Colette plays her first ever April Fool's joke -- on her father

I decided yesterday that Colette needs to work on her sense of timing.

Because Katie was ill yesterday evening, I "cooked" dinner for the kids. Translation: I took them to Chick-fil-A. Once the girls had settled down to eat their kids' meals, Colette opened her bag and showed me inside. She said, "Look, dad. They didn't give me any chicken!" Sure enough, the bag held only french fries and a toy. So I went up to the counter and got her the chicken nuggets that the employees had left out of her meal.

After Colette polished off the box of chicken nuggets I had gotten for her, she pulled a second box out from under the table, held it up to my face, and shouted, "April Fools!"

While I had been distracted by the chaos involved in getting three little girls their food, the darn kid had pulled the original box of chicken out of her sack and put it on her lap out of sight.

 So back up to the counter I went to pay for the extra chicken nuggets. When I returned to the table, I told Colette that she would have to reimburse me the $2.87 her joke had cost me. The young lady, who was already crying, wailed even louder. Her sisters, meanwhile, explained to her that if she *must* play a joke on someone, she should let them know it's a joke before it goes too far and costs the victim money.

So Colette played her first ever April Fool's joke on the wrong day, and waited too long to reveal that it was a prank. Timing, dear child, it's all about the timing.

Epilogue: Colette deeply regretted her actions. She said she didn't have enough money to pay me back. I told her not to worry about that yet, we'd work things out. With tears rolling down her cheeks, she said over and over that she was a bad person because she had made a mistake. I picked her up, set her on my lap, wrapped my arms around her, and hugged her tightly. I assured her that she is not a bad person. I told her that everyone makes mistakes, it's part of being human. She argued that there are lots of people who don't make any mistakes. I reminded her that there has only ever been one perfect person to walk the earth. The rest of us mess up all too frequently. And I kept trying to explain that one mistake does not a bad person make. That didn't really seem to register with her, so I just hugged her and told her over and over again that she is a great kid, that I love her, that she is my special little girl, and that everything would be okay.

I felt so bad for that well-meaning, pure-hearted, innocent little soul!

Savannah Saves the Day: An Easter Egg Hunt Story

Have I ever told you that Savannah is a real sweetheart?

We had an Easter egg hunt in our yard over the weekend. At the appointed hour, three girls raced out the front door in a mad dash to collect as many candy-filled eggs as possible. As they competed for the same eggs, Leila and Colette collided on the patio. The bigger kid came out of the fray with the loot safely tucked in her basket and raced into the backyard in search of more. In contrast, Colette burst into tears and threw her Easter basket, scattering what few eggs she had gathered. Deeply discouraged, she plopped down and refused to rejoin the hunt. While Katie tried to comfort Colette, Leila sailed on ahead, filling her basket to overflowing. (Tell you what, that kid can MOVE when properly motivated. I'm pretty sure she broke the sound barrier.)

Within seconds -- literally! -- all of the Easter eggs were gone. Meanwhile, at the encouragement of her mother and oldest sister, Colette had finally decided to give it another try. But by then it was too late. So she sat back down on the patio, wailing louder than ever. Then, from the back yard, I heard Savannah call out, "Come here, Colette! There's still one over here!" This puzzled me because I knew full well that the yard had been stripped clean of every last Easter egg. So I walked around the side of house and into the back yard to investigate. And there I saw Savannah taking eggs from her own basket, crouching down, and carefully planting them along the fence line. As she did so, she kept shouting out to her little sister, "I found another one!" And "Here's one more!" Eventually, she succeeded in coaxing Colette into the back yard, where she began picking up the eggs Savannah had hidden.

Back on the patio once more, Colette noticed the contrast between her few eggs and Leila's three dozen or so. And once again she burst into tears and threw her Easter basket in the air, scattering its meager contents. Undaunted, Savannah tried a new approach: she ran inside the house, got the bag of unused candy, filled a bunch of plastic eggs with it, and proceeded to hide those in the bag yard for Colette.

Amidst the hubbub and chaos of a hunt for Easter candy, Savannah saw that her little sister was discouraged and defeated. Neither parent said a word to her. She came up with a solution on her own. And gave away her Easter candy. What nine-year-old kid does that? Seriously, who does that?!!

(I'd like to claim that good parenting is responsible, but the truth is, the child was simply born that way.)

Of Talented Daughters and Imbecilic Fathers

Scene: The family is seated around the dinner table. The girls are discussing what they are good at.

Savannah: "I'm good at reading."

Colette: "Dad, you're good at watching football."

Leila: "He is also good at reading."

Colette: "But dad is REALLY good at watching football!"

That's right folks. I am neither athlete nor artist. I cannot run a four-minute mile or paint the Mona Lisa. No singer or dancer am I. No scholar, either. Heck, I'm barely literate. But stick me on a couch in front of the television and put a bowl of chocolate ice cream in my hands and I can watch football with the best of them!!

