Leverage, or Purrah

You are a creature of habit. And some of those habits I believe border an obsessive compulsive disorder. But as you're only three and half, and I am an unlicensed child psychologist, I'm willing to overlook it.

"Wait," you might say years from now, "what are you talking about? I was a little girl."

Yeah, well let me explain the routine that must be followed EXACTLY, or a meltdown ensues.

After your bath we put on your pajamas and read two books. Lately, in the middle of the second book you say, "Can we read three because I love you so much?"

I usually cave because I love YOU so much and what's the harm of another book. However, although you SAY love me so much, you don't LISTEN like you love me so much.

Sigh...

Yes, that's all 'within the spectrum' as they say. But here's where it gets weird.

After we read, I tuck you in. I make sure you have socks on and that you have all five of your kitties to sleep with. You arrange them accordingly - EVERY time. This one on this side, that one next to that one, the other one ever there, etc... I pull your blanket up, then the smaller blanket with the pink polka dots facing up, and then the tiny blanket with the tag up on the lower right side. I go to the right side of your bed and sing You Are My Sunshine before hugging you and kissing you and giving you a series of high fives. Up until a few weeks ago the high fives went, "Five, ten, twenty, twenty." Now they go, "Kitty, fairy, princess, kitty." I walk to the door and turn puppy light on to pink so you can pink your friends. You raise each of them to the light. "Pink, pink, pink, pink," you say. And then, 'Daddy, can you please pink Purple Kitty?" I go back to your bed and hold up Purple Kitty. "Pink," I say. Oh, and recently we added moisturizer to this routine. "My tummy is itchy," you said a few nights ago. So now, every night since, I rub Curel with 'ultra feeling' on your tummy. Somehow your legs and feet also became itchy so I have to put moisturizer on them, too. Anyway, after 'pinking', I turn off your dimmed room light. "Goodnight, Nola," I say, "Mommy and daddy and Judah love you very much. Laila tov." As I close your door you say, "Can you turn off the hall light?" And then I do.

That's the routine. I usually get it right. But if I forget any one of these, you cry and scream. So I'll come in and complete whatever the task and then you say, "I want my tears wiped."

It's a bit much.

Last night while we were reading you interrupted and said, "I need my nails cut."

"I don't think that's gonna happen, sweetie. It's late. It's sleepytime."

What started as a whimper escalated to tears in seconds. You jumped off my lap and started down the hall.

"Nola, come here please. Nola, please come here. Nola, are you listening? This is your first warning."

But you were already racing up the stairs.

Sigh...

Here's the thing, sweetheart. Daddy's tired. And he's tired of you not listening. Yes, I understand you're not the pinpoint center of the universe anymore and you feel compelled to act out, but quite frankly, you're being a fucking asshole.

Bam!

There, I said it. That felt good. Huh, who knew? I mean beside Louis CK...*

So now you're upstairs with mommy telling your sob story about your nails to her.

"Let me finish feeding Judah," mommy says, "and then I'll come down and cut your nails, sweetheart."

Grrrrrr...

"Now apologize to daddy for not listening," mommy continues as she looks at me glaring in the doorway, "and I'll be down in a little bit."

You mumble a half apology with your thumb in your mouth and we go downstairs to finish the book, which I really don't feel like reading anymore. In other words, I'm done with you.

I mechanically finish the book and we sit in silence until mommy comes downstairs. I chill in the other room as she cuts your nails.

"Rib?"

I come back in.

"I have to finish feeding Judah. Can you tuck her in?"

I nod.

"Good night, sweetheart," says mommy as she heads back upstairs.

"Daddy," you say, "Kitty Caw didn't go to ballet today because she-"

"Nola, it's sleepy time."

You've already moved on from our row. I have not. Nonetheless I go through the routine. I make sure the tiny blanket has the tag facing up on the bottom right side, but I go immediately to puppy light. No song.

