate subject matter while standing in a line? Do I know what is appropriate subject matter when standing in a line?

“I think he was not very careful while he was feeding the alligators.”

The other person I was in line with gasped. “Was that not sensitive enough?” I asked already knowing her opinion. Claire did not ask anymore questions about the man. She glanced at him a few times, but did not stare. I am guessing that she has a healthy fear of alligators at this point. It occurred to me I should have said, “He did not eat his carrots and his arms fell off.” Again probably not the right level of sensitivity considering the subject.

Years ago there was a girl in college that had sever burns over most of her body. Her face was completely scared. I had observed how no one talked to her. There were a few people who knew her and they did a good job of just pretending that nothing was wrong. I passed her a few times and I felt very self-conscious about not saying “Hi.” I over analyzed this and wondered if I was self-conscious because I would have said Hi to someone else if they were not burned or if there was some intrinsic discomfort that came with being around someone different. Deciding I needed to explore this internal turmoil I sat down with her in the student union one day.

“Hi, I’m Mike.” I pondered putting out my hand to shake, but thought if she were a hot cheerleader type I would not try to shake hands when I introduced myself.

“I’m Jennifer.” She answered. Her voice was sweet and even not at all what I had expected, but then I had no idea what to expect.

We talked for 15 minutes or so and I eventually asked her about the burns. She told me a house fire, which almost took her life, was the culprit. It happened when she was in her early teens and she had finished high school with the burns so was quite used to people being curious. I told her I thought it was better that I ask and get it out of the way then to wonder every time we passed in the hall and never say anything to her.

She agreed. We became acquaintances and even friends. I always said, “Hi Jennifer.” When we passed the hall and she would always say Hi back. I sat at her table many times when I came out of the cafeteria and was looking for a seat. On occasion I would see someone I knew pass by not looking at her they way I used to not look at her and I would call them over. “Hi, how you doing? Do you know Jennifer?” I would follow up with some other question to further my ruse of asking them over to the table. If I could I would get them to sit down and when possible pull Jennifer into the conversation.

Over time I noticed a few more people saying, “Hi Jennifer.” When they passed her in the hall. Years later when I had developed a habit of specifically avoiding avoiding people I realized the introductions were as much for the other people as they were for Jennifer. Jennifer deserved more friends and surely these people deserved to have an experience to help break down their own barriers.

Standing in line at the grocery store Claire noticed a little old lady in a wheel chair. “Why is she in that chair Daddy?” Remembering the man with no arms I pondered saying, “She ate too much candy,” or “that is what happens when you do not wear your helmet.” Instead I took a different approach.

“I don’t know, lets ask her.” I turned to the woman. “Excuse me, my daughter and I were wondering why you are in that chair?” I knelt beside Claire with my arm around her which put her in an uncomfortable position of being front and center of the conversation, but not so far in she could not be comforted by her Daddy’s arm around her shoulder.

At first the woman acted a little startled. She looked at Claire and smiled broadly. “You are so cute.” She reached out with a delicate hand but could not quite reach her and Claire was not quite up to getting any closer. “I got old.” She said. “I can’t walk around like I used to and this chair helps me do my shopping.”

“Don’t ever get old.” She added. Claire did not talk through this but glanced up at me a few times as if to say, “uhh, can we leave now?”

I am thinking that a few more of these introductions and she will get the hang of it. I don’t want her to be uncomfortably inquisitive but I do want her to avoid avoiding things. I believe it is healthy to ask questions such as these just as you might say, “where did you get that jacket?” or “that is a nice color of fingernail polish.”

There is a balance she must learn. It is not the same to tell someone they are stunningly beautiful as it is to tell them their disfigurement is grotesque. I hope I have set a good enough example to teach her the difference.

In the mean time I am hoping she does not ask any one armed men how their alligators are doing.

Love Mike

Dear Mom so this is what Christmas was like

2009-12-25T08:00:00.001-06:00

Dear Mom so this is what Christmas was like

That first Christmas together or should I say that first Christmas Claire and I spent alone together. She arrived home on Christmas Eve. She was far too tired to worry about presents and perhaps too young to fully understand the significance of the night before Christmas. I put her in her jammies and tucked her into bed. I sang a few choice lullabies, though they were completely unnecessary, she was already asleep. They were not for her. They were for me. I had just spent my very first Christmas Eve alone. She was back and everything was right with the world.

The presents were wrapped, check! The toys from Santa were out, check! There were goodies in the stockings, check! The carrots and cookies were eaten with a commensurate amount of crumbs left on the plate to make it look real, check! The camera was ready with fresh batteries. I went to sleep that night, peacefully, looking forward to Christmas morning.

When I opened my eyes Claire had not yet woken up. I toyed with the idea of waking her, then decided to let her sleep, I rechecked everything I had checked off the night before and decided to go play a computer game. It was almost 10:00 before she came into the computer room. Sleepy eyed in her little footy pjs. Carrying a teddy bear and seeking some serious snuggling time. I hoisted her up into my lap and she nestled her head against my shoulder and I though she would fall back to sleep for a moment.

“Did Santa come?” The little voice, almost a whisper, was not filled with surprise or excitement, it was just a question like, “Are you hungry?”

“I don’t know?” I answered, “maybe we should go check?”

With as much excitement as I could express I carried her down the stairs and gasped at the Christmas tree. She wiggled to be released from my grasp and pranced toward the tree as only a toddler can do. I pointed at the plate on the coffee table, “Look, he ate all the cookies!” I might as well kept that to myself, she was busy picking up presents.

We sat down beside the tree and started opening presents. She was awkward but dedicated. Little by little the paper came off the packages. I tried to catch every gasp and smile on camera but they were short and quick. No sooner had she opened one present she reached for another. As she reached for her fifth present she looked over at me. “Where are you presents Daddy?”

There was suddenly a silence in the room I could feel. I stared blankly at her for a moment while I thought of something to say. Where were my presents? I had no parents to give me presents, my ex-wife was surely not giving me anything. My grandmas had stopped sending me stuff years ago.

With wisdom far beyond her years and a sympathy that I did not even know her small frame was capable she handed me the present in her hand and said, “Here Daddy you can have one of mine.”

I reached over and pulled her into my arms. Tears welled in my eyes as I hugged my dear sweet daughter. “You are so sweet.” I told her, “Let’s have some breakfast before we finish opening presents.”

I am sure she would have preferred to continue with the presents but unknowledgeable of the actual tradition or events of Christmas she went along with it. I put her in her highchair and got out some cereal and some milk in her cup. Then I palmed the roll of tape, a pair of scissors and hid a roll of wrapping paper behind my back and dashed up stairs. Grabbing a pair of socks, an old CD, and a few other things within reach I quickly wrapped some presents. Peaking down the stairs she was intent on eating her cereal and watching the cartoons on TV. I snuck behind her and placed the packages on the floor next to the tree. When we had finished eating I suggested we sit back down and finish opening presents.

With great surprise and excitement I pulled over the heretofore unseen gifts. I announced, “My turn.” And opened up a pair of socks. “These are my favorite.” I exclaimed. “Your turn.” I told her and she reached for another present.

“Is this one mine or yours Daddy?” She held it up and waited for me to answer. “That one is yours Sweety.”

How many times had you wrapped a present for yourself just so you would have something to open at Christmas? How many times had you rushed up the stairs, or gone around the corner or sheltered my young eyes from something that was going to make me sad? How many times had you pretended nothing was wrong when the rent was late or the water bill was due?

The night before as I spent my very first Christmas Eve alone I felt such sorry for my dear sweet mother who, had all those years ago, sat at home and waited for her children to return. I was certain it was one of my saddest moments. Now it became clear to me it was only a shadow compared to the feeling of waking up Christmas morning and not having a present under the tree.

Claire sat nestled in my lap as we opened boxes, took apart packaging and explored her new treasures. She vacillated between presents trying to decide which one needed her attention most at that moment. Choosing carefully which was to be her favorite, which she would take to bed that night. She picked up a small teddy bear and gave it a big hug. She set it down and turned around. Climbing a little higher in my lap she wrapped her tiny arms around my neck and hugged me. “Thank you Daddy,” she said, “You are the best present ever.” I do not know if it was a slip of the tongue. I do not know if she meant to say something else. It seemed to only make sense in a context I thought only I could see. “No,” I said, “YOU are the best present ever.”

Merry Christmas Mom,

Love Mike

Dear Mom it is Christmas Eve already

2009-12-24T08:44:00.001-06:00

Dear Mom it is Christmas Eve already

When I was young I spent every Christmas Eve with my Dad. Coming from a broken family earns you an entire set of traditions all your own. My sister and I would go over to my grandparents house and do the whole dinner/gift thing. I spent Christmas Eve in the very same house with the very same people for 30 years. When I got divorced my Ex accommodated me by extending this tradition to my daughter. Christmas Eve with her Mom then Christmas morning waking up with her Dad.

My Dad would pick me up and I would hug and kiss you, say Merry Christmas and head out over the river and through the woods to grandma’s house. There we would chew on a candy cane eat some Christmas cookies hug relatives you only see twice a year and wait for dinner. Grandma made the greatest dinners. There were certain things you could always count on. Mashed potatoes and corn, I like them both, next to each other on the plate with lots of butter. Hot rolls right out of the oven smothered with butter, sprinkled with honey. I have tried many rolls since but I have never found rolls just like those.

To this day I still keep a good supply of honey in the house. Not because I use it often, but because of the memories it pulls up. Claire has often declared toast and honey as one of her favorite breakfasts. I wonder what she will remember about honey? The regular dishes were there but I could fill up on mashed potatoes and corn. The only reason to leave any room in your stomach was for pie. My grandfather loved pie. No occasion was finished until you broke out the pie. To this day if I eat pumpkin, apple, rhubarb, pecan or peach pie the standard I use to measure them is grandma’s pie.

After dinner we would open presents. When I was young that meant a present from everyone there. Later years we drew names, which made it much easier. Hopefully someone got a game or something so we would not be bored once the gifts were gone. And there was always the requisite number of sweaters, scarves and new socks.

When I arrived home you would be there. The TV would be on, often a bottle of wine open in the kitchen. You would hug us and ask us what we got. We would break open our presents and show you the cool or pretty lame gifts. In later years there was much laughter to be had, teasing our absent relatives about their choice of gifts.

There were years when I was older I knew you were going out with someone, friends, a boy friend or a party somewhere. I always felt better if I knew you were out. I didn’t want you to spend Christmas Eve alone.

When my Ex picked up Claire that very first Christmas apart I suddenly had a new respect for what you had gone through. I was alone in the house on Christmas Eve. I had not planned anything. I needed to be home later when Claire was dropped off. I opened up a bottle of wine, broke out some cheese and crackers, turned on I’ts a Wonderful Life and settled in for a nice evening at home. Sitting in my chair in front of the Christmas tree I tried to treat it like any other evening without my daughter. But I could not. I kept remembering you waving goodbye as we got in Dad’s truck.

I knew what you went through then, and you did a great job of not letting your kids know exactly what it felt like. But as I faced the epiphany of exactly what was going through your mind it was different. I felt a little selfish. Why had I not done more when I had the chance? You would just remind me I was the kid and you were the parent. Some burdens are not for kids to carry. However the saddest part of the whole event was not that I was sad for myself. Though I was certain this might have been one of the saddest moments in my life. But I was sad for a mother staying at home alone, all those years ago.

We had some great times through the years. You would think it was good enough times to make up for any number of Christmas Eves alone. But at that moment, none of those other moments mattered.

Love Mike

Dear Mom the cookies smell great

2009-12-23T09:42:00.000-06:00

Dear Mom the cookies smell great

As Christmas approaches Claire is busy making everything perfect for Santa Clause. She has drawn him a picture. She has made him a special note. After much consternation over the subject she has decided we need to put the note over the top of the cookies to make sure he sees it. She has insured our stocking are hung. She has made special care we have fresh milk and carrots in the fridge. I suggested we have some carrots for dinner and she insisted we need to save them for the reindeer. I am not completely sure that is her sole motivation, carrots have never been her favorite, but it is Christmas so we can go with it. She asked me, “Daddy if I have some cereal and milk will we have enough milk left for Santa?”

