To my Daughter, on her 10th Birthday

Tell me what you seeLet me call you sweetheart

On this day, 10 years ago...

I'm in love with you

The world became a more beautiful place.

Let me hear you whisper

I learned the words to 'Daddy's little girl' weeks before you arrived

That you love me too

But the first time I held you, this song came out instead

Keep the love light shining

You don't toddle up and give me wet kisses on request anymore

In your eyes so blue

Or call me Dadd-a

Let me call you sweetheart

But when you don't know you're doing it; when you're not paying attention

I'm

You still reach for me

in

Still lean on me

love

And it makes me soar... and pray

with

That you'll always want me along for the ride.

youuuuuuuuuuuuuu.

Happy Birthday, sweetheart.

Update on Tuesday, April 12, 2016 at 08:34AM by Wryter

And now she's 17...

Two songs have come to mind since...

Zac Brown's "I'll be Your Man" and Ben Folds' "Gracie."  To wit...

Go and have a ball
Take every chance that you make
You know I'll be one call away
I'll always be
I'll always be your man (ZB)

And there will always be a part of me
Nobody else is ever gonna see but you and me
My little girl (BF)

Label Wry-ku

Labels by the score.

Father, son or Injun Chief?

What's on your name tag?

Republican.

Democrat.

Liberal.

Conservative.

Gemini.

Contrarian...Rotarian...Hibernian.

Labels. 

We're obsessed with them.  Everyone's got to be in a category.  Long ago, with the sun setting on an early June night, our youngest (then aged 7) dealt out the labels to his family in the form of handmade placecards with a one-word label next to each name.

Mommy:  "Love."

His sister:  "Candy."  [An exceptional guesture since they'd just been knocking each other around.]

His brother:  "Sick."  ["The good kind," he explained.  "'Like 'Your so seeeeyuck!'"  His older brother approved.]

His Dad:  "Rock."  [No accompanying explanation.  Charitably, yours truly walks away thinking "Dad rocks!"  He stays mum on whether it's a description of my head.  Note to self:  Hike this kid's allowance!]

And so this morning, it occurred to me to ask.  "Hey Danny, you put those words on our placecarcds, but did you put one on yours?"

"Sure, Daddy."

"Well, what did it say?"

"PARTAAAAAY!"

Attaboy!

When Two-four Turned 12

Happy Birthday, Pal.

(Photo credit to Lady Baker!)

"The best gift of Christmas" Wry-ku

Years ago, our then 11-year old son, who wanted a bell from Santa's sleigh not more than two years ago, survived the FIRST of his two major revelations this year, [Read:  Santa; not Baby].  This morning, he presented his Mom and me with the best gift we could have ever received:  A book of his poetry from school.

His work is amazing, including this Haiku.

The small blue jay sings
A joyful welcoming song
To summon morning

I couldn't have said it better myself--or been more touched--ever.  Merry Christmas.

Mentionitis. Or, "Nick P. would think that's so funny!"

That is the sound, my friends, of a Third-grade crush.

Do you remember when you had a crush, and suddenly everything becomes relevant to that person??  You slip their name into conversation... you think you're being subtle, but it gives you such a rush. 

Well, that's what my daughter did at the breakfast table Sunday morning.  She came home last week and told my wife that "Nick P." had sent her a note asking if she'd be his girlfriend.  "Well, I think you should tell him you're his special friend," my wife said.  "Yeah," my daughter replied.  "Boyfriends and girlfriends aren't for at least sixth grade."  And so, when she returned from school the next day, her wife asked if she broke the news to Nick P.  "I was gonna say that, but then I thought, he's so funny, it would be cool being his girlfriend.  So I cirled "Yes" and gave him his note back.

Iron willpower, that one.  Just like her father, and she has NO IDEA.  Which is fine, because she wants to make sure that I have NO IDEA about this whole affair.

And so fast-forward to the breakfast table, when her younger brother blurted out something hilarious.

"Oh, Danny," she said.  "Nick P. would think that's so funny!"

And so now, I've taken to using that as a non-sequitir rejoinder in conversation.  I already used it once each at the water cooler, as a reply to an email, and on a conference call.  It's so funny.  NO one said a peep.  Not a question.  

For another day:  Raise your hand if you've ever played that game.  You're given a saying to blurt out and the winner is whoever can pull off the most outrageous statement without breaking stride.  I played with some folks from Michigan once during a drink-fest on Mackinac Island once.  They're hard core up there.  And do you know what??

"Nick P. would think that's so funny!"

"Dad, you gotta check this out."

My 11-year old son took me on a tour of YouTube yesterday.

He knew all the words.

Wonder if he's heard about Dumbledore. Looks like we'll have to have that talk sooner than I'd planned.

