It looks like Daddy/Daughter Fun Time has reached its Final Episode. After nearly 600 posts, the public has had its fill of my familial commentary. And, frankly, I am getting tired of my children, too. (I kid, of course. I suppose.)
It just doesn’t seem right for me to talk about my daughters when they understand the medium better than I. (One is a teen and is blah blah blah on Instagram or whatever.) They actually deserve a life that is free from being scrutinized for their every foible. And, those foibles are what this blog has specialized in. Life is hard enough without everything being publicized in a Daddy Blog.
For me, fortunately, diaper duty (Ha! He said Doody) is over. I hope I’ve encouraged my beautiful daughters’ wide-eyed innocence to ask questions (Isabella, obviously) and artistry (Juianna and her drawings.)
But, it is time to go.
The name of this Blog originated from the many times I strapped my first daughter (Julianna) then the second one (Isabella) in a stroller and proudly walked the sidewalks of West Hollywood, CA. Just to give Mommy (my beautiful, wonderful wife, Lynn) a brief break after hours and hours of mommy-ing. Daddy/Daughter Time? No! Daddy/Daughter FUN Time. Because, Dammit! This is going to be FUN!
So, after all of my stories, complaints, and observances, I, your humble Daddy, wish you a very good night. And, pleasant dreams. You are my sunshine when skies are grey.
Iz: But, Daddy, how can it be sunny at bedtime. It’s night, so by definition there’s no sun…..
(Occasional updates are very possible…)
For Old Time’s Sake, a last Christmas gift to you:
Isabella (the 10-year old) has a bit of a cold. Mommy has been fighting it for days. It is starting to spread throughout the family domicile.
But, it is time for gymnastics pick-up.
Iz (again, she’s 10): Daddy, I have a sore throat, so I won’t talk too much.
Me: Ok, sorry. Don’t talk. It will help.
Iz: I just said that I won’t talk.
Me: And, I said “Good, rest your throat.”
Iz: You didn’t say that. You said, “Don’t talk.”
Me: Thank you for the correction. I wasn’t being literal.
Iz: Because that’s not what you said. I’m not going to talk anymore. Because my throat hurts.
Me: Ok, fine. Be quiet.
Iz: I hate when you tell me what to do.
Me: Ok. Well, it’s your throat.
Iz: I won’t talk anymore. My throat hurts.
Me: I understand that. Stop talking.
Iz (getting feisty): I am stopping talking.
Me: And yet… You are still talking. Stop talking.
Iz: Dad! Stop it! My throat hurts.
Me (a little annoyed): Then. Stop Talking.
Iz: Why are you yelling at me. My throat hurts.
Me: Honey, I am not yelling. Please stop talking.
Iz (starting to cry): Why are you yelling at me to stop talking when you know my throat hurts. Now it hurts even worse. Waaah.
Me: No one is yelling. Just stop talking.
Iz: But my throat hurts.
Me: And, it is probably because you have to have the last word.
Iz: No I don’t.
Me: Then, stop talking.
Iz: Ok, I will.
Me: And, you still have to have the last word. Always.
Julianna (she’s 13, from the back seat): Dad, I liked when you said that she had to have the last word. Because it is true.
Iz: I heard that. And… No I don’t.
So it goes.
Good night, Fun Time. I will miss you.