She looked at me and said "I have a sad thing in my life, too."
Cards for a game lay crooked upon the hotel bed. The television muttered in the background. A man on the screen had just finished telling us that, at a young age, he had lost his father.
"What's that, sweetie?"
Her eyes were shining, diamonds of liquid blue. "My brother and sister. When people ask me if I have any brothers or sisters, I get sad because I miss them."
My heart hollowed itself out. I reached out a shaky hand, touching her gently upon her knee. She covered her mouth with her hand, stifling a tiny sob.
"It's okay to feel that way." Long pause.
"I know, but it makes me upset. That's why I have to say I don't want to talk about it ."
"It's okay to feel that way, too, sweet pea."
I swallowed the slight bitterness of telling myself it was okay. I sat there thinking "There are days, my girl, so many days where I don't want to talk about it, either. Yet every chamber of my heart echoes with plaintive cries that refuse to be unheard." I smiled, wanly, silent.
She nodded her head. I squeezed her hand. We went back to our game, shrouded in echoes.
Showing posts with label my girl. Show all posts
Showing posts with label my girl. Show all posts
20 December 2013
27 September 2011
Little Mirrors, Big Reflections
September 13, 2011, 8:20 p.m. Home. Drinking tea and thinking.
Living alone, as I do now, has not been easy. It is easier than it was when I first was thrown into it, yes, but some days it grates. No, not grates. That isn't quite the word I sought. Let me rephrase it: Some days, it exhausts. It wears down. Today was like that. The weariness started, as it often does, at work. One too many repetitive questions over things I had considered settled, another iteration of not being allowed to do my job without undue interference. Sparing the details, it is difficult to manage when the second guessing and redirection starts.
Anyway. That is not exactly the topic at hand.
I left work feeling quite drained, a physical state that induces in me a tendency to ponder. True to form, the wheels in my head were turning almost as fast as the wheels on the car taking me home. I considered what I do, and my reactions to things, and how I ended up where I am in life. And I wondered how much was fated and how much would be different had I just paid more attention and stood up for myself more often.
I thought about this, because I wondered about the incredible creature who is my daughter, and what she will be like when she gets older and has to make increasingly difficult choices in her life. Choices that will have material effects on the person she will become and the life she will lead. This led me to saying out loud to myself "I hope she doesn't turn out like me".
The hardness of the truth in that whopper was matched only by its utter absurdity. I then laughed at myself, because why on earth would I say such a thing? More importantly, why would I believe such a thing?
The truth of it is, I do hope that my daughter doesn't turn out like me. I don't want her held in thrall to a sometimes crippling lack of self-confidence, or gripped by the sudden bouts of social awkwardness that occasionally sink their claws in to me. I hope she doesn't fail at standing up for herself, as much as I have on some occasions in the past.
I don't want her to be steamrolled by doubt.
I know by objective measures my life and the way I live it isn't so bad. My sense of self is in much better shape than it has been in a long time. I hope I am being successful at showing my daughter how to be strong, how to be balanced in life. I can't say I'm perfect, but I do hope I'm good.
That way, maybe my daughter will grow up to be better than me. I have all confidence in her...but it's me that still has things to learn, too.
Living alone, as I do now, has not been easy. It is easier than it was when I first was thrown into it, yes, but some days it grates. No, not grates. That isn't quite the word I sought. Let me rephrase it: Some days, it exhausts. It wears down. Today was like that. The weariness started, as it often does, at work. One too many repetitive questions over things I had considered settled, another iteration of not being allowed to do my job without undue interference. Sparing the details, it is difficult to manage when the second guessing and redirection starts.
Anyway. That is not exactly the topic at hand.
I left work feeling quite drained, a physical state that induces in me a tendency to ponder. True to form, the wheels in my head were turning almost as fast as the wheels on the car taking me home. I considered what I do, and my reactions to things, and how I ended up where I am in life. And I wondered how much was fated and how much would be different had I just paid more attention and stood up for myself more often.
I thought about this, because I wondered about the incredible creature who is my daughter, and what she will be like when she gets older and has to make increasingly difficult choices in her life. Choices that will have material effects on the person she will become and the life she will lead. This led me to saying out loud to myself "I hope she doesn't turn out like me".
The hardness of the truth in that whopper was matched only by its utter absurdity. I then laughed at myself, because why on earth would I say such a thing? More importantly, why would I believe such a thing?
The truth of it is, I do hope that my daughter doesn't turn out like me. I don't want her held in thrall to a sometimes crippling lack of self-confidence, or gripped by the sudden bouts of social awkwardness that occasionally sink their claws in to me. I hope she doesn't fail at standing up for herself, as much as I have on some occasions in the past.
I don't want her to be steamrolled by doubt.
I know by objective measures my life and the way I live it isn't so bad. My sense of self is in much better shape than it has been in a long time. I hope I am being successful at showing my daughter how to be strong, how to be balanced in life. I can't say I'm perfect, but I do hope I'm good.
That way, maybe my daughter will grow up to be better than me. I have all confidence in her...but it's me that still has things to learn, too.
23 August 2011
The Tearing Of The Bagels
Friday morning is bagel time with my daughter. The ritual began soon after she was big enough to toddle. She was once enthusiastic, even demanding, when it was still fresh and new to her. Lately, she likes to go, but she often seems noncommittal.
Me, I don't want to give it up yet. The capstone to my week, and my girl she is growing swiftly.
One aspect that took root early on was that the plain bagel she always requested had to be rendered into smaller bits, to fit her wee mouth. It was done out of necessity when she was much smaller. At first I had to cut the bagel into pieces, she insisted, and they had to be wedge shaped. She would use them as tiny shovels to scoop cream cheese out of the container and into her mouth. Later, I convinced her that tearing the bagel into bite-sized pieces was better (have you ever tried to saw apart a chewy bagel with a bendy plastic knife? Tedious and tiresome), and much to my delight she agreed. So for the longest time I would tear the bagel into bites, and she would eat.
As with many of these things we do for our children because they can't do for themselves, there comes a time when we grow tired of performing these tasks. That time usually occurs about the time the kids can manage these things for themselves. Seat belt fastening and bagel tearing, yeah, I've hit limit.
So it was last Friday at the bagel shop. Bagels arrived at the table and as usual before I could sink teeth into my hot, crispy, fresh bagel, Her Royal Cuteness asked me to tear up the bagel. I was annoyed, more so than the situation warranted. But I complied as I always do. I did wonder when she was going to start doing this for herself.
I watched her as she ate. She seemed content, scooping cream cheese like a boss, and pushing the fragments of the now sundered bagel around the napkin on the table. She didn't eat that much. I polished off my bagel and wondered at this progeny of mine, and why it has to be my hands that tear the bagel.
It became clear to me, when she looked up at me with those stained glass eyes of hers and a small grin on her face. This thing we have, the trip we take every Friday morning for the ritual "Tearing Of The Bagel"...maybe it matters to her. Maybe it isn't so much that she doesn't want to do it herself. Maybe she thinks this time we share together is incomplete if Daddy doesn't make the big things small. Because that's what daddies do. They help make the big things small for their precious ones, and that is as it should be. I look on that angel face and believe it to be true.
