You played with dolls today. Two dolls. Practically twins. I've never seen you nurture anything besides stuffed animals before. But you've been asking your mom about how babies are made. So you handed me one doll while I laid my face on the floor next to the vent. And we gave them water to drink.
July 28, 2016
July 27, 2016
The Force Awakens The Next Generation
You play LEGO Star Wars: The Force Awakens, dressing like Rey from the movie, bringing out your BB-8 droid for photo ops. The movie gets scary in a couple parts, though, so you're okay with watching Star Trek: The Next Generation rather than rewatching The Force Awakens.
July 25, 2016
January 20, 2013
Praying with your eyes open
Your dad could tell you were peeking. Usually, your eyes are closed, your prayers simple. "Dear Jesus, thank you for today and thank you for food. Amen."
But tonight it sounded like, "Dear Jesus, thank you for today and for hot dogs and for hot dog bread and for ketchup and for mustard and for cheese and for water and for plates and for napkins and for..."
Your dad opened his eyes and saw your hands folded but your eyes wandering up and down the dinner table. "That's good," he said. "That's plenty."
"Amen," you said.
Your dad wondered if it was "good," really. If that was "plenty," or if you were on the right track. He wondered if it was a poor decision cutting you off.
Your dad has been cutting off his prayers lately. They've turned more into checklists than conversations with God. If he was really talking to God, it might sound more like this:
"Dear Jesus," he'd say, "sorry I ignored you in church, today. Loved the bluegrass music. But I needed gum for my coffee breath, and I was looking for my wife's keys, so I moved her jacket, she grabbed it because it was time to take Estelle to the nursery, and then I asked her, 'Why you being grabby?'
"Then, after church, she told me how a close friend was revealing the name of her newborn child to certain groups of people, but not to others, and then to others within certain groups but not all, and I cut in with a, 'Well, now you see how silly we sounded when we did that exact same thing,' which was false. We revealed Estelle's name to our parents first and then to everyone else second. That's it, Jesus. No other shenanigans, but I was cocked for another jab and had to throw something.
"Then, right after Estelle's dinner prayer, she grabbed her glass of water and downed it. Just drank the whole thing like she'd never had water in her life. And I looked at my wife and said, 'Why is she drinking like she's never had water in her life. She's obviously dehydrated' And my wife said, 'She's not dehydrated. She had a full glass of milk just before she had this water, and she's been drinking throughout the day, too.' And I said, 'Well, her lips are chapped and peeling, so it's obvious to me that she's dehydrated.' Then my wife said, 'Yep. You're right. She's dehydrated.' And then, Jesus, I ate my hot dog in silence, got up from the table, went over to the fireplace, and sat with my back to my wife and daughter for the rest of dinner.
"We put Estelle to bed, then my wife left to buy an overdue pair of shoes, then came back with a box of chocolate truffles to share with me. My stomach now hurts from eating half the box. Thank you, Jesus, for hooking me up with her. Amen."
But tonight it sounded like, "Dear Jesus, thank you for today and for hot dogs and for hot dog bread and for ketchup and for mustard and for cheese and for water and for plates and for napkins and for..."
Your dad opened his eyes and saw your hands folded but your eyes wandering up and down the dinner table. "That's good," he said. "That's plenty."
"Amen," you said.
Your dad wondered if it was "good," really. If that was "plenty," or if you were on the right track. He wondered if it was a poor decision cutting you off.
Your dad has been cutting off his prayers lately. They've turned more into checklists than conversations with God. If he was really talking to God, it might sound more like this:
"Dear Jesus," he'd say, "sorry I ignored you in church, today. Loved the bluegrass music. But I needed gum for my coffee breath, and I was looking for my wife's keys, so I moved her jacket, she grabbed it because it was time to take Estelle to the nursery, and then I asked her, 'Why you being grabby?'
