God's toenails... Channeling your inner princess...

Izzy and I were sitting on the back deck of our palatial mansion here in Ontario whine country, when she noticed a bird's nest in the tree we were sitting under.
"Daddy, do you see the bird nest?"
"I see it, it's a big one."
"Is it broken?" she asked.
"No," I said. "I just don't think there are any birds in it."
"I bet they are on holidays."


I always envisioned that this would be a sort of "Shit my Izzy says." sort of column but it appears to have taken on a life of it's own. I suspected as much though I didn't think it would turn into the "Marley and Me" for the potty training crowd that it is veering toward. But like Isobel herself, this thing goes the direction it goes, I just keep it from running into the rocking chair at full speed.



Izzy asked me about Easter once and I made some smart comment that it was about The Baby Jesus.
"Oh Daddy," she said. "They don't exist."
"Who doesn't exist?" I asked.
"The Baby Jesus, they don't exist."
It's one of those moments that leave even a know it all like me speechless. I am smart enough to know that kids are going to be curious, especially if there are a couple of kids at daycare who's parent's happen to be inclined toward the divine. I am also smart enough to avoid a theological discussion with my four year old at all costs.
My mind went back to a time when the boy was all of four years old and graduating from day care. Someone had said to him in passing that god was in his heart and loved him forever. He came home an demanded to know who this god guy was and what did he think he was doing just hanging around in some one's heart. Was he waiting for something, like a bus? He wanted answers and he wanted them from me.
I struggled to remember Sunday school lessons and worn out metaphors when the answer came to me. Divine intervention, some might say.
I said, "Do you see how Mummy is always telling me what to do?"
"Yes," the boy replied. "she always tells you what to do."
"Well that is because she knows so much more than me."
His eyes lit up. "She does?"
"She really does, so you should go ask her." And off he went.
I've never held the opinion that this is what I believe and therefore so should my children. Izzy starts school soon and begins a new life where people will be cramming rules and regulations down her throat with impunity. (OK Dad is perhaps more worried than Izzy) The very least I can offer her and her brother is a home where their opinions and beliefs still count for something.


I was off work for more than a year and Izzy was home with me every day. We would play a little here and there but Tuesdays we had set aside for a weekly ritual. The princess tea party. Tiaras and mangled dollar store tea cups and barbies, lots and lots of barbies.
When I was a kid I never had a problem bringing barbies into the mix of everyday play. Even my friends noticed that Saturday night at the G.I Joe Mobile Command Centre, were a bit of a sausage party and so we would "borrow" a few barbies from our sisters to even things up. My inner princess is alive and well.
There is a certain freedom in assuming the mantle of Mrs. Nesbit and gossiping about the people next door over a cracked plastic cup full of imaginary tea and now that I am working again, I miss Tuesday afternoons with Mrs. Izzy.
We are at a time, finally, when there are few stereo type roles that a father is supposed to play. The archetype dad bringing home the bacon and expecting his dinner and his pipe and slippers at five is gone. Being a some time stay at home dad has brought me a closeness with my children that just didn't exist when I was a kid.
Fellas, take my advice. Put on a tiara and pull up a chair... the tea is just about ready.