Santa. Baby. (Memo to my Son in 2007)

Growing pains

I should have seen this coming when my son no longer played with the handful of Tonka and Corgi trucks that I have carried through my 42 years.  There's nothing like good old-fashioned lead-painted toys.  But he's 11 now, and the Batmobile and the Starsky and Hutch Grand Torino have settled to the bottom of the toy box, under layers of Power Rangers and Star Wars toys.  (Boba Fett makes it, but not Huggy Bear???) 

He's 11 now, and Sports Center has replaced Jimmy Neutron, and Daddy's got some 'splainin to do.

Growing pains are on the way.

As the eldest of 5 children, with 12 years between my youngest sister and me, I never lived in a house where someone didn't BELIEVE in Santa Claus.  That's very likely to change.  Soon. 

The other day, in a daze of watching "Elf," his younger brother and sister reacted to a line about parents putting out toys instead of Santa, "That's what Brendan thinks."  Since they didn't break their gaze from Will Ferrell, they didn't see me flinch at the blow of that statement.  They weren't testing me, but once Brendan gets the confirmatory "talk," the dominoes will be set to fall.  

And when that happens, however it happens, good Lord.  I'll be living in a house where everyone's the wiser and my kids have outgrown my toys before I have.

Yes, I s'pose it is remarkable that an 11 year-old boy has at least not admitted to his parents that he doesn't believe in Santa anymore.  Maybe he's trying to protect us... or hedge his bets. 

But wait... there's more!  

This is also the year when they will show "The Movie" in school, setting up another interesting chat.  Since I've been told it's my job to handle "The Talk" that will follow, I decided long ago to link the two and go "Tit for Tat," [I know...] something like this:

"No son there's no Santa, at least they way you thought."

"But there is sex."*

"But you can't do it yet."

"But when you can, it will be really great."

"But not for years, 'cause you might by mistake make a baby."

Then this happened

When the bell rang, I hit the "snooze bar" to buy a little time.

"Daddy, did you and Mommy pray to have us kids."

"Yes, we did."

"Well, you must've really prayed fast between Katherine and Danny, because they're only a year apart."

"Well, yes we did, son, but as you'll learn, Mommies and Daddies have something to do with it, too."

[Snooze bar holds for seven seconds.]

"What's 'The Talk,' Daddy."

[Nearly drove off the road.]

"Why do you ask?"

"[Older cousin] asked me if you and Mommy had had 'The Talk' with me yet."

"Did your cousin say what it was about?"

"Nah.  He just asked me.  What's it about, Daddy?"

"Well, remember how you heard that the 5th boys and girls will see 'The Movie' later this year?"

"Yeah.  They're gonna show bodies and stuff."

"Well, that's kind of what the talk is about."

"But what about The Talk?

"Son," I finally intoned. "Remember when you were little and you knew all your ABCs?"

"Uh-huh."

"But even though you knew all your letters,  you still didn't know how to read, did you?  There were some other things you needed to learn first, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, it's the same way with 'The Talk.'  There are some things that you're going to learn this year and when you do, 'The Talk' will be easier to understand."

"Oh.  Okay."

Again.  Maybe he was trying to protect me. 

Or hedge his bets.

A view from the back seat, passenger side

Aww, Dad. 

I saw you the other day... in me... through the eyes of my son. 

To a kid, it doesn't matter that his or her father has his own name, that he still feels like a kid from time to time--let alone that he even WAS a kid.  To a kid, Dad isn't a man on his own life's journey.  He's Dadda... then Daddy... then Dad (that transition is jarring... I remember the time each of the kids dropped the "dy" for the first time)... then it spirals into Pop, The Old Man, and who knows what else.  Kids define Dad by his title. 

I defined you by your title.  Probably for too long.  And too harshly. 

Now I'M the Dad.  And there's something you should know.  I've navigated every step by your vapor trail.  

NO ONE did "Dad" better than you.  No. One.  I've given your talks, done your goofy humor, I've even subjected the kids to Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass while making their pancakes on a Saturday morning while Mommy is sleeping in. 

That's where I find you now.  In being my version of you.

Here's where I saw you on a recent Tuesday morning.

I always wanted you to take me to work.  And on weekends rambling around in your car, I used to wonder what it would be like to stow away in the back seat on your way to work.  I'd sit there--back seat, passenger side--and ask the car to give up your secrets:  "What does he look like on the way to work?"  "What does he do?"  "Does he listen to the radio?"  "Does he stop for coffee?" 

What does Dad look like when he's not being Dad??

On Tuesday, I took my son to work with me.  Changing lanes, I caught a glimpse of the 9-year old.    There he was--back seat, passenger side..  Watching me.  Asking the car to give up my secrets.  We did the grand tour:  the coffee shop, Imus in the Morning, traffic reports on News Radio 88, and then I played one of the CDs he brought along. 

