Izzy sings Zappa...The Impending Death of the Were Woof......

Izzy: Daddy?
Daddy: Yes, Pick?
Izzy: When will I be bigger for boobies?
Daddy: What?
Izzy: You know, BOOBIES? When will I be bigger for boobies?
Daddy: Oh jeez, I don't know. I'm not really ready to talk about boobies and you just now, can we talk about something other than your boobies?"
Izzy: They're just boobies, everybody gets boobies.
Daddy: I'm just not ready to talk about you and boobies yet. Can we talk about something else?
Izzy: OK. (Pause) Daddy?
Daddy: Yes, Pick?
Izzy: How come BOYS don't get boobies?

I don't normally do this sort of thing, this is not what I intended for this column but this is important. I have a couple of friends who recently participated in the Walk to end breast cancer. I have a mother in law that did it a couple of times too. I really didn't pay much attention to breast cancer, any cancer for that matter but I took a step back and thought of all of the women in my life and if they all went at once, I really wouldn't have too many people left...So if you'll excuse the soap-box oratorio, Do you have a mother; girlfriend; wife; daughter; aunt; sister; close family friend; grandmother or maybe you just really like boobs. There that about covers everybody and now you have no excuse. Go give some money. I'm not saying give until it hurts because these days, there are enough wallets hurting already but give what you can and save the boobs.


We are a passionate bunch, all four of us. And like all people of passion things can sometimes boil over and passions can ignite and the yelling can begin. We are all yellers and are all quite practiced at it. Isobel for example, is the only person I know who can get yelled at and be crying (real or crocodile tears) and still be yelling right back. It is almost exclusively just blowing off steam and there is never any real intent to hurt or to cause hurt feelings. On any one's part, not even Izzy's. It's not to say that we (the parents) or they (the kids) are yelling all the time (god what a racket that would be) we aren't. We are an average normal family that sometimes gets frustrated and let's our anger get the better of us. Anyone that says this has never happened to them, especially with kids, is either a saint or not being honest with themselves. It's not glamorous but it is real life.
However, I recently have been working on a graveyard shift job and not getting enough sleep. Whatever rational part of my brain that stops me from flying off the handle has dwindled to a mere pilot light and I have found myself flying off the handle for no good reason. I hate it. It's like watching someone else blow their stack and being powerless to stop it. Izzy said this job is turning me into a "were woof" because I growl a lot in the morning and she is probably right.
One night I snapped her over nothing and felt bad about almost immediately after I did it but I didn't say anything. I put them to bed and got ready to go to work. Guilt was gnawing at me but I was unsure what I should do and I couldn't actually do anything until after she got up the next morning.
At break time, I sat down and opened my lunch box and there it was...a big rubber tarantula. I started thinking "she put this in here for one of a couple of reasons: 1) she thought I was mad at her and figured a rubber spider would be just what I needed to make me not mad anymore.
2) She thought she had done something wrong and figured a rubber spider would erase any wrong doing from my mind and all would be forgive or
3) She thought "I'll show you, you swine. You'll be reaching into your lunch box for a tasty treat and KAZAM! it's into a horrid retching, painful death for you."
Either way I felt like a complete dirt-bag and had to finish my lunch out side because I was getting a little misty in the lunch room. When I got home that morning and she got up, I hugged her...and hugged her and hugged her until she asked,
"Daddy, why are you hugging me so long?"
"Just because I need a good hug."
She pulled my head down to her level and kissed my forehead.
"I love you Daddy," she said.
"I love you too, I'm sorry I shouted at you." I said.
"You're too tired," she said.
"Thank-you for my present." I said.
"What present?"
"The spider in my lunch box." I said
"Oooookay," she said in that tone that states, the old man has lost his mind, "can I go watch t.v.?"
The light has finally come to the end of the tunnel and I am approaching the end of this rotten assignment. The were woof is in his death throes and we will all celebrate when he goes. Then we can get back to what is really important, Tuesday tea parties and boys turning ten and opening a pop can by yourself for the very first time. All of the things that make up what life is really all about.



"Why does it hurt when I pee?" was the cry that came from the bathroom.
"Wait, what? What did you say?" It was not something I expected to hear from my four year old.
It hurts when I pee, why does it have to hurt when I pee?"
The first thought racing through my mind is 'Just what in the hell is going on at the baby sitter's house?' but I remembered that she is four and the cause of this question is something far less sinister.
"Does Mummy know about this?"
"Yes, she says I'm not wiping right. Can you show me what to do?"
Now some may think this subject a little odd or a little off putting but many other things I am discovering about being the father of a little girl, I just don't know what to say in instances like this. Which I'm certain Izzy revels in. Something that can finally shut the old boy up!
"Oh well, you just...no, that's not it. Ummm...maybe if you....nope won't work either. Hey how about...no, no that definitely won't work.
Now it may seem fairly straight forward and a little self explanatory-and to a certain degree it is but when we are dealing with an area that is already tender from an angry looking red rash it got a little tricky. At least in my mind. I started to think of what I did when she was a baby to get rid of diaper rash, which essentially this still was but figure it would be painful and embarrassing for both of us if I tried to hoist up her ankles and wipe her off that way.
In the end ( pun generously intended) we managed to get Izzy cleaned up and a little soothing cream applied to the offensive area without too much distress for either of us but it got me to thinking that there is a whole lot of girl stuff that Dads aren't readily equipped for. Like the time in a little girl's life when she starts using everything like a fairground ride. I am told that this is completely normal and I shouldn't draw any unnecessary attention to it...we had a dog that did the same sort of thing and my father used to hose it down with a spray bottle. I've been told this is unnecessary attention...the book the nurse told me they send new Dad's, I'll bet it's just lost in the mail.