Isobel does Bogart...Thank god for Water...

      I was coming through the kitchen when Isobel pointed at me and began to laugh. Most of you are thinking that should go without saying but strangely enough, the children don't often laugh at me...Not yet anyway...
      Daddy: "What?"
      Isobel: "Your butt!"
      Daddy: "Pardon?"
      Isobel: "Your butt has a window!"
      Daddy: "My butt has a what?"
      Isobel: "A window, your butt has a window!"
      Daddy: "Well, I don't know that I would call it a window so much as a...wait what. what do you mean?"
      Isobel: "Butt window, I can see your underpants."
      Daddy: "Oh, the hole in my shorts."
     Isobel: "Right, I can see your underpants. Butt Window!"



        The Tooth Fairy has been making the rounds here abouts for a couple of years now, though The Boy could be considered a late bloomer in the tooth department. Then again so was Izzy. There have been many questions as to the validity of the Tooth Fairy and whether not believing in said Fairy might negate the getting of loot for teeth.
      "Daddy, is the Tooth Fairy real?" Isobel asked.
      "It depends what you believe, Pick." I said. I sensed the imminent arrival of another Ward Cleaver moment.
      "What do you believe, do you believe in the Tooth Fairy?"
       I took a deep breath and let it out long and slow.
      "I think it's best to keep an open mind about these kinds of things." I finally said.
      "That doesn't tell me anything." she said sounding a little frustrated.
      "But don't you feel better anyway? I asked as I kissed her goodnight and left her room.
       I'm starting to find out that sometimes it's better to keep the magic alive than let fly with the truth. Even as they get older. I remember The Boy was starting to catch on to the real world.
      "Are you Santa?" he asked me after reading the note I had written for the kids one Christmas eve.
      "No." I said. And I am not. If he had asked if I had written the note, the answer might have been different but he asked if I were Santa. Who am I kidding though, really. If he had asked about the note, I would have lied through my teeth. Keep the magic alive.
      But enough about magic...finally a couple of Isobel's front teeth began to wiggle and she was losing her mind that neither would come out of their own volition.
      "Eat an apple," I suggested. "That should loosen it right up."
      "No," she whimpered. "It will hurt too much."
      "Or you could try chocolate," said The Boy.
      "Chocolate?" asked Izzy.
      "Yep." said The Boy.
      "That's right," I said. "One of his teeth came out eating a chocolate bunny. You could try that."
      "Noooo!" she whined. "It will hurt too much."
      Mrs. Narrator looked into Izzy' mouth and said, "I give it another couple of weeks before it falls out."
      A couple of weeks came and went and the tooth stayed put and the Tooth Fairy stayed away. Where before she would wonder and muse about how much she would get from putting the tooth under her pillow, to cursing the rotten tooth for ever being in her head in the first place.
      "I wish this dangy tooth would just come out already." she moaned."It's probably not going to be worth anything now because it's been in so long."
      "Teeth come out when they're supposed to, Pickle." I soothed. "You'll still get the loot whenever it comes out. And I'll bet it's going to come out any day now."
      But another week went by and we all sort of forgot about the tooth.
   Sunday she was brushing her teeth before bed and I heard a loud "OW!" come from the bathroom.
      "Mummy look" she yelled and I thought it had finally come out.
      "Daddy can probably get that out if you want him to." said Mrs. Narrator.
      "No!" said Izzy. "It will hurt."
      "Let me see it Pick," I said.
      It was literally hanging by a thread. I could easily reach in and pull it out before she even knew what happened. My Mother was always good at tricking you into pulling out your own tooth or letting her do it without you knowing.
      "No, I want to do it." she said.
      "Oh. OK. Just grab a hold of it and pull on it really quick," I said a little surprised at her sudden bravery. "It'll pop right out."
     But it didn't or at least she couldn't get a good enough hold of it to pull it out fast enough. I prepared to reach in and grab a hold when she took the tooth and made a noise that I hadn't heard from her before. It was a half cry half growl that rumbled past her lips. It was the same noise I made in a schoolyard fight in the fifth grade. I was in a headlock, my head was slammed against a wall. I made that noise and lost my mind. I imagine it is the noise that many make during times of undue duress. Like reaching into your mouth an snapping the remaining nerve that tethers your tooth to your mouth.
     And with a little pop it came out. It is easily the smallest tooth I have ever seen. Much smaller than The Boy's first tooth to come out. She had a bit of a lisp for and hour or two, over much too soon but damned funny while it was here. She insisted that a note be written to the Tooth Fairy so she could take her tooth to school and still collect the cash. And how much is a tooth worth these days? Five bucks....anybody got a pair of pliers?