"Then, after church, she told me how a close friend was revealing the name of her newborn child to certain groups of people, but not to others, and then to others within certain groups but not all, and I cut in with a, 'Well, now you see how silly we sounded when we did that exact same thing,' which was false. We revealed Estelle's name to our parents first and then to everyone else second. That's it, Jesus. No other shenanigans, but I was cocked for another jab and had to throw something.
"Then, right after Estelle's dinner prayer, she grabbed her glass of water and downed it. Just drank the whole thing like she'd never had water in her life. And I looked at my wife and said, 'Why is she drinking like she's never had water in her life. She's obviously dehydrated' And my wife said, 'She's not dehydrated. She had a full glass of milk just before she had this water, and she's been drinking throughout the day, too.' And I said, 'Well, her lips are chapped and peeling, so it's obvious to me that she's dehydrated.' Then my wife said, 'Yep. You're right. She's dehydrated.' And then, Jesus, I ate my hot dog in silence, got up from the table, went over to the fireplace, and sat with my back to my wife and daughter for the rest of dinner.
"We put Estelle to bed, then my wife left to buy an overdue pair of shoes, then came back with a box of chocolate truffles to share with me. My stomach now hurts from eating half the box. Thank you, Jesus, for hooking me up with her. Amen."
January 2, 2013
I need lift
Christmas lights packed away. A cold fire in the woodstove. A ballerina in a red tutu on YouTube, telling a thin story on the tips of her toes. But your laugh is huge, and I lift you in time to the lifts on the video.
"You can stand up," you say, because I'm on my knees.
"It's easier this way," I say.
And I lift you over my head, goofy and to the side, your legs posed in a figure 4, and your laugh is huge.
Sometimes, when I leave for work in the morning, you won't kiss me goodbye. Sometimes, when I come home from work in the evening, you scream, "Daddy! Daddy!" and then suddenly, "No, stop, I need space!" and then you put out your hand, palm facing me, like a traffic cop.
But then there are times, like tonight, when we dance together. You run to your room--"Come with me!" you shout--and we change you into your poofy red dress so that you match the YouTube ballerina. "My pink tights can go under," you say.
We run back to the living room. Your mom is on the couch, three guest-room pillows stacked under her sprained ankle. A friend texts her, "How's your foot?"
"Lift me!" you say.
Manners don't matter on the livingroom dance floor. "Please" and "thank you" are less important than feeling the music and matching the movements onscreen. You smile and close your eyes confidently. You spin and stumble and stand back up. And, from my knees, I lift you on cue.
"You can stand up," you say, because I'm on my knees.
"It's easier this way," I say.
And I lift you over my head, goofy and to the side, your legs posed in a figure 4, and your laugh is huge.
Sometimes, when I leave for work in the morning, you won't kiss me goodbye. Sometimes, when I come home from work in the evening, you scream, "Daddy! Daddy!" and then suddenly, "No, stop, I need space!" and then you put out your hand, palm facing me, like a traffic cop.
But then there are times, like tonight, when we dance together. You run to your room--"Come with me!" you shout--and we change you into your poofy red dress so that you match the YouTube ballerina. "My pink tights can go under," you say.
We run back to the living room. Your mom is on the couch, three guest-room pillows stacked under her sprained ankle. A friend texts her, "How's your foot?"
"Lift me!" you say.
Manners don't matter on the livingroom dance floor. "Please" and "thank you" are less important than feeling the music and matching the movements onscreen. You smile and close your eyes confidently. You spin and stumble and stand back up. And, from my knees, I lift you on cue.
August 29, 2012
Because there's a mile between the S's
You left for Washington with your mom and it felt like a Greek play. A lot of action took place off stage, actions that were not made for the audience to watch, but only to hear about afterwards. You and your mom returned from Washington a week later and it was like the Greek chorus from a stage drama had to catch your dad up on all the off-stage events.
Chorus: Tell us, O Muse, of that ingenious child who traveled far and wide after she had sacked the town of Spokane.