Valentines Day 2016 Daddy-Daughter Dance

I witnessed a strange phenomenon Friday evening at the Daddy-Daughter Dance at Leila's school. It was oddly familiar, and yet not. For much of the time, the walls of the gymnasium were lined with fathers focused in on their phones. They were completely oblivious to their daughters, who danced their hearts out in the center of the room.

As I observed the middle-aged wallflowers, I thought back to the dances I attended as a teen, when I spent the bulk of my time holding up gym walls with my back. That night, however, I was no wallflower. When you are north of age 40, and your kids are south of age 10, it doesn't matter whether you can dance or not. I happen to have all the grace of a pig on roller skates and all the rhythm of a dead cow. But I danced with my daughters -- at least until the girls ran off and began dancing with their friends. Then I stood mesmerized as I watched them flawlessly dance carefully choreographed routines to song after song. And when, at long last, the DJ's played one -- count 'em, ONE! And no, I'm not bitter -- actual daddy-daughter song, I picked up all three daughters at once and danced with them.

Of course, in doing so, I screwed up my back and hips, but never mind. I'd do it again in a heartbeat. My girls loved it. And so did I.

Six-year-old Colette's post-mortem on the Daddy-Daughter Dance:

"Dad, why did we even have to go there? I didn't like my cookie. And dad? I feel like it blew out my ear drums."

Me too, kid. Me too. I feel like I've been to a rock concert -- but listening to mindless drivel instead of music. What on earth is Wip it Nae Nae?

In which my daughters pass notes back and forth, reverently insulting each other during church

On Sunday, my 6 and 8 year-old daughters entertained themselves during church services by carrying on a conversation via notes they passed between them. It was not exactly a love-fest. Here is what they wrote:


L (age 6): What is your name


S (age 8): Savannah


L: I cant read.


S: [very messy this time] Savannah


L: Now that is sloppy.


S: Half of it is cursive.


L: I don't care. Wright neat.


S: [carefully written] Savannah


L: I still can't read.


S: If I wrote as neet as I can you still would not be able to read it.


L: Well wright neeter


S: I can not write neeter.


L: Why


S: because ped [sic] is not hot.


L: What is ped.


S: I ment pen


L: What do you mean.


S: You see pen is not hot


L: could you wright that neeter please


S: Pen is not hot.


L: Then it is cold


S: Yes I gess Leila


L: you speld guess rong do you care.


S: [illegible]


L: You had no anser


S: Yes I did I will underline it


L: Well, I can't redd


S: You spelled Read with two ds


L: I still can't Read so stop


S: Well then learn how Leila


L: I wont


S: Learn how to read.


L: Wy


S: So we can get some were. in your word what you forget the a [i.e., 'h']


L: Why


S: To learn


L: Wut


S: Leila I thought I told you how to read.


L: Wut


S: how did this start Leila


L: I Don't NO!


S: well figer it out


L: HOW?


S: Look at the first note


L: Wut whon [one] this wun [arrow pointing off left side of page]


S: No the other one


L: Wut whon. this one [arrow pointing to top of page]


S: That is the same one


L: now it isn't


On the bottom half of the page, Leila drew a picture of a snow person wearing a tiara and a dress. She labeled it: "a snow man." Savannah wrote back, "I think that is a snow woman Leila."

My seven-year-old daughter clearly has my number

Typically, Katie and I take turns reading the girls their bedtime stories. Lately, however, Savannah has insisted night after night that only her dad could read her stories. After a couple weeks of this, Katie asked Savannah why she always wanted me to read and not her. Savannah explained that sometimes she can talk me into reading extra pages (we are reading from an enormous library book about space, so we just read 4 pages a day). Then she said, "And after dad's done with my story, if I hurry and ask him lots of questions, I can get him to stay and answer them."

Oh goody. My seven-year-old is playing me like a fiddle.

Silly Kids

Savannah was in the car with me several days ago when we came across a beer delivery truck parked in our lane. Savannah wanted to know what it was doing there, so I explained. In answering Savannah's follow-up questions, I explained that beer delivery people have to have strong muscles in order to haul the heavy crates and boxes. Savannah said, "Oh dad, you could never do that job then. You could only carry one or two boxes."

Gee, thanks Savannah!

September 20th Katie took the girls to the Dallas Zoo. Leila was pretty excited to report to me afterward that they had seen a "purple-butted monkey" (a Mandril). I thought that phrase demonstrated some pretty sophisticated linguistic skills on the part of my three-year-old. (I would have expected a phrase like "a monkey with a purple butt.")

On Friday, Savannah and Leila were playing together, braninstorming to come up with ideas. Savannah: "Let's be parents but not have any kids."

Saturday: Me: "My stomach is bothing me." Savannah: "Maybe you have a stomach ache." Ah, yes, thank you for that diagnosis, Dr. Savannah.

Colette was dancing wildly to some music Katie had playing in our room the other day. Every so often, she'd stop jumping around, pat her tummy, and squeal, "Me cute! Me cute!"

How right you are, darling!