"Daddy, can you sing You Are My Sunshine?"

"No, I don't feel like it."

"Daddy, please." Your voice is trembly. Some of the hard frozen edges of my heart start to flake off.

"I really don't feel like singing, Nola."

"That's not nice."

Really? You wanna go there? Ok, fine.

"Nola, what's not nice is when you don't listen. That's not nice. Running out of the room in the middle of a story is not nice. Crying and screaming for no good reason is not nice. You're a big girl, sweetheart. Are you not a big girl?"

I don't know what structure you call a question like that, but yes, that's hard to answer. Regardless, your thumb is locked between your lips.

"You hurt daddy's feelings when you didn't listen."

Silence.

And then you take your thumb out of your mouth.

"I'm sorry, daddy."

Beep. Shzzzzzzzz...

Apparently there is an instant defrost setting on my heart.

"Ok, well, I appreciate you saying that. Thank you. That makes daddy feel better."

I sing the song quietly, finish out the routine. But before I turn off the hall light, we go over kitty removal. Your mom is the genius who came up with the kitty removal strategy and this is the first time I remember to employ it. "Nola," I say, "if you have to go pee pee, or need a drink of water, you can go ahead and do that. You're a big girl. But if you get out of bed for any other reason, what happens?"

"You or mommy take a kitty."

"That's right. Now go sleepytime. Mommy and daddy and Judah love you very much. Laila tov."

I go upstairs to make dinner. Really I'm just heating up the oven to 450º before throwing in a frozen pizza. But at about 275º you're at the top of the steps. Purrah is draped over your arm.

"Daddy, can you smooth out my blanket?"

I feel like a spider. A mean cruel ugly spider. This meal is too easy. I barely spun a web.

"Sure," I say. "No problem. But you know what happens now, right?"

"What?"

"I take Purrah."

You're caught. You twist and turn and writhe, but there's web all over you. You can't get free. You scream out and cry.

Purrah is just a kitty head attached to a washcloth, only it's the softest washcloth in the world. I don't know what these things are called. It's not a wash cloth, but it has no arms or legs and it's sooooo soft. Purrah is your oh so soft kitty that you love oh so much. I believe she is your favorite, that she has even topped Kitty Caw.

You are crying. And crying. You can hardly catch your breath. I walk you to your room, take Purrah. "Sleeytime," I say. "Now."

I close the door. It doesn't seem possible, but you cry and scream even louder.

I. Feel. Terrible.

I wait at your door.

Screaming, crying. Screaming. Crying.

I hear you come to the door. You open it. I'm right there. Between sobs and sucks of air you say, "I want my tears wiped."

I steer you back to your bed, wipe your tears.

"I love Purrah so much," you manage to say.

"I know."

"Can I have her please? I'll listen. I have my listening ears on."

You put your hands at your ears.

Beep. Shzzzzzz fssssshhhhhh. Gurrrrrrggggg.

My heart melts.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. Those are the rules."

But instead of screaming out in ear drum damaging horror, you continue to sob and open your arms for a hug.

Beep. Shzzzzzz kathunnk. Chgrk. Fssssshhhhhh. Klank. KaBOOM!

My heart, which is just goo, actually explodes into a million pieces.

I lean in for a hug.

"Ok," I say - because I can't take any more - "I'm going to give you Purrah back, but let this be a warning for tomorrow night and all other nights. Purrah will be taken away. Do you understand?"

You nod, reach one arm out because the other is connected to your thumb which is now connected to your mouth. I hand you Purrah and pull the blankets up, smooth them out.

"Sleepytime," I say. "Sleepytime."

I close the door, and that's last we will see of each of this evening. It's been a tough night. For everyone.


*

Morning Conversation - Thursday

It's 6:06 in the am. I hear Nola outside our room. Actually I hear her first turn the light on in the hallway. Click. I look at the edge of our blinds. It's still dark outside. Pam and Judah are still sleeping. I put on my shorts and walk out to the hall. Nola is in the other room. She somehow hears me silently shut the door to our bedroom.