He came with a backpack loaded with a Gameboy, CDs, the book he has to read for school... and they went home untouched.  I had lots of letters I'd saved up to work on, keeping a light workload, and asked if he wanted to proofread them for me.  So I dropped a punctuation mark or two... missed a capital letter... and watched him catch them with the same aplomb he uses fielding grounders or shagging flies.  It was glorious!  At nighttime, he recounted every minute to his Mom, who played it back to me.  I really don't know which one of us had more fun. 

Actually, I do.

I finally got to go to work with Dad--through the eyes of a 9-year old, from the back seat, passenger side. 

And it was fun.  

If I'm off to a good start, it's because of you.  And I hope that however long it takes, when the eyes that behold me are sharper... when the stakes are higher... when tests are harder, the kids will have a Daddy they remember... and a man they love regardless of what they call him (or how often). 

But maybe that's the price.  Maybe that's the risk a Dad has to take to do it right.  Like you did for us. 

Aww, Dad.   Happy Father's Day.

(The illustrations here were found at www.kevincannon.org when I Googled "dad driving" on a whim.  This man is very talented.)

Many happy returns

"No man ever wore a scarf as warm as his daughter’s arm around his neck."

It's her birthday again.  My Katherine turned 8 today.  And when she comes home from school, I will ask her about her day at school and then say something like, "By the way, Katherine, how many times to I have to tell you not to leave your bike in the middle of the garage."

And when she opens the door, she'll find her new bike waiting for her.

As a parent, it's amazing how the ways your children return the love you give them changes over time.  Now, instead of kisses, I get "The Cheek," "The Forehead," or "The Lean,"--all delivered so I can kiss or hug her.  Gone are the days of the Arrowroot Biscuit-smudged wet kiss on the lips or the run-and-fling-the-arms-around-my-neck toddler hugs.  Oh, I still get those on occasion, but in this world of 8-year olds, things change, and quite unintentionally I've found a new source of those many happy returns of affection.

A Magna-Doodle.

After Christmas, on a trip to Target to return a duplicate gift to our youngest son, I walked by a corner display of Magna-Doodle Pocket, and snagged one as an afterthought, so Katherine would have something from the trip, too. 

Since then, that Magna-Doodle has not left her night table.  Thanks to the gods at Fisher Price, nearly every night when I come up to kiss her goodnight before going to bed, there's a message for me:  a riddle, a scribble that she dares me to turn into a picture of something, a "Welcome Home Daddy" for when I get back from a trip.  This morning, when she woke up, it said, "Happy Birthday, Sweetheart."

Unintentionally, and magically, it's our new version of the Arrowroot kiss. 

Saint Scooter, Pray for Us (Or: The Vatican and the Infield Fly Rule)

"Daddy, can I ask you a question?"

My favorite time of day is "Question Time."  In our house, Question Time is bedtime, when the kids are tucked in, and I make my final rounds. 

Saint FrancisOf our three children, our eldest--who is now 10--has owned Question Time, with gems that I've written on before like this:

• "Daddy, what's a question." 
• "But why, Daddy? 

After a barrage of "Whys," one night, I resorted to honesty: "I don't know, son."  His reply:

• "But what do you think?"

One Saturday night, after a day that had ended with going to 4:15 mass, my son had eternity on his mind.  And the question came to saints... not the Saints of the Big Easy and beignets, but the "communion of saints" of Patrick, Teresa the Little Flower, and Francis of Assisi (my personal fave.)

"I always thought that Joseph was as big a deal as Mary," he said, after asking me the difference between the Faith of my Fathers (Catholic) and that of his Mom (Epiccopalian.)  So I touched on the similarities first, skipped the difference of the fact that Episcopalian priests get to marry, and on the Catholic church's devotion to Mary, the Mother of God.  [This is NOT becoming a Baltimore Catechism post, I promise.]

"So what is Joseph, then?" 

"Well, he's a saint... the patron saint of the family, in fact.  He was the only man that God trusted to help raise Jesus on earth."  [My mother was devoted to him, although I found that her way of showing that devotion, by burying his statue upside-down in her garden to help get our house sold, was a bit odd.  Thankfully, she found other ways to show her love for my siblings and me.] 

"Oh.  Well, how does a saint get to become a saint?"

"Well, honey, I don't know exactly, but saints are very, very holy people who lived lives devoted to God and bringing Him to other people.  In fact, some people say that Pope John Paul should become a saint." 

"Who gets to decide?"

"Well, the Vatican, which is the headquarters of the church.  They examine the person's life to see whether the person measures up."

Saint Scooter"Do you have to be dead to be a saint?"

"Yes, I think so.  They pretty much wait until you've finished."

**<SNAP!>**  An epiphany.

"Oh!" he says, eyes suddenly wide open.  "Like the Baseball Hall of Fame!"

[This lad's going to be just fine.]