During the car ride back to Medford, Oregon, your mom grew delirious. That happens after six hours on the road with six more to go. She called your dad while driving, said hello, then handed the phone to you. Your dad struggled to understand what you said without context and with the imperfect sound quality of cellular phones traveling up into space and back again.
You had visited your granny ("gwan-dee") and granddad ("gwan-dad") in Spokane. You met your "cuzzin Zoo-ee" for the first time since she'd learned to walk. You saw your Aunt Beth and Uncle Paul, whom you jokingly refer to as Uncle "Popsicle," and he had shaved so you no longer mistook him for bearded folk singer/songwriters on TV.
There are photos of you in the bathtub with cousin Zoe. You're turned away because Zoe splashed a lot, but you smiled anyway. Cousin Zoe looked like she'd done something wrong.
There are photos of you at an outdoor waterpark, the kind without slides but with fantastical fountain sprays. You're touching a large rock out of reach from the sprinklers.
There are photos of you in your blow-up pools that your mom brought to Spokane. The pools are empty because cousin Zoe had a bandaged hand that couldn't get wet. Uncle Popsicle was adamant. But you smiled anyway, and you and cousin Zoe crawled over the hippo-shaped pool, and slid down the dry slide into the bird-lined pool, and the sun was out.
You brought home two mason jars full of granny's preserves. Your dad eats it by the spoonful like soup. You brought home two of granny's dried-strawberry cookies, your dad's favorite, which he stacked together like Oreos.
And you brought home your mom, exhaustion fully set in, eyes puffy, heart full but roadworn. Your dad never used to pray for anyone's safe return. Not that he didn't want someone's safe return, but he just never thought about it.
This time he prayed every highway be safe, every onramp merger be smooth, every trucker awake with coffee and NoDoz, every vacationer unharried by kids in their backseat, every commuter just fine with seeing out-of-state plates, every song on the radio a wake-up call, and every mile closer to home a reason to keep driving.
Chorus: Tell us, O Muse, of that ingenious child who traveled far and wide after she had sacked the town of Spokane.
During the car ride back to Medford, Oregon, your mom grew delirious. That happens after six hours on the road with six more to go. She called your dad while driving, said hello, then handed the phone to you. Your dad struggled to understand what you said without context and with the imperfect sound quality of cellular phones traveling up into space and back again.
You had visited your granny ("gwan-dee") and granddad ("gwan-dad") in Spokane. You met your "cuzzin Zoo-ee" for the first time since she'd learned to walk. You saw your Aunt Beth and Uncle Paul, whom you jokingly refer to as Uncle "Popsicle," and he had shaved so you no longer mistook him for bearded folk singer/songwriters on TV.
There are photos of you in the bathtub with cousin Zoe. You're turned away because Zoe splashed a lot, but you smiled anyway. Cousin Zoe looked like she'd done something wrong.
There are photos of you at an outdoor waterpark, the kind without slides but with fantastical fountain sprays. You're touching a large rock out of reach from the sprinklers.
There are photos of you in your blow-up pools that your mom brought to Spokane. The pools are empty because cousin Zoe had a bandaged hand that couldn't get wet. Uncle Popsicle was adamant. But you smiled anyway, and you and cousin Zoe crawled over the hippo-shaped pool, and slid down the dry slide into the bird-lined pool, and the sun was out.
You brought home two mason jars full of granny's preserves. Your dad eats it by the spoonful like soup. You brought home two of granny's dried-strawberry cookies, your dad's favorite, which he stacked together like Oreos.
And you brought home your mom, exhaustion fully set in, eyes puffy, heart full but roadworn. Your dad never used to pray for anyone's safe return. Not that he didn't want someone's safe return, but he just never thought about it.
This time he prayed every highway be safe, every onramp merger be smooth, every trucker awake with coffee and NoDoz, every vacationer unharried by kids in their backseat, every commuter just fine with seeing out-of-state plates, every song on the radio a wake-up call, and every mile closer to home a reason to keep driving.