Nola: I love you, daddy.

Me: I love you, too, sweetheart. Good morning.

Nola: Do you want to play with me?

Me: Yes, but I have to feed Oliver first. He's meowing.

Nola: I'm going to give him a hug.

Me: That's very sweet.

Nola hugs the cat and releases him. I get the food out, put it in his bowl. Nola watches me from the couch.

Nola: Is it the weekend?

Me: No, sweetie, it's Thursday.

Nola: Can we watch a Pingu?

(Pingu is a series of 5 minute cartoons about a penguin named Pingu we watch on YouTube - ONLY on the weekends.)

Me: I think Pingu is just for the weekends, sweetheart.

Nola: Can we watch it because I love you so much?

Me: Ok, sweetie, we have to have a conversation. Let's go downstairs.

We go downstairs. I pull Nola onto my lap. I kiss her neck.

Me: You have to stop manipulating daddy, ok? Just because you love me so much doesn't mean you can do whatever you want whenever you want, ok?

Nola lies there with her thumb in her mouth.

Me: Daddy loves you so much all the time. But during the week we read and we play with your dollhouse and the cars. We draw and make necklaces. If we watched Pingu all the time it wouldn't be special. You're going to have your whole life to watch cartoons. Mommy and I are trying to preserve your childhood. We are creating boundaries.

Nola: What are boundaries?

Me: They're sort of like fences. They keep us safe. They keep us from becoming little monsters.

Nola: Am I a little monster?

Me: Well, sometimes. I mean we're all little monsters sometimes. But it's very important to have boundaries.

Nola: I don't like boundaries. I want to watch Pingu.

Me: Yes, I'm sure you do. But Pingu is just for the weekends. Let's play with the dollhouse. What's Paul Simon doing?

(Paul Simon is the dad doll of her dollhouse.)

Nola: He's driving Belle and Sleeping Beauty to ballet class.

Me: Should we see if anyone else wants to come?

We hear Judah cry upstairs. It turns into the bleating of a goat.

Nola: I don't like when Judah cries.

Me: I know, sweetie. No one does. But let's go up and say good morning to mommy and Judah.

Nola puts her thumb in her mouth and begins to go up upstairs. She let's out a whimper mid-flight.

Me: Nola, c'mon, no fake crying.

Nola keeps whimpering and runs into our room when she gets upstairs. I hear her from the top of the steps.

Nola: Mommy, daddy says I need boundaries. I don't like boundaries.

C'est la vie, non?

Northern California 2 (specifically just the baggage claim at SFO)

We landed at SFO, which is essentially the future.  Its smart lines, recycling bins, modern design/industrial strength furniture, and filtered air all played to the various high end stores we passed on our way to baggage claim.  Of course, your mom and I did take a moment to use the facilities, wash our hands, and dip them into the Dyson air blades for a quick dry.

Some day, ALL airports will be like this.

We gathered our stuff and waited for Aunt Laura outside.  The air still a bit crisp, you and your mom went back inside.  I waited in the cool San Francisco air and watched a security cop start to write up a ticket for an abandoned Volvo.  The driver came out with some bags and was closely followed by his wife and daughter.  In theory, the driver could have pretended not to see the cop.  He could have just started loading his car.  Because then when he 'noticed' the security cop, he could have pretended that he had just seen his family through the window and went to help them - and did NOT really leave his vehicle.  

Even that's not a fullproof out.  But it's better than yelling at the cop.  The driver could have been nicer.  He could have asked the security cop to give him a warning - after all, it was Xmas.  But ignorance off the law is no excuse, and if you act like a jackass, you will be treated as such.  Remember that.

The guy got a ticket.

That said, this whole incident is a bit gray to me because airports were not always a police state.  Post 2001, it's now possible that the Volvo is full of explosives and will destroy the part of the airport where people go to retrieve their suitcases.  