I wish I could tell her, explain so that she may understand, that I may make the big things small for her...but by her presence sharing this ritual, I am a bigger man.
Me, I don't want to give it up yet. The capstone to my week, and my girl she is growing swiftly.
One aspect that took root early on was that the plain bagel she always requested had to be rendered into smaller bits, to fit her wee mouth. It was done out of necessity when she was much smaller. At first I had to cut the bagel into pieces, she insisted, and they had to be wedge shaped. She would use them as tiny shovels to scoop cream cheese out of the container and into her mouth. Later, I convinced her that tearing the bagel into bite-sized pieces was better (have you ever tried to saw apart a chewy bagel with a bendy plastic knife? Tedious and tiresome), and much to my delight she agreed. So for the longest time I would tear the bagel into bites, and she would eat.
As with many of these things we do for our children because they can't do for themselves, there comes a time when we grow tired of performing these tasks. That time usually occurs about the time the kids can manage these things for themselves. Seat belt fastening and bagel tearing, yeah, I've hit limit.
So it was last Friday at the bagel shop. Bagels arrived at the table and as usual before I could sink teeth into my hot, crispy, fresh bagel, Her Royal Cuteness asked me to tear up the bagel. I was annoyed, more so than the situation warranted. But I complied as I always do. I did wonder when she was going to start doing this for herself.
I watched her as she ate. She seemed content, scooping cream cheese like a boss, and pushing the fragments of the now sundered bagel around the napkin on the table. She didn't eat that much. I polished off my bagel and wondered at this progeny of mine, and why it has to be my hands that tear the bagel.
It became clear to me, when she looked up at me with those stained glass eyes of hers and a small grin on her face. This thing we have, the trip we take every Friday morning for the ritual "Tearing Of The Bagel"...maybe it matters to her. Maybe it isn't so much that she doesn't want to do it herself. Maybe she thinks this time we share together is incomplete if Daddy doesn't make the big things small. Because that's what daddies do. They help make the big things small for their precious ones, and that is as it should be. I look on that angel face and believe it to be true.
I wish I could tell her, explain so that she may understand, that I may make the big things small for her...but by her presence sharing this ritual, I am a bigger man.
11 August 2011
Fearless Leader
Last Saturday, the Wee Lass and I were enjoying a stroll through a favorite park, down by the Patapsco River. We had reversed course, as Her Royal Cuteness had declared, loudly, that she needed to void the royal bladder. Well, what she said was "I gotta go potty, Daddy!", but you get the idea.
As we hoofed down the path on the way to the loo, she announced that she was the leader, and that she should be in front. So she increased her pace. She looked over her shoulder to see how close I was getting. When she saw me gaining on her, she knitted her brow, looked at me and quipped:
"I should be the leader, 'cause I'm a girl!"
She then turned her head forward and took off down the path, leaving me with jaw agape.
I had no ready reply or refutation. Her logic was inescapable, and my only response was to grin and try to keep up with Fearless Leader.
As we hoofed down the path on the way to the loo, she announced that she was the leader, and that she should be in front. So she increased her pace. She looked over her shoulder to see how close I was getting. When she saw me gaining on her, she knitted her brow, looked at me and quipped:
"I should be the leader, 'cause I'm a girl!"
She then turned her head forward and took off down the path, leaving me with jaw agape.
I had no ready reply or refutation. Her logic was inescapable, and my only response was to grin and try to keep up with Fearless Leader.
14 May 2011
Baseball Been Berry Berry Good To Me
Tonight, I went to a baseball game for the first time in years. It was in the company of my darling Wee Lass and her mother. The featured match up was the Bowie Baysox (a double-A farm team for the Baltimore Orioles) versus the Akron Aeros. Her Royal Cuteness had received a free ticket for participation in a reading excellence program at her school.
I lost interest in baseball back during the '96 ALCS Playoffs, when the hated Yankees beat the O's (damn that kid and his interference!) and that sort of broke my (admittedly) lukewarm sports fan heart. The Wee Lass really wanted to go to this game, and who was I to say no? We snagged two more tickets and made an evening of it. Good times were had by all.
It was minor league, and I was prepared to be underwhelmed, but something wonderful happened. I found myself explaining to Wee Lass how the game worked, the meaning of 'bunt', and how to steal a base. No one will ever confuse me with an expert on baseball, but it felt good to explain things to someone curious to learn. I felt as if I actually knew something. I relaxed into the Now.
We chatted, we goofed off, we laughed. Things felt right...I can only describe the time with my daughter as contentment. This is a rare state even in the best of times. There were no corn fields from which the ghosts or spirits would amble, to teach me a life lesson. In its own humble way, however, it was a field of dreams.
21 April 2011
18 April 2011
This Life, In Mosaic
What is this life we ended up with, how did we get here? Who dragged us into the van, blindfolded us, then drove all night only to kick us out the back door without stopping? Holy hell, that hurt when the ground rushed up to meet us and the gravel of years dug into the skin, like the sandpaper of God.
Once when I was a boy I went to the beach, on the Atlantic Ocean, for a day of fun and frolic. Then, as now, I liked the ocean but was always a bit unsettled by it. Powerful waves, opaque water = low-grade anxiety. Then, as now, anxiety didn't stop me from entering the surf. Perhaps the unknown was the frisson that provided the vitality I felt.
But I digress.
Once when I was a boy, I went to the beach as I mentioned earlier. I dove into the waves and was having a great time. Then I made the mistake of turning my back on the ocean. One moment, I was in water up to mid-thigh, the next it was gone. Puzzled, I wondered where all the water went, then turned my head to look back. Bearing down on me was the biggest wave I had ever personally witnessed. It slammed into me, painfully, right in the back. I was knocked down, face first into the sea bottom, whereupon the force of the wave pushed me along causing my bottom jaw to act like a dredge. My mouth quickly filled up with sand and bits of shells and seaweed.
Coughing and sputtering I was cast up on the beach. Shaking the stars out of my eyes, I reached up to feel my face. It was scraped and raw. My lower lip bulged out like I had a lump of chaw in it. Scraping the sand out of my mouth, I wondered what in the world had happened.
So years later, I'm sitting on a park bench enjoying the breeze and a day of clear cerulean down by my favorite local lake. The apple o' my eye is resting on her haunches down by the water's edge. She has a stick in her hand, scribbling hieroglyphics in the sand and pretending to fish. She looks up and smiles, and a chunk of memory falls from the sky and I wonder: What just happened?
This time I didn't come up sputtering and coughing, but I was dazed and confused. Things tilted. Life is very different for me these days. Things have come apart, things have come together. I see my daughter, I consider my new life living by myself, and I feel my hands sifting through the sand. Shells, debris, smooth stones and jagged shards all come within my grasp.
Slowly, I am pulling pieces from the earth to reassemble the picture I know is there. Definition, clarity, direction...this, the mosaic of a life coming together in the light of a fine sunny day and the presence of love.
Once when I was a boy I went to the beach, on the Atlantic Ocean, for a day of fun and frolic. Then, as now, I liked the ocean but was always a bit unsettled by it. Powerful waves, opaque water = low-grade anxiety. Then, as now, anxiety didn't stop me from entering the surf. Perhaps the unknown was the frisson that provided the vitality I felt.
