Kids still say the god-damnedest things...sleep ninjas ...

There are two distinct schools of thought on growing pains. One side thinks them legitimate and real and excruciating. The other thinks them little more than coincidence and hokum. But Izzy thinks growing pains are very real and they are, generally responsible for every unknown ache or pain that happens to her.
Isobel: (Groaning and writhing on the couch) "Daddy!"
Daddy: "What is it my delicate flower?"
Isobel: "Wait, what? What am I?"
Daddy: "My delicate flower?"
Isobel: "No I'm not."
Daddy: "Whatever. What's the matter?"
Isobel: "Daddy, I'm having a growing pain."
Daddy: "Are you? Would a kiss make it better?"
Isobel: "O.K."
Daddy: (Giving a very reassuring and father like kiss on the forehead) "Better?"
Isobel: "Not there you goof... Here." (pointing at her knee)


One of my favourite things to do is eavesdrop on Izzy, especially when she is playing by herself, speaking to the masses. We like many other middle class never enough time parents, have a basement full of crap that we have been meaning to throw away/use/sort/put away/organize etc...etc. One of her prized basement possessions is the dancing Santa toy that comes upstairs every Christmas. She cuddles him and cradles him like a baby.
Recently she found an old toaster down there and the basement was instantly transformed into Izzy's Kitchen...and there's always something cooking...
"Now boys and girls," she began. "Who would like to have some toast with butter?" She pointed to several of her minions. "And who would like toast with peanut butter?" She made a couple of uh-huhs and then turned to Santa.
"Santa, would you like to have some toast? With butter or peanut butter? OK, you just sit there and wait then." She went about making the toast and handing it out to all...except Santa who must have been a little over zealous.
"Santa," she said. "I said you have to wait your turn." She turned back to the toaster but was onto him again. "Santa, I said you have to wait your turn." The frustration was noticeably rising in her voice. "Now who wants this piece?" she asked the thronging masses. Then it all went wrong, big time.
"Santa!" she screamed at the jolly old elf. "I said you would have to wait your turn. Now you will not get any toast. EVER." She turned away from him but Thought better of it. "Santa!" (Crack!) She had reached over and smacked Santa off of the table he was perched on. By the expression of pain that crossed her ever reddening face, she had obviously forgotten that Santa was a hard plastic mechanical toy.
"Are you O.K?" I asked, walking over to her.
She kicked Santa where he lay and started heading upstairs. "I hate Christmas." she said.

I can see why Seinfeld was a show about nothing, sometimes the best things (in my case, the best writing fodder) just happens. You can't write it, you can only write it down. I picked up Isobel from school and she had two plastic cups in hand.
"Daddy, I made cupcakes at school!" she proudly exclaimed. I complimented her on her canny use of frosting and sprinkles and her total grasp of the cubist use of marshmallows. She didn't get that but thought it was totally cool when I told her she did a good job on her cupcakes.
We went to get the mail and The Boy was waiting at the post office and took us up on our offer of a ride home. He noticed the cups straight off.
"What's in the cups?" he asked.
"Izzy made cupcakes," I said.
"Good job Izzy," he said in a kind big brotherly kind of way. "Are they edible?"
Pffffft," sputtered Isobel in a moist rebuttal. "No, you eat them."
"That's what edible means Izzy." replied The Boy.
"Oh," said Isobel. "...then yes."

Mrs. Narrator is happy that she has finally found a clothes shopping buddy and the two of them have looked through the catalogue more than once to pick out the coming season's wardrobe. Well, Izzy picks out her wardrobe, Mrs. Narrator mostly looks, points and laughs at what passes for fashion for adults these days. At least they can agree on bathing suits.
"Look Mummy, there are bathing suits in this catalogue." Izzy said gleefully holding up a magazine.
"Let's have a look," said Mrs. Narrator. Ooh look Izzy, these ones are mix and match."
"Let me see that," said Izzy taking back the catalogue. "Mummy, which one is this one?" she asked pointing at the picture of a red one piece bathing suit. "Is this a mix or a match?"

It was one of those rare tender moments that Isobel and I share far too infrequently these days. She had come over to me and after giving me a gigantic bear hug, curled up beside me and snuggled into me. It took me back to the days of when she was very young and I was the only person she would nap with. Or when she would lay on my chest on the couch and we would both watch the T.V. and try to stay awake. They were pure moments...moments that made me feel how I picture a father to be and here was another of those moments, seemingly a lifetime later. Me and my girl on a sunny Sunday afternoon.
Completely unsolicited, she looked up at me, grabbed my cheeks and bent my head down to kiss my forehead. "I love you," she said.
"I love you too, Pick." I replied.
"I know," she said. "everybody loves me."