Really, that's low hanging fruit.  Who wants to destroy baggage claim?  Better they should monitor the BART.  Some holy roller with a back pack full of C4 and a one way fare from the West Oakland to Embarcadero will ruin it for everyone.  

(To anyone reading this, I NOT a terrorist - and I only know C4 from TV.  Or maybe from one of the Lethal Weapon movies.)

Your mom texted me she was going to change your poopie diaper.  And then a minute later Aunt Laura pulled up.  It's good you finally had a poopie, but this was going to get tricky.  The security cop was clearly working this stretch of the American Airline terminal.  I watched him amble toward Aunt Laura's car.  I nodded in his direction and started to get out your car seat.  The thing is, Ruby's car seat was already in the back seat.

"What are you doing?" asked Aunt Laura.

"Pretending to put in Nola's car seat."

"Can't she just use Ruby's?  Wait, what?"

"Pam is changing Nola and this cop is going to write us a ticket."

I continued to pretend to put your car seat in.  I pretended to reach in to find the LATCH.  I pretended there was no LATCH and I would have to use the seatbelts.  Aunt Laura went around to the other side to pretend to help.

"Should I move my hands around a little?" she asked.

"Yeah, maybe pretend to take out Ruby's seat."

Either the restroom was in the United terminal or you had a giant blow out.  It was taking a very long time and eventually we couldn't pretend any longer.  We looked liked mimes without makeup.  I started to put your seat back in its bag - which ALWAYS seems to take forever.  Now it was slipping in like the most perfect glove.  The cop sidled up to the car.

"How's it going?" he asked.

"Think we're just going to use the other car seat.  Just going to put this one in back."

"Hi," said your Aunt Laura coming around from the other side.

Your Aunt Laura has a great bedside manner.  She used to be a hostess at a restaurant when she was still a teenager.  And now, as a professional photographer, she makes complete strangers feel comfortable in front of her camera even when they are naked.

She smiled and pushed her long hair back.

"This has to be a hard job.  Especially today, huh?"

The cop smiled and pointed to me.

"Yeah, I think he saw me write up a ticket just a few minutes ago.  Got yelled at and everything."

"Oh, that's so hard," your aunt continued.

"My wife is changing our daughter's diaper," I said.  "She should be out any second."

"I can drive around if you want," Laura volunteered.

"No, you're fine," said the cop putting his pen back into his shirt pocket.

Finally you showed up with your mom and everything was fine.  Again, why anyone would want to destroy baggage claim is beyond me.

We got onto the highway and headed across the bay.

 

Pooping in the Potty

Not ONLY did you go to school today, but you ALSO pooped in the potty.  When your mom and I came home tonight you had just finished taking care of business.

"You guys are just in time," said Shauna.  "In fact, you can see for yourself."

Sure enough (and I don't mean to embarrass you) there was quite a load.  I have a picture, but maybe we'll just keep under wraps for now.

"Oh my stars, Nola pie!" I shouted.  "Did you just poop in the potty?"

"I have Kitty.  And Dalmi."  

Like it was no big deal.

When I was in college I fell down a flight of stairs at a party.  Somehow I stayed on my feet and eventually landed next to a comely co-ed.  Because my arm was already out to break my fall, I placed it on her shoulder when I came to a stop.  "How ya doin?  What's your name?"

But really, I think your achievement and cavalier je ne sais quoi was a much bigger deal.

Nice!

 

A Little Crying, No Big

Your mom took you to school this morning.  She didn't want me to go.  She thought it might be too much.  For who?  You?  Her?

Really, I think she just wanted to have this moment for herself.  That's ok.  There will be lots of moments.  Some I'll miss.  Some your mom will miss.  Some you might even miss.  What's important is the love.

I love you.  I love your mom.  I'm good.  We're good.  It's all good.

Your mom came home after dropping you off.