I assured her there was plenty of milk for Santa. I am not sure, but I think for a minutes she was contemplating using water on her cereal. She kept glancing at the faucet as if she were going over her options. Being a big girl now she can pour her own milk over her cereal. I only get the half-gallon size containers. She hesitated several times and analyzed the container to make sure she had not used too much. This would have been less funny if it was not a full container. But it was, in fact, brand new. I guess she suspects Santa is very thirsty.

The one thing that has been missing is cookies. Starting about a week ago she started suggesting we make cookies for Santa. I had not picked up ingredients at the store last time and decided we needed to put it off a bit.
“We need to make sure we have cookies for Santa!” She exclaimed. She is obviously going to grow up to be a big tipper.
“Don’t worry honey, we will have plenty of cookies for Santa.”

As she goes over her list she keeps coming back to the one thing that she cannot check off yet. When are we going to make cookies? I suppose I should have just bit the bullet and jumped in the car and went and bought some more eggs. This would have been easier. But, now there was a line in the sand and I though patience was a good lesson here.

I picked out a date and a time and kept reminding her that was when we were going to make the cookies. There were ornaments to make, Christmas cards to make, more decorations to put up, but it all came back to the cookies. “Can we make the cookies now?” She would ask at the end of every project, or sometimes in the middle of one.

“What day is on the calendar?” I would ask, realizing she knew exactly what day it was, but was just interested in testing to see if I remembered.

Now it is the day before Christmas Eve and I have it all planned out. The ingredients sit on the counter. The cookie sheets sit on the stove top ready to be greased. Now I just wait for the little girl to come home from visiting her Mother. I imagine we can do the cookies then do clean up and it will likely be time for a bath. Oh how I wish my kitchen did not have carpet. It is funny but it is taking great willpower not to make the cookies myself. So, first I need patience for my daughter’s nagging, now I need patience to wait for her to get home. This whole process is trying my patience. When I planned this I did not realize the lesson in patience was for me.

Love Mike

Dear Mom it is too late we already told Santa

2009-12-22T08:22:00.001-06:00

Dear Mom it is too late we already told Santa

There are few things more wonderful than watching a little girl marvel at Christmas. Claire has gone through all the normal questions. How does Santa go everywhere in one night? How does Santa get in your house if you don’t have a chimney? I am dreading the day when some kid tries to tell her there is not Santa Claus and I have to figure out a way to break it to her that her father has been lying to her for years. I am torn at which will be worse. The look of disappointment in her face that there is no Santa or the look of disappointment that her Daddy could betray her.

“What? No Santa, I suppose the Tooth Fairy is fake too?” It will not be a good day.

Last week we made our annual pilgrimage to visit Saint Nicholas in his natural environment, the mall.

I had tried to get Claire to dress up in a new fancy dress, but she insisted on wearing something red. It was not her best shirt and had seen better days but it was clean and I gave up arguing with her. “Okay this time you pick out the shirt, next time it is my turn.” This worked with vegetables too. It also worked on Saturday morning. “Okay you pick out the show we want to watch this morning and I will pick out a show this evening.” Thus, cartoons only lasted till I wanted to watch TV.

It was the Saturday before Christmas and Crown Center was busy. Not that I expected to squeak in when no one was there, I suppose I should have gone sooner, or tried the Santa at Bass Pro Shop or something, anything. The line looked like it was going to be an hour or more. It was in fact an hour and a half. The line wound around the escalators, past several shops and ended in Crayola Land. A magical place where you must take off your shoes but are still not allowed to climb on the Crayola cabin. You could slide on the Crayola box lid but must stay off the oversize blocks.

Claire played while Daddy stood in the final line. As I moved close she sensed the ensuing event and came to stand beside me and put her shoes back on.

“Is that the real Santa?” She looked toward the Santa. He was a pretty good Santa as far as looks go. He had a real beard, which he had groomed for years. Reading spectacles adorned the end of his nose and he seemed altogether jolly.

“Yup, it sure is.” I assured her.

She stared at him for a moment then turned to the girl running the camera as she stared at a computer screen cropping the latest photo. “Is that the real Santa?” She pointed at the Santaesque man in the chair. I guess my word was just not quite enough. But somehow this girl, who was obviously on the Jolly Old Elf’s payroll, was going to be an authority. The camera girl reassured her. “Yes, that is the real Santa, all the way from the North pole.”

This seemed to satisfy her.

I was a little concerned she would be nervous.

“Daddy can you be in the picture too?” It is much easier to sit on a stranger’s lap if your Daddy is there too.

Last year she almost didn’t sit on his lap. Either she was much bolder this year or this Santa was all together more friendly.

“Hi Santa.” I said as we walked up.

“Hello there.” He answered. It was his real voice, no north pole accent for this Santa. Sounded like he was from mid to Southern Missouri. Not quite the boot heal but South of I 70. Claire popped up on his knee with no problem at all. I saddled up on the other side and smiled for the camera.

As I got up to walk around to the other side Santa asked, “So, what do you want for Christmas?”

“I want a skate board with a purple lightning bolt.” This was not what we had rehearsed. Where were the Barbie dolls, the Legos? For the last month we had assembled a list. Now at the moment of truth she springs this.

“What else do you want?” A good Santa indeed, let’s get something else on the list.

“Just a skate board with a purple lightning bolt.” Admittedly this was not a red rider BB gun but I was not happy about the choice. First of all she is five and cannot even ride her bike yet without training wheels. A skate board? Second of all, I don’t recall ever seeing this ad on the TV. Where was I going to find a skate board with a purple lightning bolt. What is the use of subjecting our kids to endless commercials of brightly colored overpriced childhood accessories if she was not even going to put one on her list? The Toy industry had let me down. Third, it was December and the wind chill was ten below zero, she would not even be able to use it for four more months. Fourth, if you were going to only ask for one thing, why not world peace?

“Okay,” said Santa, “I’ll see what I can do.”

Claire jumped down as I paid for our 5 x 7 photo. She was feeling pretty proud at this point. We walked out of the Crayola land and set out toward the gingerbread village. It was indeed a gingerbread village, but not at all impressive. Too many pastry shows on the food channel had set the bar too high for the average gingerbread village developer.

After a sojourn through the Crayola shop and a search for a cookie shop we were finally on our way home. “Maybe Santa will bring you something else, do you think that would be okay?”

“No, Santa, is pretty good about these things Dad.”

I knew I was reaching but I was trying to set up the Christmas morning to be something other than a disappointment.

“Well, what else do you want beside a skate board?” I pressed for more information.

“A skate board with a purple lightning bolt,” she corrected me, “besides it is too late Daddy, we already told Santa.”

She was right. There was no way out of this. The path was clear. Either I find a skate board with a purple lightning bolt or I accept that she is going to start doubting Santa right now. On the other hand if I do find a skate board it would go along way to convince her there is a Santa when someone try’s to tell her there is not. I may get another year out this? That is, if I find a skate board with a purple lighting bolt.

It occurred to me that a skate board must also come with the requisite elbow and knee pads. We already had a helmet. Plus, I was fairly certain the skate board fad would last about as long as it took her to fall off the first time, I give it 15 seconds. What about the mystery of Christmas? The wonder of the season? The magic in a child’s eyes as they rush downstairs Christmas morning?

Clearly, there were conflicting goals here that would weigh heavily on my mind for the next week.

Love Mike

Dear Mom hop, two, three

2009-11-19T10:00:00.001-06:00

Dear Mom hop, two, three

Claire started Irish Dance lessons this month. For 4 years now she has watched the brightly colored dancers up on stage and you could see her dreamy eyed stares were conjuring up visions of dancing beside them.

She would imitate their twirls and jumps oblivious to onlookers and in her head she was as fabulous as any a dancer ever was, which means she thought she was half as graceful as she looked through my eyes.

The day she turned five she asked me, “Daddy, do I start dance lessons this week?” I had already found out lessons did not start till August. “You have to wait till the end of the summer.” I reassured her the time would come but it was little comfort. Every week she would count them down, “How many days now?” She would ask, then counting days on an imaginary calendar she would wrinkle up her nose. However many days that was it was entirely too many. “So does today count as a day?” Anything to shorten the time. “Yes, today is a day, but it does not count as a full day till you go to bed. So, when you go to bed tonight and wake up in the morning it will be one less day.” I had tried many versions of this explanation but none of them seemed to do anything but require more questions.

As August approached the start of dance class was pushed to September. Then as September approached it was pushed to October, then November. FINALLY, classes would start. Now after two classes her entire calendar is set by dance class night. There are no more Monday or Tuesdays, it is the day before dance class or the two days before dance class, then afterwards Thursday is the day after dance class. “How many more days till dance class Daddy?”

The instructor does not allow parents to watch. I have found a pub close by to wait out the class. She comes out all smiles. I ask her, “What did you learn today?” “Hop, two, three,” she answers. “Can you show me?” This inspires a barely comprehensible sequence of her feet moving that I encourage with a, “Great job! Can you teach me that?” “Maybe,” she answers, “it is very difficult.”

In the car as we are fastening out seatbelts she asks, “How many days till dance class Daddy?”

I am sympathetic to her plight and I want her to be excited about learning something new, but I refuse to wish for a single day to pass by any faster.

Love Mike

Dear Mom we should get two pumpkins

2009-11-18T10:00:00.000-06:00

Dear Mom we should get two pumpkins

This October was warmer than usual and that causes some serious problems when it comes to pumpkin carving. Claire had started requesting to carve pumpkins the moment they started to appear at the grocery store.

“It is too warm,” I told her, “They will not last till Halloween.”

“They will get old very fast?” she pondered.

“Yes Sweetie the heat makes them age very fast.”

I am sure she was conjuring up images of last year’s pumpkin melting on our doorstep.

She mentioned it a few times over the next week but never pressed it. The inevitable demise of her pumpkin seemed a good enough reason to put off it’s acquisition. Then one day, out of the blue. “Daddy we need to get two pumpkins.”

“We do?” I was very curious where this came from.

“Yea, we get two so we can carve one today and save one for Halloween for when the first one gets all shrively.”

This was impeccable logic! How brilliant! We get two pumpkins, one for now and one for later. Not only have we conquered the not having a pumpkin at Halloween, we also double our fun and get to carve two pumpkins!

“That is brilliant honey, what a great idea!” I was beaming as much as she was at this point. It was obvious to me she was bound for greatness. I imagine one day I will be smiling the exact same way when she announces, “Daddy, I have found a cure for cancer!”

As I turned off the road heading into the parking lot of the nearest grocery store, I was still floored at the notion. She came up with this herself. I pondered the possibility of there having been a cartoon where the main character had to face similar obstacles to getting a pumpkin. But really, this was still brilliant.

It took us most of 10 minutes to pick out two perfect pumpkins. She did not go for the biggest ones and she did not go for the most round, or the most orange. Pumpkin picking must be more complex than I remembered it. She carefully picked up some, others she just looked at or patted. Then once she had the right one she looked at me, “This one Daddy!”

With our Pumpkins in the cart we headed to the car. We carefully placed them in the trunk and headed home.

She pondered pumpkin ideas in her head. “The first one is going to be a pirate pumpkin, the second one I will decide later, because we have some time before Halloween.”

The pirate pumpkin did not last long, but that was okay, because we had a spare.

Love Mike

Dear Mom, it is the first snow of the year

2009-11-17T09:50:00.000-06:00

Dear Mom, it is the first snow of the year

This morning when I woke, I looked out the window and saw it was the first snow of the year. Although we had a few flakes yesterday, this morning there was just enough snow to give the ground a mostly covered in snow look. The cars had a nice even layer over the roof and the hood and it was wintry, though not really a wonderland.