      It was her bedtime and she was stalling for some reason. That or she had suddenly come down with Alzheimer's disease and was losing her short term memory. She changed her outfit choice for school twice and then tried to pick a third. She left things downstairs and would need to get them one by one. What should have  been a half an hour bedtime was creeping up on an hour and we hadn't even had as story yet.
      Finally she was laying down and I was opening a book.
     "Oh wait, Daddy." she said as she got out of bed and headed out of her room for the eleventy first time.
     "What now!!?!?" I said not hiding the frustration in my voice.
     Normally this tone of voice might bring tears or sheepish expressions and I would feel shitty for having lost my patience and offered to buy her a small Scottish Island or horse or something. However, she wasn't upset at all. In fact, she was in the bathroom filling up her sippy cup when I walked in.
     "Just getting a drink." she said.
     "Oh," I said, a little confounded. "Ready for your story?"
     "Yep." she said and bounded back to her room, cup in hand.
      "I get really thirsty at night now," she said. "I need to have lots of water at night. I think it's because I drool a lot."
     "Oh, I guess..." I said.
      "No seriously," she said "I drool. Holy crap I drool a lot!" 
     "Well," I began after a heavy sigh. "thank god for water then."

How Does it Work?...Isobel Plays on the Colour wheel...

            Isobel doesn't care much for boundaries...or rules come to think of it. A closed and unlocked bathroom door means little more than a delay to entering the room.
      Isobel: "Hi Daddy!"
      Daddy: "I closed the door for a reason, you know."
      Isobel: "I know. OK, seriously it's really hot in here."
      Daddy: "I did just have a shower."
      Isobel: "Uh-huh. I'm going to comb my hair."
      Daddy: "Whatever."
      Isobel: "Daddy?"
      Daddy: "Yup?"
      Isobel: "What are you doing?"
      Daddy: "Shaving. You used to call it shaving my moustaches."
      Isobel: "Uh-huh..."
      Daddy: (about to say something extremely insightful. Just then my towel slipped from around my waist and hit the floor)
      Isobel: "Sooooo....this is awkward and I'm going to leave now."


      Anyone that has known me for more than twenty-five minutes, knows that I am a veritable fountain head of useless information. Little bits of little bits that generally have nothing to d with anything and are currently taking up valuable real estate inside my noodle. Do you know where Clyde Barrow's bullet riddled blood stained shirt is? I do. Do you know what determines the colour of a chicken's egg? I do. It goes on and on ad-nauseum. Occasionally however, my limitless supply of the banal is put to some use. And in even rarer circumstances, I possess knowledge that some may consider helpful.
      "Hey Daddy?" Isobel asked as she came bounding into the room.
      "Yes Muffin face-head?"
      "Daddy, what makes you fart?"
      "Hey, now!" I said.
     "What?" she asked flatly.
     "That is my kind of question," I said gleefully. "aaand it's something I know a great deal about."
     "Really?" Isobel asked.
     "Sure." I replied.
            Oh right, this is the part where I actually answer the child about the workings of the human body. Simple enough, no? No.
       "So what happens," I began. "When you eat, you swallow air. That coupled with acids in your stomach that break down the food you eat, which in turn releases gas. Now that gas has to..."
      "Daddy?"
      "Yes Isobel?"
      "Daddy, that doesn't sound right. If you don't know, it's OK." she said in a very understanding, patronizing tone of voice.
      "OK, you want the truth?"
       "Yep. Seriously, I want you to tell me why you fart."
      "Well I would say it's beer and pizza for me." I said
      "Daddy!" she whined.
      "OK," I said. "So when you eat different foods, they all go in your belly. Some foods don't get along. Especially if you eat more of one type of food. They fight inside your belly."
      "Whaaat?" she asked.
      This is the problem with children getting older-they become that much harder to fool. The Boy is taking health class in school now. He would not be so easily fooled by fighting food. However, he has just informed me that he thought his testicle was in his intestines...there may be hope for me yet! But Isobel can still be swayed by outlandishness.
       "You know how when you eat too much, you get a belly ache?"
      "Yeah..." he said with suspicion behind her reply.
      "And you know how you feel better when you fart?"
      "Yeah?"
      "Well there you go."
      "Oh!" she said. "I guess that makes sense."
      "I'm glad I could help." I said.
      I came to a realization, I had just had a very Ward Cleaver type of moment with my child. I remember that Ward told the Beaver a lot of stuff that really amounted to bugger all. The Beaver always worked it out on his own in the end.. Isobel will eventually figure this one out and she comes away with that new knowledge thinking that I am out of my bloody mind, then I have done my job as a parent.
      We were walking out the door to go to school when she stopped walking.
      "Wait a second." she said. From the look on her face, I knew exactly what she was doing.
       "Pop...pop...popopopopopopop." said her bottom.
       "Oh, breakfast is fighting." said Isobel.
              Thumbs up for science!