Isobel has recently become one of those children that must have every light within a fifty mile radius of her turned on at bedtime. At first I insisted on her turning off the lights but gave in quickly when I remembered the length of time I required a nightlight of my own (T.V. doesn't count, right?) At least she comes by it honestly.
But as we are not yet the Gettys or the Rothschilds (the Bakers of Ayr if you please) I turn off all the lights as a part of my nightly bedtime ritual. Isobel is no slouch however and within a day or two had figured out that the lights are not on when she wakes up in the morning, therefore someone must be turning them off...but who?
"Daddy," she asked me. "When I go to sleep at night my light is on and the hallway light is on. When I wake up in the morning, the lights are off. Who keeps turning them off?"
"The sleep ninjas." I said. All children know and have a healthy fear of ninjas...as they should.
"That's stupid, who is really turning them off?" she demanded.
"O.K. you caught me. It's really me." I said trying to sound as sarcastic as humanly possible.
"No really Daddy, who turns them out?"
"It's the sleep ninjas. You don't have to believe me but its true. They use their ninja skills to sneak into your room and turn off your light without you ever knowing they were even there."
This idea of nighty-night ninjas came to me one night as I went to turn off her lights and she started stirring. For fear of her waking up, I froze in a bizarre kung fu type pose in the middle of her room(I don't know why I did it either but it seemed an appropriate pose to strike at the time) waiting for her to settle back down.
I've never known a child to have such a dramatic reaction to her nightlight being turned off. Some nights its as though she is experiencing an electric shock the way she jerks in her bed as I click the switch. This past weekend, It was later than usual when I went to bed and so figured there was no chance of her even hearing a cannon go off when I went in to turn the lights off. She is such a sound sleeper.
"What are you doing?" she asked just after I put the light out, shooting gigantic holes through my entire sound sleeper misconception.
"I thought I heard a ninja in here so I came in to look and saw that the lights were out. Go back to sleep, honey." I thought I might have just kicked a gigantic hornet's nest if she clued into the fact that I just said I thought I heard someone in her room. She might not ever sleep in the dark again. I looked over at her and she was drifting off quickly. I turned to leave and she sat bolt upright, scaring the bejesus out of me.
"Daddy!" she whisper-yelled.
"Yes?" I whispered back.
"Leave my lights alone, O.K?"

Isobel discovers her gift...The Mall always brings out the best in the children...

It was supper time and Izzy was getting hungry.
Isobel: "What's for supper?"
Daddy: "Noodles and beef and other stuff you like."
Isobel: "I don't like that stuff. What else is there?"
Daddy: "Look in the pot."
Isobel: (looking into pot) "Oh boy, my favourite! Chicken Pox!"






I don't know what has happened to Isobel over the last week or so but she has become an old man. A walking, grousing three foot two inch bag of wind...literally. Now we are all no strangers to the workings of the human body around here, specifically what happens after consumption of food. It has become downright symphonic some nights but It was always me and the boy and the boy seldom revels in it in the same way I do...
Maybe it was my own naivety or thinking that little girls weren't like that. Snips and snails and all that. Little girls don't do that sort of thing. I can remember somebody saying that and me thinking that little girls must explode when they hit old age. But then again, this is my kid we are talking about.
At any rate, lately Isobel has been all about the fart. Farting preacher videos on my ipod, fart noises to and from and at the dinner table. Fart jokes, fart word substitutions ("Hello Mrs. Fart, would you be interested in smelling my fart?") Blaming farts on the cat and everything that I am absolutely certain that little girls have no interest in doing (I wish I could remember who told me little girls don't do that sort of thing so I could introduce them to Isobel)
So we were in her bed at story time and a look came across her face that must be the face of someone who has found inner peace. The sound was like the pop of bubble wrap in a half full plastic orange juice jug. The look on her face had become more intense.
"If you push too hard, you'll crap your pants." I said.
She giggled a little which set of a chain reaction of giggling and farting and half talking: "Hehehe...phhht....Daddy wait...hehehehe...poot...I just wann...hehehe...ffzzzt...no wait, I.....scroon...ahahahah...
It seemed to go on forever and it got to the point where even I was having a hard time stopping the laughter. It was becoming a full on contagious case of the giggles. Izzy called them "The Gilgas"
Later on that night, Mrs. Narrator asked what the two of us were howling with laughter about. I tried to mentally articulate it before I said anything but didn't figure I could do it justice and so just said that Isobel is a funny kid....she doesn't know the half of it...