After I coaxed Claire into her clothes and made her some breakfast I went outside to start the truck. In order to be sure we were not late for school I had to make sure the windows were clear before we went outside. As it turns out the snow did not stick to the windows and there was no frost or ice so clearing the windshield was easy. I left the truck running. There is nothing like going outside and stepping into a nice warm truck.

When it was time to leave we bundled up to go. I reviewed our plan to keep track of our gloves.

“Where do we put our gloves when we take them off?”

“In our pockets!” Claire announced triumphantly.

“This coat does not have pockets, so we put them in our sleeve or our backpack, remember?”

“Oh yea,” she pondered this, “Why does this coat not have pockets?”

“Because of a concept you will not understand till you are a teenager.”

“What concept?” She was not going to be easy to deflect.

“Image before substance. At some point someone decided that coat would look fancier without pockets so they didn’t put any in the coat.”

“So I use my sleeve?”

“Right, you use your sleeve.” That was easier than I expected. I can see her explaining it to some five year olds now. “Do you know why your coat has no pockets? Image before substance!”

As we stepped out the door I watched as her face lit up. There are few things as magical as a child’s infatuation with snow.

“IT SNOWED!” She was grinning ear to ear and I could see visions of snowballs and snowmen swirling so violently in her head stray images were popping out her ears and wafting about her brow. It was not that slick out but I took her hand and lead her to the truck door. “Is this real snow Daddy?” “No,” I teased, “it’s fake snow.”

The question was not altogether out of place. A couple of weeks earlier she had walked out to see the first big frost. Thinking it was snow she was excited till I explained the difference. Now she was not going to completely commit to happiness till she was sure it was real snow. My teasing could not quell the mood. “No, it’s not fake! This I real snow.” She kicked at it a bit. As I put her in the seat and handed her the seat belt, she was absent mindedly pointing the clasp in the right direction while she busied the rest of her attention looking around our mostly white neighborhood. With a little help we buckled up and were on our way.

“This sure is real snow.” She reinforced her contention, as if I would try to argue with her.

“Ahhh.” She saddened a bit as she saw there was rain falling now, instead of snow.

“Don’t worry Sweety it is a little warm now but it will snow plenty this year, we will see it again.”

An irritated grimace now fought with the immovable smile that had taken over her face. By the time we arrived at school the smile had won and she rushed into the school to share her excitement with her friends.

As I finish this letter the snow is all but gone. It is amazing what the warmth of one smile can accomplish.

Love Mike

Dear Mom it is the festival season

2009-10-06T10:00:00.001-05:00

Dear Mom it is the festival season

About the time September hits, my calendar fills up quickly. There are only 8 or 9 weekends in which I must fit a years worth of festivals. Some people have favorite events to go to, I have favorite months. With the possible exception of Saint Patrick’s Day season, a holiday that needs more than one day to properly celebrate, this is truly my favorite time of year. Thousands of years ago our ancestors would finish with the Autumn harvest and gather in conclaves to celebrate the good fortune of the lands bounty and have one last party before cloistering themselves over the winter. Today remnants of those early festivals still linger in small towns across the world and reflect our agrarian roots.

I didn’t truly get it when I was a kid. Though I remember a few events that seemed to wander into my busy childhood schedule around Halloween, I never really understood what they meant. I don’t recall if you were dragging me to these things because you thought they would be fun for kids or because there was some deeper meaning behind it.

Either way, today I still consider those early outings as the roots of my current obsession. I decorate the house with pumpkins and autumn leaves. Spiced candles fill the air with a feeling of warmth. Outside my marigolds give their last autumn colored blooms before falling asleep for the winter. How can anyone not be submersed in the season.

And so every weekend I pack my sweater and head off to the next adventure. Harvest festivals, pumpkin festivals, wine festivals, and Irish festivals. Yes, Irish festivals, combine my favorite festival season with my favorite music, you get a killer combination. Claire does not truly understand what is going on, but she falls asleep every Sunday blissfully exhausted. Many years from now I imagine she will take part in the calendar planning. Help me pack the picnic basket and carefully put all the wine glasses in their place so they will not break on the way.

4-6 festivals in 9 weeks is just about adequate. Any less and you are really slacking on the job. I look forward to every Autumn and a new event to add to the calendar. Some will become annual outings and some will just be that once to see what it was like and to say you did it. Both are memorable and deserving of the effort.

When I take the pumpkins down at the end of November to make room for the Christmas tree I can’t help but feel a tinge of longing for the next Autumn.

Love Mike

Dear Mom I had a great weekend

2009-10-05T11:08:00.001-05:00

Dear Mom I had a great weekend

It was one of those weekends you hope will happen but you can not really plan for. I still remember the first time you came up with the idea of Hermann Missouri for a weekend. You were all excited about the romantic notion of spending the day sitting around in a vineyard drinking wine. Soaking in the last of the Autumn warmth, watching the leaves change, listening to according music and sharing some wonderful moments with friends. You hope every year will be better than the last but you can never count on it.

I owe it to you that I never meet a stranger. There are some circumstances that make the notion easier than others but Octoberfest is a prime example of how easy it is to make friends. Sipping on wine can lead to a nice level of comfort and happiness that is very conducive to meeting new people.

Accompanied with spending time with old friends the time you spend with the new ones is that much more special. You talk about things you have in common and things you don’t. You share stories about your kids and reflect on how times have changed.

The slight breeze and smell of Autumn sets a stage that few things can match. The leaves softly falling off the trees send glints of sunlight that twinkle in the afternoon as you drain yet another bottle of wine. By the time the afternoon has passed and you can see the hints of evening falling in long shadows around you, you shake your head disappointingly at the setting sun and say goodbye.

Maybe you will see them next year. Maybe they will actually send an email much as you have heard in years before. Either way you have one more reason to never miss that first weekend in October.

Sudden Light

I have been here before,
But when or how I cannot telll.
I know the grass beyond the door,
The sweet keen smell,
the sighing sound, the lights around the shore.

You have been mine before
How long ago I may not know;
But just when at the swallow's soar
Your neck turned so,
Some veil did fall I knew it all of yore

has this been thus before?
and shall not thus time's edying flight
Still with our lives our love restore
In death's despite,
And day and night yield one delight once more?

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Love Mike

Dear Mom remember to wear your chef’s clothes

2009-09-23T10:00:00.001-05:00

Dear Mom remember to wear your chef’s clothes

Whenever Claire and I set out to make something we always have to put on our chef’s clothes. These consist of an apron and a chef’s hat with an adjustable headband. She did not get them all at once, mind you. She had to earn them.

It all started when she was very small, less than two years old, and she would watch from her high chair as Dad donned his apron and put on his chefs hat and started making lunch. Now how cool is that? Not only does Dad use things I am not allowed to touch he gets to wear special clothes. I would try to put a bowl in front of her every time and ask her to stir. Reminding her, “When you get really, really good at this you might get your own apron!” She would stir with all her might and occasional get through the whole ordeal with the majority of the bowl contents still intact. When she was finally tall enough to reach the counter on her stepstool I announced she had earned an apron and could now cook at the counter. She would stand up on her stepstool with her apron and stir and mix and add salt whatever she could.

All fathers dream of the day when their daughters no longer need us to make every meal, pour every bowl of cereal and get every bottle of milk out of the frig. We hope this all happens without us having to clean up a mess afterwards but the dream of liberation comes first. There is no better way to do this than to heap pride and prestige upon the act of cooking. This is similar to the way we look forward to the day when our daughters are old enough to go to the potty by themselves. The difference is the consequential messes are larger yet less smelly.

As she perfected her skills of shaking, mixing, and adding things to the bowl she would occasionally ask about the chef’s hat.

“Dad, this is pretty tough, I might need the chef’s hat for this.” As if the chef’s hat relayed some magical power that once possessed would imbue her with unmatched cooking skill.

“Not quite yet,” I would assure her, “your day will come.”

Sometimes the approach would be different. “If I can stir this without spilling do I get to wear the chef’s hat?” She would say this while staring intently at the hat on my head.

“It is a good way to show me you have earned it, but you will not get to wear it yet.” The disappointment of getting turned down had long passed. It was mostly just a steady longing. But she would dutifully do whatever was needed to get the hat.

“Okay, before we eat we have to put all of our dishes away.” By the time I finished the statement she would already be hauling dishes to the dishwasher. I still ponder rather this early initiation will survive her teen years.

Shortly after her third birthday and her completion of potty training she made an announcement right before we started on some banana bread. “Dad, now that I am wearing big girl panties I need to wear the chef’s hat.” This was not an inquiry this was a statement of fact. Long months she had stared at the chef’s hat waiting for the day she could put it on and make her first dish. Long she had labored over the mixing bowls yearning for that magical moment when the chef’s hat would be hers. Now, with her newfound strength that comes when you mature into a panty wearing big girl she was stating her case.

“You know, I think you are right, I think you need to wear the chef’s hat today.” Her eyes lit up as if a thousand headlights went off all at once. She was jumping up and down on her stool deftly keeping her balance yet teetering on the brink of collapse at any moment.

I took the hat from my head and adjusted it for hers as I placed it proudly upon her brow. “Wow this sure is a big hat!” She felt her head to make sure it was real. “I have to see!” She rushed to the mirror to admire her newly won badge of honor. “I sure am a chef now huh Dad?”

“Yes you are darling, yes you are.”

Now whenever we set out to create a new culinary masterpiece we first put on our chef’s cloths. It focuses our attention, because you can’t go do something else while you are wearing your chef’s clothes. Some things have relaxed a bit. We no longer put on an apron just to make a peanut butter and honey sandwich but if it requires turning on the stove, like a grilled cheese sandwich it is sure going to need some chef’s clothes. Likewise the hat is sometimes unnecessary. If we are only going to pop something in the microwave there is no chef’s hat required, but if there is an oven involved you will have to be properly attired.

Now if I can just think up a uniform for cleaning your room.

Love Mike

Dear Mom you need three more bites.

2009-09-22T16:43:00.000-05:00

Dear Mom you need three more bites.

Before Claire was two years old she made did something that I was sure represented a leap in the evolutionary time line. She took three more bites. I had spent a lot of time trying to get her to eat a balanced meal. This was stifled by a propensity she had early on to only eat one thing at a time. I do not mean eat her potatoes then eat her meat, I mean if there are 10 things on her plate she will only eat the potatoes. When the potatoes are gone she will ask for more potatoes. I am sure in her head it made perfect sense. Why would anyone eat anything besides potatoes if you had potatoes? Sometimes this was turned into a fad that lasted for a day or two, occasionally a week.

I did not worry so much when she decided the only food that would satisfy her appetite was broccoli. Nor did I mind when it was strawberries or bananas. The day she decided she wanted Cheetos I was a little worried. Starting with a snack at lunch time, which was not the first time she ever had a Cheeto but evidently represented the day she decided it’s nutritional value and flavor exceeded any such ratings of any food in the house, she refused to eat anything but Cheetos for the rest of the day.

I had been down this road before so was prepared for a short binge of snack food. I was not prepared the next morning when she asked again for Cheetos and refused to eat anything else. After refusing to eat anything put in front of her by lunchtime I was getting a little nervous. First of all, we were running out of Cheetos. Second this was not a binge of vitamin packed vegetables this was, well, Cheetos. I had remembered a conversation I had with her pediatrician.

“Don’t just balance what she eats in a single meal, think of it as an average of what she eats all day.” When I called her the next day after the second straight 24 hour period of eating nothing but bananas she modified her statement by saying, “Don’t just balance what she eats in a single day but balance it over the whole week.” As we approached day 5 of the banana binge I called to ask if she was going to expand that to a month. She made some suggestions on getting her to eat something else. Most of the things I had tried, the few I had not I tried and failed. Luckily on day 7 she switched to broccoli.

After trying to get her to eat something besides Cheetos all afternoon I broke down went to the store and got some more Cheetos. I kept telling myself it is important she eat something. To my surprise her preference was not just for Cheetos but for Cheetos that were crisp fried to a crackly crunch not baked to a delicate crunch. Another trip back to the store for the correct Cheetos. I got two family sized bags. My theory is as soon as she saw how much I had she would immediately switch foods so the Cheetos would go bad. It happened ever time I bought a pineapple so I expected it would work with Cheetos.

