True Manhood

Julie is the Winston Churchill of home improvement speeches. One particular address, titled "Murder thy Branches of Tyranny," led to me balancing on the second-highest rung of an extension ladder while hand-sawing off a 10-inch diameter sunshine inhibitor.

I worried the branch might pendulum me off the ladder to my honorable death, so I tied the end of it to my neighbor's fence post.

See the strap there? It's ratcheted very tightly, so I imagined it would yank the severed branch away from me, probably with a poing sound, and I might live to see another day.

My dad used a similar technique while lying on his stomach in the living room and sawing an old rotten deck off the second story of his house. If that's evidence of true manhood, and I would argue that it is, then I still have a ways to go.

Here's a picture of me before I climbed higher. I'm submitting it to National Geographic with the caption "Dumb-ass in shorts."

Astonishingly, I cut the branch and didn't die. Then my neighbor Herb, who always kindly emails me when he sees a woodpecker on my house, brought over some kind of spray to, like, cauterize the tree's wound or something. Now Julie's garden will get more sun, and if I unwittingly killed the entire tree, then it will get way more sun.

Now, brimming with confidence and a new appreciation for life on the ground, I've embarked on the next project. This one was born of another of Julie's Churchillian orations about the state of the backyard, this time titled "Fortify Nature's Bounteous Bosom." She wants raised gardens for vegetables. The instructions are on a website called Pioneer Woman, an excellent resource for hardcore men like me.

So I went to Menard's and bought lumber. Apparently, what you're supposed to do is drive your pickup truck to the lumberyard in back and load 'er up. At least that's the impression I got when I pushed my shopping cart back there. Good times, good times.

And Finally, Horse Camp Retrospective, Part 4: Ironclad Memory of Fun New Things

For dinner, Lyla eats 1 roll, 2 brownies, 0 pieces of chicken, 0 vegetables, and 67 tater tots. Since none of the dads are actually in charge of their daughters here, this nutritional imbalance goes unchallenged. The girls are all happy but exhausted. Al-Vah has fallen asleep on her plate.

After dinner, a flag ceremony, and a truly unfortunate singalong, the trading post opens, and Lyla makes a bee-line for it faster than a bee making a line to something. I follow because I have the money. She selects a woodland color-by-number and a stuffed raccoon for Rowan.

In the bunk room while she colors, we await the evening campfire, still an hour away. More girls file in, their dads following. Lyla abandons the color-by-number, and the girls collectively get a second wind. They rile each other up, shrieking and whooping. Then they run out of the room in a herd, and the other dads and I listen as they invent a game with inexplicable rules. It sounds roughly like a Pentecostal revival.

Lyla takes a six-second break from the game to inform me that, while she will not be attending the campfire, I am nevertheless permitted to bring her back a S'more. This has become like a ritual for us. She says she doesn't want to do something (such as ride horses, shoot arrows, and attend campfires), but I pep-talk her until she grudgingly reconsiders, and then she loves it and files it away into her ironclad memory of fun new things. Except for singalongs: everyone has limits.

Lyla leaves and comes back: "Daddy, someone just put a phone in one of the toilets." Of course someone did.

Later, we do make S'mores, but Lyla and I return to the bunk room ahead of the masses so that we can FaceTime with Julie. Another girl hears Julie's voice and joins us, chats with Julie about this and that; her name is Mamie, and her dad's in the shower. Had the other girls not been outside still chowing down on S'mores, they would have all gathered around to talk to Julie too. In the absence of your actual mother, any mother will do.

The place becomes a zoo again before long. Lyla gallops around with the herd, whipping ribbons and coming *this* close to putting out eyeballs. Slowly and one by one, the girls get plucked out of the herd by their dads and prepared for bed. While other girls cry and protest, Lyla puts on pajamas without complaint and returns to her color-by-number.