I was flipping through the channels one day and I honestly don't know why I stopped where I did (I'm certain many will read more into this than there actually is) but I stopped on a religious program. Not a hellfire and damnation and "Demons come out!" kind of program but not a legitimate "Mass for Shut-Ins" kind of show either. Both of us sat there, mesmerized not saying a word. There was much talk of god and the devil and of Jesus Christ, you know a Sunday morning kind of show. I figured there would be some questions coming and when they didn't, I put it out of my mind...Fool that I am...
It was a week or so later and the kids and I were at the mall-our new favorite restaurant. O.K so it's not a restaurant but everybody gets what they want and nobody argues about who got to choose where we ate last time AND we usually do a little shopping afterward. Even if it is only window shopping, everybody leaves happy...So we had finally gotten all of our food and proceeded to sit down in the Friday night crowded food court. More families than teenagers which I found a little surprising until I noticed very few children were arguing with each other and very few parents telling their children to just stop.
There is a particular buzz to the food court that one only really notices when it changes or disappears. Like it changes when a five year old girl begins a conversation by taking a big bite of an A & W cheese burger and saying (in a voice louder than one would think possible with a mouthful of A & W cheese burger) "Daddy, I need to ask you one thing."
"You can ask me anything , honey." I said feeling very fathery at the impending sharing of wisdom with my progeny.
"Daddy, who the hell IS Jesus Christ anyway?"
The movies are rife with scenes such as these, scenes where the level of discomfort in the main participant begins to multiply exponentially. I know that it goes that way because I have been involved in it many times. I played in greasy haired rock and roll bands and toured the deep south where, despite the fact that you looked like Elvis, you were still a god-damned weirdo and people needed to stop what they were doing and have a gawk at you.
I swear I could actually hear people spitting out their lo mein as the din of the food court came to an abrupt halt with the screech of an unseen needle across some ghastly record.
"Well, it's never too good to be too full." I said, looking around for the quickest route of escape.
I looked around and caught a few of the eyes that were now glued on us and the adults around us all seemed to be waiting for a response. I'm sure they were waiting to see how I would dig my way out of this sectarian nightmare. The Boy put his head in his hands and tried disappear under the table. "Izzy..." he gasped.
Thankfully a family of Indians sat down beside us and began happily munching away on KFC. Isobel is getting to the age now where using my smart-assery is going to get her into more trouble than her own smart-assery and cuteness can get her out of. I opted for a non committal answer.
"It depends what you believe, honey. Eat your fruit roll up."
I just hope that Col. Sanders and Polytheism are still around when Izzy needs them again ...

Isobel's white trash Bonanza...Life, The Universe and Isobel...

I picked Isobel up at the sitters and she was very quiet. I though maybe she had gotten into trouble until the sitter told me that she had taken a bad step and fell down the stairs. On her way down, she had clipped on or two stairs and the sitter was concerned she might have a bruise. I gave her a kiss and finally got her talking.
Daddy: "What happened? Were you not paying attention and slipped?"
Isobel: "No, I was paying attention. I just fell."
Daddy: "You just fell? Really?"
Isobel: "Well, I walked the wrong way at the top of the stairs and I slipped a little bit. That's when I fell."
Daddy: "Did you cry?"
Isobel: " Daddy, of course I cried, it hurt like hell."



