Crusty Rolos

A year ago, we decided to get another cat. Keisha, our old fat white cat seemed lonely. My daughter named the new little kitten Lizzie B after one of her then favorite book series.

Lizzie has since grown into a wonderfully mischievous cat. She loves to cuddle; making us very happy to have found her. Though, no sooner does she have you murmuring wistful nothings to her, shes off and scratching the crap out of a favorite chair.

"Lizzie!"

I arrived home this last Monday. As usual, my wife, daughter and I sat down for dinner.

"The cats don't like you anymore" My daughter said taking a sip of water. Her little girl voice had that wagging her finger at me sound to it.

"What?" I said

"Your bathroom has cat poop all over it" My wife added. "One of the cats must be pretty angry with you."

My bathroom? Part of me was irritated that our downstairs bathroom over time became "my" bathroom. Granted, I did have all of my clothing closeted there and I took my shower there. Yet why didn't we call the upstairs bathroom "theirs"? Like parents are counseled regarding starting un-winable arguments with children... pick your battles I thought.

Later, I checked the downstairs bathroom. I have always been a messy person. Clothes lay in a pile in front of the closet; as if I'd struggled to change my clothes and missed hanging them in the closet by inches. By god if there weren't little balls of cat poop strewn -no strategically placed - all over the place. What control I thought. Grumbling to myself, I picked up cat poop with paper toweling and tossed any suspect clothing into the wash.

It perplexed me why one of our cats would be pissed at me. Their litter box had just been cleaned the day before and they had food and water.

The next day I went to work. After hanging up my jacket and getting a cup of coffee I went over my emails. The regular start to my day. At one point, I wandered about the office, looking for someone about something, jingling my keys in my pocket...

And found what felt like a singular crusty Rolos candy. I pulled it out; rolling it in my finger tips and tried to puzzle when I'd left a chocolate kiss in my pocket too long.

...Oh man...

Poor Duck

I awoke, last night, to my daughter crying. Thinking it was a periodic nightmare, I climbed out of bed and made my way to her room. Earlier this year, we put together a loft bed, that my wife and my daughter had purchased last year. It's the kind with a desk beneath the bed, overhead. I'm sure it will come in handy when she goes off to college fourteen years from now. The bed is so high, that only my six year old daughter can sit up in bed. I have learned - beware the popcorn ceiling!

"What's wrong honey." I asked, climbing up the metal ladder to her bed.

I began crawling towards her, but stopped. Her comforter was all wet.

"Why is your comforter all wet?" I asked. The air above her bed had a sort of spicy, rankness to it.

"I threw up" she said, inbetween sobs.

"Oh honey..." I sympathized, quietly lifting my hands off the surface.

I pulled the comforter towards me, bundling it up so I could bring it down to wash. I had thought changing the sheets on a loft bed was difficult. It was nothing compared with trying to man-handle a wet, possibly laden, comforter down a small metal ladder.

I succeeded and carefully laid the comforter on her floor. I rushed out to the kitchen to get her the "bedside companion" - Tupperware. I've always wondered what is the best shape for such a task; square? circular? shallow or deep dish? I grabbed a bowl shaped lettuce keeper and flew back to my daughter's room.

"Hold on honey, I'm on my way" I blurted as I entered her room; hoping to sound reassuring.

I checked her other blankets and they seemed OK. My daughter was curled up into a ball, moaning to herself. I began to worry that maybe it was something worse.

"how are you feeling?" I asked tenderly. I am so skillful at this.

"My tummy hurts" she said as she burst into sobs again, moaning.

"Oh honey." I continued. I caressed the hair out of her eyes and checked her temperature. "how long have you been throwing up?"

"All night, I think" she said.

All night! I thought. Egad!

"Can you get me a Kleenex?" she asked.

I rushed back down and went to get her a little Seven-Up, warm washcloth and a Kleenex. I hurried back and set down the pop on her dresser. Climbing up, I offered her the washcloth.

"Where's the Kleenex?" she said.

Oh man! I forgot the one thing she asked for. Scurrying back down, I rushed out for Kleenex. As I did, I heard that sound that no one likes to hear. I detoured back to the kitchen to get a clean Tupperware. Luckily we had another green bowl-shaped lettuce keeper.