In the dimness of the following morning, Father's Day, Lyla is up in her bunk again, coloring and coloring. Some unnamed friend has joined her, and below on my bunk I listen to them chat about school, brothers, and their favorite everythings. Elsewhere, bags get packed, hair gets brushed, and good food gets dreamed about. Lyla can be crazy and loud, but she is often quiet, and it is her quietness that has attracted this new friend. I think to myself, she's going to have a fulfilling life.

In awhile, we'll go help set up breakfast; Lyla has volunteered us again. We'll not-sing some more songs, and we'll say awkward goodbyes to Al-Vah, Mamie, and the others whose names escape me. The dads will grimace pleasantly at each other, and we'll all go home. And next June, without doubt, we'll come back and do it again.

Horse Camp Retrospective, Part 3: Snakes

Robin-Hooding an arrow straight to the bulls-eye, or better yet bisecting your rival's recently bulls-eyed arrow, is very different from what we experience. Lyla's first arrow swishes into the grass four inches in front of her, and she glares at me because I exist.

"Fantastic!" I tell her. "The first arrow I ever shot traveled 1/3 that distance. And I was 11."

It's the hot part of the day. None of the promised rain has fallen, so the arrows practically stop midair in the 99.9% humidity. After shooting (such a hyperbolic word, really) enough arrows to allow us to later claim we gave it a serious go, we head back to the bunks, peel off our sweat-soaked clothes, and prepare for a swim.

The swimming hole is Lake Barbara. If there's a more aptly named lake for a Girl Scout camp, I don't know what it is. It's man-made (slap my hand: woman-made) and only 5.5 feet deep in the center. As I look for a shady spot to dump our stuff, I stop mid-stride. A cobra has uncoiled in the grass, reared up, and spread its hood. It hisses at me, and its inch-long fangs glisten with venom. Okay, it's actually a small garter snake slithering away sluggishly, but since I've been deathly afraid of snakes my whole life, it might as well be Nagini unleashed by He Who Shall Not Be Named, and by that I mean Trump, not Voldemort.

In normal circumstances, I would find a secluded place to rock myself in a fetal position and probably cry a little. When you're surrounded by men and seven-year-old girls, however, that isn't a socially appropriate reaction. Lyla must notice my ashen complexion, but she says nothing. My heart is pounding. I'm sweating profusely. It's truly a phobia, and I need to sit down.

Through glazed eyes I see all these dads and daughters splashing around in a bizarre post-apocalyptic world with no wives and no sons. We're the last of the human race, and the only other living things are snakes.

Horse Camp Retrospective, Part 2: Hanging with Hercules

Among us dads, no one has stepped up as the authoritative voice, so the girls have taken over, and we just sit there haplessly and bear witness to the carnage. All we would've needed last night was one proper mom to enforce the 10:30 lights-out. Instead, the girls overpowered us, each going to sleep when she damn well pleased. But this morning there's at least a lot of coffee, so between that and a shower in sulfur-water, I'm at least feeling more alive than dead.

After breakfast, our group hikes to the horse stable. Once there, the horse lady conducts an eyes-closed poll to determine our relative levels of horse experience and comfort. Lyla gets Simon, a horse for "scared kids with no riding experience."

Disregarding the eyes-closed nature of the poll, I discover I am the only dad who "has ridden a handful of times and isn't scared." So I get assigned to Hercules, who is gigantic and hungry.

"If Hercules tries to move you from side to side," says Horse Lady, "use your tummy muscles to keep yourself on."

"Good. Yes. Will do." Nothing like having a woman give you tummy advice in front of Dad-peers and 7-year-old girls. I'm currently cement-mixing pancakes, mystery sausage, and seven plastic mugs of coffee, so I'm not sure any of the alleged tummy muscles are even available. I approach Hercules how I imagine John Wayne might, all bow-legged and confident. Introduce myself. Pat him on the neck. Threaten to have him processed into Ikea meatballs if he gives me any guff.

Miraculously, everyone maneuvers their beasts around the oval without incident. Later in the day, I am happy to report, Hercules throws a dad off. One without tummy muscles.

"Daddy," Lyla says, "if we buy Simon, I'm going to rename him River."