With the head cat away at another weekend long roller derby outing, we decided it was time to do something 'different' with our time, so it was off to the area's biggest farmer's market to see how the other half lives. We couldn't actually figure out who or what the other half is but in a couple of minutes of the first gorgeous weather Saturday that any of us could remember seeing in a long time, it was clear that ALL of the other half was at this farmer's market.
We had been there before but didn't have a a lot of time to look around and so this Saturday with Mrs. Narrator away and a virtual limitless supply of time, the kids and I were in our element. The kids, knowing full well that I would likely buy them almost anything they wanted because it was all dirt cheap and me because I was literally, led around by the nose the second we got there. The smells of barbecue and smoked meat and fresh baking and cotton candy and kettle corn...and we hadn't even parked the car yet...
There are two things I have learned that come in handy at the farmers market. From my wife and my mother in law, I have learned to barter like an Arab trader. In Mexico, they both refused to come with me and haggle for jewelry anymore but imparted me the wisdom of how to do so. I can haggle with the best of them now. The second I learned from a former work colleague who`s mother had a stall. Nobody, especially the food vendors, wants to take anything home. They will always bargain to get rid of the stock. Throw that in with a hungry little girl who is quick to tears when she is tired and a ravenous ten year old boy who can look as forlorn as anyone I know and you can snack and sample and barter food for next to nothing from one end of the pavilion to the other... we made out like bandits.
The real fun of the whole thing was the horse auction that was taking place in the large open field next to the market. I hadn`t seen one in years and the kids had never seen one. We jockeyed for a good position along the fence a prepared to watch the spectacle unfold. The auctioneer began his calling and Isobel lost her mind.
"Holy crap he is talking fast!" she hollered. "What the hell is he saying anyway?"
"He is calling out the bids, the amount of money people are willing to pay for the horse. Whoever bids the most money, wins the horse."
The auction was over quickly and the winner led his horse out followed by his wife and their children. They were Amish and I realized that Isobel and the boy had never seen Amish people before.
"Why are they dressed like that?" The Boy asked .
"Dressing plainly like that is part of what they believe in." I said.
As the women walked by, Isobel stood there speechless. After they passed she whispered "Daddy why were they wearing a basket on their heads?" Oh I could have such fun with this...but no. I'd never figure my way off of the path I was about to step on...
"Same reason," I said. "It's part of what they believe in." "It's almost a shame that they won that beautiful horse, because now it will be a work horse for a long time."
"What do you mean?" Izzy asked.
"That's why they sell the horses here, honey. People come to buy horses and put them to work on their farms."
"Those swines." she said.
From the farmers market it was off to that uniquely Canadian (I'm sure they exist elsewhere but I don't ever remember seeing them anywhere but here) of weekend happenings, the fair in the car dealership parking lot.
It is a fair like any other. Fall fair, carnival, fete, street fair...parking lot fair. Complete with rides, greasy food, surly carnies including the one with a black eye (why is there always one of them?) and games that are fixed and no one has any chance of winning for under $600.00. And it was these that I had intended to use to school my children in the evil and unfairness that is the world. As a boy, I saved my allowance for weeks leading up to the fall fair, hoping that finally this would be the year that I popped the balloon with a red star under it that won you the big bastard teddy bear. I found out some years later that the balloons are under-inflated and there is almost never a red star....ah but the games have changed. You still can't win the big bastard teddy bear, unless you are prepared to spend the big bastard amount of money but there isn't a kid playing a game that doesn't walk away with some kind of stuffed prize. Little though it may be. I was happy for the kids but secretly it chapped my ass just a little to remember back to all the hucksters that took my money and let me leave empty handed.
We could see the fair from the road, especially it's biggest feature-a roller coaster that consisted of a single 360 loop.
"I'm riding that," said The Boy as we walked up to the fair. "and the Ferris wheel and I hope we get stuck at the top."
"We won't get stuck at the top will we?" asked Izzy nervously.
"We might ," I said "but it won't be for long."
We stood under the coaster and I could see The Boy's bravado melt away as he looked up at it from ground level. (turns out he wasn't 'this tall' enough to ride it anyway but I wasn't going to say anything) They opted instead for the ghetto jungle gym, which consisted of two cargo nets, a slide that was more of a drag and four moving blankets piled on top of some school exercise mats. From there it was on to the truck and motorcycle 'merry go around' which The Boy was too big to ride. I thought Izzy would be a little more enthusiastic about the whole ride but she looked more like she was on her way home from work and was stuck in traffic. I'm certain that at some point during the ride, thins very thought crossed her mind.
The Ferris wheel... operated by the surliest looking of all the carnies we saw that day. Immediately my back went up and I started to posture, all the while thinking 'say just one thing to my kids you surly carny prick and I'll knock you on your ass.' He instead complimented me on my tattoos and made sure the kids were comfortable and safe. All in all he was a very pleasant fellow.
As we began our ascent, The Boy's attitude changed from one of Edmund Hillary conquering Everest to Burt Lahr standing in the Emerald City. He never actually let on that he was afraid but his expression did little to hide his feelings. He came through like a champ in spite of himself and I was proud of him for facing his fears.
His sister on the other hand, who was so nervous about getting in the car that we nearly backed out of it had to be told repeatedly to sit down and keep her arms inside. She likely didn't hear it though from all the screams of unbridled joy that were coming out of her. The carny opened our gondola at the end of our ride and bade us enjoy the rest of this beautiful Saturday.
I learned two important lessons at the fair-number one, both of my kids are much braver that I ever was at their age(insert image of Sid screaming in terror on the Octopus ride I never did manage to conquer) and much braver than I give them credit for. And number two that carnies and fairs are exactly the same and not a damn thing like they were when I was a kid and I will still take the kids to them every chance I get.






I always enjoy when Isobel comes home with tales of her school mates and friends from daycare. She has a tendency to be dramatic at the best of times but there always are nuggets of truth in them. The fun part is trying to figure out what the story actually is and at what point it careened of the rails into Izzydom. She got into the car with a "Harrumph" when I picked her up at the sitter's, went straight to her room and started rummaging around looking for pink blankets (She found at least three) and throwing them into the hallway when she found them. (Who the hell knew she had more than one?)
"What are you doing?" I foolishly asked.
"Edith." she replied.
"Pardon me?"
"Edith, she's this girl at my babysitters."
"And Edith said you should come home and destroy your room and throw your bedding into the hallway?" I inquired.
"Edith is this girl at my babysitters who pees in her pants."she began.
"And you need to dry her off and she gets a rash from everything except pink blankets?" I was trying to find a morsel of logic in here but, honestly, I didn't have a clue where this was leading to.
"No," Izzy said. She was beginning to get frustrated by this, you could hear it rising in her voice. "She pees in her pants because she is younger than me. She is younger than me (she said it this time with much emphasis) and she doesn't even know what dead means."
"O.K. What does it mean?"
"Dead is like when you go away, like when your Nana turned yellow and went away and then she was dead. Edith said that they cover you with a pink blanket and you go to sleep and then you're dead and that isn't it at all...is it Daddy?" There was worry in her voice when she finally asked the question.
In a lot of situations I would let her twist for a bit and try and figure her own answer to this but I've had a little experience with this kind of thing and I learned long ago that you can't plant the seeds of fear into a fertile imagination like hers, (or mine) they take root under the bed and grow into great big monsters that sometimes never go away.
"No honey," I said and gave her a hug. "That's not it at all. Nobody covers you with a pink blanket and nobody is dead when they go to sleep." I picked up the blankets and showed her they were just the same pink blankets that she had gotten when she was born and when she was still very small.
I went up to tuck her in later that night and noticed that the pink blankets were still in the hallway, not folded anymore but pulled down and looking as though they had been stomped on...well the old man doesn't know everything and there's no harm in hedging one's bet a little after all...