      Isobel got a colouring/stenciling/fashion designer kit...thing...for Christmas or her birthday...oh hell, she got this thing sometime ago and it sat idle for along time and now she has started playing with it again. Jesus, that was the long way around, wasn't it?
     So what this thing is, is a pad of paper with pre-drawn figures of girls on them. The kit comes with plastic stencils of everything from out fits-complete with clothing and accessories (boots shoes purses hats and the like) right up to activities (guitars, stethoscopes, everything a hip young girl could want to do or be!)
    So lately she has been drawing a lot of these. Red heads with blue clothes and Pink heads with red clothes and multi-coloured heads with multi-coloured clothes and my new favourite;
      "Daddy, look." she said, showing me her latest creation.
      "Oh look at that. That's really good," I said. I really like that colour. What a nice blue that is."
      "It's jerkoise." Isobel said.
      "What?" I asked.
    "Jerkoise." she said. "Jerkoise hair, jerkoise pony tails and jerkoise necklace."

    I know a lot of people who could wear this colour.

Isobel Survives Disaster...And She's The Weird One...

We were driving home from school and I burped, as I did I said 'ABBA'. I usually do.
      Isobel: "Daddy, did you just say ABBA when you burped?"
      Daddy: "Yep."
      Isobel : "That's so weird, I always say that when I burp."
      Daddy: "Really, that's a shock."
      Isobel: "Seriously, I always say that when I burp. It usually happens at school. My teacher says it's not appropriate."
      Daddy: "Really?"
      Isobel: "Yep. One time at school I had a fart that sounded like a bell."
      Daddy: "Like a bell?"
      Isobel: "Seriously, like a bell but one with no air in it."
      Daddy: "Wait, what?"
      Isobel: "It sounded like Fhwee, Fhwee!"




