My daughters encounter the 2016 presidental election, part 2

Scene: driving Leila to school this morning. She is looking at all the election signs along the way.

Leila: "Dad, I had a dream last night that I voted for someone for president. It was a made up person. I can't remember his name now, but his last name started with a 'P'."

Me <thinking>: Just so long as his last name didn't start with a 'T' kid!

Leila, still reading names off signs: "Dad, Why don't you want Trump to win?"

Me <thinking>: Because he's a xenophobic buffoon, among other things.
I then explain that he has lots of unpalatable views, and that he just keeps saying more disturbing things every time he opens his mouth. She requests an example. I ask her if she has heard of Muslims. She says no. I explain that they are a very large religious group, the vast majority of whom are peaceful people just trying to live good lives. I remind her about 9/11 and tell her that Trump has tapped into some people's post-9/11 fears. I explain his anti-Muslim stance and tell her he dislikes millions of people based on their religion.

Leila, as she hops out of the car at school: "So, like Hitler?"

Dear Mr. Trump, my 7-year-old daughter is on to you! You haven't got a prayer.

My daughters encounter the 2016 presidential election, part 1

Dear Hillary Clinton,

My seven-year-old daughter Leila has, over the last several weeks, repeatedly expressed a strong desire to become the first female president of the United States. To that end, I respectfully request that you withdraw your candidacy from the current election and allow my darling daughter to chase her dreams She will be eligible to run for office as early as the 2044 presidential election. Assuming she is elected and then serves for two terms, you could resume your presidential campaign in time for the 2052 election. At that time, you will be 105 years old. You've waited this long, surely a few more years won't hurt?

Sincerely,

a doting father

*Important note to Facebook friends: This post's intent is lighthearted. The post is not meant to be interpreted as a political statement or to stir up politically charged controversy. Please do not be offended by this post. And for the love of all that is holy, please do not write argumentative or nasty comments below. I repeat: I am simply trying to be silly -- though Leila is totally serious in her desire to become the first female president of the U.S.

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.