It did not work. The next day, half way through another bag of Cheetos I sat there exasperated. I had a bowl of corn, a bowl of peas, a bowl of strawberries and half a banana.

“Okay,” I said, “if you take three bites of peas you can have more Cheetos.” She looked at me and at first I thought it was one of those looks that meant, “I have no idea what you just said.” But to my surprise she grabbed a spoon jammed three giant spoonfuls of peas in her mouth and then looked at me with a, “Hey, where are the Cheetos?” kind of look on her face. She could not yet say “take three more bites of food,” but she could do it. AMAZING. So I placed five more Cheetos in a bowl. She munched them casually then looked at me with her hand in the empty bowl. “Take three bites of strawberries and you can have some more Cheetos.” Quickly she jammed three giant strawberries in her mouth. I had arrived.

It was the last time I had a multi day eating binge. This secret, evidently the most well kept secret of parenthood, was my ticket to a balanced diet.

Love Mike

Dear Mom may our friends never change

2009-09-21T10:00:00.000-05:00

Dear Mom may our friends never change

I had a reunion this weekend. To say it was great to see everyone would be a dramatic understatement.

One of the reasons I always make it to the Phi Theta Kappa National Convention every year, yea I know it is an International convention but it was a National convention when I started going, is to see people I only see once a year. We catch up, we have a few drinks, we talk about what is going on now, good and bad, and we talk about the way we were. I have watched so many of my friends go through good and bad times it is a real source of strength when things get bad in my life. I have but to remember a conversation with someone I know made it through and it is almost like they are standing beside me now.

A phone call or an email just to say hi strengthens the moment and I suddenly have renewed vigor.

So much changes. Hair length, belt length, but there is this feeling when you meet you just said goodbye yesterday. It is uncanny how you can sit down and it seems like you were just talking the night before and you are thinking how did they lose 30 lbs overnight? I gotta get that diet.

One minute we are sitting around talking about our latest love and the next we are comparing notes on what songs we sing to our kids at bedtime. Years apart chronologically, moments apart psychologically.

Perhaps we have a sense of urgency that allows us to drop the formalities and throw ourselves straight into our longtime friend mode. After all we only have the weekend and we have to fit in as much as we can before Sunday arrives. The threat we will be hugging goodbye in only hours allows us to find that feeling we have always shared and cling to it.

I have no idea how often you could get together for such a feeling. I suspect there are some serious diminishing returns associated with frequent use. But you can’t help but think how fun it would be to do this every weekend. And really in your head that is what it is. A years worth of weekends strung together in your head yet separated by years. Everyone changing with every visit yet staying the same. Just as you remember them.

To a friend

I ask but one thing of you, only one,
that always you will be my dream of you;
That never shall I wake to find untrue
All this I have believed and rested on,

Forever vanished, like a vision gone
Out into the night. Alas how few
There are who strike in us a chord we knew
Existed, but so seldom heard its tone

We tremble at the half-forgotten sound.
The world is full of rude awakenings
and heaven-born castles shattered to the ground,
Yet still our human longing vainly clings
To a belief in beauty through all wrongs.
O stay your hand, and leave my heart its songs!

Amy Lowell

Love Mike

Dear Mom isn’t she a beauty

2009-09-20T10:00:00.000-05:00

Dear Mom isn’t she a beauty

Lots of guys say, “I wish I kept that car I got when I got out of college.” I never have to say that because I did. A 1988 black Toyota Supercharged MR2 with the full sports package. In its prime it could out accelerate almost anything at the light and even more once it got up in rpms. Not to mention it had four disk brakes, could stop on a dime and cornered like it had suction cups on the tires.

When I got it I visited all three coasts. Staying with friends it was my summer of freedom. I just got out of college, sold my business and took some time before I moved on with the next stage of my life. It was my first car that was really my own, the first I paid for all myself and probably the only car I ever bought new. There have been years I just kept it in the garage or under a cover but I always take it out, give it a tune up a good wash and I am off again. This time of year I take the T-tops off and drive it around just like it was 20 years ago. One of the coolest feelings in the world is the slightly chilled night air nipping at the back of your neck with the furnace on in the car to take the edge off. You really only get that two times during the year and this is one of them.

I have considered getting a new sports car, but why? To go fast? I can still do that and besides I haven’t made a habit of speeding in years. To pick up girls? If they do not like my old sports car would it really work out in the long run anyway? I mean really, would I ever give up my prized baby after more than 20 years? No, I only need one sports car. Besides to really consider a new car I would have to have more garage space.

Love Mike

Dear Mom does this Barbie clash with my shoes?

2009-09-19T10:00:00.000-05:00

Dear Mom does this Barbie clash with my shoes?

Thanks to some friends, Claire has accumulated quite a Barbie collection. Most of them have their own name. A few are just Barbie but as a general rule, if Claire is playing with the doll, it has it’s own name. Barbie sometimes accompanies us when we go somewhere. Or should I say Belle, Grownup Claire, or Daddy Action Figure, often accompany us when we go somewhere. Barbie, or the actual dolls she calls Barbie usually get left at home. One particular day Belle and Daddy Action Figure were dressed to the nines. I guess they were on their way to the Governor’s Ball or something. After alerting Claire it was time for us to head to the park she was resistant to leave the festivities. “Daddy, we just put on our fancy clothes. We can’t leave now!”

“Claire you have been looking forward to this all day. Do you really want to wait till it starts raining and it is too late?” I am not sure if it was going to rain today, but there were a few clouds and it was important to raise the stakes since the simple thought of time in the park was not enough. I was not sure if the added threat of not being able to go later was enough but today it worked. “Okay but Belle and Daddy Action Figure want to go too.” “Sure, why not, I am sure they will have a great time.” It was nice for a change not to have to convince her not to take one of her plush toy friends out into the park.

When we arrived I was concentrating so hard on getting Carnahan the dog out of the crate I did not notice that Belle and Daddy Action figure had already made it to the playground. First they did the slide then they dared the kiddy swing. Claire carefully placed them in the kiddy swing each of them with their legs sticking through a toddler’s leg hole. They were given a light push and she was off to her own swing. This was fine right up till the moment she noticed other kids coming to the playground. She quickly jumped off the swing and rushed over to get her dolls, err. action figures. “Here Daddy, you need to hold them so nobody takes them.”
She rushes off to play with a new friend and I am now left holding the dog and the sharp dressed couple. As a few moms venture over my direction I reflect on how absolutely impossible it is to look dignified holding two dolls.

You have a few choices. Just kind of grab them by the feet and act like you are just holding them temporarily . You can then hold them by your side as you would a tennis racket or something and not draw attention. Of course this is the surest way to draw the attention of your five year old for doll abuse. Second you can cradle them in an arm in front of you so they can watch the activities but this is probably the least dignified option. I choose a compromise. I stick them in my back pocket so they are upright and looking out behind me. This way they are not in my hand but they can still see fine and do not risk parts flying off as I swing them around. This also keeps them out of the way of Carnahan the dog. If Claire asks about them I can turn and she can plainly see they are comfortably seated with a nice view of the park.

The other moms do not really take notice they are still overcoming their suspicion of a man in the park in the middle of the day. A sad form of chauvinism on their part. A couple of their kids come over to pet Carnahan. Their eyes widen a bit and they move in my direction. “It’s okay.” I assure them, “Carnahan loves kids.” Carnahan is now happily licking kid faces and resisting the urge to jump up and knock one over. His will power is assisted by a firm hand on his leash. The two moms smile uneasily. Claire is now at my side introducing Carnahan the dog. She takes a break noticing I am not holding her dolls. “Daddy, where is Belle and Daddy Action Figure?” I turn to show her they are safe. “Daddy, they are really dressed too nice to sit in your back pocket.” She had a point, if I am in a tux I would not be caught dead in somebody’s back pocket.

“Well, if I carry them in the front they will really clash with my shoes.” I try a defensive move to see if I can head this off. Claire eyes me up and down and responds, “Your right Daddy, you are not very fancy today.”
As Claire heads off to play with her new friends I notice the two Moms are far calmer with their kids out of my reach. They both are kind of looking at my butt. I like to tell myself it was not because I had to dolls in my pocket. “I had no idea the park was a formal event today.” I explain. “It’s okay,” one of them sympathizes, “we are a little underdressed as well.”

It is amazing what a few words can do. We talk a little about the new play equipment and they avoid ribbing me about my dolls, err. action figures.

Love Mike

Dear Mom Alice the Camel cheats at Sorry,

2009-09-18T10:00:00.000-05:00

Dear Mom Alice the Camel cheats at Sorry,

Claire enjoys playing games. Can you really blame her? I still have faint memories of you sitting down with me when I was very small and playing games with me. You used to tell a story of how we were playing Candy Land one time when I suddenly stopped cold as I proclaimed: “HEY, wait a minute, this game is all luck!” As you tell the story I refused to ever play it again and the next day demanded you teach me how to play chess. Claire still enjoys Candy Land and I still do not so we often branch out into other games that require a little more decision making. Sorry is one of her favorites.
Sometimes when we play games her little friends play too. Alice the Camel is an avid game player and often sits in when the need arises for a third player. When the game is all luck as in Candy Land things go well, I can even remember a game Alice one. Claire was a little wary as Alice took her turn so close to the end of the map but I started cheering for Alice. “Go Alice, you can do it, you just need a double space, come on Alice!” Claire soon joined in and we were both rooting for Alice. By the time Claire drew Alice’s card, (it may be the entire point of a third person is to give Claire more play time,) the air was tense with anticipation. When Alice dropped her piece at the finish we jumped up and down and shouted, “Alright Alice! Great job! Way to go!” It was a lot of fun. We talked about it for days.
“Daddy, remember when Alice won the Candy Land game?”
“I sure do sweetie, that was pretty cool wasn’t it?”
Turns out Alice the Camel also likes to play Sorry. I did not realize when we started that Alice was actually in collusion with my daughter to bring down her Daddy. Play started just great, everyone was having a great time. Then I noticed on Alice’s turn she seemed to always land on my pieces and never Claire’s. Claire was very sympathetic to my plight. “Oh no Daddy, Alice is landing on you again!” As Claire moved Alice’s piece on top of my own and sent my piece back to Home I could not keep from raising my eyebrow just a little bit. “Don’t worry Daddy, you can come back. You still have a piece over there.”
The next turn she was again sympathetic to my cause, “Look Daddy I am landing on Alice the camel!” I also noted there was no place for her to land on me that turn. “That’ll teach Alice to land on my Daddy.” She gleefully sent Alice’s piece back to her Home. “Now don’t land on my Daddy, anymore Alice.” She scolded Alice as if she were not in on the scam.
Over a matter of turns the two of them systematically shut me down. Soon Claire won and we all jumped up and down and told her what a great job she did. I suppose the whole situation is not much different than me throwing a game or just giving me a large handicap whenever I play with kindergarteners but it still did not feel right. I think it is important she win most of her games but it is also important she lose now and then. My normal formula is 1 to 3 or 1 to 4 loss to win ratio. It is also important the first game be a win if I expect repeat play. Claire has developed what I believe is pretty good sportsmanship through the practice and keeps wanting to play more. So, it works but the entire idea of her scheming with Alice to win the game is a little bothersome. Alice keeps quite on the subject but I think she knows I know. I will have to keep my eye on her.

Love Mike

Dear Mom the flowers look lovely

2009-09-17T10:00:00.000-05:00

Dear Mom the flowers look lovely

I have labored all year on my flower garden. It is not complicated. It has three sections. Marigolds in two of them and impatiens in the third. One section just got too much shade this year and the marigolds did not prosper at all. I gave up midsummer and realized I would have to just put bark there next year. Oh well, it was nice while it was lasted and I truly need less to weeding anyway. The other two have done very well.