After I switched Tupperware and she'd cleaned up a bit, I grabbed several clean blankets and placed a bath towel over her pillows, for her to rest her head on. We lay a bit. I cuddled her up in the warm blankets and reassured her it would be all right. I offered to read to her, and climbed down. I sat in the chair in her room; lit by a small light.

I began reading one of her "Lizzie B. Jones" books.

"I hate you tummy" she declared; half angry, half tired.

"Oh, I'm so sorry honey. it will get better. I know it's tough, but soon you'll feel better." I reassured her. I could tell she detested being sick.

Half a chapter later, her little, drowsy girl voice murmered one more time "I don't like this. I hate you tummy"

Then she slept.

I am So Busted...

My daughter and I were driving this morning, on our way to her school. Recently she had lost her first tooth. The next night she had received a golden Dollar coin from "The Tooth Fairy".

"Dad, are there Bee people? She asked from her booster perch in the back seat.

"Bee people?" I replied, not quite sure what she was asking or whether I'd heard it correctly.

"Yea, are Bees people? she continued, " and they can fly right?"

I was driving 65 miles per hour on the Freeway, changing lanes...and she had me completely turned around.

"Bees aren't people, honey" I stated not so assuredly. I was just merging into the right lane, switching with both the car in front of me and one behind. Like some vehicular ballet, as I moved into my lane, they both swapped lanes with me. "Bees are animals...well... insects."

"Bees aren't people?" she asked me quizzically.

"No, Bees are insects. Just like Flies and Ants; that sort of thing." Ah...now I was back on track. I was explaining how things worked to my daughter and traffic had smoothed out. I was in the far right lane and approaching my exit. We were making good time.

"But Fairies can fly." she said, laying out her imaginary line, waiting for a bite.

"There are no such things as Fairies, honey." I said still believing that we were actually talking about Bees,

Oh, and look at that. My daughter had caught something!

She began reeling me in.

"What about the Tooth Fairy?" she queried me. "And what about the Pacifier Fairy? They're real, right?".

My wife had come up with the brilliant idea of convincing my daughter, when she was younger, that she could "trade" in her pacifiers for a toy. She had only to tie them, with ribbon, to the branches of a tree hanging over our deck and the Pacifier Fairy would take them, leaving her a gift.

I was SO busted. She had feigned with a left Are-Bees-People-Daddy. I'd followed, true to form, and she'd laid me open with a skill beyond her years.

"Oh..uh" I stumbled.

Think Rob, think.

"Those Fairies are real, honey. I've just never...seen...them...before." I said lamely.

Almost as if she were toying with me, she had unknowingly set me up, watched as I blundered into the trap, and then just when she had me and could do as she wished...she let me go.

"Yea, Fairies live in the Sky." she recounted, "They have to be able to fly so they can go home."

"You are right, honey". I knew somewhere someone was keeping track of all the misleading, information I was spewing my daughter's way...and it wasn't me. One day, she'll deftly open me up again and I might just end up eating crow.

Losing Teeth

So my daughter lost her first tooth yesterday. I arrived to pick her up from school. They were outside of their daycare room playing with a homemade Hoolahoop that one of the parents had given to the class. My daughter saw me and whipped over to proudly show me the little gap in the bottom front of her teeth.

"When did it come out?" I asked.

"During Senior Swenson's class" she smiled, probing the void with a finger. She handed me the little Tupperware container which held her tooth.

I opened it up and peeked inside, sort of expecting to see this immense white thing. It was tiny! I closed it up, smiled at her and gave her a warm hug of congratulations.

She had watched so many of her classmates show off their lost teeth; hoping it would be her turn next. Today was her day. She gleefully displayed her prize and with childhood drama regaled her journey to anyone in close proximity.

As we drove home, though, my daughter spoke of her classmate and friend, Analise.

"Analise was sad today." she said quietly

"why?" I asked.

"She hasn't lost her first tooth yet. She's afraid that she'll be the last in the class to lose her tooth." my daughter said

"Oh." I replied, lost with what to say.