July 12, 2012
This. That. This. That.
Sometimes people try to describe a situation and, eventually, after trying and failing and trying and failing, become eclipsed by the good-ness or bad-ness of what they're trying to describe. Sometimes they give up and say, "I don't have the words," or, "you just had to be there."
If your dad is a writer, then he doesn't have that excuse. He doesn't have that recourse. As a writer, he has to have the words. He has to describe it as if you'd been there. If he can't, then perhaps a change of lifelong goals is in order. Certainly, there's a difference between being an excellent oral storyteller and being a writer. It's perfectly understandable that the two don't intersect at all points. But in the same way a mathematics specialist sticks with a numbers problem, even if that mathlete has to hop over a hurdle or two, a writing sticks with a word problem, even if they have to detour around the odd writer's block.
Your dad sees you roll up to word-clogged roadblocks from time to time. When you don't have the noun in your head that you need, you hold the object up to your mom and dad and start saying, "This. That. This. That." Your mom and dad may or may not be of any help at that point. You're usually handing them a piece of trash. Something you found on the kitchen floor, out of place, or some rarely-visited corner of the backyard. "This. That." If your mom and dad find the right word, they tell you what it is, even if that object is "trash"--along with so many other things that inexplicably fall into the category.
A dried brown banana peel is trash. A gum wrapper is trash. Something that was called "a spider on the ceiling" just moments ago is now squished in a paper towel in your mom's hand and has been transformed into "trash." Ballerina toe shoes you've worn for countless living room performances have worn completely through and are now, somehow, "trash." So many things you already know the words to still have the power to become something else. The noun hasn't changed so much as the purpose, and purpose--unlike nouns and verbs and adjectives--isn't one of the standard parts of speech.
So your dad shuffles off into the little red car and goes to the library or to the bookstore, laptop in tow. He's looking for a new career. One that will transform him. Your dad is still dad. The noun hasn't changed. But his purpose has. And he's struggling to not transform into "trash." People have the ability to transcend that natural order, that entropy, that disintegration. But it takes work.
If your dad is a writer, then he doesn't have that excuse. He doesn't have that recourse. As a writer, he has to have the words. He has to describe it as if you'd been there. If he can't, then perhaps a change of lifelong goals is in order. Certainly, there's a difference between being an excellent oral storyteller and being a writer. It's perfectly understandable that the two don't intersect at all points. But in the same way a mathematics specialist sticks with a numbers problem, even if that mathlete has to hop over a hurdle or two, a writing sticks with a word problem, even if they have to detour around the odd writer's block.
Your dad sees you roll up to word-clogged roadblocks from time to time. When you don't have the noun in your head that you need, you hold the object up to your mom and dad and start saying, "This. That. This. That." Your mom and dad may or may not be of any help at that point. You're usually handing them a piece of trash. Something you found on the kitchen floor, out of place, or some rarely-visited corner of the backyard. "This. That." If your mom and dad find the right word, they tell you what it is, even if that object is "trash"--along with so many other things that inexplicably fall into the category.
A dried brown banana peel is trash. A gum wrapper is trash. Something that was called "a spider on the ceiling" just moments ago is now squished in a paper towel in your mom's hand and has been transformed into "trash." Ballerina toe shoes you've worn for countless living room performances have worn completely through and are now, somehow, "trash." So many things you already know the words to still have the power to become something else. The noun hasn't changed so much as the purpose, and purpose--unlike nouns and verbs and adjectives--isn't one of the standard parts of speech.
So your dad shuffles off into the little red car and goes to the library or to the bookstore, laptop in tow. He's looking for a new career. One that will transform him. Your dad is still dad. The noun hasn't changed. But his purpose has. And he's struggling to not transform into "trash." People have the ability to transcend that natural order, that entropy, that disintegration. But it takes work.
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