But I digress.
Once when I was a boy, I went to the beach as I mentioned earlier. I dove into the waves and was having a great time. Then I made the mistake of turning my back on the ocean. One moment, I was in water up to mid-thigh, the next it was gone. Puzzled, I wondered where all the water went, then turned my head to look back. Bearing down on me was the biggest wave I had ever personally witnessed. It slammed into me, painfully, right in the back. I was knocked down, face first into the sea bottom, whereupon the force of the wave pushed me along causing my bottom jaw to act like a dredge. My mouth quickly filled up with sand and bits of shells and seaweed.
Coughing and sputtering I was cast up on the beach. Shaking the stars out of my eyes, I reached up to feel my face. It was scraped and raw. My lower lip bulged out like I had a lump of chaw in it. Scraping the sand out of my mouth, I wondered what in the world had happened.
So years later, I'm sitting on a park bench enjoying the breeze and a day of clear cerulean down by my favorite local lake. The apple o' my eye is resting on her haunches down by the water's edge. She has a stick in her hand, scribbling hieroglyphics in the sand and pretending to fish. She looks up and smiles, and a chunk of memory falls from the sky and I wonder: What just happened?
This time I didn't come up sputtering and coughing, but I was dazed and confused. Things tilted. Life is very different for me these days. Things have come apart, things have come together. I see my daughter, I consider my new life living by myself, and I feel my hands sifting through the sand. Shells, debris, smooth stones and jagged shards all come within my grasp.
Slowly, I am pulling pieces from the earth to reassemble the picture I know is there. Definition, clarity, direction...this, the mosaic of a life coming together in the light of a fine sunny day and the presence of love.
20 March 2011
On The Flight of Certain Bees
I noticed the toothbrush holder askew on more than one occasion. As it put an elbow in the rib of my neurotic architect obsession with plumb and level, I always adjusted it back to its upright position. It never looked right, to my adult eye, and I could not explain it.
Just as many times as I adjusted it, I always returned later to find it an angle. Must be leprechauns I thought.
Little did I know. Wee Lass set me straight, and it crooked, last night when she came to brush her teeth. She opened the holder, took out her brush, and then carefully twisted the bee so it was slanted. She then said to me, in a casual aside, "I like it tilted, 'cause that's how bees fly."
Well, then. I could not refute her aesthetics, or her observations of the natural world, so the bee remains as you see in the photo.
The more I looked at it, the more I decided she was right. I like it, too.
11 February 2011
What the Princess Said to the Captain
Sunday afternoon. It's cold, lots of snow still on the ground, but the sun is out, finally. Perfect time for Wee Lass and the Captain to log some outdoor time after being cooped up. The Captain advises Her Royal Cuteness to enrobe herself appropriately for a winter excursion:
Captain: "We should go to the park."
Wee Lass: "I wanna stay inside."
C: "We've been inside almost all weekend. Let's go to the park with the swinging bridge."
WL: "I want to go to the big playground! Can we go to the big playground?"
She wheedles well. Plus, she looks at the Captain with those baby blues...
C: (sighs) "Okay, we can go to the big playground. Get your shoes on."
Wee Lass skips to her room, returns carrying her favorite "sparkly" shoes. They are indeed sparkly, festive, even, but not even good shoes for tromping in snow. Her boots were absent, with only sneakers as backup. Better than the sparkly shoes, though.
C: "Uh, please put your sneakers on. There might be snow, and sneakers would be better."
WL: "I don't want to wear sneakers."
C: "Sweet pea, those shoes will get wet and cold a lot faster, so the sneakers..."
WL (staring at the Captain with a withering look): "But, Daddy...they don't go well with my tights!"
So that is how it came to pass that the Captain lumbered along in his winter boots, while Her Royal Cuteness frolicked on the slides and in the snow with sparkly shoes a-glitter in the winter sun. She was right, they did look good with her tights.
And she didn't complain at all about the wet, cold feet...
Captain: "We should go to the park."
Wee Lass: "I wanna stay inside."
C: "We've been inside almost all weekend. Let's go to the park with the swinging bridge."
WL: "I want to go to the big playground! Can we go to the big playground?"
She wheedles well. Plus, she looks at the Captain with those baby blues...
C: (sighs) "Okay, we can go to the big playground. Get your shoes on."
Wee Lass skips to her room, returns carrying her favorite "sparkly" shoes. They are indeed sparkly, festive, even, but not even good shoes for tromping in snow. Her boots were absent, with only sneakers as backup. Better than the sparkly shoes, though.
C: "Uh, please put your sneakers on. There might be snow, and sneakers would be better."
WL: "I don't want to wear sneakers."
C: "Sweet pea, those shoes will get wet and cold a lot faster, so the sneakers..."
WL (staring at the Captain with a withering look): "But, Daddy...they don't go well with my tights!"
So that is how it came to pass that the Captain lumbered along in his winter boots, while Her Royal Cuteness frolicked on the slides and in the snow with sparkly shoes a-glitter in the winter sun. She was right, they did look good with her tights.
And she didn't complain at all about the wet, cold feet...
01 December 2010
Living the Dino Lif
A damp, gray day and warm for the season to boot. It put a twist in my drawers and a pall on my demeanor, which spilled into the workday. Today was a headphones-on-more-than-off kind of day. The only thing that could have put the cap on it would have been to walk around with a lemon wedge in my mouth.
Her Majesty's evening swim class was cut short because one of the toddlers had a "bathroom incident" in the pool, so everyone had to exit and the pool was shut down for cleaning. Poop in pool = total buzzkill + hilarity for the Lass. To her credit, she did acknowledge that it was "gross".
"Soulshine" by Government Mule was playing on the radio when I arrived back at the Casa del Gumbo, and it put me further into the funk than I already was. Pensive and soul-searching wasn't what I was in the mood to hear. I was gearing up to write it all out, get the cynical and jaded pollution from my head to clear it. I was thinking how I fall into that trap too often, seduced by the dark side, and how I was tired of being a grown-up.
Good thing I saw the picture. Heh.
It has been sitting on my kitchen counter for about a week or so. Wee Lass drew it for me as a gift, of her own accord. It is of a happy little dinosaur, cheerily munching on what looks like carrot-shaped tree with a single large leaf at the top. Overhead, a pale yellow sun shines down as a butterfly the size of a condor flies above the dinosaur. At the top left hand corner is a title, scrawled in that unmistakable penmanship of one who is just learning to write. It says "The Dino lif", and Wee Lass assures me that it does mean "The Dino Life", missing 'e' notwithstanding.
It makes me smile. I forget, even for only a little while, about the crappy day and malaise and the cynical, corrosive air we often breathe as adults.
I sat down on the couch, with a glass of tea, and resolved to more often "live the Dino lif". And I won't even worry about that missing 'e'.
Her Majesty's evening swim class was cut short because one of the toddlers had a "bathroom incident" in the pool, so everyone had to exit and the pool was shut down for cleaning. Poop in pool = total buzzkill + hilarity for the Lass. To her credit, she did acknowledge that it was "gross".