Early summer you just have these spots of flowers sticking out of the ground. You see more ground than plants unless you have not weeded this week and it hardly looks like a flower garden.

If you fail to weed one week you will find the flowers are actually choked by the weed growth. I have experimented in the past by weeding half the garden and watching while the weeded section actually grows twice as much as the un-weeded section.

I have also experimented with watering. Watering one section only every third day and the other sections every day has a similar effect. The flowers grow twice as fast in the watered section.

So, to mind your garden well weed it two to three times a week for a few months water it every day and you will find as the flowers get bigger you need to weed less and you see far less ground. This, of course, is in addition to adding manure every year and extra peat to hold in the moisture.

So, here it is the Autumn. The flowers look great. I would say they have not looked “great” till about a week ago. The impatiens never filled out like I wanted them too, but then again I must have the wrong expectation for them because I can’t remember a time when my impatiens did fill out like I wanted them to. But the marigolds look great. They are full of blossoms and cover almost all of the space in the garden. I have to trim them back a little where they hang over the sidewalk.

Now I cringe watching the weather hoping the first frost will hold off. I have considered plastic for emergencies if we get a sudden first frost that is too early but why fight nature? In years when I have done this it never seems to work very long anyway.

Just about everything I learned about gardening I learned at your side. I am not as ambitious. I rarely like more than two kinds of flowers, but that is mostly because I like the splashes of color from the curb view. I remember the garden in front of your house looking almost like an herb garden. But it looked loved and well taken care of. In the Winter when the snow was on the ground and last years flowers were encased in ice it was hard to tell they were not once weeds, but they were beautiful in their own right. Still a garden in winter is just a shadow of what it is in late summer.

Gardens are just one of those things you pour your time and attention into and only really reap the benefit for a short time.

Love Mike

Dear Mom tuna salad is more than just a salad

2009-09-16T10:00:00.001-05:00

Dear Mom tuna salad is more than just a salad

Claire recently discovered that petunia salad, ie “tuna salad” is more than just a salad. I have always tried to involve her in the kitchen and this has turned out to be one of her favorite things to make. It has all the elements that make a meal fun for a kid. You need to boil an egg, so there is actual cooking on a fire. Kids love that. Lots of stuff to add, kids love that. Stirring, a mainstay of any kid friendly meal. And once more it goes with just about anything.

Recipe is simple
Boiled eggs
Tuna
Mayo and/or miracle whip
Pickle relish, I prefer dill but sweet relish will work too

There you have it
If you want to get fancy you can add:
Chopped celery
Finely chopped onion or chives
Cilantro or any number of parsley like herbs available in your local grocery
Mustard, any kind will work, but you can really add a flare to it

“I want to turn the water on!” Claire had brought it down to a science exactly what she is allowed to do and what she is not. She cannot carry a pot of water to the stove, but that does not prevent her from turning on and off the water, adding the salt, adding the eggs or putting the lid on the pot.

“Can I turn the stove on now?” She asks this every time but she knows the answer.
“No, your legs are not quite long enough yet.”
“But they are very long and look I how far I can reach!” This is an old argument.
“But not long enough, I will tell you when your legs are long enough.” She, long ago, figured out that her ability to reach something had nothing to do with her being allowed to do it. I have supplanted her leg length as the deciding factor. She has not yet wrapped her head around exactly how I know her legs are long enough but she trusts me that this is a fair and ordinary method of determining ones aptitude for a task. Kind of the way she thinks I can tell the sex of a puppy by looking at the bottom of its feet. I am pleased that even in her eagerness to do all things adult she still asks permission to do things she has never been allowed to do. I fear the time when she just does them and waits to see what happens.

As the water starts to heat she gently puts in three eggs and some salt.

I bring down a mixing bowl and start to open a couple cans of tuna. She gets the mayo, relish and onions out of the frig.

With the tuna opened and drained she announces she will begin. She stands on her step stool in front of the counter. “I will start the petunia salad Dad.” She reaches over and grabs the tuna and using a fork manages to get almost all of the tuna into the bowl.

“Can you open this Dad?” There was a time when she tried to open every jar before she handed them to me. Currently she just hands them to me. A spoon full of mayo and Miracle Whip and a couple spoons of relish and she starts stirring while I finish chopping the onions. I like them finely chopped. I want the flavor but not large chunks of sharp onion flavor, just mild hints of onion. By this time the egg is done and I carry it over to the sink to run water over it. Now comes one of my favorite parts.

I hand her a lukewarm egg. She carefully taps it on the counter several times as she has seen me do so often and starts to peel the egg. If you boil the egg just right the shell comes off really easy. Too long and it sticks. Set the eggs in the water and measure 5 minutes till they are boiling. Then turn the heat off and let stand for 5 more minutes in the hot water. Flash cool them under running water. Voila! I mostly just guess at the time results may vary.

Claire carefully makes sure all egg parts are off the egg. We have a very fancy egg dicer. Put the egg in it and press down on top and you have chopped egg. Thanks to some crazy guy on the TV Claire is convinced it works best with a hard whack! It doesn’t, but how do you argue with a guy on TV?

Once mixed it can be eaten alone, very low carb, or with crackers and celery like a dip, or traditionally between two slices of bread. We like to mix it up, one day on wheat bread the next day on Pepperidge Farm cinnamon bread. Claire came up with this and I have to tell you it is really my favorite now.

We don’t eat till all the prep dishes are in the dishwasher.

“We sure made some great petunia salad Dad.” This is a statement but demands an answer as if it were a question.

“We sure did, you sure are a great tuna salad maker.”

Love Mike

Dear Mom where is my runners high?

2009-09-15T10:14:00.000-05:00

Dear Mom where is my runners high?

I have been running pretty faithfully now for most of a year. I have had some times when I felt under the weather that slowed me down but for the most part I get my three miles in three times a week with little or no pain. Yet, I keep waiting for that moment when I finish and feel like doing something besides cooling off drinking lots of water and sitting on my butt in front of the computer. I know it is good for me, I actually feel better overall, but I don’t get any “runners high” from running.

I have considered running longer and there are days when I actually feel like running farther but I seriously don’t want to put that kind of time commitment into sweating in public. Plus when I number crunch it I cannot find a study that says exercising more than an hour a day had any different end result that exercising just an hour a day.

I remember you once explaining to me why I had to do my homework. Faced with me trying to find a short term gain for doing homework instead of playing video games you said: “If you don’t brush your teeth today you will not feel the difference immediately but eventually if you don’t do it every day, you will get lots of cavities. If you eat only cake and ice cream today it may sound like a good idea and you may even avoid the tummy ache today but eventually it will lead to obesity. If you don’t do your homework today it may not affect in the least but if you repeatedly put it off it will have serious long term ramifications.”

As I recall you threw in, “for instance I am sure you will miss the television since you will not be able to watch it anymore and you will miss your computer since I will give it away to Good Will and you will miss your bicycle since you won’t be able to leave the house till your home work is done.” But I think that first part was the part I was supposed to get the life lesson from.

I don’t have a mother to give me penalties for not doing my homework anymore and I look deep trying to find something to motivate me to finish certain things. But where that fails I often just remember what you said about brushing my teeth. I often need little more.

Love Mike

Dear Mom there is just not enough time

2009-09-14T10:00:00.000-05:00

Dear Mom there is just not enough time

I was running this morning over a path that was pasted with wet leaves and meandering along the bank of a stream. There came a point when a particularly fast song on my Ipod had me kicking up the pace and as I slowed down at the end I suddenly noticed how beautiful it was. This particular location was shielded from any roads or buildings by trees on one side and the other side opened up into this stream. I stopped for a second, my heart beating fast, my breathing labored, and I soaked in the moment. I am hesitant to ever stop when running for fear I am subliminally just taking a break, but this particular stop was truly taking my breath away. I stood there for a couple of minutes, my heart slowed down my breath slowed and the only thing I could hear was the trickle of water over the rocks. The Autumn smell of freshly fallen leaves and wet earth filled my nose and the morning light that filtered through the soon to be falling leaves made the shade particularly comfortable in the warming morning.

For another couple minutes I just stood there admiring the stream, noting some trees I could identify, a sycamore, a pin oak, a black hickory. My eye followed a female robin looking for worms in the mud by the path. A squirrel stopped in a tree watching me. I suppose he watches many runners go by, I wondered how many stopped and stared?

I could have stayed there all morning, or at least till I got hungry. But I had a busy day ahead. A meeting, a phone call or two, some orders to fill, and a funeral to go to. I could stay no longer. I promised myself that one day I would bring a lunch and just hang out in that place all morning. But, next time it might not be the same. Different time, different temperature, more people. So I moved on, picked up the pace, decided there was no way I could make up the time and just settled into a good stride. Another song on the Ipod was starting to play and I kicked up my feet in time.

Did it count as stopping to smell the roses? Even though I could not stop long I still felt like I was enriched at that moment. I am thinking about it even now.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

--Robert Frost

Love Mike

Dear Mom what could be better than cinnamon toast?

2009-09-13T10:00:00.000-05:00

Dear Mom what could be better than cinnamon toast?

Every morning after we put on our clothes Claire and I go downstairs and eat breakfast. It has turned into a routine that is mostly habit now. But she seems to want the same thing.

“Would you like some cereal and milk?”

“No” she answers.

“Would you like some pop-tarts?”

“No” she answers.

“Would you like a waffle?”

“No thank you.” She is half asleep but will not give in.

“Would you like a bacon, onion omelet with cheese sauce a side of hash browns and chocolate milk for breakfast?”

“No thank you, I just want cinnamon toast.”

Every once in a while pop-tarts can win out, but it requires a build up. Just as we are putting on our shoes I have to start selling it. “Boy, those pop-tarts sure are going to taste great this morning!” “I sure am looking forward to those pop-tarts this morning!”

About half the time it is followed by: “That’s okay Daddy, I just want cinnamon toast.”

Why do I go for pop-tarts? Experience has taught me that if I want to veer off the cinnamon toast I must use my best weapon and pop-tarts seem to have the highest success rate. Still, even pop-tarts stand no chance against yummy cinnamon toast.

I have no idea why I even fight it. I am fairly certain the nutritional content of a pop-tarts is not that much different from cinnamon toast anyway.

The alternative is just making something and watching her stare at it for half an hour. “Dad can I have some cinnamon toast instead?”

Love Mike

Dear Mom remember when hot dogs were good for you?

2009-09-12T10:00:00.000-05:00

Dear Mom remember when hot dogs were good for you?

I was eating lunch with Claire the other day and reflected on some of the things that counted as a balanced lunch.

Giant Pretzel with nacho cheese, optional vegetable and fruit.
Nachos with nacho cheese, optional fruit, no vegetable unless you count tater tots as a vegetable.

Oh, how much I would have loved school lunch if I could have had nachos and tater tots. Not to mention she gets chocolate milk everyday, and a Capri sun with it on most days.

I remember looking forward to chicken fried steak day, and pizza day. They came with carrots or green beans. I am guessing in the big picture most kids probably don’t eat much better at home.

I have tried to teach her to eat a vegetable with every meal. She seems to try to follow this when I eat with her. “Look Daddy I have a vegetable!” she points to her tater tots. Looking over the selection I encourage her to add some orange slices since there are no more vegetables.

She will sometimes use the argument when she gets home from school and I ask her what vegetable she wants with diner. “I had a vegetable for lunch Dad, so we don’t have to have one now.” She reassures me and throws in a couple of eyelash flashes for good measure. I am not swayed.

“Well, it is your lucky day, you get to have another vegetable for dinner. So pick one out, or would you like me to pick one out?”

This usually gets a vegetable on the counter in short order.

Who knows what she will eat in another ten years or if my vegetable regimen will still be followed. When I was a kid hotdogs were healthy food. No one bothered to worry what would happen if you had Coke with every meal. And it was guaranteed that if something was good for you it tasted bad.

I just want her to eat a vegetable every meal. Is that too much to ask?