Izzy's Easter Message to the World...Total Izzy-osity...

As we had a decided lack of invitations to Easter dinner with my family or Mrs. Narrator's family...or anybody's family for that matter, we decided to have our own sit down type dinner. A great big ham and all the appropriate Easter trimmings therein.
Isobel: "What are we having for supper?"
Daddy: "A big ham with corn and scalloped potatoes."
Isobel: "Corn on the cob?"
Daddy: "Yes but without the cob."
Isobel: "Awww, I want corn on the cob, not no cob corn. What else are we having?"
Daddy: "Yummy ham and scalloped potatoes."
Isobel: "Oh god, no cob with my corn and nothing else to eat."
Daddy: "Try the ham, I think you will like it. It's sorta like bacon."
Isobel: (Tries ham after much deliberation and one threat of being sent to room for non-consumption of supper) "Oh my god, I love this ham!(chew chew) This ham is so good (lip smack, smack) This tastes like...Tae Kwon Do.


We were downstairs, as we often find ourselves, me on the treadmill and Izzy preaching to the huddled masses in her imaginary world. "Easter is coming soon and you have all been rotten swines!" she began. "Easter Bunny will not be bringing chocolate for none of you. NONE!" She became very quiet and I imagined it was because she was basking in the sycophantic wailing of her toadies. A new voice emerged.
"O.K. boys and girls, Easter Bunny will be coming soon and he will bring treats to everyone that is good." She had turned herself completely around to face the opposite way from the 'minions' she was just chastising. She was speaking in very calm, measured tones and holding a dancing Santa toy. I thought I might point out the seasonal discrepancy but thought better of it. "So boys and girls if you're good, like Santa is good, not like THEM," she blurted, motioning to the invisible quaking minions behind her. "Then Easter Bunny will come and bring you..." Her voice trailed off.
"Daddy?" she called out.
"Yes my daughter?" I asked , sensing the imminent question would not have an easy or one word answer.
"Do bunnies really lay eggs?"
Oh my head began to swim with smart-assed answers about what bunnies really lay began to fly into my head but she is only five and wouldn't get the jokes anyway. I thought I would save these jokes for the Easters yet to be. I opted for the short straightforward answer.
"No, bunnies do not lay eggs."
"How does Easter Bunny leave eggs then?" she asked.
"Well you see," I began. "The baby jesus rides The Easter Bunny all across the world delivering colourful candy eggs to all the children everywhere who have put a cod-fish on top of the stove."
She stood there blinking for what seemed like forever, taking in this information and mulling it over.
"Daddy?"she asked.
"Yes?"
"That does not even make any sense." Where do the eggs come from. If you don't know, you can tell me. It's O.K."
Well she bought it for half a second anyway. She went on to ask me if having a bunny for a pet made the Easter bunny feel better and then give you more candy. I was floored by the logic in thins line of thinking but explained to her that having rodents for pets, no matter how cute and fuzzy they are, did not guarantee more candy. If fact it didn't guarantee anything but handfuls of rabbit crap.
Later on that night as we were getting ready for bed, she imagined that if Easter bunny were there right then he would crawl all over her and say 'Happy Easter everbody' and crap on your head...I imagine Hallmark will be calling anytime now...As an after thought, The Easter glut of chocolate consumption began for Isobel and The Boy at around 7:00 a.m. and continued until just before bedtime. There have been studies which claim there is no correlation between sugar consumption and acting freaking out crazy and otherwise ill-mannered behaviour...HORSE PISS.






We were heading up to bed the other night and Izzy pulled up her underpants in such a way that the back of them disappeared between her little butt cheeks. Like a thong.
"Izzy what are you doing?" I asked.
"I like it like that," she replied. "it's comfortable."
"She gets this from your people," said Mrs. Narrator. "Nobody in my family does this kind of thing."
Even The Boy chimed in; "Yeah Sid, this is from your side of the family!"
"Don't look at me, my people wear kilts and no underpants. We don't cram the underpants up under there."
We all had a good laugh and soon I found myself reading to her and watching her eyes begin to close.
"Daddy?" Isobel asked barely awake.
"Yes?"
"If I put on my kilt, can I take off my underpants?"
"Not tonight, honey." I said.

Isobel gets all warm and fuzzy...Jammin' on Raspberries...