"Today she watched me with my tooth and was sad. " she stated introspectively. Through the rear view mirror, I watched my daughter grow emotionally as she looked thoughtfully out the side window.

I decided not to say more and let her be with her feelings.

A little ways from our house, she and I were talking more about her day.

"So you lost your tooth in Senior Swenson's class?" I asked, hoping for more details. For some reason, I had the impression that her teacher had helped her with her tooth.

"Yea, it was in his class." she said matter of factly "I was playing with it. So I just twisted and pulled and it came out."

Images of her sitting in her kindergarten chair, concentration on her face as she pulled her tooth with an audible 'Pop!' flooded over me as I drove.

Too much information I thought. Then out of nothing came my own long forgotten memory.
I was young and in some class. My tooth was loose and I was playing with it absentmindedly. I myself twisted it and felt no pain. Suddenly a little twang of tension and the tooth was in my hand.

The rest of the trip was spent in mutual introspective silence.

Hanging Chads

My daughter has been wishing for a missing tooth for most of the year. Periodically, my daughter would lament over her lack of missing teeth

"Is my tooth loose, daddy?" she'd say to me, directing my attention to her open mouth; her little finger pushing and pulling at one of her front teeth.

"uh...I..." I'd reply as I zoomed in for a closer look "well, it seems solid, but who knows. maybe soon".

Invariably, she'd pout a bit looking back to one of her classmates. The classmate would smile, showing off a gaping hole in the grille of her mouth.

I now know the source of my daughter's concern.

This went on for some time until recently when we discovered that my daughter did indeed have her first loose tooth. At that point she began noticing it daily. More over, we began getting daily, even multiple daily reports.

"Daddy! look, my toof is getting looser" my daughter would gush over her finger, during dinner.

"Hey! that's great!" I'd say, my words dying off some at the end as I watching her gum move as she wriggled the tooth back and forth. it felt as if someone were trying to wrest a white gravestone from the ground. Weeds, disturbed grass and dirt bulging at the base as they pushed the stone forward and then heaved it backwards.

Yesterday, her tooth became very loose. So much that she began worrying whether she'd swallow it, etc. Today, she and I did our usual school run. As I dropped her off, I told her teacher that my daughter had a very loose tooth and that I'd brought a lidded cup in the case that it came out today, etc.

I looked over to my daughter who was now proudly displaying her loose tooth. which was hinged down over her bottom lip; perpendicular to rest of her teeth. It reminded me of a drawbridge set in a great white wall that had been lowered over the puffy pink moat.

I kissed the top of my daughter's head, said a quick goodbye - and escaped.

Easter Bunny's a vegetarian

Yesterday was Easter. My six year old daughter and my wife replanted a carrot seed that my daughter was given at school. As they were potting the two little green buds, my daughter stopped for a moment.

"I think we should move my plant higher." she mused to my wife, looking up towards the fireplace mantle above.

"why honey?" my wife replied.

"The Easter Bunny might eat my plant" said my daughter as she caressed the tender green shoot; a single tiny leaf sticking out from the tip.

It's Spring!

OK, today is the first day of Spring. It started at something like 12:40am. In loverly Minnesota, we get our first day of Spring, about 8 hours of sunshine...then it's supposed to snow tonight. We're in for a frigging snowstorm!

Granted, it should melt by this Sunday.

This morning, my daughter was taking a shower in our downstairs bathroom. I've set it up so that she's safe and monitored, so I usually don't worry - and I trust her to be careful. My wife and I were upstairs making lunches and chatting. My wife had the radio on, listening to her favorite morning show.

Suddenly, she hissed "Quiet!" seriousness flaring on her features. Her ear was cocked towards the downstairs doorway like one of those hunting dogs on the scent; intent for a signal.

"What?" I exclaimed

"Is she crying?!" she said "turn off the radio!"

I hurried over to the radio and turned it off. Silence engulfed our kitchen as I strained to hear sounds of my daughter crying.

Instead of crying, my wife barked out in laughter.

"She's singing to her barbies '...Do you like my booty?' and giggling".

I could hear my daughter's wonderful little girl laughter and knew it was ok.