Love Mike

Dear Mom it is good to share

2009-09-11T10:00:00.000-05:00

Dear Mom it is good to share

I remember you saving the last piece of cake for me. I remember you asking me if wanted the last piece of pizza. I can remember you making popcorn, walking into the room and setting it so it was right within my arms reach but slightly out of yours. You shared a lot.

When Claire was smaller we were sitting in the big chair watching a movie and sharing a bowl of popcorn. She would occasionally pull the bowl in with both arms. “Let me have some.” I told her, “It is good to share.”

“You are eating it all!” she exclaimed guardedly pulling on the popcorn bowl.

Where had I gone wrong? “It is okay to share the popcorn.” I told her, “we can make more if we run out.” Though she offered the bowl a little closer to me she was stuffing the popcorn in her mouth now as fast as she could as if I she could get her share before I ate it all.

I had thought I encouraged sharing. I was certain I had made a big deal about this every chance I got. I may have increased my awareness some. I started saving the last bite for her whenever I was eating. “This last bite is for you.” I would announce, “I am saving it for you, because you are my favorite girl.” At first she would gobble up whatever it was but then I noticed something. She would do it too. She would hand me the last chicken nugget. “I saved the last bite for you Daddy.” I would gladly take the last nugget and eat it admiring my handiwork. Now such things are commonplace. Where once she would throw away her melted uneaten ice cream cone just so no one else would eat it she now offers it to me. “I am finished Daddy, do you want it?”

A few months went by and again we were sitting in the big chair. Our popcorn propped right between us. “I saved the last bite for you,” I said. “No,” she answered, “I was saving the last bite for you.”

“That’s okay,” I insisted, “you can have it.”

“No Daddy, you take it. I want you to have it.” She offered the piece right to my mouth. I ate it.

“Thank you Sweetie, did you know you are my favorite girl?”

“And you are my favorite Daddy.” This came with a big hug and a big salty popcorn flavored kiss.

And I was worried?

Love Mike

Dear Mom it is Autumn again

2009-09-10T10:00:00.000-05:00

Dear Mom it is Autumn again

The leaves are starting to change, there is Autumn in the air. That smell of damp leaves on the ground in the morning and the chill that you get when you go outside that is gone by midday but reminds you that summer has past. I have such fond memories of going to the winery with you for Octobefest. Food, wine, friends and music would turn the weekend into a memory that would last long after the next Autumn rolled around.

It is my favorite season. I hope my daughter can take with her the kind of feeling of enjoyment you were able to leave with me. You can measure your calendar by your birthday or new years day or Christmas or whatever you choose. I measure my year by the Autumns. A time when you go out and forget about what ever else is going on and soak up the atmosphere. If your lucky you can pass on the feeling to someone else. You cannot worry about work all the time and you surly can’t keep yourself cooped up just because you have something to do at home. You need to get out and taste the harvest, drink deep of another year’s bounty, and remember the rest is just what we do to allow us to take small moments like this.

I miss you.

Love Mike

Dear Mom Claire can spell

2009-09-09T10:00:00.001-05:00

Dear Mom Claire can spell

I read to my daughter every night. One of her favorites is Fancy Nancy. In the Fancy Nancy books they enjoy eating at a very fancy pizza place known as the King’s Crown. We have our own King’s Crown. I little pub called Barley’s. It became the King’s Crown one Father’s Day. Claire was very excited about going out to dinner on Fathers day and we dressed up in very fancy clothes. When we arrived she asked, “Is this the King’s Crown.” I of course answered, “Why, yes it is.”

Once inside there was a brewery sign on the wall that looked kind of like a crown. “Does that say King’s Crown?” I slyly answered. “It does till you learn how to spell.”

Well that day is quickly approaching. Though it is still one of our favorite places to spend a “Fancy” evening, the days of it being the King’s Crown may be few in number. Everyday she adds new words to her spellable vocabulary. I am waiting for the day she proudly announces, “Dad, I know how to spell King’s Crown! B . R . E . W . E . R . Y.”

I am curious, how I am going to handle this momentous day. Should I just come clean? Should I let her have the fantasy for a just a little bit longer. It has occurred to me the guys at Barley’s are pretty good sports, maybe they can actually put up a King’s Crown sign? Maybe if I provide the sign?

Love Mike

Dear Mom who said vegetables were good for you?

2009-09-08T10:00:00.000-05:00

Dear Mom who said vegetables were good for you?

Claire seems very happy, in her five year old mind, to eat vegetables every day. She recently asked me why an apple a day keeps the doctor away. I suspect she picked that saying up at kindergarten. "It is because apples are good for you and if you eat one everyday you will stay healthy and not have to go to the doctor."

“And get a shot?” she added. The doctor’s office is not bad just because it is a doctors office. It has an added threat of possible torture by injection.

“That’s right,” I said.

“Are grapes good for you too?” I like the way she makes the leap from apples are fruits so other fruits might work too.

“Yes grapes too, fruits and vegetables are good for you and if you eat a lot of them they will keep the doctor away.” As I say this I am remembering that it is almost flue shot time. And with the H1N1 vaccine as possibly being a two shot series I am worrying about the malevolent effects it will have on our current conversation.

So now how do I explain that shots keep the doctor away too? I mean really, we go through all this trouble to eat vegetables, then you have to get a shot anyway, just in case? It is a hard thing to sell to a five year old.

“I sure like keeping the doctor away.” She ponders this for a bit and I make a note of the fact she did not say, I sure like vegetables, but that she likes keeping the doctor away.

So, the old adage has done its job, I have tricked my daughter into eating vegetables just to keep away the mean ole’ doctors and now I am going to reward her by taking her to the doctor to get a shot.

I think we need to reframe our message.

Love Mike

Dear Mom we don’t pick who we fall in love with

2009-09-07T10:00:00.001-05:00

Dear Mom we don’t pick who we fall in love with

I remember you consoling me after a particularly bad breakup and you told me, “We don’t pick who we fall in love with, but we do get to pick who we stay with.” At the time it was poignant and a bit cryptic. If I remembered more of the conversation perhaps it would make more sense in context, but that one line is all I have.

Did you mean that I should be lucky to be in love but if I happen to be in a good thing I should not run off just because I fell in love again?

Was it really a comment on something I was not even familiar? A lament on a lost love?

Did you mean that when I am in love I should do everything I can to make sure it doesn’t get away?

I don’t fall in love easy, but I do love being in love. I have always lived by the rule that I will have someone special or no one at all. And for the most part it has worked for me. For me, the greatest loves are the ones where I ask myself “Why?” It is inconvenient or exasperating or just a really bad idea. Yet there is something there. Je ne cest quoi. I have read that that spark I feel is really just pheromones and facial symmetry. But if it could be explained it really wouldn’t be what it is.

I know if you have love in your life it can make up for a lot of things you are missing but if you have everything else and you do not have love you are never fulfilled.

I realize you don’t have a magical answer any more than I do, there is just a little bit of that feeling you had as a kid when your parents still knew everything. You know the one. It happens right before they turn into teenagers and they get the feeling their parents don’t know anything.

Whatever it is, questioning it never seems to be a good idea. Best advice is when you feel the butterflies, live in the moment.

Love Not Me For Comely Grace

Love not me for comely grace,
For my pleasing eye or face;
Nor for any outward part,
No, nor for a constant heart:
For these may fail or turn to ill,
So thou and I shall sever.
Keep, therefore, a true woman's eye,
And love me still, but know not why,
So hast thou the same reason still
To doat upon me ever.

John Wilbye 1574 – 1638

Love Mike

Dear Mom dead sticks don’t grow

2009-09-06T10:00:00.001-05:00

Dear Mom dead sticks don’t grow

Claire finds sticks outside and decides to plant them in the flower garden. They are just sticks. Old dead sticks that have fallen out of trees. She sticks them in the ground, carefully gathering the earth around their base and tests them to make sure they are sturdy. Then she waters them. At first I thought this was cute. When there were half a dozen dead sticks poking out the garden I thought it best to explain how this works.

“These branches will never grow Claire. They are dead. To get a plant to grow here you have to plant the whole plant or use seeds and wait for them to grow.” She listened attentively.

“So, they wont grow”

“No,” I said.

“But I watered them.” She pointed this out as if to rebuff my notion that the sticks would not grow.

“That does not matter. Sometimes plants die and there is nothing you can do to get them to grow again.”

“Like when you pull the weeds in the flowers so they won’t grow again? They always grow again.” She now presented irrefutable evidence I was wrong.

“Weeds are different they are the undead of the plant world, like zombies and skeletons. You can’t just kill them the normal way you have to find their secret vulnerability.”

“What is the vulminability of weeds?”

“I don’t know, if I knew I would use it to rid our garden of the undead scourge.” Trying to get back on subject. “The sticks, however, are really dead. They will never grow leaves again.”

She studied the small grove of dead sticks for a bit. She thought about this information a bit then picked up the hose and continued watering the sticks.

“They are dead Claire, they are not going to grow anymore.”

“I know Daddy, I just want to water them.”

“Okay, but no more sticks in the garden okay?”

“Okay.” She busied herself with watering her undead tree garden.

As I finished mowing the lawn I looked over at what once had been a stand of dead tree limbs poking up out of the flowers. Bare branches that echoed of winter days and barren trees. They were now flush with green leaves and yellow flowers. I moved closer. She had very carefully and meticulously impaled a tree leaf on every branch of ever stick. Little leaves now adorned the branches, painstakingly applied as if a fairy had brought them back to life. She had taken dandelions and propped them in the elbow of each place that branched out. She was putting the finishing touches on one of the new trees and noted I was stopping to watch.

“They needed some help Daddy, I fixed it.”

“Yes you did darling, it looks lovely. “

Love Mike

Dear Mom tickling is a motivator

2009-09-05T10:00:00.001-05:00

Dear Mom tickling is a motivator.

Claire went through a stage where she decided to stop using words. Ummm. Ughhh. Ahhh ahhh ahhh. And a finger pointing at something was all I got. I had seen other parents go through this and there were lots of responses, like “use your words.” Or “tell me what you want.” It has always been obvious to me this is not the issue at all. The kid knows how to say it they just don’t want to. This is a battle of wills you either give in or beat your head against the wall while you kid teases you with guttural noises. So when Claire started doing this I would say, “Oh you want to be tickled?” Then started tickling her frantically. No matter what the unintelligible word was, to me it always meant “Tickle me!” She would be forced to either resign the fact she was going to be tickled incessantly or she would say “NO, NO, I meant give me that!” Worked like a charm. Not that it did not come with an occasional gratuitous grunt for the express purpose of getting a little tickling, as a general rule it worked, and it worked far better than the head to head confrontations I saw other parents going through.

This morning Claire was sitting on my lap before school. I was waiting for the time to leave and we were going over colors.

“How do you make green?” I asked.
“Blue and yellow!” she exclaimed.
“Very good, now how do you make aquamarine?”
“I don’t know.” She offered.
“What do you mean you don’t know, of course you know what colors go together to make aquamarine?”
“Give me a hint?” she said.
“Okay what color to do you add to green to get aquamarine.”
“Yellow?”
“No that’s not it.” I said as I tickled her and she giggled uncontrollably.
“Red?”
“No, that’s not it.” I said again, and again tickling her as she giggled.
“Orange?”
“No, you know what color it takes, what is it?” I did not tickle her this time, I felt it was time to actually verify she knew what color I was looking for.

She did not answer, “DAD you are supposed to tickle me.” She demanded.
And there was her game. I started tickling her, “What color do you add to green to make aquamarine?” She was giggling uncontrollably. I tickled more , “What color do you add to green to make aquamarine?” She was still giggling and moving into that territory where it was almost too much laughter. “Stop, Dad stop.” She pleaded. “Tell me what color!” I said. She was not giving up yet, “just stop dad stop!” her laughter had now moved into a running laugh, squeal that she could not control, every part of her body was a trigger to bring more laughter. “BLUE,” she shouted, “BLUE AND GREEN MAKE AQUAMARINE!” I stopped tickling her. As she sat beside me squeezed into the office chair I asked her, “What does green and yellow make?” She giggled a bit either left over from the previous assault or anticipation for the next one. I dangled my hand menacingly in front of her. She giggled uncontrollably holding her hands in front of her guardedly. “Chartreuse!” she shouted “Green and yellow make chartreuse!”