It finally looks as though winter might be on the way out and the warm weather seems imminent. Along with shorts and tank tops and bathing suits comes the greasing of the children with sun screen. Covering the children completely has become a sport around here, not unlike wrestling a greased pig only not as easy as that. It takes me back to the last time we were in Mexico.
She had put on her bathing suit and was walking around the swimming pool.
Daddy: "Izzy, if you're going to stay out here, you need more sunscreen on."
Isobel: "I don't want it on me, no."
Daddy: "At least let me put more on your face."
Isobel: "I don't want sunscreen on me. I don't like it on me. It feels like shit on my cheeks."
Daddy: "What? What did you say?"
Isobel: (singing) "On my cheeks!"

From very early on, Izzy was Daddy's little girl. I don't remember a time when she wasn't interested in being with me in one way or another. when she was very young of course I was handed her by a very tired Mrs. Narrator the second I got home from work and held her for nearly every waking moment between feedings. I can remember reading an article about deepening the bond between parents and children (yes fathers too) with skin to skin contact.
I confess I felt a little odd about it but I grew up in a house that was not very close or emotionally available and I was bound and determined that I would do what I could to have a close relationship with my baby. So I walked around every now and again, shirtless and carrying her. I don't know that it made us any closer then we would have been had I not taken the crunchy granola laden path but I do understand now why old ladies are driven wild by baby skin. Why they find it irresistible and in spite of what the world would tell them about how wrong it is to touch another person's child, they are powerless and must pinch and coo and sniff. Like a Dad with a new car, they are drawn to it...new baby smell...oooohhhh.....but I'm wandering.
As she got older, Izzy would follow me around. She was my shadow and insisted on knowing my every movement.
"Going?" she would ask. (This roughly translated to 'Oh Father light of my life, from whose loins I sprang, where are you going and what are you doing? It must surely be important as your steely brow is furrowed with concentration and a clear sense of purpose and I wish to inquire if I might join you in these tasks?') I might be paraphrasing a little...She was my sidekick. When I ate, she ate. When she napped, I napped. If there I was, she wasn't far behind...my pal.
But then something changed and Dad became Persona non Grata. Not only did she not want to be my shadow anymore, she went through a period of not listening to me even if I was saying something good. I am told this sort of thing is normal and children go through episodes of liking Mommy best and then back to liking Daddy best. Normal it may be but it didn't make it sting any less when she didn't want to have tea parties of come out to the garage and muck around with me.
From time to time, I would get little glimpses of 'Old Izzy' and my pal would try to come to the surface.
"Daddy!" she shouted as she leaped across the room at me.(This is no lie, she actually caught air before I caught her) but she would quickly reign herself back in and was back to treating me with cool distance. This went on for a while and I actually thought of asking somebody what I should do to win back my little girl. (Who in the hell would I ask?)
In the last few weeks, I have seen a change and she will insist on my cuddling with her at bedtime. Even when I get home from band practice, after nine most nights, if she is still awake then I am expected to go give her a cuddle before she will go to bed. I have her back...for now...
I inadvertently stumbled on a pattern. When Izzy listens to Rock and Roll, Daddy rules and she can't love me enough. When it is Justin Bieber and his ilk she doesn't want anything to do with me. Now I don't want to draw any conclusions between bad behavior and the tousle haired moppet from Stratford but if I ever meet him face to face we're gonna have words...
A few nights ago I was instructed by Mrs. Narrator to go in and give her a cuddle. I was all aglow and headed into Isobel's' bedroom. She lay there with half a dozen books around her which I started moving so as to get into the bed beside her.
"Whoa, whoa, wait." she said.
"I'm not going to spend a lot of time cuddling you if you aren't going to move the books." I replied.
She blurted out "I told Mummy that I wanted a hug from you, not a snuggle."
"Oh," I said. "O.K." and bent down to give her a hug and a kiss good night."
As I bent down, she rose up and we ended up bumping heads.
"Hey watch the head, will ya?" she said.
I came in before I went to work and found her fast asleep with all of the books in her arms...reading in bed makes me sleepy too...





Isobel has a skill like no one I have ever scene. She came into it early on in her life and has developed her expertise in it steadily ever since. Isobel can blow raspberries.
Now I know what you're thinking, everybody can blow raspberries, even babies can blow a raspberry and that is true. So I want you sitting there, reading this to blow a raspberry...go ahead no one is looking...make a circle with your lips, puff out your cheeks, stick your tongue out just a little and blow until you get that familiar 'ppffhhzzzt' sound. Simple right?
Now, put your top teeth over your bottom lip, as though you were pretending to have really buck teeth, and blow...that is how my daughter makes the sound of a raspberry. I have been and remain baffled by how she can do this. She is flawless using this technique and can repeat it time after time.
I remember when she first did it, we were at the kitchen table when I saw her do it and actually asked her out loud, "How the hell are you doing that?" Mrs. Narrator didn't think it such a big deal until she too saw the way she was doing it. The Boy was flabbergasted by this performance as well and soon the three of us were attempting to mimic Isobel. Sadly all that came out of it were three wet chins and not a single Bronx cheer save the ones coming out of Izzy's mouth.
She has become so adept at it that she can make it wet (by sound or actual moisture) louder, softer, different pitch and timber. Sometimes you could swear there is a smell to them. I figure that if she keeps going at it there will not be a style of bottom-burp that she will not be able to imitate...and then I'm going to take her for a ride...on a crowded elevator...