"Soulshine" by Government Mule was playing on the radio when I arrived back at the Casa del Gumbo, and it put me further into the funk than I already was. Pensive and soul-searching wasn't what I was in the mood to hear. I was gearing up to write it all out, get the cynical and jaded pollution from my head to clear it. I was thinking how I fall into that trap too often, seduced by the dark side, and how I was tired of being a grown-up.
Good thing I saw the picture. Heh.
It has been sitting on my kitchen counter for about a week or so. Wee Lass drew it for me as a gift, of her own accord. It is of a happy little dinosaur, cheerily munching on what looks like carrot-shaped tree with a single large leaf at the top. Overhead, a pale yellow sun shines down as a butterfly the size of a condor flies above the dinosaur. At the top left hand corner is a title, scrawled in that unmistakable penmanship of one who is just learning to write. It says "The Dino lif", and Wee Lass assures me that it does mean "The Dino Life", missing 'e' notwithstanding.
It makes me smile. I forget, even for only a little while, about the crappy day and malaise and the cynical, corrosive air we often breathe as adults.
I sat down on the couch, with a glass of tea, and resolved to more often "live the Dino lif". And I won't even worry about that missing 'e'.
02 November 2010
It's Not Just Fresh, Its 'Butt' Fresh
Yet another thing I'm surprised consumer products companies haven't made us worry about...
Earlier in the day, the Wee Lass and I watched an episode of 'Brain Surge' on Nickleodeon. The Lass, she likes the burping noises and the references to flatulence. I go along because it is a silly game show, and you actually do have to concentrate and pay attention to detail in order to advance.
Any one who loses a round has to leave the set via a twisty slide called the 'Brain Drain'. It's not just a slide, it's a slide that has been partially filled with some sort of goop. Of course, the poor sap who loses has to slide through the mess du jour, getting covered with shaving cream or Crisco or aerated dish soap, whatever it is the minds behind the show deem fit to use.
Wee Lass, of course, finds it hilarious.
Which brings us to the fast slide at a local amusement parlor for the kiddies. We went to a birthday party there, the same day of Brain Surge. It is one of those places that has all sorts of inflatable bouncy things akin to moon bounces, inflatable slides and obstacle courses, and they rent them out for parties and junior executive team building exercises*. Run around like a maniac for an hour, bouncing (literally) off the walls and each other, then on to pizza or cake and ice cream. It's quite cool, although a bit exhausting to watch. Them tykes have some serious energy reserves.
So there is this slide there, a green plastic half-pipe attached to a small tree fort like structure. At the bottom on the floor is a padded gym mat. This gym mat is a good thing, because that slide was fast like so roads are fast: the kids were hurtling down that thing like they had been strapped to rockets. Kids were crashing into the floor, each other, doing face plants and butt plants, and laughing like bastards the entire time. Wee Lass was having a ball.
Later, she said to me, "Daddy, wouldn't it be funny if they filled the slide up with soap?"
I responded that, yep, I reckon that would have been pretty funny. Then she got this gleam in her eye.
"Daddy, daddy! It would be better if they filled it with toothpaste!"
"Toothpaste?" I asked, puzzled. She was giggling hard, and said "Yeah, 'cause then our butts would smell minty fresh!" and she dissolved in a fit of laughter.
I'm still chuckling over that one myself.
*Just kidding. Although it could happen...
Earlier in the day, the Wee Lass and I watched an episode of 'Brain Surge' on Nickleodeon. The Lass, she likes the burping noises and the references to flatulence. I go along because it is a silly game show, and you actually do have to concentrate and pay attention to detail in order to advance.
Any one who loses a round has to leave the set via a twisty slide called the 'Brain Drain'. It's not just a slide, it's a slide that has been partially filled with some sort of goop. Of course, the poor sap who loses has to slide through the mess du jour, getting covered with shaving cream or Crisco or aerated dish soap, whatever it is the minds behind the show deem fit to use.
Wee Lass, of course, finds it hilarious.
Which brings us to the fast slide at a local amusement parlor for the kiddies. We went to a birthday party there, the same day of Brain Surge. It is one of those places that has all sorts of inflatable bouncy things akin to moon bounces, inflatable slides and obstacle courses, and they rent them out for parties and junior executive team building exercises*. Run around like a maniac for an hour, bouncing (literally) off the walls and each other, then on to pizza or cake and ice cream. It's quite cool, although a bit exhausting to watch. Them tykes have some serious energy reserves.
So there is this slide there, a green plastic half-pipe attached to a small tree fort like structure. At the bottom on the floor is a padded gym mat. This gym mat is a good thing, because that slide was fast like so roads are fast: the kids were hurtling down that thing like they had been strapped to rockets. Kids were crashing into the floor, each other, doing face plants and butt plants, and laughing like bastards the entire time. Wee Lass was having a ball.
Later, she said to me, "Daddy, wouldn't it be funny if they filled the slide up with soap?"
I responded that, yep, I reckon that would have been pretty funny. Then she got this gleam in her eye.
"Daddy, daddy! It would be better if they filled it with toothpaste!"
"Toothpaste?" I asked, puzzled. She was giggling hard, and said "Yeah, 'cause then our butts would smell minty fresh!" and she dissolved in a fit of laughter.
I'm still chuckling over that one myself.
*Just kidding. Although it could happen...
17 October 2010
Knighted
A few months back, in these here Gumbo pages, I wrote a little something about feeling irrelevant in modern life. I reread that tonight as I was languidly trolling through my archives to refresh my memory vis a vis my random thoughts for this year.
Sort of like a kitten discovering a mirror, and being totally freaked out by it. Plus, a little "can't-take-my-eyes-off-the-trainwreck" phenomenon thrown in for good measure.
These exercises in trawling the seas of the past, and wondering what the nets will bring up, are a regular part of my writing life. Sometimes, I wonder just what in hell I was thinking on any given day. Sometimes, I am amazed that I actually wrote some of the stuff I have put to the page. Not in a narcissistic self-love fest sort, mind you. I think of it as more like an autopsy or forensic engineering. I always wonder at the ideas and themes and wordcraft, studying them to see what I could have done differently or better.
Not the most forward thinking way to get things done, I know. Good for a laugh or two, even if some of those laughs seem a little nervous.
So, back to the irrelevancy post. As I was saying, I wrote it back in July. Since then I have been running it through the millstones of my mind without yet coming to any hard conclusions. That is, until today. Today, my daughter and I went to the National Zoo for a long outing in great weather. The air was cool, the skies were blue and the sun was just right. Wee Lass and I took the subway because I thought it would be an interesting trip for her (and I'm a weenie when it comes to driving in our nation's capitol), and I was right. We had a wonderful time on the subway, counting the stops and tracking things on the map. She was having fun with all the names of the stations. She even told me the escalator out of the stop before the zoo was "the longest elevator in the world!" Had a good chuckle over that one. We thoroughly enjoyed our jaunt to see the animals, even with the tigers steadfastly refusing to get up from their naps. And did you know, clouded leopards are incredibly beautiful? Made me want to go to Tibet just to see one in the wild.
