Isabella (she’s 5): Daddy, how do you spell “Butterfly?”

Me: Well… You know how to spell Butter, right?

Iz: Um… Not really.

Me: Uh, you know how to spell Butt, right.

Iz: Hehehehe…. Butt. Yeaaaah…

Me: Ok, start there…. What do you have?

Iz: Teehee. I don’t want to say. Can I show you?

(She brings me her drawing.)

Me: Yes, Honey. Butt.

Iz: Hahahahaha! You said Butt.

Me: Relax. Now, “Er” and “Fly.” Can you handle that.

Iz: Yes, I can. Is there a fly in your butt? But, why is there a But In Your Butt. Does it fly? Hahahahaha!

Driving the girls in to school yesterday, Isabella (remember, she’s five) says:

Iz: Daddy, I know why you’re driving us today.

Me: Why is that, Sweetie?

Iz: Because, Mommy has to go downtown so she can go to Germany.

Me: Uh… No, Honey. Not “Germany.” “Jury Duty.” But, I can see how you’d make that mistake. They sound a lot alike.

Iz: I don’t understand.

Me: Well… One is a place where historically, and unfortunately, you could be forced to show your papers, held against your Will indefinitely, subjected to endless interrogation, and become part of a show trial.

Iz: Blink.

Me: And, the other one is a country in Europe!! Get it? Europe! Funny stuff.

Iz: Daaad!

Me: Ok, try this one. I said, “Doody!!”

Iz: Hahaha! Doody.

Thanks to all my German friends (and family!) for having a sense of humor. Also, to the Judicial System.

I’m sure some of you saw both of those jokes from a mile away…

Ladies, if you should ever happen to find yourself sleeping with me (and by that, I mean actually sleeping), there’s something you should know: I’m a bit of a cuddler.

My primary snuggle-buddy (i.e. my beautiful wife of 20+ years) is generally tolerant of this strange, strange fetish. Call her crazy.

I understand, though, that everyone needs their own space (even my gorgeous wife), and wants to roll over and let the blood settle to the other side.

It is at these times that I turn to my secondary cuddle bunny. She is French. Her name is “Sofá Cushón.” I greatly appreciate her frequent availability. (Even my wife is Ok with her. Bonus! I guess.) But, between you and me, Sofá’s a bit cold. And stiff. Plus, I think she’s stealing the loose change from my pockets. She can be a bit of a bitch sometimes, too.

Why am I sharing this? Well, I’m feeling more than a little nostalgic.

As a regular reader, you know that I have two daughters, Julianna (8) and Isabella (5). They both LOVE to snuggle with Daddy. Until recently, bedtime notices began with “Who wants to snuggle with Daddy?” and the response from both girls was, in stereo, “Meeee!”

The other day, I made my bedtime call: “Who wants to snuggle with Daddy?”

Isabella yelled: “Meeee!”

But, Julianna retorted: “You can have him. I’m good.”

Ouch.

So, I cuddle up with Isabella while Julianna slips into her own bed. To Isabella, I sing… “Twinkle, Twinkle….” “Rock a Bye Baby…” “You Are My Sunshine.” I scratch Iz’s back. Zzzzz.

I slip out of her bed. But, I notice that Julianna is piled up against the wall, covered with pillows and blankets. Most of the bed is wide open.

Just for a second, I think: I could fit there. And snuggle. In her bed…

But, she doesn’t need me. She’s “Good.” I pause for a moment, then trog to the Master Bedroom.

I schlepp off to bed. I snuggle with the familiar, warming, comforting, softness of my lovely wife.

Mmmm. Softness.

But, still…

I’m ever mindful that my time with my baby girls is limited. Soon enough, sunggling with them will move from Awwww to Ewwwww.

I know that my insomnia will ultimately end with my leaping into the waiting arms of a La-Z-Boy!

Which reminds me:

Gentlemen: If you should ever find yourself sleeping with me, then either we are in a fox hole because our nation is under attack, or we are the targets of a wacky “I Love Lucy” mistaken-identity skit. Either way, there’s something you should know: I’m a bit of a cuddler.