"How'd it go?" I asked.

"Fine.  I mean she cried when I told her I was leaving."

"Did you just sat goodbye, or did you drag it out and then pinch her?"

"What?"

"Nothing."

"There was a purple pen that she started drawing with.  She loves a purple pen.  And they have a really nice kitchen set.  So she did some cooking.  Do you think we're sending her off toschool too early?"

"No, I think it's fine.  I think it's good.  Let's see what happens, ok?"

"Ok."

Who's Crying Now

Tomorrow is your first day of pre pre-school.  We checked it out a few weeks ago.  Creative Scholars.  It seems nice.  Who am I kidding?  It seems GREAT.  They have tiny toilets in the bathrooms - which is incredibly cute if not downright pragmatic.

Your mom is taking you.  She is very nervous for you.  Very.  She thinks you will cry and have a meltdown when she turns around to leave.  You might.  It's also possible that you will be distracted by the other kids and all the things to play with.  

Who knows?

Really, I'm most nervous for your mom.  I'm hoping she doesn't cry and have a meltdown when you forget to look around to see if she's there.

Good luck... to both of you. 

Flight Plan

We flew back to Chicago from Palm Springs.  Was it a 727?  Something smaller?  I don't know.  Your mom thinks it was smaller than the plane we took out there.  Not just the plane itself, but the size of the seats, the depth of the rows, the width of the aisle.  

It's possible.  I couldn't tell.

As you know, you're two.  Well, I don't know how well you comprehend that, but for argument sake, your mom and I know you're two.  To almost anyone, you're two.  You talk alot, and speak in full sentences sometimes, so maybe they think you're three.  Maybe.

In front of us was a couple.  In front of you specifically was the wife.  It's possible she just had back surgery, or was suffering from a terrible 3rd degree sun burn - who knows.  But any time your feet touched the back of her seat, she'd turn around and give your mom the stink eye.

A plane is an unfortunate space.  It's made to be just barely comfortable - if that.  It's a miracle - don''t get me wrong.  It's the closest thing we have to time travel that doesn't involve a rocket or magic beans, but it's hours and hours of concentrated sitting.

Again, it was not full force kicking.  It was a tap tap tapping, like when a dog wags its tail hoping for table scraps.  It's annoying, but not unforgiving.  Your mom did her best to reign you in.

"Please put your feet down, Nola.  That's not our seat."  (She said it loud enough the woman could hear.)

And for the most part, you complied.  But you're two - which means two things.  1)  You're going to forget and not fully understand property/personal space issues.  2)  Your mom and I are not going to scold you and create a scene.

To note - immediately after we took off, the woman put her seat back.  This was NOT cool.  A)  because we weren't even near a cruising altitude and B)  because it further compromises the unfortunate space between rows.  

And let's be honest.  To recline on a plane is to go from 1 to 1.5 on a scale of 10.

After about three hours in (as we began to circle O'hare), the woman turned around in her seat.

"C'mon!  Three hours?  Seriously?"

"Excuse me?"  Your mom was taken aback.

"Can you not keep your child from kicking my seat?"

"She's two."

"Who's the parent?"

"What?  That's rude, ok?  My daughter is sick.  And she's been sick for days.  It's a miracle she's even alive."

Yes, somehow this is what your mom said.  No, you were never close to expiring.  You just had a cold.  I knew it was too much.  I'm sure your mom knew it was too much.  I don't think the woman even  heard.  She turned around, shook her head, and complained to her husband.

Again, a plane is an unfortunate space.  There is no privacy, it's loud, everyone is uncomfortable and belted in, no one wants to be there.  There was nothing I could do.  

Your mom turned to me.

"Can you believe that?  That's so rude."

"I know.  I'll take care of it."

"What?  What are you going to do?"

"I'll take care of it."

For the next 45 minutes I went over my speech.