What does this have to do with irrelevancy? Nothing and everything. It happened when we left the zoo to head back to the Metro station. Wee Lass wanted me to take her picture while she sat inside one of the big concrete 'O's that form the ZOO sign at the entrance. She held the little stuffed monkey* I had bought her for a souvenir and she (sort of) grinned for me as I snapped away with the camera. Standing there, warm and feeling good in the smooth white gold October sunshine, I looked at her eyes through the viewfinder and thought:
What does it matter if I am relevant only by the standards of culture? I am her father, she is my daughter who loves me, and that's the only validation that truly matters. I have purpose.
I pressed the shutter button, and the click sounded for all the world like the cosmos had righted itself.
*More accurately, a stuffed monkey residing in a fuzzy purse emblazoned with the words "Go Bananas!", dubbed 'Bananee' by Her Royal Cuteness.
Sort of like a kitten discovering a mirror, and being totally freaked out by it. Plus, a little "can't-take-my-eyes-off-the-trainwreck" phenomenon thrown in for good measure.
These exercises in trawling the seas of the past, and wondering what the nets will bring up, are a regular part of my writing life. Sometimes, I wonder just what in hell I was thinking on any given day. Sometimes, I am amazed that I actually wrote some of the stuff I have put to the page. Not in a narcissistic self-love fest sort, mind you. I think of it as more like an autopsy or forensic engineering. I always wonder at the ideas and themes and wordcraft, studying them to see what I could have done differently or better.
Not the most forward thinking way to get things done, I know. Good for a laugh or two, even if some of those laughs seem a little nervous.
So, back to the irrelevancy post. As I was saying, I wrote it back in July. Since then I have been running it through the millstones of my mind without yet coming to any hard conclusions. That is, until today. Today, my daughter and I went to the National Zoo for a long outing in great weather. The air was cool, the skies were blue and the sun was just right. Wee Lass and I took the subway because I thought it would be an interesting trip for her (and I'm a weenie when it comes to driving in our nation's capitol), and I was right. We had a wonderful time on the subway, counting the stops and tracking things on the map. She was having fun with all the names of the stations. She even told me the escalator out of the stop before the zoo was "the longest elevator in the world!" Had a good chuckle over that one. We thoroughly enjoyed our jaunt to see the animals, even with the tigers steadfastly refusing to get up from their naps. And did you know, clouded leopards are incredibly beautiful? Made me want to go to Tibet just to see one in the wild.
What does this have to do with irrelevancy? Nothing and everything. It happened when we left the zoo to head back to the Metro station. Wee Lass wanted me to take her picture while she sat inside one of the big concrete 'O's that form the ZOO sign at the entrance. She held the little stuffed monkey* I had bought her for a souvenir and she (sort of) grinned for me as I snapped away with the camera. Standing there, warm and feeling good in the smooth white gold October sunshine, I looked at her eyes through the viewfinder and thought:
What does it matter if I am relevant only by the standards of culture? I am her father, she is my daughter who loves me, and that's the only validation that truly matters. I have purpose.
I pressed the shutter button, and the click sounded for all the world like the cosmos had righted itself.
*More accurately, a stuffed monkey residing in a fuzzy purse emblazoned with the words "Go Bananas!", dubbed 'Bananee' by Her Royal Cuteness.
12 September 2010
Reggae Head
The southeastern Virginia of my youth was far from a cornucopia of music, when I was growing up there. We had variety alright, if variety was represented by the Big Trinity of country, deep-fried classic rock and Top 40. Things like punk, new wave and disco were around but were sort of the red-headed stepchildren of the Tidewater music scene.
I guess that makes me a red-headed stepchild by default.
My brother and I, mostly through his efforts, probably had a wider range of musical tastes than most of our peers. It explains how we made the transition from Led Zeppelin, Lynyrd Skynyrd and Kiss to the Sex Pistols, the Clash and Devo. Even with our quasi-cosmopolitan worldview, though, we were still not what would have been called worldly. Things like jazz and reggae were words we knew, not sounds we heard. It isn't that those things weren't around, its we didn't really know they were around so we never pursued them.
Later, much later, as adults, our tastes truly expanded. We were listening to and appreciating everything from speed metal to blues and jazz to grunge, Americana, and even on rare occasions, gospel and reggae. Reggae never gained much traction on me even far into adulthood. I don't really know why, unless it was lack of time combined with lack of investing energy in actually listening to it.
That has changed some in the past few years, especially in the last year. In that time frame I acquired a compilation of old school reggae music from the 60's, through the good graces of a former coworker of mine. She told me I'd probably like it, so I borrowed it, and yeah, I was taken in. I really dug it. It was very different from the reggae I was used to hearing, which I believe now was a result of mostly hearing reggae through the filter of radio stations whose programming directors were more interested in beach party music than roots music. As an imperfect analogy, I'd say it is like the difference between true classic rock and second generation hair band rock. One is the real deal, and one is a pale imitation.
Another turning point is what my Wee Lass discovered about Bob Marley. Rather, it is what my Wee Lass taught me that she had discovered about Bob Marley. Her Royal Cuteness likes his song "Three Little Birds", and she can sing it almost in its entirety. I know she picked up its essentials from watching Nick, Jr., and that is okay. What really blew me away and won my heart was one day the song came on the car radio, and she starts singing right on cue, warbling away with the master himself.
I would have sung more of it myself, but I kept choking up every time I looked in the rear view mirror, and her eyes on mine as she sang "Every little thing, gonna be alright..."
I know many times I don't believe that...but when she sings it, it sure sounds like the truth, mon.
I guess that makes me a red-headed stepchild by default.
My brother and I, mostly through his efforts, probably had a wider range of musical tastes than most of our peers. It explains how we made the transition from Led Zeppelin, Lynyrd Skynyrd and Kiss to the Sex Pistols, the Clash and Devo. Even with our quasi-cosmopolitan worldview, though, we were still not what would have been called worldly. Things like jazz and reggae were words we knew, not sounds we heard. It isn't that those things weren't around, its we didn't really know they were around so we never pursued them.
Later, much later, as adults, our tastes truly expanded. We were listening to and appreciating everything from speed metal to blues and jazz to grunge, Americana, and even on rare occasions, gospel and reggae. Reggae never gained much traction on me even far into adulthood. I don't really know why, unless it was lack of time combined with lack of investing energy in actually listening to it.
That has changed some in the past few years, especially in the last year. In that time frame I acquired a compilation of old school reggae music from the 60's, through the good graces of a former coworker of mine. She told me I'd probably like it, so I borrowed it, and yeah, I was taken in. I really dug it. It was very different from the reggae I was used to hearing, which I believe now was a result of mostly hearing reggae through the filter of radio stations whose programming directors were more interested in beach party music than roots music. As an imperfect analogy, I'd say it is like the difference between true classic rock and second generation hair band rock. One is the real deal, and one is a pale imitation.
Another turning point is what my Wee Lass discovered about Bob Marley. Rather, it is what my Wee Lass taught me that she had discovered about Bob Marley. Her Royal Cuteness likes his song "Three Little Birds", and she can sing it almost in its entirety. I know she picked up its essentials from watching Nick, Jr., and that is okay. What really blew me away and won my heart was one day the song came on the car radio, and she starts singing right on cue, warbling away with the master himself.