      I found a piece of paper the other day while I was cleaning. It was a picture that Isobel had drawn a while ago. It looks a bit like my Grandmother' s brown tea pot floating on a very blue ocean with nice green stripes and the caption on the picture read as follows; The Tiy Tannic dodid 300000000 yeers ago. Which translates to The Titanic drowned 3000 years ago.
      Now I have to say that Isobel has seen the movie (the Kate and Leo version of events) more than a couple of times. In fact, I believe that every time she goes to Candace's house, they watch the movie. So at least a couple of times. And it affected her, stirred something deep in her brain that I didn't figure from a six year old. I think she gets it. She clearly understands ( at least a six year old grasp of  it) what drowning is, she said the Titanic drowned...so her understanding of the time of the events is a little off. To her, it may as well have been three thousand yeas ago.
    Now here's where it gets a little weird. Shortly after she first saw the movie, she started saying that she was on the Titanic. I didn't pay it much attention, she's a kid who is massively influenced by her surroundings. Remember the Adele song she claimed she wrote? 'Nuff said. So she was on the Titanic and I was in the Nixon administration or on the grassy knoll (I can never remember) and we all went to heaven in a little row boat.
      "I was on the Titanic." she would say.
      "Oh, were you? I'll bet that was fun." I would reply.
      But she kept at it, not all the time but enough that I took notice of it. Whenever I mentioned the Titanic, she would tell me about how she was on the Titanic. Around the time of the hundredth anniversary, she spoke more of it.
    "Alright," I thought. "I'll play along."
     So the next time she said she was on the doomed ship, I decided to ask her about it.
     I was watching a show about what caused it to actually sink or rather what caused the cataclysmic failure of all the fail safe devices that caused the ship to go down.
      "What's this show?" Izzy asked.
      "A show about how the Titanic sank."
      "I was on the Titanic." she said.
      "Really?" I asked. "Tell me what it was like."
     "It was nice but there was a lot of walking," she began. "I remember the plates."
     "Oh yes," I said. All the while I'm starting tho think that she is carrying this awfully far. I mean she has a vivid imagination but even that has it's limits. "What were the plates like?"
      "The were white, I think they were white and they were dirty and the bottles were dirty."
      "Really?" I asked. "What else? What was the rest of it like?"
      The beds were nice but really small and they had stars on them and outside was cold and you could touch the ice."
      And with that she bounced off. The history channel is like bug repellent for my children and they can only stand to be around it for so long.
      Now I still wasn't paying much attention to it but I picked her up from school one day and one of her teachers smiled at me and said "You never told us Isobel was on the Titanic."
       "Well, she does like to travel." I said flippantly.
      I have said on many occasions, that I tend to keep an open mind where 'otherworldly' things are concerned. There was that kid a few years ago who was generally accepted to be the reincarnation(for want of a better term) of a world war two pilot. His parents weren't parading him around like a circus act, rather he was giving interviews and revealing things that only the pilot in question could have known. If I'm not mistaken, some of the dead man's relatives met with this kid and were quite convinced as to his authenticity...So why not my kid? Who's to say that she isn't the reincarnation of a now long dead survivor of one of the greatest disasters of the twentieth century? Why not Isobel? Because Isobel's Father is a dumb ass, that's why.
      I decided to try and get her to tell me everything she could about life on the Titanic.
      "I was on the Titanic." she said to me as I was watching yet another problem about how it sunk (incidentally it sunk because there was too much water inside the god damned boat).
      "Tell me everything about it, what exactly do you remember about it." I asked her with more than a hint of eagerness in my voice.
      "I don't know if I can remember a lot, it was a long time ago." she replied.
      "This was it!" I thought. This seemed to be really happening.
      "Try to remember Pick. It's important."
      "You were there too, why don't you remember."
      "Wait, what?" I asked. "What do you mean I was there?"
      "You were there," she said. "We all went and we saw dishes and small beds with stars on them and dirty bottles and then we touched ice and went home."
      Yeah...so last summer Isobel, The Boy and I went to a museum and saw the interactive Titanic exhibit. We saw dishes and small beds with the White Star logo on the beds and dirty bottles and many things the passengers would have touched and smelled and saw on that first and last voyage. At the end of the exhibit was a large piece of ice that you were encouraged to touch. It was Izzy's favourite part, she went back to touch it over and over again.
     At the beginning of the tour, you were given a ticket with a name on it and at the end was a list of the names on the tickets. Some names were survivors, others those that perished. The Boy and Izzy survived. I did not...Dumb asses seldom do...


      I guess I was as active as the next kid. I remember spending a fair amount of time outdoors as a kid and I had friends but I do remember spending a good deal of time alone, making up games and inventing horrific adversaries to run and hide from. Isobel spends a vast amount of time playing on her own and I am glad that she is self sufficient.
     The last couple of days, I have noticed something that concerned me at first. From a distance, it seemed like she was constantly tripping over her own feet. Consistently every time she ran in the backyard, she was on her face after a couple of strides. I mean she's got flat feet but they've carried her just fine up until now.
      I was out picking dandelions the other night and she was outside with me. She ran and fell and ran and fell and ran and fell. Over and over again. I decided to move a little closer to her to see if I could discern the problem.
    She was playing tag with the minions...
    "I don't want to be it!" she would yell and run away giggling. She would then (literally) fall flat on her face. She barely put her arms up, just enough to stop from mashing her nose into the ground. I get now why it looked as though she had been rubbing her face in the dirt- she had been rubbing her face in the dirt.
      "Dang it you guys, stop tripping me!" she giggled as she fell, again.

     Nothing wrong with her feet...just a weird little chip off a weird old block...

The Decline and Fall of The English Language...MInistry of Silly Walks...

