There’s a reason I keep floating this anemically followed blogspeck on the Internet. It’s not for you. And, it’s not for me. It’s for my daughters. If you find something worthwhile in this pile of posts, great. But someone is writing about the years before my girls could see themselves Unfortunately for them, that someone is me. Daddy.
Here’s a post. You’ll be entertained.
Middle of the night, I hear pitter-pat of little feet.
Isabella (she’s 9): Mommy, mommy. I had a nightmare.
Me: Daddy here. Climb up, Honey. What’s wrong, Sweetie?
Iz: There was a clown.
Me: You can stop right there. Nightmare enough.
Iz: But he had a knife. And he cut me!
She nestles closer and closer to me, Daddy.
Me: Don’t worry, Pumpkin. There aren’t any clowns here, and I’ll protect you if one shows up.
Now, I am known as the snuggler of the family. Got a hand that needs rubbing? Gimme. Feet? I’ve got a rub two, get one free deal. Finger tips, you have no idea… And, those shoulders, Miss Gymnastics. Toes. Famous for my toes. (Totally wholesome, btw).
So, between my 20 minute bursts of sleep, there’s rubbing or scratching or massaging. For hours.
By daybreak, I have protected her from that evil clown. And given her a $200 Vegas massage. Plus tip. And yet. She’s asleep. Won’t wake uo. (Man, I’m good). I guess, no tip.
Me: Honey. Sweetie. Got to get up and get ready for school.
Mommy: Let’s get going.
Iz pulls up the covers. “Nooo.”
Me (a bit more stern): Isabella, time for breakfast. What do you want?
Iz: WHY DOES EVERYBODY HATE ME?
Now, I have taken some liberties with the narrative here, but this is typical of every morning.
Iz: MY KNEE HURTS?
Iz: MY ELBOW! I DON’T KNOW!
As I said, typical.
Me: Totally different. When you figure it out, let me know. We need to leave in 30 minutes.
Iz: WHY DO YOU HATE ME?
Part II. (Yeah, there’s a Part II, Baby)
Somehow, we manage to get in the car for school. (And, the “somehow” involves a combination of threats, rewards, and get your-ass-in-the-cars. Did I mention threats?)
We’re late. Big Fat Friggin’ Surprise.
How’s everybody’s blood pressure doing? Mine is rising just proof-reading this. (It has a happy ending, don’t worry.)
Meanwhile, on the way to school:
Julianna (she’s 12): I want to pick the song!
Iz: No, I want to pick it!
In my day, the DJ picked the song. That was how you learned about awesome music, like The Who, or shitty music like A-Ha. You learned it and lived it. 3 minutes at a time. Plus commercials.
Iz: Fine! I didn’t sleep well. And I have a headache. And my stomach hurts, too.
We eventually make it to school, a 30 minute drive (There’s no such thing as a school bus for a charter school.)
About an hour after drop-off, my phone rings.
Iz: Daddy, my head hurts. And my tummy hurts.
Me: Ok. Do you want me to get you? Or can you stay?
Iz (in the most pathetic voice): Get me.
Daddies have three modes: Because I said so. I’ll never do that again. and, Get Out of My Way.
Pick 3 wins.
I race to get her (did you notice my cape flapping out of the car door?)
I Sign her out, put my arm on her shoulder, and lead her to the car.
Me: Honey, what’s wrong?
Iz: I just feel sick.
We get home, she snuggles with Mommy, and I begin writing this post.
The bedroom door opens.
Mommy: She wants you.
Mommy: I dunno.
I snuggle up. She falls asleep. And whispers:
We snuggle. She sleeps. Eventually…
Iz: I want Mommy. Clown. Zzzzz….