I would have sung more of it myself, but I kept choking up every time I looked in the rear view mirror, and her eyes on mine as she sang "Every little thing, gonna be alright..."
I know many times I don't believe that...but when she sings it, it sure sounds like the truth, mon.
03 September 2010
Seven Views of Mount Gumbo
Connect: Unit on. Signal acquired. Broadcast NOW:
ONE
Today my favorite local radio station, WTMD, did a continuous broadcast of the "Top 100 Beatles Songs as selected by Rolling Stone Magazine". They literally took the Rolling Stone list and played them all. The number 2 song was "I Want To Hold Your Hand". Wee Lass and I heard it on the way to dinner. Rather, she heard a version of it. The part where they sing 'I can't hide'? She said to me "Daddy, is he saying hyena?". I am amused.
TWO
At the bookstore tonight after dinner, we were sitting on the floor in the art section, looking through books on artists. Why? Because my lively daughter has already learned about Wassily Kandinsky in her kindergarten art class, and she wanted to see some more of his paintings. I am amazed.
THREE
Later in the photography section, we are again sitting on the floor, paging through a book on Ansel Adams because daddy secretly wishes he had been Ansel Adams. Wee Lass is fascinated and begins commenting on the photographs. We both were engrossed and entranced. She begins to understand why I take my camera so many places. I am humbled and realize I'll never be Ansel Adams.
FOUR
It is bedtime, and Her Royal Lightness asks to read some books. We have two old favorites (well, two for her; "The Little Mermaid" has become a Sprockets guest, and I am Dieter) and a new book: "Skippyjon Jones and the Big Bones". I blaze through the Little Mermaid, settle in with "Wabi Sabi" and really hit the big time with Skippyjon Jones. I really dig the Skippyjon, and I really, really dig her laughter as we read with the silly accents and clap our way through some of the singing bits. I am calmed.
FIVE
Earlier this afternoon, I had occasion to hang upon my bare walls, three framed photographs of mine. Suddenly, this house of mine changed character, and some of the echoes faded away. Standing there in the afternoon light, adjusting the prints to level, I held my breath with the realization that maybe, just maybe...this place is becoming a home. I was soothed.
SIX
Bouncing around on the digital ocean tonight, I had occasion to laugh, cry, smile and testify. Truly a grounding, humbling and pleasing experience. I was slightly overwhelmed at the number of stories that have come to intersect with mine, and I really felt the need to jump in the car and go visit some of the people who have come to enhance my life. I was again humbled.
SEVEN
Sitting down to write, a strange sensation washed over me. Part anxiety, part exhilaration, at the realization of just how important to me words and music and pictures have become to my, to my life. Today I discovered that Wee Lass finds it hilarious when I sing Beatles songs in a voice like that of Eric Cartman. Today I discovered that I like it when she laughs at me. Today, side by side with my daughter and reading books...that was a good day. Read, sing, write: this is a good life.
ONE
Today my favorite local radio station, WTMD, did a continuous broadcast of the "Top 100 Beatles Songs as selected by Rolling Stone Magazine". They literally took the Rolling Stone list and played them all. The number 2 song was "I Want To Hold Your Hand". Wee Lass and I heard it on the way to dinner. Rather, she heard a version of it. The part where they sing 'I can't hide'? She said to me "Daddy, is he saying hyena?". I am amused.
TWO
At the bookstore tonight after dinner, we were sitting on the floor in the art section, looking through books on artists. Why? Because my lively daughter has already learned about Wassily Kandinsky in her kindergarten art class, and she wanted to see some more of his paintings. I am amazed.
THREE
Later in the photography section, we are again sitting on the floor, paging through a book on Ansel Adams because daddy secretly wishes he had been Ansel Adams. Wee Lass is fascinated and begins commenting on the photographs. We both were engrossed and entranced. She begins to understand why I take my camera so many places. I am humbled and realize I'll never be Ansel Adams.
FOUR
It is bedtime, and Her Royal Lightness asks to read some books. We have two old favorites (well, two for her; "The Little Mermaid" has become a Sprockets guest, and I am Dieter) and a new book: "Skippyjon Jones and the Big Bones". I blaze through the Little Mermaid, settle in with "Wabi Sabi" and really hit the big time with Skippyjon Jones. I really dig the Skippyjon, and I really, really dig her laughter as we read with the silly accents and clap our way through some of the singing bits. I am calmed.
FIVE
Earlier this afternoon, I had occasion to hang upon my bare walls, three framed photographs of mine. Suddenly, this house of mine changed character, and some of the echoes faded away. Standing there in the afternoon light, adjusting the prints to level, I held my breath with the realization that maybe, just maybe...this place is becoming a home. I was soothed.
SIX
Bouncing around on the digital ocean tonight, I had occasion to laugh, cry, smile and testify. Truly a grounding, humbling and pleasing experience. I was slightly overwhelmed at the number of stories that have come to intersect with mine, and I really felt the need to jump in the car and go visit some of the people who have come to enhance my life. I was again humbled.
SEVEN
Sitting down to write, a strange sensation washed over me. Part anxiety, part exhilaration, at the realization of just how important to me words and music and pictures have become to my, to my life. Today I discovered that Wee Lass finds it hilarious when I sing Beatles songs in a voice like that of Eric Cartman. Today I discovered that I like it when she laughs at me. Today, side by side with my daughter and reading books...that was a good day. Read, sing, write: this is a good life.
22 August 2010
My Daddy, My Template
Let me state up front that never in my life have I wanted to be a template, nor did I realize that I could be a template. That is, until now.
I have read in more than one place, and have heard from more than one source, that I as the father will be the template by which my darling Wee Lass will form her opinions thereby and make judgments thereupon, on the all the male figures in her life that are destined to come after me.
Whee. Lucky me.
I don't say that because I wish to shirk my duties or responsibilities as a father who loves his daughter more than can be described in words. Far from it. What it does do is make me very nervous. I flashed on it tonight, after an episode of whining from Her Majesty that left me gritting my teeth and in less than good temper. It left me feeling bad, too.
My time with her is precious, because, well, life is precious and when it is constrained by arbitrary boundaries such as the ones that leave us at seeing each other far less rather than far more, it becomes all the more crucial to enjoy every minute. It is imperative to not waste the resource.
So that is where I found myself, irritated and impatient at running smack dab into the semi-structured illogical, non-cause and effect universe of the six-year old girl-child mind. Kids know how to push buttons, and mine were being hammered. For every decibel my voice began to creep up, I felt my self-respect starting to go down. I'm an adult, I should be able to handle this with no problem.
I can only hope that Wee Lass does know I love her, even when I'm being a cantankerous ijit. I hope I can set a high and good bar, so that she knows enough in the future to only give her heart to a man who knows just how lucky he is to receive it. A man who will treat her with respect and with love to the ends of the earth.
A man that knows, no matter how she can wind him up...he is fortunate that it is he whom she is winding up.