      It is difficult at the best of times, to maintain any amount of cleanliness in a child's room. Clean it one minute and the next it looks as though a bomb has dropped inside of it. I was shocked to say the least when I walked by her room and saw Izzy hard at work.
     Daddy: "What's up, Pick?"
     Isobel: "Just cleaning my room."
     Daddy: "Oh, OK."
     Isobel: "What?"
     Daddy: "Nothing, go right on ahead."
     Isobel: "What?"
     Daddy: "Nothing Isobel."
     Isobel: "Daddy, what are you looking at?"
     Daddy: "I was just wondering why the sudden urge to clean your room?"
     Isobel: (she thought about this answer for a bit) "I just want my room and my things to be decent from now on."


      I'm not one to criticize our educational system. It has served me well lo these many years and I figured it was doing the same for my children. So I have to say it came as no surprise to me when Isobel came home with her writing assignment.
      "Look Daddy," she said. "A+!"
      "Well of course it is. You are my kid!" I crowed.  "I was a whiz at writing and spelling and all that sort of stuff."
     She put the slip of paper in my hand I noticed right away the bright green ribbon in the top right corner. A large A+ adorned the ribbon as if to proclaim its total awesomeness to the whole world.
      "Let's have a look," I said eagerly. "I know it's going to be great, it's an A+ right?"
    "It sure is!" she said proudly.
     I grabbed a hold of the slip of paper and took in the words written across it. OK, she's six so I gave the penmanship a break but the rest...well, I'm certain my jaw hit the floor. Shocked and stunned. I was shocked and stunned and not a little amazed...
      It has been a very long time since I was in school but I was certain what passed for an A+ assignment couldn't have changed too much.Wrong. I was shocked and stunned. The following is the A+ paper.

1) Snoflack-I can only assume that this is a SNOWFLAKE and not something that rockets out of your nose during cold and flu season.
2) Badry- Isobel told me this word is BATTERY. I told her it was not.
3) Cat- Even a broken clock is right twice a day, right?
4) Hard rirr-I think this is something she hit one of the kids in her class with.
5) Prss-not what you're thinking...ok it WAS what I was thinking but it isn't that either.
6) Lago-gril-apparently not a cooking surface.
7) not doq-the opposite of doq (duh)
8) Sticr- I guessed STICKER I guessed right. (or Isobel just said that to get one right)
9) Dora-Two outta three aint bad?
10) Fisn-Sometimes eaten by #3?
11) Bolll-round and bouncy and I think Peter Sellers said it a lot in 'The Party'
12) Crayon- But she can spell CRAYON?
13) Boldrfiy-Isobel told me this was BUTTERFLY again, I told her it was not.
14) Buvl Snoflack-umm...WTF?
15) Dall4in-See # 14
16) Robot-YAY!
17) Hrt-I guessed HURT. Isobel told me it was HEART. I told Isobel that she needed to go to her room to think about what she had done.
      The biggest shock of all? In the corner of the paper, under the A+ STICR was handwritten by Isobe'ls teacher 'Wow Isobel you are terrific at writing!' complete with a hand drawn smiley face. Was she high? Had she just had too many years smelling finger paint and munching white paste during recess and now her brain had gone soft? I've met the woman and she seemed to have her faculties about her but you know, even J.Edgar Hoover hid his dinner frocks from the rest of the world until long after he was dead.
    I love my kids and I am proud of all their accomplishments. An A+ is a big one, even if it's for making new words...hell the old ones are getting kind of stale anyway. And with what she lacks in spelling, she more than makes up for in creativity...somebody is going to have to write this thing when I am gone...


       We're a pretty odd lot around here, all of us and so it takes something REALLY out there to get anybody else's attention. One day Isobel came down the stairs in just such a way. Picture John Wayne in a classic cowboy lope if he had Elephantitus of the testicles and that is how she walked down the stairs and continued to walk around the house.
      "Daddy?" she asked.
       "Yes, Pickle?" I asked.
      "Daddy, I bet you're wondering why I'm walking like this?"
       "Not really." I said.
     It was a lie. I was interested. This was beyond simple play acting and she had never seen a cowboy movie in her life but I held my curiosity. She would be telling me shortly whether I wanted to hear it or not.
   She loped around the living room and loped around the kitchen and I swore I heard the 'jingle-jangle' of spurs (and muttering about sore balls) until she could stand it no more.
      "Daddy!" she sighed at me. "Aren't you going to ask me why I am walking like this?"
      "OK Pick, I'll bite. Why are you walking like that?"
       "I am walking like this because I am still sticky."