Take it around the block once or twice...Frankiln meets Isobel...

Izzy was sitting in the living room amidst an ever growing pile of paper clippings.
Daddy: "Whatcha doing, Pick?"
Isobel: "Cutting paper."
Daddy: "Are you supposed to be using scissors by yourself?"
Isobel: "Mommy said I could if I was very careful."
Daddy: "What scissors are you using?"
Isobel: "The ones with the round end. I was going to use the ones with the pointed end but I might poke myself with the and that would hurt like hell."




Izzy is a cry-baby. Well, that's what she would have been called around my house if she grew up when I did. Around here we are a little less severe but the sentiment is the same. She gets upset and cries over just about anything. From skinned knees to clean up your mess, to tired and sleepy and come to supper. All of these have generated tears at one point or another.
Tough tears seem to be what she is most comfortable with, they are not her sole means of emotional response. She can go from smiling and laughing to full on rage in the blink of an eye. From there she can slip into the doldrums and back to smiling and happy and come completely full circle back to a vicious weeping jag.
"You're going to use all the tears you have for your whole life." Mrs. Narrator will often say to her. "What are you going to do when you have no more tears left?" Sure it gets to be a bit much but it also gets me to thinking and it dawned on me that my five year old is dealing with full grown emotions.
You don't get an instruction manual with them and nobody can prepare you for when they kick in. Obviously, they don't grow with you either, you get the full on grown up versions all at once.
I use this as an example, the kind of moment of clarity that I had with all of this. We were sitting watching T.V when she reached over to hug me. That in and of itself was a little odd but it was the way she delivered the hug. Full on bear hug around my neck. So tight it began to constrict my breathing.
I could see the look on her face and, surprise surprise, it wasn't a look of pure evil and I couldn't hear any of the creepy music from the Omen. No, it was a look of love. Pure unabashed love. She told me as much. "I love you Daddy", she said. "I just love you so much." I could feel her tightening the hug. I had to say something.
"I love you too honey but you're choking me."
"Sorry Daddy, I'm just reeeaaallly happy."
And that's when it hit me.
Whatever switch we have in our heads that says 'ooh, that hug is going over board' or 'I need to dial that back a little' is what grows with us but we are left with the dilemma of trying to deal with full grown emotions in a brain that is still in it's basic stages.
I bet things flow through her head like this: Sleep; wake up; eat; breathe; play; poop; eat again; breathe more; eat more; maybe sleep more or maybe just something to eat; HOLY SHIT DO I EVER LOVE THIS CAT! eat more; poop again; still breathing must keep breathing; I WILL KILL THAT GOD-DAMNED CAT IF IT DOESN'T SHUT IT"S GOD-DAMNED PIE HOLE.
For a kid that tends to like things on full throttle to begin with, it must be a daunting thing to take a turn on the mood swings every time you get a glimmer of a feeling. Good or bad.
In a perfect world, we would all go to the emotional used car lot. Salesmen would walk right up to us and say things like: "I can tell you're someone who knows love when they see it so I'm not eve going to try and sell you love today...but I have this ambivalence that I just got back from a three year lease that ran out and if you like it I'll throw in a free sense of irony. That's completely free of charge... Wait, don't answer now. Take er for a test drive and let me know what you feel after some time behind the wheel."
This is not however, a perfect world and until it is I guess she'll just have to go through it like the rest of us. We'll try not to let her struggle too much.







There is a project going on a Izzy's school which involves Franklin (The turtle from the stories and T.V. shows.) and all the children in Izzy's kindergarten class. The idea being that every child take home the stuffed Franklin doll and a note book and write about what Franklin did while he was with you.
It's a neat idea with the same sentiment as getting to bring home the class pet, like we did when I was in kindergarten but without the potential for disaster and heartache on an epic scale hanging over you. Incidentally, the kindergarten guinea pig died while in the care of another student. Long before it was my turn...if any of you were wondering...and I know you were.
Anyway Izzy decided that her and Franklin would watch a movie together and I was proud of her picking an activity that was easy enough to report and not to out there to make the other children think she was an odd ball. Ironically the only movie Franklin would watch, according to Izzy, was one of his own...a little vain but what do I know about stuffed turtle egos.
The sat down to watch the movie and Izzy made sure he was comfortable and then she got up to go to the bathroom...and it all went bad from there.
"Franklin, just stay there and watch the movie, I have to go to the bathroom." she said.
Now I wasn't looking at the turtle the whole time and couldn't say for sure but I didn't see him move.
"I told you not to move and to just watch the movie." she said, the venom rising in her voice. "Now I will be right back. Don't you move."
She disappeared for a moment and then reappeared, her voice on the ragged edge as she screamed at him.
"Dammit Franklin, I told you to watch that movie!" she reached over to pick him up and drilled him across the room. He landed on his face and she ran to pick him up.
"Oh Franklin," she said. "I am sorry. Let's forget about it and watch the movie."
She asked me later on to help her write about her adventures with Franklin but was unsure how to start.
"How about we just write Franklin and I watched a movie and then he had a nap."
"I love it." she said...she'll make a great mother one day. I'm sure of it.