I have read in more than one place, and have heard from more than one source, that I as the father will be the template by which my darling Wee Lass will form her opinions thereby and make judgments thereupon, on the all the male figures in her life that are destined to come after me.
Whee. Lucky me.
I don't say that because I wish to shirk my duties or responsibilities as a father who loves his daughter more than can be described in words. Far from it. What it does do is make me very nervous. I flashed on it tonight, after an episode of whining from Her Majesty that left me gritting my teeth and in less than good temper. It left me feeling bad, too.
My time with her is precious, because, well, life is precious and when it is constrained by arbitrary boundaries such as the ones that leave us at seeing each other far less rather than far more, it becomes all the more crucial to enjoy every minute. It is imperative to not waste the resource.
So that is where I found myself, irritated and impatient at running smack dab into the semi-structured illogical, non-cause and effect universe of the six-year old girl-child mind. Kids know how to push buttons, and mine were being hammered. For every decibel my voice began to creep up, I felt my self-respect starting to go down. I'm an adult, I should be able to handle this with no problem.
I can only hope that Wee Lass does know I love her, even when I'm being a cantankerous ijit. I hope I can set a high and good bar, so that she knows enough in the future to only give her heart to a man who knows just how lucky he is to receive it. A man who will treat her with respect and with love to the ends of the earth.
A man that knows, no matter how she can wind him up...he is fortunate that it is he whom she is winding up.
20 August 2010
Heartcatcher
Being a tough guy is overrated.
I don't mean tough in an obnoxious hard ass way. I mean that implicit toughness that allows us average XY types to go about our daily business sans freak outs and breakdowns. Toughness that is a mask we wear to role play and get our jobs done.
Wait...I said jobs...I don't have a job. What do you say to that? Hmmph.
See? Toughness. It's what has made it possible for me to survive the heartbreaks, tragedies and setbacks I've undergone in the past seven years. True, there were plenty of times where I felt myself cracking. There were plenty of times where I was on the bed or in the shower bawling my eyes out. Those episodes were demoralizing and cathartic. In the aftermath I always felt ashamed to be so out of control, and relieved that I could get it out of my system.
Purging myself in that fashion made it possible for me to keep up the toughness when I really needed it. The facade could be maintained when I had business to conduct, or even while doing simple things such as shopping for groceries. Lately, being tough has kept me going at least at minimum speed. The engine ticks over with just enough impetus for me to keep up the job search, think through new pathways my life may take, and to be in the present with my Wee Lass.
Being tough has a price. It takes energy. It takes dedication. It takes resolve. Three things in short supply in this, my third month of being 'between employments'. I can't always keep the mask on, and if there is a saving grace to being out of work, it is that I have plenty of alone time to let the mask slip.
This does not equate with feeling good about it. It is a stupefying blend of that low morale and catharsis I alluded to earlier. An unpleasant but necessary thing, I guess.
Another facet to this toughness, is that it isn't always a bad thing that tears off the mask. I find that beauty will often have the same effect, especially beauty as manifested by Love. I was reminded of this tonight as I tucked in my daughter at her bed time, a simple act which nearly brought me to my knees.
I indulged her tonight, letting her play computer games for a bit longer than usual. I noticed her starting to slump a little, apple cheek on delicate hand, with a few yawns. She shut down the games unprompted, looked at me and said "I'm pooped." We shared a chuckle, and because she had earlier done her bedtime ablutions, we picked two books to read before turning in.
She was sleepy, so the usual bedtime shenanigans ("IwantwaterWhere'smystuffedanimalsTurnethpillowoverDaddy!") were limited in scope. She snuggled into her pillows with her face toward me. The bedside light had a soft glow on her face as I brushed the hair back from her eyes.
Sitting there at the edge of her bed, I brushed back the last strand of her hair and in the light I could see a faint spray of small freckles on her cheeks and dusting the bridge of her nose. She didn't look angelic or otherworldly; that would have been cliche. What she looked, though, was simply beautiful. Beautiful in an honest, open way that made my heart catch in my chest. Beautiful in the way a sunset can look, or morning light refracting through the crest of a wave.
Beauty to bring a tough guy to his knees.
Faint and dizzy, I rested my hand on her cheek, sitting quietly until I could catch my breath. The mask cracked a little, tectonic plates slipping past one another in my heart. I leaned in to say goodnight and "I love you, sweetpea" to which she murmured sleepily "I love you, too, daddy."
In that instant, as it always happens, I felt weak and invincible simultaneously. Hearing words like that enables me to take off the mask, set aside the armor, and rest. It enables me to feel human, and blessed that I had anything at all to do with creating such beauty. Blessed, indeed, that such beauty loves me in return.
I don't mean tough in an obnoxious hard ass way. I mean that implicit toughness that allows us average XY types to go about our daily business sans freak outs and breakdowns. Toughness that is a mask we wear to role play and get our jobs done.
Wait...I said jobs...I don't have a job. What do you say to that? Hmmph.
See? Toughness. It's what has made it possible for me to survive the heartbreaks, tragedies and setbacks I've undergone in the past seven years. True, there were plenty of times where I felt myself cracking. There were plenty of times where I was on the bed or in the shower bawling my eyes out. Those episodes were demoralizing and cathartic. In the aftermath I always felt ashamed to be so out of control, and relieved that I could get it out of my system.
Purging myself in that fashion made it possible for me to keep up the toughness when I really needed it. The facade could be maintained when I had business to conduct, or even while doing simple things such as shopping for groceries. Lately, being tough has kept me going at least at minimum speed. The engine ticks over with just enough impetus for me to keep up the job search, think through new pathways my life may take, and to be in the present with my Wee Lass.
Being tough has a price. It takes energy. It takes dedication. It takes resolve. Three things in short supply in this, my third month of being 'between employments'. I can't always keep the mask on, and if there is a saving grace to being out of work, it is that I have plenty of alone time to let the mask slip.
This does not equate with feeling good about it. It is a stupefying blend of that low morale and catharsis I alluded to earlier. An unpleasant but necessary thing, I guess.
Another facet to this toughness, is that it isn't always a bad thing that tears off the mask. I find that beauty will often have the same effect, especially beauty as manifested by Love. I was reminded of this tonight as I tucked in my daughter at her bed time, a simple act which nearly brought me to my knees.
I indulged her tonight, letting her play computer games for a bit longer than usual. I noticed her starting to slump a little, apple cheek on delicate hand, with a few yawns. She shut down the games unprompted, looked at me and said "I'm pooped." We shared a chuckle, and because she had earlier done her bedtime ablutions, we picked two books to read before turning in.
She was sleepy, so the usual bedtime shenanigans ("IwantwaterWhere'smystuffedanimalsTurnethpillowoverDaddy!") were limited in scope. She snuggled into her pillows with her face toward me. The bedside light had a soft glow on her face as I brushed the hair back from her eyes.
Sitting there at the edge of her bed, I brushed back the last strand of her hair and in the light I could see a faint spray of small freckles on her cheeks and dusting the bridge of her nose. She didn't look angelic or otherworldly; that would have been cliche. What she looked, though, was simply beautiful. Beautiful in an honest, open way that made my heart catch in my chest. Beautiful in the way a sunset can look, or morning light refracting through the crest of a wave.