"Would you keep him in your bedroom?"

"No," she says with the "Are you an imbecile?" tone she's perfected.

Bag lunch. Tie-dyeing. A rest back at the bunks. Well, I rest. Lyla and Al-Vah run around like maniacs. Al-Vah has no inhibition, no filter. Lyla is calm and mannerly, but she's attracted to this wildness. She won't be the biggest party-animal on campus, but that'll be the girl she chooses to room with. She is Simon at heart, but she wants to hang with Hercules.

Horse Camp Retrospective, Part 1: Night of the Seven-Year-Old Howler Monkeys

A year ago, Lyla intercepted the Girl Scout camp catalog before I had a chance to hide it. That's how we found ourselves at horse camp over Father's Day weekend--because what better way to honor fathers than to bounce their crotches around on horses?

Below are excerpts from the Moleskine I kept in the event I didn't survive.

Lyla and I pass the lice check with flying colors. Welcome to camp! Step this way, please, and allow these teenagers with rubber gloves to inspect your scalps. She lingers I believe too judgmentally over my burgeoning bald spot before grunting and waving us through. Lyla allows me to run back out into the rain by myself to retrieve all our gear.

I return half-soaked to find Lyla getting her nails painted by her new best friend Ailbe, pronounced Al-Vah, whose Irish dad in his Appetite for Destruction t-shirt gets his nails painted too. Then Al-Vah dumps powdered Gatorade into all the other girls' water bottles, and Lyla is in cracked-out heaven. The other dads and I sit on our bunks and eavesdrop. I am quite proud when my at-times shy daughter regales everyone with the story of the pancakes she ate at Perkin's.

We dads are delightfully anti-social with one another. We nod and grimace pleasantly, but that's it. There's a tacit agreement that the intense and temporary camp friendships are better left to our daughters, who are now laughing like howler monkeys at something one of them said.

Later at the evening large-group gathering, Lyla and I discover we have the same attitude about singalongs, which is that we hate them. However, we differ profoundly in work ethic. As a boy at camp, my goal was always to avoid work at all costs, but Lyla, ever her mother's daughter, signs us up for "Dinner Hoppers" for tomorrow night, which I think means we'll have to fill waters and fetch food. Or at least she will. I'm going to try to get out of it.

Back in our bunk room, I lie on my plastic institutional mattress. All the girls are still tripping on Al-Vah's Gatorade, nail polish fumes, and the promise of an absurdly late 10:30 lights-out. The dads continue the grimacing and nodding while the girls play tag and chuck stuffed animals. It's an asylum, or at least a juvenile detention center. It's Orange Is the New Black, the dads and daughters edition. And it's only 9:51.

Several grievances

We have spelling bees at dinnertime. It's not some overbearing tiger-parent thing; the kids demand it. I don't know how it started, but I guess when two nerds love each other very much and decide to make babies, there's a chance it might result in spelling bees.

"Lyla, spell 'development'."

"No, Rowan."

Maybe it's time to sign them up for team sports.

Julie gave Lyla "grievance," which she spelled "greevence." So, no dessert for Lyla. Just kidding.

"Do you know what 'grievance' means, Lyla?"

"No."

"If you have a reason to complain about something, then you have a grievance."

At that instant the floodgates of 8-year-old disapproval burst open, and Lyla aired grievances for the next 10 minutes.

"Lyla, if you decide to share these concerns with your teacher tomorrow, make sure you use the word 'grievance'."

"Okay, I'll tell her I have a grievance."

"Several grievances."

"Yeah."

Mathematically Proficient Human

Time-tests in math class are still a thing, for some reason. It must be important to know how to do arithmetic quickly. Apparently the universe wants to negate that last sentence because I spelled "arithmetic" seven different incorrect ways before getting it right.

In Lyla's class, you have to get 50/50 correct for three Tuesdays in a row before you get moved to the next kind of math. Many kids are still hacking away at addition, while a handful are getting clobbered by subtraction. When Lyla graduated subtraction, she came home worried.

