Daddy, Can I Take the Credit Card

Springtime brings spring cleaning and, for us, buying new clothes for the kids. Maddie, not yet four, insisted on picking her own clothes from the catalog. At the store, she sifted through the options herself, selecting astonishingly well-coordinated outfits.

She wore one of the new outfits to pre-school on Monday. You would have thought the center of the classroom was a cat-walk: posing with each step, head poised coyly down and to the side. She paused periodically as though giving the Paparazzi her better side.

Her charm is extreme. Mom and Dad are fully transfixed. But what does this mean to my budget ten years from now? Do they have fashion 529 accounts?

Kids are in Bed

We're watching yesterday's episode of The Office, recorded on Tivo. We have two lap tops out, browsing via wireless. Katie is on her cell phone. You know you're a thirty something if...

Out of the Storm

"Hurry, daddy," Maddie yelled. "Come out of the rain."

I ran to her.

"No, daddy," she corrected. "You have to yell when you do it."

Back I went.

"Hurry, daddy. The storm is going to get you."

I yelled and ran back.

"Good job, daddy. That's how you do it."

Caleb left. We yelled. He came in out of the storm. Maddie left. We yelled. She came in out of the storm.

It was sunny and roughly 70 degrees.

Lightning

The rain caught Katie and the kids on their way home from a bike ride (please allow me some poetic license as I use the phrase "bike ride" to describe a walk during which a frustrated parent endures the taunts of his or her children as they find great amusement in said parent's dragging, dropping, kicking, and cursing two unriden tricycles).

Enduring thus, Katie suddenly found herself in a down pour with 50 yards to home. Then lightning followed immediately by a terrible thunder clap. Maddie was so startled as to lose the use of her legs and discover the use of her lungs. Caleb, ever biding his time, siezed the moment and, sporting a devious grin, fled.

About 30 minutes of consolation later, Maddie was contently observing the lightning storm from the comfort of our living room, the lights turned off for effect.

"Why does the sky do that?"

I blabbered for a moment about electromagnetic charges.

"But daddy, why does the sky do that?"

"God makes lightning so we can have pretty things to look at."

"That silly God, he just keeps making it over and over."

Why

"Daddy, can you roll down the window?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because it's too cold."
"I don't think it's cold. Please, Daddy."
"No."
"Why?"
Then, having passed a long day for other reasons, I lost it. "Maddy," I yelled. "It doesn't matter why. If Dad says it, that's how it is. There's no other reason than my saying it."

Silence.

In the sweetest, softest who-down-in-whoville voice: "Ok, Daddy. Whatever you say." Broken hearted, I rolled down the window.

Later, facing another "why attack," I took another approach. Calmly: "Maddie, you have to stop saying why to everything we ask you to do."
"Why, Daddy?"

Loud laughter from mom.

If I know anything, I know when to fold 'em. "You win, kid. Ask away."

Reversal

In some ways it was a sick perversion. I, the father, stood by laughing as she, the grandmother, struggled through endless Cinderella reenactments. "No, Grammy, you forgot to say your line." "No stand here, Grammy." "Now you're the mouse."

I laughed--evil, ungrateful son--and read the newspaper. THE NEWSPAPER! I'm home, and I'm reading the newspaper! How can I keep from singing?

But am I not occupying the grandparent's role, I wondered. Nevermind, I have a newspaper to read. And she's doing a fine job as the prince...fairy godmother...evil stepmother...

Grammy and Fast Planes

Sunday

Maddie: When is Grammy coming?
Dad: Tomorrow.
M: Why isn't she coming today?
D: Because she lives so far away.
M: Why does she live so far away?
D: That's just where she lives.
M: But why isn't she here now?
D: Because she has to take an airplane.
M: Does it fly fast, fast, fast, fa, fa, fa, ffffffff? (with hand spinning in a tiny circle in front of her eyes)
D: Yes.

Monday

M: Is today tomorrow?
D: Yes.
M: Where's Grammy?
D: She comes today.
M: But why isn't she here now?
D: Because she has to take a plane.
M: Does it fly fast, fast, fast, fa, fa, fa, ffffffff? (hand spinning again)
D: Yes.

Caleb at Two

Caleb turned two on Monday. Madeline helped wrap his presents: Bright red paper quilted over the gift in ill-fitting patches, blotches of tape all adrift.

To Caleb, they were the most immaculately wrapped gifts since the dawn of the Martha Stewart era. Upon seeing the two globs of tape and red paper, his eyes widened and his chin dropped. He cast nervous looks to mom. Are they really mine? What's the catch?

No catch, kiddo. Welcome to the joy of birthdays.

The next several minutes were awkward as brother and sister insisted it was pure insanity for mom and dad to assemble the toy before use. "Caleb, no. Give me back the screwdriver." "Madeline, please, I need that piece." "Stop touching that." "Sit. SIT. Would you...Hey, you guys want a lollipop?"

Then, thirty minutes of parental bliss as two silent children discovered the inexplicable joy of putting toy cars into a garage, and then taking them out again.

The Aboriginal Bedtime Dance

It's a very complex ritual. Like something you might find among bees and their decision-making dances and wiggles.

1) Family prayer: circling, running away, coming together, it's like a flock of birds trying to gather in the middle of the living room...somehow, through this intricate pattern of arm grabs, false starts, redos, standing and kneeling, exhausted glances between parents, meaning is conveyed: they are a family.

2) Story time: first, the number of books is meticulously negotiated. It always settles on three, but both parties have to start at one and five respectively or entire ritual explodes into noisy confusion. The first book, then a cheese stick. The second book, then a sippy cup. During the third book, the female brushes her front teeth. After the third, dad brushes her back teeth.

3) Pajamas: with the male it's a matter of force, but as demanded by the strict code of ritual, he makes the obligatory kicks and screams. Then there is a feigned decision process between whether mom or dad will put him to bed. It will be mom but the question must be asked. One song. Lay him down. He's out for the night. For the female, more negotiations. It ends with her wearing a sun dress with leggings underneath. But again, it has to start with pajamas versus Cinderella dress, otherwise neither party will know the script and the process will fall into choas.

4) Bedtime for the female: two stories, four songs, three kisses and a bonus kiss from mom. Two stories, four songs, three kisses and a bonus kiss from dad. This is followed by ten minutes of playing in her room alone with the doll house. Then she retrieves three books from the living room and returns to her bedroom. Eventually she turns of the light and goes to sleep on a pile of books on her floor.

Ditto

We were playing school. This is a very popular game along the lines of "Follow the Leader." Maddie, apparently tired of my continuing to claim it was time to lay out my nap mat, suggested a new game.

"Daddy, now we're playing Nana's house and I'm Nana."

She cradled my head. "You'll always be my grand-daughter," she told me. "Love you forever."

The Kids