Your mom used to heroify your Uncle Paul. Same with your Auntie Jess who used to heroify your dad. Older brothers like Uncle Paul and your dad find themselves in this position, as heroes, with no clue how to respond, how to bear that responsibility. The heroic angle they're viewed from adoring little sisters is precious. It's a thing to behold. By the time these big brothers realize it, the little sisters in their life figure out that big brothers are fallible, horribly fallible, people.
Your dad will be given a second chance as a hero from you. But he's a smart guy. He knows now that he's not qualified to be a hero. He doesn't meet the prerequisites. Too cowardly to fail a second time at being heroified.
By the time your mom and dad put you to bed each night, a tiny pang of regret flashes in his gut. I didn't teach her a single new word today, he thinks. I didn't dance with her to Swan Lake. I didn't throw her into the air and catch her. I didn't play peekaboo, not even once. I didn't cut her sandwich into triangles the way she likes. I didn't splash her in the tub during bathtime.
Doing nothing moves Time too fast. If Time figures you're not doing anything with the hours, Time slips away. Time has other things to do. If Time's not being appreciated, Time'll find someone who appreciates it.
This is when your dad starts making New Year's Resolutions, no matter what day of the week it is. I'll sneak slang into our conversations, he says. I'll pirouette and leap like I'm the Lord of the Dance. I'll throw her into the air until she can't stop laughing. I'll hide and I'll seek until we've long since run out of good spots. I'll cut her food into squares and circles and isoceles triangles and cats. I will attend to her status before I update my own. I'll slow Time.
July 6, 2012
February 27, 2012
Remove the e, add -ing
"Home! Daddy! Home! Homing!"
You crawl down from the breakfast table chair that you pushed up to the cooking counter, the cookie dough and sticky raisin residue on your fingers smearing prints on the chair seat.
"Yep. Daddy is ... did she say, 'homing?'" your dad asks your mom.
"Homing!" you say again. You crash into your dad with a hug, face to the side, and push off him again. Back to the chair.
Your mom looks over her shoulder from the mixing bowl and smiles. "I was just getting used to pluralizing," she says. "And now ... "
"Now we're fully in present-participle territory," your dad says. "Drop the e and add i-n-g. Unless," your dad says, "she now identifies me as a heat-seeking missile. That'll work. It is lunchtime and all."
Your dad lays his backpack on the kitchen table, the laptop shut but humming with warmth from this morning's job search. People at church have asked with diligence and firm handshakes, "Find any work yet?" Your dad finds it easy to put on a smile and throw out a Biblical metaphor -- he can't resist: "Not yet. Still fishing. May need to cast my net on the other side of the boat, though." Everyone smirks. There's eye contact. Promises are made of keeping your dad in their prayers. Your dad is appreciative but occasionally wants to bust out of prayers and praying. Sometimes it feels like so much talk.
"No thank you, Estelle. No. Listen," your mom says. She removes the butter dish from your hands."
"Listening?" you say. You put both hands on the counter and stare at the butter dish.
"Yes. Good. Estelle is listening," your mom says.
Your dad then remembers the second part of prayer; the part your dad should be doing when he's done talking.
You crawl down from the breakfast table chair that you pushed up to the cooking counter, the cookie dough and sticky raisin residue on your fingers smearing prints on the chair seat.
"Yep. Daddy is ... did she say, 'homing?'" your dad asks your mom.
"Homing!" you say again. You crash into your dad with a hug, face to the side, and push off him again. Back to the chair.
Your mom looks over her shoulder from the mixing bowl and smiles. "I was just getting used to pluralizing," she says. "And now ... "
"Now we're fully in present-participle territory," your dad says. "Drop the e and add i-n-g. Unless," your dad says, "she now identifies me as a heat-seeking missile. That'll work. It is lunchtime and all."
Your dad lays his backpack on the kitchen table, the laptop shut but humming with warmth from this morning's job search. People at church have asked with diligence and firm handshakes, "Find any work yet?" Your dad finds it easy to put on a smile and throw out a Biblical metaphor -- he can't resist: "Not yet. Still fishing. May need to cast my net on the other side of the boat, though." Everyone smirks. There's eye contact. Promises are made of keeping your dad in their prayers. Your dad is appreciative but occasionally wants to bust out of prayers and praying. Sometimes it feels like so much talk.
"No thank you, Estelle. No. Listen," your mom says. She removes the butter dish from your hands."
"Listening?" you say. You put both hands on the counter and stare at the butter dish.
"Yes. Good. Estelle is listening," your mom says.
Your dad then remembers the second part of prayer; the part your dad should be doing when he's done talking.
January 22, 2012
Apostrophe
"Mommy's? Monkey's?"
"That's correct, Estelle. Good job. Wait. No thank you. Set that down. That's Daddy's coffee. Yucky."
"Daddy's," you say. "Yucky."
The apostrophe-s is your latest verbal construction. You mastered nouns first. Verbs took an exciting second. More recently assembling subjects and predicates has strung together entertaining bursts of conversation. "Vroom [babble babble] Estelle," you say. "Drink [babble] milk [babble] cup, please."