The rest of the color wheel proceeded without incident.

Love Mike

Dear Mom I still have that hat

2009-09-04T10:00:00.002-05:00

Dear Mom I still have that hat.

I still have the hat you gave me when I shaved my head. Cookie called me and said you had pulled a hand full of hair out of your head that morning in the shower and just decided you would shave it all off. A good decision. Don’t worry about your hair falling out, just declare victory and shave it off. I had thought about that day a few times and had already decided what I was going to do. I walked into the bathroom, picked up my trimmer took off the clipper blade and went to town. It came off surprisingly easy. No snags, no tangles and a nice even cut. I will admit I did shave in a Mohawk that I admired in the mirror for maybe 15 seconds then I shaved it too. Then I picked up my razor and started neatened it up. The pile of hair in the sink was sat there and looked particularly alien. I did not really feel like it was mine even when I looked at the mirror. It was strange. Once finished, I picked up the trash can and shoved all the hair in it.

It is funny having your head shaved for the first time. You take for granted how much your hair keeps you warm. Standing in your kitchen when you got home from the beauty salon, you walked in and went “Ta Da!” I said, “Doesn’t your head feel cold?” “Not really.” You answered, then I took my ball cap off and you stared at my bald head. We hugged and you felt my head and I felt yours. We went into the foyer and looked into the mirror. I was so glad I had started to grow a beard. Without it we would have looked exactly alike. I had never really noticed before how much I looked like my mother. Nose, head shape, jaw line, it was eerie.

I guess I must have said something about my head being cold once too often. A few days later you surprised me with the Hanna Hats cap you got from Sheehan’s. It was a little loose but you assured me it would fit better when my hair grew back.

“What if it never does?” I joked. “It’ll be fine.” You said in the way only a mother can reassure someone.

I got a lot of use out of that hat. I didn’t grow my hair back till a year after you died. It kept me warm, saved me from sunburn and became a companion. I could not do without it. It has been on four continents with me, survived my marriage, being grabbed by drunk women in pubs, being blown off by hurricane force winds, rain, snow, and I swear it looks just as it did that first day I put it on.

If I tell Claire to go get my hat, even though I have 20 hats in the hallway, it is the one she brings me.

Thanks for the h at mom.

Love Mike

Dear Mom her name was Victoria

2009-09-03T10:00:00.001-05:00

Dear Mom her name was Victoria

Her name was Victoria. I was in Edmonton Alberta on a shuttle from the airport to downtown on my way to a convention and I was sitting beside a lovely young woman. She had bright blue eyes, blondish hair, a natural sweet smile and skin like porcelain.

Just sitting beside her I got this wonderful butterfly feeling in my stomach. It was not the first time I had ever felt it but it was this moment that would come to define what butterflies meant to me. Realizing I would not get another chance I introduced myself.

“Hi, I’m Mike.”
“I’m Victoria.” She said. She did not smile bigger or act any more interested but when she looked at me she could not have made a bigger impact if she’d kissed me. I was absolutely struck silly. I managed to squeeze out a comprehensive sentence and asked her if she lived there or was just visiting. She said she lived there. I was struggling to keep my cool. Every word pried from my terrified throat and delivered as smooth as I possibly could. I struggled to come up with something else to say after every response and truthfully if I could have got her to just sit there and smile at me it would have been just as good and for easier. The minutes on that bus were like heaven.

I was downtown in a city I did not know. I only knew the hotel I was heading toward and the thought of getting off at a stop that was not mine was terrifying. Yet, I could not figure out how else I was going to make sure I would ever get to see her again. When the shuttle stopped and she got up to leave I also stood up, partially out of chivalric habit and partially as if I was somehow going to convince myself to just get off the bus and follow her till she gave me a phone number. She walked toward the front of the shuttle and a few more people fell in behind her.

I watched out the window as she stopped for a moment to dig in her purse for something. She looked up and seemed to look around as if searching for someone. She then looked at the shuttle and saw me in the window with a look on her face that I swear said: “I thought you were right behind me.” Her hand still clutching what I was sure was her phone number. She raised her other hand and kind of moved her fingers in a goodbye kind of way with this smile on her face that lamented a past opportunity.

The shuttle was moving now and I rushed to the front and demanded the driver stop immediately. He had gone over a block but he did pull over and I leaped out with my suitcase and headed up the street. When I arrived there it was too late. It had not seemed that long but she was nowhere in sight. I wandered down a couple side streets wondering if she lived near there, had an office near there or maybe just a parked car. I scanned the passing vehicles in hopes of a glimpse as she headed home.

After half an hour I made a note of the address and wandered down the street in search of a place that might be able to call a cab. I thought about her all weekend. Why had I not got off the shuttle? Why had I just not said, “If I don’t ask now I fear I may never see you again, what is your phone number?”

I thought about her all weekend. The butterflies in my stomach did not let up for a moment. I was no hungry, thirsty, I did not want to sleep. I vacillated between being sick at my stomach and soaking up the feeling in a sort of euphoria. I changed my flight on the airline to leave the day after the convention. Then on Monday morning I went and spent all day at that address, hoping I would see her on her way to work or on her way home, something. I flew home wondering if the feeling would ever go away.

She was not the first Butterfly Girl and thankfully she would not be the last. But, I had learned my lesson. When opportunity knocks on the door you don’t just answer the door you invite it to dinner. So, from that moment on when I felt the butterflies I made sure to get a name and number or email or something.

To try and to fail is at least to try, but to fail to try is to suffer the inestimable loss of what might have been. –Chester Barnard—

Love Mike

Dear Mom my daughter has the plague

2009-09-02T10:00:00.000-05:00

Dear Mom my daughter has the plague

My daughter has the plague. I have finally wrapped my head around the idea. Every fall kids head back to school. They have spent their Summer in different places exposed themselves to different things, their parents have gone on business trips to the four points of the compass. Then on this momentous occasion that we call starting school they all come together to share what they did over the Summer.

“I was coughing and had a sore throat.”
“I had the tummy ache and felt barfy.”
“I had a fever and could not talk for a week.”
“I threw up so much I had to spend a week in the hospital taking intravenous fluids.”

I first became familiar with this concept when my niece Maggie started daycare. At the time I was watching her a lot and I saw just about every day. This insured that whatever she picked up at school was quickly and efficiently passed on to her Uncle Mikey. Yea the schools have this policy, if your kid is sick don’t send him in, if they are running a fever they cannot come to school. Whatever. Everyone knows that every other parent has a job too and if they could stay at home with their kid they would not need a daycare. You drop them off in the morning and you see half the class with runny noses and most of those coughing and hacking and you feel like you are leaving your kid at a science experiment.

This, is not in small part, the reason I was a stay-at-home dad and limited the time I sent Claire to daycare.

Now when Claire gets home from school I tell her to wash her hands. “Why” she asks. “Because you have the plague” I tell her matter of factly. “What is the plague daddy?”

“That is the holy mocus that you are going to pick up at school and bring home and give to your daddy.”

“Why do you want the holy pocus daddy?”

“That is just it darling daughter, I don’t want the holy mocus, that is why everyday when we get back from school we wash our hands.”

“So then you won’t get the holy pocus?”

“No, I will get it anyway, but the hand washing gives me a good feeling, like I am doing something to prevent the plague from spreading and wiping out civilization as we know it.”

“What is sybalsensation.”

“Civilization is the social structure that has advanced so far that we can put a man on the moon but we cannot cure the common cold.”

“That is silly daddy, there is no man on the moon.”

About then she is finished washing her hands and I am looking at the chocolate milk stains on her shirt thinking that maybe we should adopt a change your cloths policy when you get back from school then wash your hands again. No, just jump right into a tub filled with anti-bacterial soap.

While I am contemplating how hot the water must be she climbs up in my lap, grabs my face and kisses me, “I love you daddy, I don’t want you to get the holy pocus.”

It is at that moment that I remember the flu is a virus, there is no way I will ever stop kissing my daughter and it is obviously my destiny to die of the plague.

Love Mike

Dear Mom is there an age where you no longer believe in fairies?

2009-09-01T10:00:00.001-05:00

Dear Mom is there an age where you no longer believe in fairies?

Last week Claire asked me if fairies were real. Some foul person had been polluting my daughters mind with the notion that fairies were not real. I had no colorful witty response that would somehow give the impression of yes without actually saying yes, so I said “yes, fairies are real.”

In retrospect I could have said, “Who changes all the leaves to different colors in the Autumn? Who teaches all the baby birds how to fly? Who eats all the strawberries out of our garden?”

Last night I was in the pub listening to Irish music. My chair was turned around away from the table in such a way I had to reach over my shoulder to get my pint. As I was setting it back down I noticed some drops of ale on the table. Had the waiter spilled a bit when he set the glass down? Had I rocked the glass too far when I blindly reached for it a second ago? Or, ever more likely, had a fairy, taking in the fine music and atmosphere of the pub stopped at my table to share my glass and flitted away hurriedly when I reached for my glass clumsily spilling droplets of precious fluid as it flew out of sight. As I studied the droplets it did appear as if they were larger closer to the glass and got smaller as if dripping from the careless feet of a drunken fairy as a it flitted off the table. I looked around for a moment. Where would I hide if I was a fairy?

Someday Claire will know why the leaves change colors, and how baby birds learn to fly, and maybe even what happens to the strawberries in the garden. She will see her father looking into the rafters trying to follow the little thief that has been drinking from his pint and I hope at that moment she will not wonder if she is too old to believe in fairies.

Love Mike

Dear Mom I dreamed of you

2009-08-31T13:00:00.001-05:00

Dear Mom I dreamed of you,

I had one of those nights where I dreamed of you and then in the morning as I was drinking my tea I had this notion that you were still here. You know that feeling you get after a particularly vivid dream? Where your head is still trying to sort out what is real and what was just part of the dream?

I started to talk. Staring out the window into the backyard I imagined you were sitting at the bar right behind me. That feeling of you being in the room was still fresh from the dream. We smiled and laughed and I wanted to hug you, but I dared not turn around for fear the feeling would vanish. After awhile the feeling I had that I was talking to you kind of faded into a feeling that I was just staring out a window talking to myself. At that moment I longed to fall back to sleep and to have the dream again.

I was remembering a poem that made me think of you.

Longing

Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again!
For then the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.

Come, as thou cam'st a thousand times,
A messenger from radiant climes,
And smile on thy new world, and be
As kind to others as to me!

Or, as thou never cam'st in sooth
Come now, and let me dream it truth;
And part my hair, and kiss my brow,
And say; My love! why sufferest thou?

Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again!
For then the night shall more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.

Mathew Arnold 1822-1888

Love Mike

Dear Mom I talk to stuffed animals

2009-08-30T14:30:00.000-05:00

Dear Mom, I talk to stuffed animals

Claire came up to me a few weeks ago and asked me if her stuffed camel Alice was real. I tried to explain “Alice is real in the sense Alice loves her and she loves Alice too.” “Alice misses her when she is gone just as she misses Alice when she is gone.” And indeed it is very true. There are few things in the world more lonely than a small stuffed camel perched on a step in the entryway waiting for her girl to come home. I walk up the stairs and see Alice waiting patiently with the stalwart intention of not moving an inch till Claire returns. “She’ll be back on Sunday night” I console her.

On Sunday night Claire will come through the door give me a big hug then reach for Alice. Once safely tucked under her arm she will then proceed to lesser things on her agenda. “Do you want to play legos?” “I am hungry” “Wouldn’t some ice cream be delicious right now daddy?”

While we are eating our ice cream she asks me “Did Alice miss me when I was gone?”
“Yes she did, I missed you too.”
“And I missed you Daddy.”
I turn to Alice, “I told you she’d be back on Sunday.”

In some way I am sure that before I had a daughter there is no way I would talk to a stuffed animal with a straight face.