Crinkles

It's become a tradition between my daughter and I.

After school, weather permitting, she and I run over to the little playground across the street from her school. We play chase and I let her win. What sort of beast would I be, if I always won against a six year old? Of course, at times, she wins hands down.

smart kid.

When six p.m. was always dark and freezing bitter cold outside, we just went home. Now that we are in the waning part of Winter, she and I have started playing out side again. I find it a wonderful father and daughter time together.

She loves to stomp on those crispy, crackly edges of snowbanks where sunshine or warmer weather have eroded from beneath. There is something that salves the soul when you and your child wander about crunching little shelves of ice.

School

My daughter is now six. She is attending kindergarten at a local Spanish Immersion school. I've always lamented my not being multi-lingual. At my daughter's school, Spanish is the primary language. They wear uniforms and speak another language,but it's still kindergarten; they play outside and smear paint and glue over paper products.

Not having learned any second language, I'm struggling with Spanish. I drop my daughter off every workday morning.

"Buenos Dias" I stumble to Carmen, who runs the daycare program at the school.

"Buenos Dais" She replies, smiling.

And it usually stops there.

Every so often, courage boils up like gas and I blurt out.

"Como Esta?"

"Bien.

And it usually ends there.

I was even given a "Spanish in 3 months" CD kit for Christmas. It's holding up dust on my desk at work. My daughter, a little over half the way through her first school year, has already surpassed my meager level of Spanish. I'm often asking her how it sounds, what does this mean, etc. She rolls her eyes and corrects my mispronunciation. You know how it is when someone becomes so good at something that they struggle with the stragglers? I'm almost waiting for the condiscending pat on the arm, as if to say "you'll get it someday".

I am very pleased with her schooling. It feels as though it's challenging her more than a regular school would. It's also part of a local school district, so it's not costing extra as if it were a private school. We have another Spanish Immersion school that is closer to our home. My wife and I had applied my daughter there, but she did not make the "lottery". With only so many spots each year and an overwhelming popularity, many immersion schools hold lotteries. Get this - there is even a Chinese immersion school in the Twin Cities.

So I drive further to my daughter's school. I find the "drop-off" strangely offputting.

...

My daughter and I whoosh into her school, moving down the halls like a mini flood scouring the river valley; our passing wake jostling posters and curtains. We reach her schoolcare (before and after school daycare)and begin our routine. Like vaudville without the music she and I stop at her cubby. I hang up her backpack and pop into the room to sign her in. My daughter soon enters after hanging up (apply loosely) her jacket. We sometimes do a dance whereby I reach to hug her goodbye, but her eyes are on something shiny and she deftly evades my grasp.

Carmen and I exchange awkward hellos, in Spanish, and like a cold breeze in a warm room I'm gone.

Picking her up is just as strange, but not so harried.

Given the distance to school from both our home and my work, I'm in a rush both ways. I also pick up my daughter as my wife's work is out of the way.

...

Again the mini flood down the halls, but just a single wave now. I reach the schoolcare room. In my mind, it's as if I'm hurrying and suddenly have to stop lest I collide with a wall, skidding on one foot; the other foot raised and my arms out to balance the stop. Dust settles. I realize that it's only my daughter and maybe one or two other children. At a handful of minutes before six p.m., it's all quiet now that school is out. The day feels all used up. Energies that were ramped in the morning are now spent and waiting to rest. My daughter, sitting at one of the tables playing a game with another child gives me a quiet hello.

"Hi daddy". It still makes my heart skip to hear that.

Now we have time to spare. I chat with Ariana, who watches the children in the afternoon.

"Hola"

"hola" she replies

And the spanish stops there.

Granted, when they speak with the students, spanish is primarily all I can hear, mixed with english to help the students understand in the beginning. Admittedly, I am amazed at how quickly the kids pick up what is being said, even if they cannot reply in kind. It is said, that by the end of the year, they should be conversational in Spanish.

Amazing.

Where have I been?

Wow, I lost myself completely for what - two years? Where the hell have I been. What saved me was revisting this place, actually. I found myself wandering back through the few posts I'd made; hoping for a glimpse of a reason to continue posting...