     Of course she was and why not?
   

The Awful Truth...Luncheon meat for Japan...

We were at the post office. Normally Isobel loves getting the mail with me, today however she didn't care to be there.
      Isobel: "How come I can't stay in the car?"
      Daddy: "You're not old enough, it's against the law."
      Isobel: "Why? It's not like a burglar is going to come along and rob me away."
      Daddy: "They might, you're cute enough. Lotta money for a cute little girl."
      Isobel: "What!!??!"
      Daddy: "Oh yes, you could get a lot of money indeed for a cute little girl."
      Isobel: "From who? Who pays for cute girls?"
      Daddy: "They Gypsies would pay a lot for a girl like you."
      Isobel: "Really?"
      Daddy: "Oh sure."
      Isobel: "Oh my god.I better come with you."
      Daddy: "You probably should, Pick."
      Isobel: "Daddy?"
      Daddy: "Yup?"
      Isobel: "When I die, will I turn into a Gypsy?"



      There are a few conversations that are coming down the pike that I am...dreading is too strong of a word...wary of let's say. Soon, the questions are going to come about how we all got here and other mysteries of the universe. I mean The Boy is eleven already and in health class...It really should have come as no surprise then.
      "Daddy, when we eat eggs, are we eating a baby chicken?" Izzy asked out of the blue.
      "Nope," I said. "Eggs aren't chickens, they're just for eating.
      "How does a chicken make an egg without making a baby chick?"
      'Oh shit', I thought. 'Is she asking what I think she is asking?'
      "Umm," I fumbled. "It's kind of hard to explain. Chickens lay eggs, that's just what they do. Whether they are going to make a baby chick or not."
      OK, so as an aside, it isn't hard to explain, even to a six year old. Not hard at all. But you can't very well start regaling your children with the poultry version of 'Behind the Green Door' and not scar them for life. Like the wicked witch said, 'These things must be done delicately.'
     "So the eggs we eat won't ever be baby chicks because unless an egg gets something from a rooster it just stays an egg."
    Simple enough, right?   WRONG.
      "What does it get from a rooster?" Isobel asked.
      "Umm...ah...Oh, OK. You know how you have to have a Mummy and a Daddy to have a baby?" I stuttered.
      "Yeah." she said slightly suspicious of what was to come next.
      "Same thing here." I said triumphant.
     I was certain I had given her enough information but had totally dodged the total childhood trauma bullet. Not quite yet.
       "What does the rooster do after he has given the chicken something? Does he sit on the egg?" she asked.
     "Roosters don't sit on eggs, chickens do that." I answered.
      "So what do roosters do when they are done, then?" she was getting frustrated.
      "Watch T.V. and drink beer." I said.
       "Oh," she said. "Wait, Daddy, they do not."
       "Sure they do, that's what Dads do. What do I do on the weekends?"
      "Roosters don't drink beer." she argued.
      "No, of course they don't. Roosters don't really do anything. They help make a chick and then they go off and do rooster type things...like drink beer and watch T.V."
       "Daddy...So they don't sit on the eggs?"
       "Nope," I said. "Not ever. As far as I know, only penguins do that."
      "Why?" she asked.
      "Why what?" I asked her.
      "Why do Daddy penguins sit on eggs and not Mummy penguins."
      "Because the Mummy penguins are lazy."
       "Really?" she asked.
       "No," I said. "Apparently, it takes so much energy for the Mummy penguin to make an egg, that she has no energy left to keep the egg warm enough so she goes off to find food to make her fat again. The Daddy penguin is nice and fat from..."
       "Wait, wait." she interrupted. "Don't tell me he's been drinking beer."
       "No, no honey," I pleaded. "For real, the Daddy penguin is fat because he hasn't done anything but eat while the Mummy penguin has been growing the egg. So he sits on the egg while she goes off to get lots and lots of food." (I was mostly guessing as to why Emperor penguin males sit on their eggs. Turns out this is pretty close to the truth of it)
    She had exhausted her line of questioning and I thought I had sufficiently answered her without causing too much irreparable damage. She wandered off to play and I'm certain, to mull all of this over. She came up upstairs later that night to speak with me.
      "Daddy, do you remember you told me about chickens and roosters and penguins?"
       "Of course Pick, it was two hours ago."
      "Yeah well you can forget me having a baby. No seriously, I'm not ever having a baby."
      Mission accomplished...who says subliminal messaging doesn't work...