"I'm sorry our daughter was kicking your seat.  But you should know we held her in our laps when you put your seat back - which was immediately after takeoff.  Also, she's only two.  She doesn't understand about kicking.  She barely understands about jumping - which she's actually getting good at.  Further, our daughter doesn't sleep on planes.  In that way she's like me.  I can never sleep on a plane.  Our daughter is overtired.  Exhausted really.  My wife is an incredible mother.  She is very patient and loving.  This is our only child and together we are still learning what it is to parent.  On a plane, in a confined space, we feel it's inappropriate to scold our child - not because we let her run roughshod, but because she is a sensitive girl and we know from experience she will cry and scream and carry on.  She does not like to disappoint us.  And it is not for us to make everyone on this place miserable from her wailing.  In some ways you are a sacrificial lamb, and again, I apologize.  We did our best to keep her from touching your seat short of tying her legs down."

Something like that.

After we landed, and came to a stop, I immediately got up and leaned over the seat.

"Excuse me, ma'am?  Ma'am?"

(I thought your mom would like that.  Ma'am instead of Miss.)

"Ma'am." 

The woman and her husband turned around and looked up.

"I'm sorry our daughter was kicking your seat.  But-"

"Oh, that's ok.  We totally understand.  We have kids of our own."

"Well, when you had your seat back-"

"I know.  We appreciate that.  That was very kind.  Thank you.  It's ok.  We undestand."

"Ok."

I sat back down.  Your mom looked at me.  No, that's not right.  She GLARED at me.  She wanted nothing more than to stab me.  

Repeatedly.

(Maybe it's good they don't allow cuttlery on planes anymore.)

After we got home, and all jets had cooled, your mom and I concluded that next time we fly, we'll get a pre-emptive Starbucks 'Sorry, I have a toddler' card.  And that would be our flight plan.

 

 

 

 

Baby Breakdown

This one isn't really about you as much as your mom.

Last night I let her stay up too late.  We'd been watching Boardwalk Empire.  Somehow the DVR failed to record it while it was running so we've been catching up with it OnDemand.  It's great.  Sooo much better than season 1.  Nuanced storytelling, deeper character development, perfect costumes and set design, blah blah blah.  It's addicting, and we've been devouring it this weekend while you've been sleeping.  

It was already 11pm when we decided to watch 'one more' - your mom's idea, not mine.  In fact, I suggested we cut ourselves off.  "It's late, sweetheart.  We should go to bed." (My exact words.)

"Oh, c'mon.  Just one more."

"Ok."

Meh, I should have put my foot down.

When the episode ended your mom turned to me.  "I'm so sad," she said.  I knew it had nothing to do with Margaret cheating on Nucky.  

"The weekend's over," she continued.  "This whole vacation is over.  I don't want to go to work tomorrow.  I already miss her."

"I know, sweetheart.  But she's not going anywhere."

"It goes so fast.  Everyone said it would go fast.  They're right.  It goes so fast.  She's going to go to pre-school and then she's going to be gone all day.  She wants to go.  She knows.  I'll never get to be with her."

"Sweetie, we have the rest of our lives."

"But anything can happen.  Every day is important."

"You're right."

"I just love her so much.  She's so sweet and good."

"I know.  She's a wonderful little girl."

"I just want her to like me.  I don't ever want her to hate me."

"Whoa, what are you talking about?  Are you high?  Who do you think she always calls for - Mommy."

"I know, but daughters always have issues with their mothers."

"Some of that is life, sweetheart.  I think that's built in.  It's hard wired.  It's inevitible on some level."

"But I just love her so much.  I want her to know how much I love her."

"She knows."

"Really?"

"Yes."

Your mom looked down into the couch.

"You know how I'm always right?" I asked.

She half-shrugged her shoulders and half-nodded her head.

"Like the Granny Smith apples?" I pushed.