"What if next Tuesday I don't get very many multiplication problems right, and other kids see?" Second grade logic at its finest.

"Lyla, some of these kids struggle to add their own fingers together. You're the only kid on multiplication, right?"

"Yeah."

"So, even if you get every single problem wrong, you're still the most mathematically proficient human in the room. Not that anybody cares."

"Yeah, but."

Checkmate. No arguments hold water against an 8-year-old's "yeah, but." So Julie made her a bunch of multiplication tables, and Lyla taped them by her bed. At dinner each night, we analyzed various scenarios. And for the next three consecutive Tuesdays, Lyla aced the multiplication time-tests. You'd think she'd end-zone spike the test on her teacher's desk or mic-drop her pencil, but she hardly even talked about it. At some point, time-tests stopped feeling like a big deal to her--which is what time-tests should be: not a big deal.

So now she's pretty chill about division, and I couldn't be happier about that. If we even remember to ask her on a Tuesday afternoon how the time-test went, she'll say she got 28 or 30 out of 50, and then she'll nonchalantly change the subject.

But I do take a certain paternal pride that her teacher struggled to actually locate a division time-test; she'd never had a kid graduate multiplication. And I can say that without sounding boastful because clearly Lyla doesn't get it from me. I can barely spell arithmetic.

Cookie Czar

At the grocery store when the jolly cashier holds out an animal sticker, Lyla glances up with head slightly lowered, making her eyes look like they got stuck mid-roll. "No thank you," she says, barely audible with a dash of attitude.

I love the way she remains basically polite without compromising her standards of good taste. Animal stickers are, like, so first grade.

Nevertheless, one could argue that it's important to learn how to be socially adept with strangers. I'm speaking theoretically, of course, not from any personal knowledge or skill set. Barely audible with a dash of attitude is fine when you're 8 and rejecting a dopey sticker, but it won't get you a job.

Enter the Girl Scouts and their cookie cult.

It was Lyla's idea to fill up the bike trailer and drag it around the neighborhood like the cutest mule on Earth. Pretty good business plan, if you ask me; most people took one look at her and just grabbed their wallets. For the others, I believe her spiel went something like this: "Ahem, do you want cookies?" For a kid who does not love mindless pleasantries with random people, being the neighborhood cookie czar was excellent practice.

Controlled by the Logans

Last night, Rowan decided he will bequeath this shirt to his younger cousin, Cam.

"Too small for you?"

"No."

"You just think Cam will like it?" When Rowan gave Cam his old backpack, Cam wore it for approximately 172 consecutive hours. Cam is like Rowan's Dobby the House Elf.

"I don't know." He looked down and kicked at the floor with his big toe.

"What are you thinking about, buddy?"

"I just don't want it anymore. It's...embarrassing."

"It's embarrassing? Like, you're embarrassed to tell me?"

"No. The shirt is embarrassing. Because it says 'Daddy' on it."

A single trombone played a dirge in a far desolate corner of my brain, but I played it cool.

"'Daddy,' huh? Not what the kids are saying in kindergarten these days?"

"Everybody says 'Dad,' and when I said 'Daddy,' Logan laughed at me."

"Ah."

Now didn't seem the time for a pep talk on being one's own person. Nor did it seem the time to address inconsistencies in his feelings of embarrassment, such as his literally wide open attitude toward bathroom doors. And it definitely wasn't the time to remind him that sometimes he still calls me Da-da.

"Rowan, Cam's going to love that shirt."

"Never mind, Daddy." Okay, he did NOT actually say, "Never mind, Daddy." But in a more cinematic version of this story, that's what he said. And in that version, I held out my hand, but instead he came in for the hug, and the credits rolled. In the real version, the perfectly imperfect version, he just nodded and ran off, and I started (and continue) to think about how to teach him not to be controlled by the Logans of the world.

