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!

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.

The Trouble with being Short

An irate Savannah: "Dad, you have the shortest legs in the history of legs!"

Legs have a history? I don't think that's been chronicled yet. One of my fellow historians ought to get on that!

(Context: Either I am too short, or the chairs in the cultural hall in our church building are too tall. If I sit in a chair and put my feet on the ground, I cannot provide children wishing to sit on my lap a... level surface. It's more like they are balancing precariously on a downward sloping slide. That would be okay, except when I am wearing a suit and my daughters are wearing dresses, they slide right off my lap. Savannah wanted me to color with her in her coloring book today while she sat on my lap, and got really frustrated by the fact that she kept falling victim to gravity, as did the coloring book. She urged me to grow longer legs to solve the problem. I told her I could keep her safely planted on my lap if I wrapped my arms around her. She found this unacceptable because it would mean I couldn't color with her.

Maybe I'll start bringing a small step-stool with me to church each week.)

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!

In which Savannah casts a spell

Yesterday evening the kids were waiting anxiously at the dinner table as I opened the oven door to pull out the pizza. Savannah intoned, "Magic wand fly swift and sure, make dad brave, and help him not to burn himself." When I brought the pizza to the table without having burned myself, Savannah took the credit: "Dad, I cast a spell on you so you wouldn't burn yourself, and you didn't!" Thanks, Savannah, dad needs all the help he can get.

Someone's too obsessed with "Sleeping Beauty, methinks.

But of course, I am Prince Philip (see photo of me in my Prince Philip Halloween costume), so maybe it was appropriate for Savannah to use the spell (though much modified) on me that helped the prince in Sleeping Beauty defeat the evil fairy Maleficent.

An Interview with Savannah

This evening after her sisters went to bed, Savannah and I had another chance to talk.

Me: "Savannah, what is your favorite thing to do?"

Savannah: "Unwrap presents!"

Me: "What do you like most about yourself?"

Savannah: (pulling on her bangs) "This. I like my hair because it's so so long, longer than my sisters' hair. And it's red. It's pretty, so I like it the most."

Me: "Who is your favorite boy?"

Savannah: "Umm, Aiden I guess, but I don't really know."

Me: "Who is your favorite girl?"

Savannah: "Me!" A pause. Then, "It's hard to choose. I really like myself 'cause I'm so pretty, but so are my sisters. They are pretty, too. It would be hard to choose between them, so I would probably just say me."


Am I raising a confident, well-adjusted child, or a narcissistic one?

Cupcake Salon, part II

And here are some photos from today's visit to the salon.

mindless fathers, or, the wisdom of a four-year-old

Tonight I sang the girls their bedtime songs. They requested songs from the Children's Songbook. They would thumb through the pages, select a song, and ask me to sing it. After finishing each song, I'd close the book and hand it back to one of the girls so they could pick the next one. After several songs, Savannah asked me why I closed the book each time I handed it to them. I told her I didn't know, that I did it without thinking.

After a moment's reflection, Savannah said, "Dad, you don't have a mind. I have a great mind because I think. But you don't think. Mom has a great mind. She thinks alot, just like I do." Then, after a pause, she said. "Dad, we could say that you have a mind, just not a great one like I do. That would be fair."

Sigh.

fatherly foibles

While I am often amazed by Katie's attention to detail, Katie is frequently bewildered by what I fail to notice.

Take tonight, for example.

Katie was out for the evening, so it was my responsibility to put Colette to bed. I dutifully got her ready. First, I dressed her in nice warm one-piece pajamas, which was a pain because there were a million snaps and Colette, being the busy 13-month-old that she is, was far too squirmy. I finally managed to get her to calm down by giving her a small doll to play with. Things went more smoothly after that. I got her blankie and her duckie, read her a bedtime story, sang her a couple songs, and put her in her crib. Instead of screaming and wailing like she usually does, she simply turned on her side and drifted off to sleep.

For the rest of the tranquil evening, I congratulated myself on a job well done. At about 11:30 p.m., Colette woke up crying. Katie picked her up and changed her diaper. While thus engaged, she felt something lumpy under Colette's back. So she reached inside the PJs, fumbled around, and pulled out a . . . doll. Well, no wonder the poor kid woke up! How on earth did I miss seeing that as I finished snapping up her pajamas?