For months I've been telling your mom NOT to get me organic Granny Smith apples.  For some reason they are ALWAYS mealy.  I like a good crisp genetically engineered green apple.  Yesterday, your mom revealved that she finally understood I was correct to maintain my politically and organically incorrect apple stance.

"Yes," she said.  "Like you were right about the apples."

"Well, this one is even easier.  She knows.  I'm sure."

Then your mom blathered on about one thing or another.  I have no idea.  I tuned it out.  I was done.  But what I know for sure - your mom loves you all the way to the moon and back.  

And then some.

PS.  I do, too.  But I think your mom already has her pilot's license.

Northern California 1

For the last few weeks your mom and I have been prepping you on our upcoming trip to California.  We do our best to explain air travel, time zones, and the importance of keeping to the schedule.  And we continue to read your Nola photo book and point out Aunt Laura, Uncle Jason, Mozi and Ruby.  

"This is Aunt Laura and Uncle Jason.  Who's this?  That's right!  That's Mozi.  And- yes, sweetheart, that's Ruby.  Good girl!  We're going to visit them soon.  We're going to go to the airport and get on an airplane and fly to San Francisco, California.  That's where they live.  We live in Chicago, Illinois."

I know this sounds like we're dumbing it down, but right now that's how it is.  

Anyway...

My bag - check.  You and your mom's bag - check.  My carry on - check.  Your mom's purse - check.  Your mom's carry on which includes diapers, an extra outfit, food, a good portion of your books and toys - check.  Your stroller - check.  Your car seat - check.

As you might imagine, you were packed several days ago.  I did most of mine Xmas eve.

On Xmas day, we loaded up the taxi and went to Ohare.  Then we unloaded the taxi and dragged everything into the airport terminal.  Maybe dragged is too strong a word.  Lugged.

Surprisingly, the aiport was fairly crowded.  Although most were either Asian or Jewish.

We dropped off the bags and were much more fancy free.  That said, going through security with your car seat is ALWAYS a pain.  I have to take it out if its bag.  Then I need to point out to a TSA person that it won't fit though the thing.  Then I have to wait, and wait, and wait as they fondle it, xray it, and swab it.  Sure, they can see you and your mom right there.  It's a slim chance we've hidden something dangerous in the slim padding of your seat (save some sort of ancient piece of apple or cracker), BUT there IS a chance - however slim.

Grrrrrrrrr...

The airport is probably not unlike the zoo for you.  It's full of all kinds of wild animals of all sorts of shapes, sizes, and colors.  

Hi.  Hi.  Hi.  Hi.  What you do today?  Hi.

"Sweetheart, please come back to Daddy.  Nola."

Hi.  Hi.  Dalmi, what you do today?

"Nola.  Nola, please come to Daddy."

Mommy!  I want Mommy.  Mommy!

"I know, sweetie.  She went to get something for us to eat.  She'll be right back."

I want MOMMY! MOMMY!

Your mom came back, we boarded the plane, and took our seats.  Then we flew to San Francisco.  One thing we've determined from all our traveling with you - you do NOT sleep on airplanes.

Daddy! I Want Daddy!

Normally, it's the other way around.  "Mommy!  I want Mommy!  Mommy!!!"  

I understand that.  

Your mother is the gentler kinder more patient one.  She's the prettier softer better smelling one.  She's the one that gets you up almost every morning.  And she's the one who carefully dresses/coordinates you.

I dress you in what's closest. Usually whatever's in the first or second drawer.

So when you call for her, I get it.  It's cool.

I only have the smallest fleeting tinge of jealousy when you call out for her first.  

Honestly.  

The smallest fleeting tinge. Of a tinge, really. 

It makes me happy to see how happy it makes your mom.  I know her.  She likes to be needed.

I like to be needed, too, don't get me wrong.  But it's sorta like what we talked about before.  I can hold my breath longer.

But to be REALLY honest, when you're screaming and crying, I'm FINE to have your mom deal with it.  Just fine.