Your dad can only imagine this is what conversation sounds like to you when your Mom and Dad are talking: "Hey, hon, [babble] milk [babble babble] presidential primaries. Yucky."
But apostrophe-s denotes possession. Apostrophe-s is nine-tenths of the law. Thankfully you don't feel acquisition is as important as denoting what belongs to whom. Soon enough we'll take two steps back once you transform everything into "mine, mine, mine," but for now it's Mommy's cookie or Monkey's banana or Daddy's yucky.
"That's correct, Estelle. Good job. Wait. No thank you. Set that down. That's Daddy's coffee. Yucky."
"Daddy's," you say. "Yucky."
The apostrophe-s is your latest verbal construction. You mastered nouns first. Verbs took an exciting second. More recently assembling subjects and predicates has strung together entertaining bursts of conversation. "Vroom [babble babble] Estelle," you say. "Drink [babble] milk [babble] cup, please."
Your dad can only imagine this is what conversation sounds like to you when your Mom and Dad are talking: "Hey, hon, [babble] milk [babble babble] presidential primaries. Yucky."
But apostrophe-s denotes possession. Apostrophe-s is nine-tenths of the law. Thankfully you don't feel acquisition is as important as denoting what belongs to whom. Soon enough we'll take two steps back once you transform everything into "mine, mine, mine," but for now it's Mommy's cookie or Monkey's banana or Daddy's yucky.
January 4, 2012
Counting on sheep
The one TV show your mom and dad let you watch probably says more about your mom and dad than it does about you. But you like Shaun the Sheep and ask several times a day if you can watch an episode. Most days the answer is, "No."
You ask again, "Buddy? Buddy?"
Your mom and dad have no idea who "Buddy" is, so they ask you, "Buddy the Sheep?"
"Yes."
"Yes? Buddy the Sheep?"
"Ya."
"Estelle, you mean Shaun the Sheep?"
"Ya."
And that's how the conversation always goes before your parents soften up their No TV rule long enough for you to watch a 15-minute no-dialog animated show about a simple farmer and his shepherd dog checking off a daily roster of an unwittingly mischievous flock of sheep led by the small and often-chuckling Shaun/Buddy the Sheep.
"Myoo?" you ask.
"More?"
"Ya."
"No more, Estelle--"
"--Buddy? Buddy?!" You panic.
"Estelle. Buddy went to sleep. Say, 'Goodnight, Buddy.'"
"Ny-night."
And then you're fine.
You ask again, "Buddy? Buddy?"
Your mom and dad have no idea who "Buddy" is, so they ask you, "Buddy the Sheep?"
"Yes."
"Yes? Buddy the Sheep?"
"Ya."
"Estelle, you mean Shaun the Sheep?"
"Ya."
And that's how the conversation always goes before your parents soften up their No TV rule long enough for you to watch a 15-minute no-dialog animated show about a simple farmer and his shepherd dog checking off a daily roster of an unwittingly mischievous flock of sheep led by the small and often-chuckling Shaun/Buddy the Sheep.
"Myoo?" you ask.
"More?"
"Ya."
"No more, Estelle--"
"--Buddy? Buddy?!" You panic.
"Estelle. Buddy went to sleep. Say, 'Goodnight, Buddy.'"
"Ny-night."
And then you're fine.
January 3, 2012
All your DNA in a single strand of hair
"I need to work on my posture. You need to call me out if I'm slouching," your dad said. And then he realized that he didn't have to slouch to hold your hand anymore. You continue to grow up. You reach up, wrap your hand around his index finger, and walk completely unaided. You haven't had to hold your dad's hand for months; you just like to, once in a while now.
Your dad straightened his shoulders and saw his dim reflection in a store window. It was time to cut his curly hair. He simply grew it out to see if he could do it. To see if it was actually curly, because he didn't know. Your dad's mom, lola, cut and saved your dad's curly hair from when he was a toddler himself. Ever since, your dad's hair has been trimmed short, perhaps not cropped too close, not until the Navy anyway, but short. In high school he when he went through an ill-advised set of mullets utilizing blow dryers, Aqua Net, and the occasional ponytail.
Really your dad grew out his hair to see how curly it was compared to yours. With his hair close-cropped, like he's worn it since his Navy days, people did double takes when you were with him. Perhaps that's his child, or perhaps not, people thought. Best not to say anything.
But after he grew his curls out, people confidently said, "I see. Your daughter got your hair and her mother's hair color." The "I see" part of their statement meant that the question was lingering for a while. It was up in the air. But now that was settled.
Your dad got a haircut today for the first time in half a year. He over-tipped the hair stylist.
Your dad straightened his shoulders and saw his dim reflection in a store window. It was time to cut his curly hair. He simply grew it out to see if he could do it. To see if it was actually curly, because he didn't know. Your dad's mom, lola, cut and saved your dad's curly hair from when he was a toddler himself. Ever since, your dad's hair has been trimmed short, perhaps not cropped too close, not until the Navy anyway, but short. In high school he when he went through an ill-advised set of mullets utilizing blow dryers, Aqua Net, and the occasional ponytail.