Dog person

I'm not a dog person. They smell, they invade my personal space, and they don't appreciate sentence structure. I realize I've also just described babies, who I love without exception. Lend me a baby and I am a cooing, burbling idiot. Not so much with dogs; I do appreciate your love for your dog and its objective worth as a living thing, but it will not send me into spasms of affection. This is one reason you're a nicer person than me and have more friends.

My two dog-exceptions (besides your dog, who is lovely) are Daisy and Tulip.

Tulip is the little blurry blob in the lower-left, eating feces. Daisy is the big thoughtful sentinel, gazing fearlessly at the horizon and the promise it represents.

In December, Daisy died. She was old, and she had cancer. After strong medications gave her a couple more acceptable weeks, she stopped having good days, and we made the hard decision.

How do you euthanize a pet when you have children who are small? What's the proper way to go about it? Probably there's not a wrong way as long as your intentions are loving and sensitive and thoughtful. For us, that meant bringing a veterinarian to our house and saying goodbye as a family.

It was hard. I don't really want to go into it. Hopefully the kids learned what it means to be humane and what it means to say goodbye. They handled it more matter-of-factly than I imagined they would. But people's reactions in difficult times aren't always predictable. While Julie and the kids sat in quiet, solemn reflection, I doubled over and sobbed.

The Test

At Rowan's last checkup, the doctor told us he is in the 40th percentile for height and 14th for weight. We only give him helium balloons indoors. Looking ahead to middle school, when ordinary children become Lord-of-the-Flies savages, he might need more than a conch shell to survive. Hence Kung Fu.

I wish I could say I decided on Kung Fu after careful analysis of all the martial arts, but it's just the one I happened to see on the community education website. It's like when I was 10 and my family moved down the street from a Lutheran church, instantly rendering us Lutherans.

Yesterday, with the verve and defiance of a young Martin Luther nailing his 95 theses to the door, Rowan passed his white belt test.

And sure, that behemoth in front of him blocked him off to half the Jedi council judging panel, but it didn't matter. His skills were apparent whether you could see him or not.

Afterward at Culver's, Rowan didn't eat his cone; he five-point-palm-exploding-heart-techniqued it into oblivion. Many napkins perished.

Kung Fu Master

Rowan is on the path to becoming a Kung Fu master. It's a slow path. The previous eight weeks of Friday evening classes have all led up to today's big test, held at a middle school in a neighboring town, after which Rowan will add to his curriculum vitae the title of "Kung Fu White Belt."

I thought he'd get the white belt on the first day, like they'd just hand them out and then work on the first real belt. You're alive and your dad paid the $79? Here, kid, tie this around your waist.

In actuality, white belt means you've mastered a series of blocks and punches that'll allow you to survive an attack by another white belt. The infinitely patient instructors would demonstrate a move with perfect form, and then they'd shower praise while their charges flailed around like little flamingos. Then they'd do it again. And again. Week after week. And the kids got better at it.

Last night, I told Rowan not to stuff his uniform in the hamper; he'd need it today for the test.

He's ready. He's in the zone. It's ON. Jackie Chan, you've been warned.

Luck o' the not-very-Irish

Julie texted me a warning: Both kids left their bedroom doors open this morning so that a leprechaun would have no problem sneaking in to leave magical treats and surprises.

Previous St. Patrick's Days have yielded zero leprechaun visits to our house. I am 1/8-Irish, and Julie is 1/4. That makes our kids (carry the 2, square root the whatever) 3/16-Irish, in other words unlikely to attract the attention of anybody named Seamus, let alone a leprechaun. I explained this to them in the car.

"But a leprechaun left candy in Hannah's room and also turned her toilet water green," Lyla pointed out.
 
"We'll check our rooms just in case," added Rowan.

"Yeah," said Lyla.

"Yeah," said Rowan.

"Yeah," said Lyla again.

"Okay, but seriously, you're not going to find anything from a leprechaun. There are childhoods that involve leprechaun visits and elves on shelves, but those are not your childhoods. I'm sorry."