      We were watching a program about alien life.
     "Daddy, did aliens used to be real?" she asked.
      "They didn't used to be real," I said. "As far as I'm concerned they are real."
      "Why do you say that?" Isobel asked.
      "OK," I started. "You know we have a sun, right?"
      "Yup."
      "And you know that our sun is a star and planets circle around it?"
      "Yup?"
       "And you know that there are millions of star with planets circling around them?"
       "Yup."
       "So do you think that we are the only one to have life?"
       "Of course not," she said. "Everyone has life."
        "Well, I don't think every one of them has life but I'm sure many of them do."
        "Everyone has life alright. Except Japan."
        "Excuse me?" I asked.
        "Japan. Japan doesn't have life anymore because of the salami."
         "Because of the what?" I asked.
         "You know, that big water thing that came into everybody's apartment and now they're all dead. Isn't that called a salami?" she asked.
        Sure, why not... She knew what she meant.
     

How Soon They Forget...The Fear in My eyes...

I love my kids because they are MY kids. By that I mean in a crowd of children anybody would be able to tell mine...easily. Mrs. Narrator was away storming the French roller derby community and so it was the three of us for the whole weekend. We got Hungry man dinners.Everyone loves them...including the cats.
      Daddy: "Guys come and eat before the cats get at your food."
      Isobel: "What are we having?"
      Daddy: "T.V. dinners."
      Isobel: "What is that?"
      The Boy: "Hungry man Izzy. He means Hungry man."
      Daddy: "I do. Chester! Get off that god-damned table! Izzy, Get the cat away from your food."
      The Boy: "Hey Sid, thanks for getting the Hungry man...Georgie! Get off the damn table."
      Daddy: "Don't thank me, it was Mummy who bought...jesus christ cat, will you get off the table!"
      Isobel: "Daddy,  Chester keeps bugging me."
      Daddy: "Yes, he's an ass. Just keep telling him to get down."
      Isobel: "OK but I don't want to say that word."
      Daddy: "You don't have to say any words you don't want to."
      Isobel: "OK. Chester, get the shit off the table!"