Beauty to bring a tough guy to his knees.
Faint and dizzy, I rested my hand on her cheek, sitting quietly until I could catch my breath. The mask cracked a little, tectonic plates slipping past one another in my heart. I leaned in to say goodnight and "I love you, sweetpea" to which she murmured sleepily "I love you, too, daddy."
In that instant, as it always happens, I felt weak and invincible simultaneously. Hearing words like that enables me to take off the mask, set aside the armor, and rest. It enables me to feel human, and blessed that I had anything at all to do with creating such beauty. Blessed, indeed, that such beauty loves me in return.
29 June 2010
Sleeps With Eagles
I go to bed each night with a stuffed toy. Don't laugh, its true. His name is Mr. Eagle, my boon companion since I moved into the new house.
Mr. Eagle likes sesame seeds and fish bagels, which he prefers every morning for breakfast. He prefers some privacy while he bathes. If you squeeze his tummy, he emits the tell-tale call of the bald eagle crying out to its young, or signaling to others. Other than that, Mr. Eagle is very quiet, as befits any creature that has taken up residence in the bedroom. He is the strong silent type.
His beak is bright yellow, and sharp. As sharp as can be expected from a plush toy, anyway. His eyes are black, and ever unblinking. He has white head feathers, surrounded by a magnificent ruff of downy plumage. It makes him look fierce, and somewhat larger than his actual size of approximately six inches high. His talons are blunt (again, the plushness) but highly visible. This serves as a warning, perhaps, to any would-be intruders or assailants who dare disturb me while I slumber.
This deterrence is a good thing. Mr. Eagle, you see, is my protector.
How do I know this? Simple. My daughter told me so. I take Her Majesty's pronouncements quite seriously when they are as solemnly delivered as the one wherein she bequeathed Mr. Eagle to me. It was around the first time she stayed with me after the move. When it came time to start readying her stuff to return to her mother's house, I was feeling a little down and she asked me what was wrong. I told her that I was a little sad to see her go, and it made me feel lonely.
Wee Lass looked at me with those stained glass eyes, and handed me Mr. Eagle. "Keep him, daddy," she said, "and put him in your bedroom while you sleep. When you see him, you can think of me and you won't be lonely". She later told me that he would protect me. I thanked her, and carefully placed Mr. Eagle on the other side of the bed, propped up against the pillows.
I didn't have the heart to tell her how a stuffed toy won't really push back the great gray walls of loneliness. It won't really comfort you when you wake up from another anxiety dream clutching at air and cursing the suffocating dark. It won't really keep the wolves from the door.
Then again, when I turn out the light, I always reach over and make sure Mr. Eagle is sitting upright...you just never know when something dangerous might come through the door. But I know if it does, I won't be totally on my own. Mr. Eagle, he's got my back. Wee Lass, she's got my heart. Together, we push back hard against those great gray walls.
03 March 2010
In The Land of Goofball Squirrels
Cool title, yes?
I have no idea what it means, but herewith is my subject du jour: cause and effect. This concept is causing me some head pain. Not because I don't understand it. I understand it all to well. No, the head pain comes from my daughter not quite understanding it.
I know, I know...she's in kindergarten, so some slack shall be cut. Still, there are times when not really connecting the dots makes me want to tear my hair out, or run around in circles. I think this is because I have spent more time in the country of CauseandEffectistan than I have spent out of it. A common side effect of being an "adult", more's the pity.
The anxiety arises because I understand it, and I am accustomed to those around me understanding it. This is a wonderful thing, because it means I do not have to spend any time explaining things. Well, most of the time I don't, can't say it has never happened. Simple things, like a gas flame is hot, ice is slippery and water is wet. I am just not used to having to spell these concepts out.
I was reminded of this principle recently on a foray to a local park. A park that is still mostly under a very thick layer of snow, and was undergoing a rapid melt under the effects of a run of above freezing temperatures. To wit:
"Look, daddy, the snow's melting!"
"Yes, it is, sweet pea."
"Look, daddy, I'm walking in the mud!" That bit was said with great enthusiasm and a grin.
"I see, sweetie. Your boots will get muddy." A minute passes.
"AIIIIEEE! DADDY! THERE'S MUD ON MY BOOOOTS! AIIIEEE!"
Yes, dear. I'll alert the media.
27 February 2010
Alternative Energy Takes a Strange Twist
I was toy-shopping in a big box store, watching my Wee Lass devolve into 'paralysis-by-analysis' while trying to decide on what to spend her Valentine's Day greenbacks (courtesy of grand-mère et grand-père), and came across this most curious sign:
Can I get a green energy tax credit if I use it power my house? Although, I'm not sure how I would hook it up...
22 February 2010
Music To Warm The Heart
Last Friday was the south end of a north bound donkey. It sucked. I hadn't slept well the night before, and traffic was horrendous on the way to work (40 minutes late because of another accident), the workday was bumpy, I was dealing with a leaking roof, dealing with some stressful family news, and I got stuck in traffic AGAIN on the way home from work to pick up my daughter for the weekend.
So, yeah, it was a 5-gallon bucket of homemade suck. Hot, bitter and irritating.
But...remember I said I was picking up my daughter? Well, I did, after an hours' drive to get there. Being too tired to deal with cooking, we stopped at a local beans-and-cheese-and-rice place (rhymes with "Skiboat-lay") for some, well, beans and cheese and rice. Oh, and chips.
A nice dinner with the Wee Lass definitely smoothed some of the edges off the day, but what really put me in the happy zone occurred on the drive home. I had the radio on, and "Rock The Casbah" by The Clash came on. I was singing (badly) and trying to get her to join in on the chorus. She thought it was funny, but I could tell she wasn't exactly seeing the light about The Only Band That Matters. Not to worry, I'm sure she will come around...
After asking me what a 'casbah' was, she says "Daddy, do you know what song we haven't heard in a while?"
"What's that, sweetie?"
"The wearing purple song."
"Huh?"
"The start wearing purple song. Can we please listen to it?"
My jaw dropped a few inches. My daughter, the light o' my life, apple of my jaundiced eye, just asked to hear "Start Wearing Purple" by Gogol Bordello. I was stunned. And proud! *sniff* My little alt-rocker *sniff*.
How she remembered it I'll never know. I had played it in her presence a grand total of once, in the car, and at the time I was singing loudly (and of course, badly) and was cajoling her to sing the chorus with me. No dice. Not even copping a pirate voice and singing it with a few "arrrrs!" could do it. She just kept saying "Dadd-eee, stop singing!". Good thing I don't have an ego about my singing ability.
I did the only thing I could do: at the next stoplight, I grabbed the iPod and iTrip from my briefcase and queued up "Start Wearing Purple". This time, she started laughing and clapping some in time to the beat. She even joined in on a chorus or two, with me and my faux Eastern European or maybe its a weird pirate voice.
Somehow, driving home with food in the belly, a song in the throat and good company made all of that nonsense from the day just disappear. It was beauty, it was just what I needed.
In honor of our songfest, I leave you with this live performance. Ladies and gentlemen, put on your best purple finery and sing with us now...
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