Anyway, I got you up and dressed the other morning.  Your mom was tired.  I tried to give her an extra half hour of sleep.  So you and I read books, and made shoe fly pie.  Not real shoe fly pie, just pretend.  Then your mom got up and we joined her in the bed.  We read more books.  

Then I had to take a shower and get ready for work.  So I'm not sure what happened, but as I stepped out of the shower I heard crying just outside the door.  I wrapped a towel around me and opened it.

"Daddy!  I want Daddy!"

I looked down and you had big fat tears rolling down your red cheeks.

"Hi, sweetheart!  Hi, sweet pumpkin!  Daddy's right here.  Hi!"

"Hi Daddy!"

I looked up at your mom.  "What happened?"

"I don't know.  She just started crying and wanted to see you."

"Oh, sweet Nola Pie," I said brushing away the tears.  "Was Mommy mean to you?  Did she hurt you?  Bad Mommy.  Bad.  That's why you love Daddy more, right?  Should we go get ice cream and candy to lock this in?"

;-)

No, I just brushed away the tears.  Your mom and I are a team.  But I was flushed with a good feeling and imagined the kind of rush your mom must enjoy on a daily basis. 

It's crazy how much we love you, sweetheart.

 

Golf Magazine

I get Golf magzine delivered to the house.  I don't know why or how.  Well, how because the postman delievers it.  But why I have no idea as I never subscribed.  I like golf, but I play two or three times a year.  My interest doens't merit a glossy periodical.  It's probably because of some promotion I didn't read.  Or some promotion I only half-read.  Hopefully it's free.  I should check.

But that's not what this is about.  We have this magazine on the coffee table.  It ended up as part of the pile that contains other magazines and brochures that haven't yet made it to the recycling pile.  This morning you and I were reading from the the pile of your library books which contains 'What's Up, Duck' and 'Manners' - also on the coffee table.  As we exhausted the library pile, you pointed to the magazine pile - of which Golf was on top.

"Golf," you said.

"What?"

"Golf," now starting to get irritated.  

I looked up at your mom who was wiping things down in the kitchen.

"Did you tell her this is Golf?" I asked holding up the cover of Nick Faldo in a smart sweater.

"No."

"How does she know it's Golf.  I never said anything.  Shauna?"

"I don't know."

I asked Shauna tonight if she ever mentioned to you about Golf magazine.  She wasn't sure.  

"Maybe?"

Perhaps Tata said something.  We'll have to ask when she's over.  

Golf, while ultimately a complicated sport with many nuances and sublties, is a simple word.  One syllable. One sound; like when you swallow something too big.  

I'm going to brush this off as something random, like when your Grandma Simmie offhandedly mentioned 'Welcome to the twos', and it became your mantra.  

"Welcome to the twos," you said.  "Welcome to the twos.  Welcome to the twos."

I'll alert the media when you start asking for the Consumer Reports.

 

 

Pre Pre School

No, sweetheart that is not a typo.  Your mom and I are looking into the schools you go into BEFORE you go into pre school.  It will probably be just twice a week 8:30 - 12:30.  I don't know that your mom could handle three days.

So today we took you to Creative Scholars.  It's a 7 minute drive from where we live.  Not that big of a deal to get to, but milestone-wise for your mom and me - BIG DEAL.

Because this means you are growning up, and we can't keep you on the bed anymore by creating a barrier of pillows.  Nor are we qualified to home school you, or wealthy enough to hire a tutor and stay at home with you every second of every day - even that's would your mom would prefer.  I'm of the idea that that's not particularly healthy.

You're a smart little girl and your brain is a sponge.  We want you to soak up as much as you can.

New World Order

Ok, ths might be too much information, but Apple is going to drop iWeb - which is where/how I've been keeping your Bambina blog.  C'est la vie, non?  So I think this might be your new digital home.  Although, you do have a couple tumblr blogs and a twitter account.

I don't know.  Let's see how it goes.

test

test