It was silent as we drove up the hill and turned onto the street before the street before the street we live on. Then Lyla asked if we could order pizza and Rowan asked if they could have an Ice Breaker mint. I said sure, and fine cheer was restored.

As I type this, Rowan is turning an empty Kleenix box into a leprechaun trap. Just in case.

New Material, Girl

The book Lyla picked for me to read to her and Rowan at bedtime was something by Madonna.  I hadn't seen it before, but I suspect it came from last Saturday's gift opening marathon with Julie's side of the family.  A children's book written by the singer of "Like a Virgin" will be a perfect gift for a kindergartner, someone thought.

Spoiler alert in case you plan to read this book yourself, but it's about a group of girls who shun another girl because they're jealous of how she's perfect in every way.  Then there's an Ebeneezer Scrooge-like dream in which a fairy godmother shows the four of them--simultaneously, because they're all, like, having the same dream at the same time--that the shunned girl's life really isn't so perfect after all.  Among other things, the girl's mother is--oh boy.  I closed the book.

"Uh, I'll be right back."  I headed downstairs with the book and found Julie.

"Julie!  This Madonna book is about a girl whose mother is dead.  What do I do!?  I'm halfway through the book and the kids are waiting."

"I think it's fine."

"Seriously?  I don't think it's fine."

"Well, then you're going to deal with the kids' wrath."

Back upstairs, I told the kids I didn't want to finish the book because of something sad in it.  They could pick any other book as a replacement.

"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" they replied in unison.

Earlier this year, my friend, a mother of two who blogged here, died of cancer.  I admit that perhaps I overreacted to this children's book due to the rawness I still feel about her.  But I wasn't prepared for what Lyla said next.

"Daddy!  We know the sad thing is that her mom is dead!  We know!  Can you please just finish the book?"

Rowan chimed in, "Yeah, Daddy.  We know she's dead."

So I finished the book.  Lyla and Rowan listened intently, and then they went to bed.  And of course I came to the simple realization that by trying to protect them, I was really just protecting myself.

Thanks a lot, Madonna.

Wardrobe malfunction

On Monday, Julie and I took the kids to daycare so we could live a day in the throes of childless debauchery, a spiral of destructive, overindulgent behavior glorified by the dumbest rappers.  I'm pretty sure Lorde's writing a song about us as we speak.  It's called "Ceiling Fan Shopping in the Suburbs."

Later, we picked up the kids and found Rowan in the midst of a significant wardrobe malfunction.

"Nice legs, buddy."

"Yeah.  I don't have any pants on."

"Indeed."

"Yeah.  I peed on dem at nap time."

"Got it."

A teacher walked over.  "He just woke up.  And he doesn't have any backup pants in his locker, so I was about to put him in these."

Light purple fleece girl pants.  I did not smack them out of her hand, but I thought about it.  See, here's how they sent him home a couple months ago:

Look again at the photo.  Those are capris.

"So, the light purple fleece girl pants are the only option in the communal pants box?"

"Yep."

I glanced at Julie, who then uttered a five-word day-saver.  "What about his snow pants?"

Brilliant.

$10,000 in the swear jar

"Man, Lyla, your sheets are totally--"

I almost said they were totally fucked up.  As a child who grasps new words quickly, Lyla would've started calling everything fucked up.  "Daddy, your nostrils are fucked up."  Not good.

The trouble is Julie and I have always described imperfect bedsheets as fucked up.  I don't know why.  Julie says it's the only accurate phrase.

"Dan, you fucked up these covers."

We've assigned one of the most vulgar expressions in the English language to one of the most ordinary situations.  Perhaps we need more excitement in our lives.

"I did not fuck them up."

"You and your big galoot legs fuck up the covers every night."

"Woman, do not accuse me of these crimes.  You are this bed's chief fucker-upper."

Secret #1 to marital happiness: talk sweetly to one another.

The other day, Lyla helped Rowan make his bed.  Five-year-olds are terrible at bed-making; best case scenario involves the sheets going from catastrophically fucked up to pretty fucked up.  But you have to praise the effort.  Otherwise they might go to daycare saying fuck.

