The Weirdness of You...Daddy's little girl...

We were driving home from school when she let fly with a blue streak that might make a sailor blush. OK maybe not a sailor but it was out of character for her to use those words as an expression of her being upset, it is usually quite the opposite.
Isobel: "Damn, damn, shit damn. Daddy?"
Daddy: "Yes?"
Isobel: "Daddy, can I say the 'F' word?"
Daddy: "If you really feel you need to, sure."
Isobel: "I do. Fuck."
Daddy: "Feel better now, do you?"
Isobel: "I hate my hair. And my name, I hate my hair and my name. I like the way it's spelled...no I don't. I hate that too."
Daddy: "If you don't like your hair, change it. If you don't like your name, we could call you Ishbel."
Isobel: "What's that?"
Daddy: "It's Scottish for Isobel."
Isobel: " Um no, I don't need that. I want my name to be Cadence.
Daddy: "What!?! Why?"
Isobel : "Cadence is my best friend and she drew me a picture and it said 'Love Cadence' and she does. I don't have anything nice to give her so I want to change my name to hers. That would be nice, right?"
Daddy: "Why don't you draw her a picture?"
Isobel: "Nope, too hard. I'll just change my name."


I am often asked how all of this began and why I do it. It began as a way of telling my family what was happening with us and specifically the kids. It is a modern world we live in and so, rather than trying to remember all the minutia of what the kids had done, I started writing it down and sending it out to them. One thing led to another and here we all are. My sister in law asked me why I still do it, even though my family sees the kids more regularly now than when this originally began.The short answer is because I love to do it. I would do it if nobody read it because it's fun for me to relive all of it. I live through all of these adventures with her and I scarcely believe some of it.
I have a little book that I used to use to write down some of the things Izzy would say and random bits I would remember along the way. I started writing some of them down sometime before I started to write this column...premonition of some type? Doubtfully. Anyway my point is, the book is quickly filling up with Izzy-isms and snippets of the life of a five year old. I still write down most everything noteworthy (and that is most of it) that she says in the little brown note book and occasionally I go back and read through from the beginning.
There are things in there that are typical of the five year old mind and then there are some things in there that are so off the wall and bizarre that I can't not share them...

We were enjoying our new favourite activity of sitting by the fire and chatting when the subject of the the state of the backyard came up. The local wildlife seem to enjoy using our back yard as a toilet and I have threatened many times, to get a pellet gun and remedy the situation.
"So we would shoot them, the damn squirrels?" she asked.
"Yep." I said.
"What then? What would happen to the squirrels?" She asked, sounding concerned."
"They'd be dead." I said without thinking. It dawned on me that the prospect of a backyard full of dead squirrels might sound like a good idea to me but the cute factor would likely weigh heavily on her mind and even the thought of one dead squirrel would probably scar her for life.
"Soooo...we'd burn the dead squirrels?"

I am back on the night shift which means I have a tendency to nod off when ever I sit still for more than a few minutes at a time. Izzy has taken it upon herself to make sure I stay awake by slapping my face whenever she sees my eyes closed. I guess I nodded off while watching T.V. I was awakened with a slap.
"Wake up!" she demanded. "I'm not here."
"Izzy," I said. "Just leave me be. I'm tired."
"I don't want you to fall asleep," she began. "when you fall asleep, the were-woof comes out."
She had a point though in my own defence, this was the first week on nights and I was bound to be a little grumpy.
"Izzy, I will be more were-woof if I am more tired. Get it?" I asked.
She nodded her head and I guess I nodded back off. In a few minutes, she was sitting on my chest smacking my face again.
"Daddy, Daddy," she cocked her arm ready to let another slap fly. "Daddy, you were dreaming. I needed to wake you up."
"What?" I asked sleepily.
"You were dreaming that I was one eyed and wearing a pink dress."

"Can I have a snack?" she asked me.
"Sure, " I said. "But don't eat to much, we're gonna have supper soon."
She came back with a granola bar.
"I really like granola bars," she began. "But they're lazy."
Soon after that we were on our way to get the mail. A big thing for her is to run like mad to get into the post office and open our mailbox... she is still five despite evidence to the contrary...Our box number is 688.
"688 is a lazy number." she said. "Well, 6 is OK but 8 and 8 are definitely lazy."
"What's with you and everything being lazy lately?" I asked.
" I am tired of doing hard work for things that won't get their shit together." she said.
I am sensing I need to start watching my language...or at least my choice of phrases...


It's funny that I used to joke that the days never turned until I went to bed and woke up the next day. By that logic, I am actually about 37 thanks to many misspent weekends and week days and week nights and...Izzy has apparently inherited my sense of time...
"Daddy, when I wake up, will it be tomorrow?" she asked
"Yep."
"I knew it," she beamed. "I'm getting really good at knowing when tomorrow is going to be."
"Oh yeah?" I asked.
"Yep.(she thought this about a while and then it came to her) I know why, it's because I ate a sandwich ."
"Huh?" I asked.
"I ate a sandwich at school yesterday," she explained. "and whenever I eat a sandwich and go to sleep, I wake up and it's tomorrow."
Staggering...we're thinking of sending that one to Mensa...



There has been a noticeable change in the dynamic around here lately. In the normal run of things, the children tether themselves to Mrs. Narrator, regardless of what she is doing and fight and jockey for the best position beside her on the couch. She must therefore, sit dead in the middle of the couch so that no child gets more of her than the other and that both have equal time and space within her personal comfort zone. I sense this is not a unique thing and that most mothers go through it at one point or another.
It left me with the opportunity to go in the other room and watch the T.V. The kids don't actually care where or even if I sit. In fact, the kids don't give a flying shit if I am even in the province let alone the house. So long as Mummy is in between them and the T.V. is on some Disney-esque crappery then all is good with the world.
This weekend however, I had a shadow. Isobel. Whenever I turned around, she was there. She was very cuddly and there were lots of 'I love you Daddy' and lots of kisses and hugs. Normally I don't go for the 'AWWW' factor in this column but it felt kinda good to have a fervent admirer. Kind of what I had hoped being a parent would amount to. Not that it has been bad up to this point but I think everyone has a mental image of what being a parent is and this was one of mine, a kid...my kid... following me around and wanting to be my buddy.
This kind of thing has happened before but never without provocation. Usually if Izzy is upset with Mrs. Narrator, Dear old Dad is the next best thing. And once the anger has cooled then it's back with Mummy. But, so far as I know, there was no altercation between the ladies of the house, she just wanted to hang with me...and it was great.
I tucked her into bed and she hugged my neck for a long time and spoke right into my ear.
"All I can think about is you and how good you smell," she said. "Except when you crap your pants."
Daddy's little girl...