Love Mike

Dear Mom, I ate lunch with Claire today

2009-08-29T16:30:00.000-05:00

Dear Mom, I ate lunch with Claire today at her school

One of my stay-at-home-dad buddies told me that at his daughter’s school they not only allowed, but encouraged parents to come in and eat lunch with their kids. I called up Claire’s school and had the same experience. They were delighted to have me come out. I just signed in, put on a visitor tag, then waited outside her class for the kids to go to lunch. Pretty soon they started out the door all in a line, well what line you could expect from a bunch of five year olds. “Stand on the yellow line next to the wall.” Her teacher exclaimed. The kids filed out in their five year old style line and took their places next to the wall.

Claire shouted “Daddy!” hesitating for a bit not sure she should get out of line, but her teacher kindly pushed her toward me and we had a big hug and a kiss. Turning to one of her little friends, “This is my Daddy.” She said excitedly.

“Are you going to eat lunch with me today?” She had the biggest smile on her face, I thought this might be a treat and the lady at the desk assured me it was, but she was definitely excited beyond my expectations.

“Yes, I am.” I gave her another big hug. “Where do we stand.” I asked, as I looked around at the five year old chaos that was assembling in the hall.

There was a bit of rearranging while all the mozzarella stick kids were put in the same place, and all the pizza kids were in the same place and all the lunch box kids were in the back. Her teacher explained to the children, in a way that seemed she did it every day, they all needed to be in their place to insure they would have time to eat all their food, and make room for the next class as they went through.

We started down the hall holding hands, every time someone looked our way Claire would explain, “This is my Daddy.” Another boy walked up beside me and grabbed my other hand. I guess holding hands with a daddy is pretty cool when you are five years old, even if it is not your own daddy.

Her teacher explained how everyone needed to use some hand sanitizer and they lined up and individually reached up on the wall for some hand sanitizer from the dispenser. I wanted to explain to Claire that gel sanitizer had been found to be superior to the foam they were using, but realized it would likely be lost on her young ears and besides did I expect them to change out the dispensers?

Our talking with each other had somehow got us out of line. Her teacher pushed her along and explained how it was important to stay in your place in line so we can all eat together. I tried to apologize but I am pretty sure that was not the point of the explanation. I am pretty sure it is easier to explain to the five year old than to the parent.

“What are we having?” I asked her. “PIZZA!” she exclaimed, we took our trays of pizza from a counter and started down the line toward the vegetable server. She carefully scooped up some corn and tried to put it on her tray. She spilled the first scoop and moved on to try again. I was imagining that five year olds spilled a lot. A lunch lady was standing near the wall though I did not see a washcloth or a broom nearby. Another lunch lady placed a potato cake on the try, then on to the salad counter. I little bit of salad and the plate was looking full. She had the option to have a fruit salad or lettuce and chose lettuce. Either would have been fine but I had a little bit of pride that she wanted a regular salad. I was thinking “My work here is done.” I have a kid that likes real vegetables. Well, she also likes corn and potato cakes, but really who doesn’t.

The last cart in the line had deserts. Cookies, ice cream, etc. I was not sure how it worked, it appeared there was an extra charge for them, Claire stopped at the counter but didn’t take anything though her fingers played over the shelf once or twice as if picking something out. I would have to find out how that worked.

Just then the boy in front of us tipped his tray a little too much and his tomato soup spilled onto the floor then his milk carton following it to the ground. He stood there as five year olds are prone to do. Deciding if he had accumulated enough knowledge to make a decision about this himself. He put his tray on the ground for a moment then picked it back up and decided to call for his teacher. I picked up his milk carton and wiped it off with the napkins I was carrying, “There you go kiddo.” He proceeded down the line. The teacher showed up as I was wiping up the last of the tomato soup. I wasn’t sure if I should do this but watching five year olds tramp through tomato soup seemed like a really bad idea. By the time the lunch lady showed up the mess was gone.

Each child had their own code to type in to a little box. Claire stepped up. I could tell she was under a little pressure. She didn’t look over her shoulder but I was sure she knew I was watching. She hesitantly typed in her number. I did not know what it was exactly but I had seen it enough to know that was not it. She hit enter and, FAIL. Ooops. A teacher standing behind her now placed a little sheet of paper with her name and number next to the machine. “Here you go Claire, now type this in.” I could tell she was disappointed she did not get it on her first try, but she dutifully typed in her number a second time. While she did this I paid the cashier for my lunch.

“Where do we go now?” I asked her making sure she knew she was in charge of the seating arrangements. She directed me toward the lunch tables and carefully picked out a place that had two seats available. There are few feelings you get like sitting down on a very low seat with your knees touching the table top. Claire introduced me to every child at the table, “This is my Daddy. This is my Daddy. This is my Daddy.”

“Mmmmm.” I said, “This is yummy.” Elementary school food is not known for its culinary excellence but it made no sense to let this on to my five year old. First she ate her corn then she impaled her potato cake with her fork and ate it much like a Popsicle. A few bites of lettuce and it was time to concentrate on the pizza. It was obvious very quickly she was not going to be able to cut it up. “Eat it like this.” I said, picking up my pizza and taking a bite. She tried this for a couple bites but decided either the pizza was not up to her highly tuned pizza taste standards or it was too difficult to eat.

The table across from us was getting served cupcakes. She said “I want a cupcake!” I pointed out I thought they were for the other class but she did not give up hope. “A cupcake would be really good.” I have no doubt she was correct but indeed the cupcakes were for the other class. Disappointed she accepted she was not getting a cupcake today, though she pointed out it was someone’s birthday today. She pointed to him and he did have an “It’s my birthday” button. I am sure if his parents knew how all the other kids parents sent cupcakes on their birthday, they would be feeling pretty small right now. I made a note to send really cool cupcakes on her birthday. Since hers was in the Summer it would be celebrated on her half birthday.

It was time to leave so she escorted me to the tray counter where we dumped our trash in a trashcan and left our trays on the counter. The trashcan was over the counter and the five year olds had to stand on tiptoes and lean over the counter to turn over their trays. Most of the trash made it into the can.

Holding hands, we walked back to class where they got in line for recess. I hugged her and kissed her goodbye. “Have fun.” I said. She waved goodbye and made her way to the recess door.

I looked at my watch. I had been with her for just under 30 minutes. It felt like five. I wish I could ask you if it gets any easier.

I imagine you saying “There will come a time when she is a teenager when you will be happy when she leaves the room, but up until that moment, no.”

Love Mike

Dear Mom I’m a single dad

2009-08-28T09:54:00.000-05:00

Dear Mom I’m a single dad,

I didn’t expect to be single ever again. Remember how you said a relationship will only work if both people feel equally lucky to have the other around? Those are words to live by. It has always worked for me in the past. When I met Diane I was sure this one would last forever. At first I thought I was the rebound guy. She had a messy divorce, as if there is another kind, and I was just what she needed to get through this trying time. But as time went by we grew closer together and it seemed as if it would last forever. I felt very lucky to have her around and she told me the same every day. She had two kids from a previous marriage they were great. I thought they were a little damaged from an overbearing father that seemed to be a little too much of a disciplinarian and perhaps a little passive aggressive at times so they never knew where the line was, but they were darling and so wonderful to be around. Her mother came to visit and eventually just stay. She was not the ideal mother-in-law, she did not have a driver’s license, Diane did not trust her to baby-sit and she was kind of messy, but she had a warm heart and was really never any trouble.

You taught me that divorced mothers were a package deal. I knew all too well what happened if I did not realize everyone of those girls was part of the package. I fell in love with all of them.

On our wedding day she professed how I was the finest man she had ever met. I am sure, not in small part to the fine job you did raising me. It was a great speech, straight from the heart and not a dry eye in the house. I had written this well prepared poetic vow that under normal circumstances would have stolen the show, but it was completely one-upped by her testimony of love. I felt so lucky.

She had kids that were almost teenagers and I was sure she did not want anymore. I never thought for a moment that wasn’t part of the deal. I cannot tell you how excited I was when she announced she thought we could have a baby. We had talked about it, but I never expected her to take this step. She was always talking about retirement, vacations, walking around the house naked, I never thought another kid was on her mind.

We had this perfect plan, we would have the baby at the beginning of Summer break. That way she could have two to three months with the baby before she had to start class again and it would be in front of campaign season for me. We mapped out the calendar and aimed for the first week in June. Usually you would expect this to be a recipe for disaster. Wouldn’t you know it Claire was born June 5th.

There were nights lying in bed with the baby falling asleep on my chest and my wife on my arm where I knew this was what happiness looked like. I could not imagine a more perfect feeling. I could not fathom that there was any endeavor in all the world that would be more rewarding.

A year later she was gone and I was a single dad. At first she just walked out. Claire and I were basically on our own. A few months later she would drop by most evenings for an hour or so with Claire but usually as she was going to bed. I was walking on eggshells most of the time. I did not like the situation but I did not want a terrible custody fight and I surely did not want a terrible custody fight that ended with me seeing Claire every other weekend. So I endured. Our arrangement was working but she filed completely different papers and we had a terrible custody battle.

In the end, Claire lived with me. It was such a victory. I remember thinking it was cooler than winning an election. Now Claire sees her mom every other weekend and I am a single dad.

Everyday something happens and I think “I bet my mother would know something about this.” I often find myself in a situation and I wonder what you would have done. You never take time to prepare yourself for things like this. You prepare for a house with a picket fence then you look forward to a time when it is there.

Often when Claire and I are doing something distinctly father and daughterly I wonder if you ever imagined I would need to be prepared for this. How could you have had such vision?

I don’t worry about being a single dad anymore. But occasionally I fear where my life would be if I wasn’t. Thanks Mom.

Love Mike

Dear Mom happy birthday,

2009-08-26T14:03:00.000-05:00

Dear Mom happy birthday,

So, much is going on these days I hardly ever get a chance to tell you about it. Claire started school last week. She was looking forward to it all summer. On June 5^th when she turned five she started asking when she started kindergarten. It was very difficult to explain to her that it was not till Summer was over. It had to be the longest Summer of her life, every day she would ask, “Is the Summer over yet?” This morning on her 6^th day of school she asked, “Do I have to go?” I smiled and reminded her it was show and tell day and she had to show everyone her yellow fingernail polish.

Oh, they are going over colors this week and next, so every day is a different color. To celebrate this we are accessorizing our outfits. Each afternoon we are taking off the old fingernail polish and putting on the new color for the next day. Wednesday is yellow, hence the yellow fingernail polish. It took me a week to find 9 different colors of fingernail polish, you would think someone would have thought of this. Finding 9 different colors of ribbons and barrettes were easier but still took several places to get the right shades.

Remember how you used to always try to get me to help you weed the garden. Well Claire loves to. In fact it is usually her encouraging words that keep it weeded. We will walk the dog and she will say, “Daddy, we should weed the garden, … PLEASE!!!” And so the flowers stay relatively well weeded. I keep thinking that if I keep this up she will have a nice flower garden when she grows up, I imagine you were thinking the same thing at one time.

She is growing up so fast and there is so much I wish you were here for. Every night we read a book and sing three songs. It always ends with: night night, sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite, see you in the morning, I love you, sweet dreams. Sound familiar? It is funny how there are some things you never forget.

There are so many moments like this that are replaying my childhood. I wish you were here to talk about it. I try to find others to explain it to, but you know, they weren’t there.

Every morning when I drop her off at school I walk with her a little less of the distance to her class. Today I stopped in the middle of the hall just where I started to see her classroom door. She has been noticing me stopping and now glances over her shoulder a lot, so after 8 steps or so she stopped. Looked at me, looked at the door, looked at me, looked at the door, then ran back to me with her arms wide. I was on a knee by the time she hit me. She gave me a big hug and a kiss and said “I love you Daddy.” Then turned and skipped off to her class. My heart just melted as she went in the door.

Since you left, I light a candle for you every year on your birthday. I will try not to wait so long before I write next time.

Love Mike