Mother's love...Izzy's new clothes...

We were talking about Grandmothers and the names by which they go.
Isobel: "Is Nana Linda your Nana?"
Daddy: "No, Nana Linda is my mother."
Isobel: "Who was your Nana then?"
Daddy: "My Nana's name was May."
Isobel: "What happened to her?"
Daddy: "She died."
Isobel: "Because she turned yellow, right?"
Daddy: "That's right."
Isobel: "Is that why you called her Nana-Banana?"




I have struggled this week, whether or not to write about this because things here have always been pretty light hearted but this column has always been about our lives and the truth. As incredible as many of these things have seemed, I pride myself on the fact that it is all real. To that end there are some things that have happened over the past week that have brought to light things that no one wishes to think about or discuss but should be given their due never the less. I beg your indulgence for a while while I exorcise a demon or two...

Mother is the name for god on the hearts and lips of all children. I don't know who wrote that line but it is completely brilliant and completely true. There isn't a child alive (and remember grown up or not we are all somebody's child) when in danger or injured or mad or feeling kind of blue, that doesn't at least entertain the idea of calling out for their mother.
Let's look at the facts Fathers are there for the obvious at the beginning and after that our role consists of driving children to and from anything and everything and grunting and growling about the house, taking of the children to movies and introducing the children to the joys of fast food and bodily functions and helping the children to get away with things right under the very noses of their Mothers. But Mothers are there for EVERYTHING else. They are comfort and protection and love and warmth and the list is endless. Even Denis Leary goes off on tangent after tangent about the strength and importance of the bond between his wife and their children, why? Because it is absolutely true. Think about it, when is the last time somebody in a war movie lay dying on a beach calling out for his father?
A few recent events have started me thinking about my children and their mother...I recently learned of the death of a friend. Although I had not spoken to her in many years, she was instrumental in setting me on the path that ultimately led me to the States and the Rock and Roll adventures therein. She was my age and she left behind two very young children and my heart is breaking for them and for their Father.
But her death has also mad me angry because it was the result of something stupid and something completely preventable. Something that stubbornness and distraction ultimately worsened until it was too late.
Mrs. Narrator was in the hospital this week. It was nothing serious, likely the result of a decidedly un-ergonomic work station but when I spoke to her on the phone it was tingling in the left arm and her heart doing 'odd' things. I suddenly thought of my friend and the children and husband she had left behind.
You can make will until you are blue in the face and I even know people who begin 'preparing' their children for the eventuality of their (the parents) death. But jesus, how do you go about telling you kids that their whole world will not be coming home...anymore?
My kids would miss me (I should bloody hope so) if I were to die suddenly but I don't honestly think it would have the same impact that losing their mother would. Mrs. Narrator can holler at the children and they will still pick her over me if they are in need of comfort, that kind of loyalty and love leaves a massive hole when it is taken from you. My Mother and I have had a tenuous relationship over the years and I am reminded every time I see her, that good or bad she is my Ma and though there were times I hated her I will be inconsolable when she is gone.
I don't want to stand on a soap box because I am the last person to ask for advice on how to NOT be a selfish prick but a few things have become clear to me recently. That once you have children, your life doesn't belong to you anymore. You give up the right to be ignorant and apathetic the second the nurse hands you a baby and calls you mom or dad. I want new bagpipes but the kids need new shoes...it doesn't take a genius... You owe it to your kids to do what you can to stick around, at least until they can fend for themselves and have children of their own. And then you spoil their children rotten and make allies of them the way your grandparents did with you. And even then, you never really stop needing your mother.




This week has seen some growing in the house. Specifically Izzy's image of herself. I am normally one to encourage personal growth and all things individual as far as my kids are concerned but I felt I needed to draw the line somewhere. Isobel has lately taken to wearing a bathing suit under her clothes, at least the top and calling it a bra. At first I was unconcerned with it but it became a regular thing that she insisted on wearing with every outfit. I mean I suppose I should get used to the idea of it. She is a normal girl and she is growing and she will eventually require a real brassiere which I will happily allow her mother to assist her in picking out but beyond that, I really don't need or want to know more.
However, this week she has told me that on two separate occasions she has shown little D her bra (just the strap so nothing bad) and today she strutted around the house in just the said bra chanting "Who wants to see my boobies? Who wants to see my boobies?"
"Good girls never give it away Izzy." I said.
"Never give what away?" she asked
"They never show their bras to people." I said.
"What about bad girls?" she asked.
"Only if they play guitar." I said.
"TWANG" was the sound that came out of the living room.