Where is my timid, cautious toddler?

Julie and Rowan arrived at the train show and found a very different situation from what was advertised.  Rather than a Thomas the Train festival with wooden train tables, snacks, and life-size characters to hug, it was a locomotive trade show for old autistic men.

Meanwhile, I took Lyla to Edinborough Park (a giant indoor play structure covered in microscopic fecal matter) and found a very different Lyla from the last time we were there.  Where was my timid, cautious toddler, and who was this chimpanzee?  I made the mistake of trying to follow her through the labyrinth for awhile.  Height difference alone meant I had to crawl while she sprinted, so it was ugly, and I was lucky to get out of there with limbs, if not dignity, intact.

Afterward, we ate at People's Organic, her favorite restaurant for reasons known only to God ("Why is it your favorite restaurant?"  "Uh...I don't know.").  It took forever for the food to come out, but Lyla waited with patience and good cheer.

Back at home, the spoils of Christmas continued to delight.

"Daddy, did you see that!?  This car is out of control!"

"Want me to teach you how to steer it?"

"Uh, sure."

In ten years, we'll have that conversation again. 

Non-bath-night bath

We've been parents for five years now and have never won a single award for the cleanliness of our children.  "My, your children are clean," a stranger has never said. 

But this evening, Rowan requested a non-bath-night bubble bath.  He wanted to relax after a tough day, perhaps, like every romantic comedy's female protagonist.  So Julie sat up there with him while he splashed around.

After 10 minutes or so, he stood up and announced,  "I wanna det out now."

Julie put down her magazine, rinsed him off, and grabbed a towel.

"I want you to mate me into a ta-toe."  (Making him into a taco involves wrapping the towel around him, neck to toes, like it's a tortilla and he's a slippery piece of chicken.)

"Okay, buddy."

Then he changed his mind.  "No, Mommy.  I want you to mate me into a baby buwwito."  (Making him into a baby burrito involves exactly the same procedure.)

Tomorrow Julie's taking him to a train show at the River Centre in St. Paul.  Smart money says the instant he sees Thomas the Train, he'll aggressively release his bowels and negate the bath.

Counting to C

I wrote this in my creative writing class today to show students different dialogue techniques.  I put myself into the story, but it was actually Julie.

            We realized the other day that even though Rowan can recite the alphabet, he has no idea how to identify specific letters on the page.  Luckily, Lyla decided to teach him.

            "Okay, buddy, what letter is this?" she said, pointing to an A.

            "I don't know."

            "It's an A."

            "Yeah."

            The lesson continued in this fashion for quite some time.  Then I suggested to Lyla to review some of those earlier letters.  She pointed to the A again.

            "What letter is this?"

            Big smile on Rowan's face, and then: "B!"  He reached out his hand to Lyla, expecting a high-five.

            "Daddy, he's not doing it right."  Lyla's lip began to quiver in the telltale pre-breakdown way.

            "Keep at it, kiddo," I said.  "Practice makes perfect."

            Several minutes later, Rowan got one right.  Lyla was ecstatic.

            "He got C, Daddy!  He got C!"

            Rowan beamed with pride.  "Daddy!  Daddy!  I counted to C!"

Farewell

Time goes on.  The world spins.  The kids grow.  Life happens.

I'm going to stop writing on this blog.  Being a dad is still full of revelations and wacky moments, but I don't feel so compelled to share them these days.  It's not that parenting is suddenly less interesting or fun; if anything it's much more so.  It's also more comfortable, and being comfortable is not conducive to good writing.

So thank you for reading.  God bless you.  If I post here again, I'll link to it from Facebook.  I wouldn't rule it out entirely; certainly I've failed at quitting before.  But this time I feel done.  Or at least in need of a good, long break.  I want to write other things.

I don't like ending.  We don't like endings, we humans.  So this is hard for me.  But it's the right thing, too.  See you around.  I'm going to go write a story.