Julianna (she’s 8): Daddy, what’s Karma?

Me: Wow, tough question. Um, well, some people think there’s a magical force in the world…

J: So, it’s myth.

Me: Well, Sweetie. Lots of people think that if you do Good Things, then Good Things will happen to you. And, if you do Bad Things, then Bad Things will happen to you.

J: Daddy, is that true?

Me: I don’t know. I mean, you do lots of Bad Things, but you seem to only get Good Things. Sooo…

J: Aha! Like I said: It’s a Myth! Can I have ice cream?

After picking up Julianna (8) and Isabella (5) from school yesterday, Isabella wants to sing me a song she just wrote.

As a classically-trained composer, nothing could tickle me more.

Iz: Daddy, I’m going to sing a song about ME.

Oh God. Another self-centered narcissistic composer. Welcome to Hollywood.

She begins to sing. Her intonation is atrocious, and the melody is derivative of every other song she has ever written. Like Green Day.

Still, she comes up with a great story:

(I’m not quite sure what key she is in. So, there, she’s got her Daddy’s sense of pitch.)

She sings:

Here’s a song about a little girl…
Her name is Isabella.
And she is me, me, me.
She is a little girl.
And she is Me.
Let me tell you about Me.
Me, me, me.
And the best thing is:
She loves Daaaaaa-ddy.

Everyone: Awwwww.

Didn’t see that coming.

My “I’m a terrible person” meme that populates Daddy/Daughter Fun Time isn’t the result of my low self-esteem, awful childhood memories, or failure to take my meds. Though, my therapist might want to weigh in on the subject. (That is, if I had a therapist. Rimshot!)

No, it comes from being told point blank: “You are a terrible person.” Repeatedly. For years on end. By my wonderful, beautiful, engaging, and loving children.

Do you sense a story? (Oh good, I have you trained.)

We’re not off to a good morning. Someone is running late. Someone won’t put her shoes on. Someone is just being a jerk. Mommy is trying to get dressed to take them to school. Breakfast is my job today.

I call to Julianna (she’s eight): Julianna! Turn off the Rugrats and come eat your Lucky Charms.

J: But, I can’t miss Rugrats. It’s my favoritest one ever.

Me: Honey, I don’t care. You have to eat. Let’s go. You have to leave in a few minutes.

J: No! I hate Lucky Charms. I can’t miss Rugrats!

Then, going from 0 to 100 in about 2 sentences.

J: You’re a horrible father!

She’s right, of course. I suck. I know it. Short, fat, kinda dumb, socially awkward, inept at just about everything, unable to relate to a small child in any significant way. Clumsy. Lacking the most basic sense of humor. Old. Stiff. Emotionally remote. Unskilled. Cold. With no compassion for other people or animals. And, kinda stinky.

I get it. But, still…

Me: Eat your Goddamn cereal! It’s Magically Fucking Delicious!

Yeah, I didn’t actually say that. I just thought it so loud in my head that I was sure she could hear it.

Now, here comes Act 2.

Isabella (she’s five, and whiny): Daaaddddeeeee. I’m hungryyyyy.

Me: Ok, what do you want? Oatmeal? Eggs?… Waffle?

Iz: Can I have Honey Smacks?

Me: No, Honey. We’re all out. Sorry.

Iz: What do you mean we’re out? (She starts to ratchet it up.) You knew we were out yesterday! Why didn’t you go to the store?!

Me (trying to remain calm): Sweety, we have plenty of stuff you can eat.

Iz (here come the waterworks): Waaaah!! I only want Honey Smacks. And, you didn’t buy them. You should have gone to the store! So, now I can’t eat anything. Waaah!!

Me: Puppy, please stop crying.

Iz: No! And, you can’t make me! You’re a horrible father!

So, you see. Obviously irrefutable evidence of my total suckage.

You know, that therapist idea is starting to sound better.