Really your dad grew out his hair to see how curly it was compared to yours. With his hair close-cropped, like he's worn it since his Navy days, people did double takes when you were with him. Perhaps that's his child, or perhaps not, people thought. Best not to say anything.
But after he grew his curls out, people confidently said, "I see. Your daughter got your hair and her mother's hair color." The "I see" part of their statement meant that the question was lingering for a while. It was up in the air. But now that was settled.
Your dad got a haircut today for the first time in half a year. He over-tipped the hair stylist.
January 1, 2012
Dictionary
A pronunciation guide for a few of the trickier-to-translate words in your lexicon:
uh'dow: Estelle
bee'goo: bagel
beh'oo: bear
boom: "vroom" (car)
dah: draw
huh-dyoo: highchair
maow: "meow" (cat)
pee'doh: piano
pee'goo: penguin
rih'din: raisin
yah'gwees: LEGOs
wah'loh: water
wah'doh: fire
uh'dow: Estelle
bee'goo: bagel
beh'oo: bear
boom: "vroom" (car)
dah: draw
huh-dyoo: highchair
maow: "meow" (cat)
pee'doh: piano
pee'goo: penguin
rih'din: raisin
yah'gwees: LEGOs
wah'loh: water
wah'doh: fire
July 24, 2011
Slide rule
Adan belly flops into the above ground pool and a chorus of ohhhhh's issue from the other kids. It's hot. Cloudless sky hot. The bees steadily work the floral scene, buzzing from flower to flower, staying out of direct sunlight as much as possible. The bees scatter for a moment from the belly flop's splash, and some of the water sprinkles you, too.
You step sideways and back away from the pool. Baths are okay. Wading pools are okay. Sprinklers? Not okay. And, just now, belly flops are similarly black listed. You make an unhappy sound and tap your two pointer fingers to your forehead, your bastardized sign for "pain." Of course, you're not in pain. But you haven't learned the sign for "that belly flop startled me and it's undesirable for me to get splashed as a spectator," so you've expanded the pain sign to include just this scenario.
You reach up and hold your dad's pointer finger and walk through the pergola to the food table. It's ten degrees cooler in the shade and your cheeks are already flushed red from the sun. Your face is greasy with SPF 70, but your mom may have acted to late. To be fair, your dad wouldn't have acted at all, and he'd be nursing your burns with aloe vera and vitamin E for the next week.
The olives are a hit. You can't eat those one at a time. And the strawberries are delicious. "The Strawberry Shack" (not its real name because your dad doesn't know its real name) is just a country mile down the road, and that's where these must have come from. You still call water "yummy," so you don't even bother asking for a sip of your dad's diet Squirt.
And the slide. That was the raison d'etre of Jessica's whole birthday party, as far as you were concerned. "It looks like I'm going to have to pick one of those up," your dad says. And your dad never says that. He's content to let you play with hand-me-down toys and birthday gifts. He doesn't often contribute to the already sizable stockpile of toys at your disposal. Plus, he takes a certain pleasure in seeing you play with a stray rubber band or a found stick for just as long as you play with a toy truck or bouncy ball, so he keeps his toy buying under control.
But this slide is something else. Up three steps, down the slide, put on a smile. You pick yourself up off the grass and point your own way back to the stairs again. Up steps. Slide down. Huge smile.
"Yep," your dad says, sipping his diet Squirt. "Looks like we'll be getting one of those."
You step sideways and back away from the pool. Baths are okay. Wading pools are okay. Sprinklers? Not okay. And, just now, belly flops are similarly black listed. You make an unhappy sound and tap your two pointer fingers to your forehead, your bastardized sign for "pain." Of course, you're not in pain. But you haven't learned the sign for "that belly flop startled me and it's undesirable for me to get splashed as a spectator," so you've expanded the pain sign to include just this scenario.
You reach up and hold your dad's pointer finger and walk through the pergola to the food table. It's ten degrees cooler in the shade and your cheeks are already flushed red from the sun. Your face is greasy with SPF 70, but your mom may have acted to late. To be fair, your dad wouldn't have acted at all, and he'd be nursing your burns with aloe vera and vitamin E for the next week.
The olives are a hit. You can't eat those one at a time. And the strawberries are delicious. "The Strawberry Shack" (not its real name because your dad doesn't know its real name) is just a country mile down the road, and that's where these must have come from. You still call water "yummy," so you don't even bother asking for a sip of your dad's diet Squirt.
And the slide. That was the raison d'etre of Jessica's whole birthday party, as far as you were concerned. "It looks like I'm going to have to pick one of those up," your dad says. And your dad never says that. He's content to let you play with hand-me-down toys and birthday gifts. He doesn't often contribute to the already sizable stockpile of toys at your disposal. Plus, he takes a certain pleasure in seeing you play with a stray rubber band or a found stick for just as long as you play with a toy truck or bouncy ball, so he keeps his toy buying under control.
But this slide is something else. Up three steps, down the slide, put on a smile. You pick yourself up off the grass and point your own way back to the stairs again. Up steps. Slide down. Huge smile.
"Yep," your dad says, sipping his diet Squirt. "Looks like we'll be getting one of those."
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