     I have been wondering lately if it might be time to hang this up, maybe put it to bed. It has been going on for over two years now and my biggest fear has always been that it might become stale and predictable. Perhaps it already has but the fact remains that just when I think I haven't anything left to write about, something wonderful comes out of Isobel or The Boy and I find myself recharged at least for another week. And maybe in some kind of way that is what it is to be a parent. Just when you've run out of answers, patience, or herb and garlic cream cheese and the children are literally gnawing at your last nerve, they turn around and do something that makes you say "I am supposed to be doing this. These are my kids. I get it." Ultimately I suppose it is up to you the reader whether or not I should continue. If you're still reading, I'm still writing.
    Isobel was in the bathroom doing her make up when I walked in to see what she was doing.
      "Whatcha doing Pick?" I asked.
      "I'm doing my make up." she replied.
      "Alice Cooper make up?"
      "What?" she kind of screeched. "I don't like Alice Cooper."
      "What?" I kind of screeched. "You don't like The Coop?"
       "Daddy, I don't even know who that is."
        "What!?!" I really screeched. "What do you mean you don't know who that is, you wanted to be him for Halloween a couple of years ago."
       "Are you kidding?" she asked.
      I think she was serious, she didn't remember. I was a little shocked. I knew she wouldn't likely retain a lot form her childhood memory bank but this, some of her interests had changed over the course of a summer-last summer and she had next to no memory of them at all.
      "You don't remember that?" I asked.
      "Uh no." Isobel replied.
      "We should talk," I said. "You loved all the heavy bands. All the ones with make up anyway. Kiss, Alice Cooper and even some of the really heavy stuff. As long as they wore make up."
       "Daddy," she said. "I don't like that kind of stuff."
       "You might not now but you did, you loved it." I said. "You can ask Mummy when she gets home, you used to play it over and over and over."
      I wasn't entirely convinced that she didn't remember any of this. She had friends at school now who were definitely not the make up wearing, satan worshipping, head banging lunatic that Isobel was well on her way to being. Isobel has never had a problem with being different but maybe she just didn't want to be THAT different before the first grade.
      So we sat and I watched the videos that she and I used to watch together and she stared in amazement, dumbfounded by the images on the screen.
      "Oh god, Daddy. There's no way I ever listened to any of that."
     I put on the Dimmu Borgir video that she watched every day for nearly a month straight...nothing. She really didn't remember it. And though she remembered her beloved Black Veil Brides, she wasn't interested in their new song....what the hell was going on here?
     I decided I would see if she remembered any of her classic bits. I told her about the minions and her threats of punishment if they didn't follow everything she said.
     "What?" she asked with that tone that says the old man has gone off his nut.
     "No really," I said. "You would scream at them day and night. Mummy and I always laughed and wondered why they kept hanging around you because you treated them some badly."
      She looked at me in disbelief, clearly she thought I was making it all up.
      "And what about Santa?" I asked.
      "What about Santa?" Isobel replied. "I used to play with The dancing Santa."
       "Oh my god," I said. Santa was your right hand man,your trusted lieutenant."
      "What do you mean?" she asked.
      "I mean wherever you went, Santa went. You carried him around and loved him and cuddled him and where is he now?  Forgotten and dirty in the back of my car."
      "Daddy, I don't play like that anymore. I'm grown up now."
      "I guess maybe you are, Pick." I said. I felt a little bit dejected by it.
      I guess I get it now, why at 43 I am still my Mother's baby. Nobody wants there child to grow up. Nobody wants Daddy's little girl or Mummy's little man to be so big  for real . The sooner they grow up, the sooner they don't need you anymore. I mean all this metaphorically of course. When she and The Boy hit 18 they're both outta here.
      Later on that day she went out to play. She still plays in my car, yes but now it's more sitting on the hood   and staring at the sky than delivering a fire and brimstone sermon to the minions. I went out to call her in for supper I stood by the door, about to call her in and I noticed she had Santa. She looked at him and threw him in the car. Then she did something I didn't figure. She opened the door, grabbed Santa, wiped off his face and then gave him a hug before she placed him back on the backseat of my car.
      I called her in for supper. I didn't make any mention of what I had seen her do but the smile she gave me as she walked into the house told be she knew I saw her. I guess maybe she isn't quite ready to be that grown up.
    She went outside after school today and I went out to see what she was doing. I noticed Santa on the ground and I turned him over. Santa has the perfect imprint of a six year old boot across his face.
      "What's this?" I asked pointing at the boot print.
     She shrugged her shoulders and said "Santa just doesn't listen like he used to."



      There is a sound that I think most parents will agree, is terrifying. That is the sound of silence. I don't mean like the kids have gone to the sitters for the weekend and there's no noise in the house or that they have both finally gotten into a movie enough that they have actually managed to shut up and stop fighting with each other for more than twenty minutes.
     No, what I mean is the silence that tells you instantly that something is wrong. I heard such a silence this weekend. Isobel wanted an apple and she also decided to have a glass of water to wash it down. This is not an unusual thing. She has had food and a drink  any number of times without incident and she's six. You'd think that you couldn't make it this far and not know how to eat and drink. Hell, she can walk and chew gum at the same time...I've seen it.
     I was in the kitchen doing the dishes and she was in the living room out of my sight but apparently not out of my hearing. Even over the noise of the dish water, I knew something was the matter. I can't explain it other than to say something didn't sound right. I turned of the water and there was that silence.
      She walked out into the kitchen and I could see by the look on her face that something was very wrong. My first thought was that she was choking on the apple. I ran over to her, fully prepare to do the Heimlich on her. As I reached to grab her, she sputtered and coughed and let out a gigantic burp.
     "I'm OK!" she said in a proud tone.
      "What the hell was that?" I asked. "I thought you were choking on the apple."
       "Nope," she coughed and burped again. "Water went down the wrong hole."
       "Oooh, that sucks. Have a sip of water, that'll help."
       "Are you crazy?" she asked. "Water made me choke, remember?"
       "For real," I said. "Have a sip."
       She had a sip and felt better.
      I returned to the kitchen and after another moment or two of coughing, I saw her walk by, arms raised in triumph.
       "I'm OK!"

Good Weirdness on a Sunday afternoon...The Rock Star...

I was sitting watching T.V. when Izzy came in and made a face at me.
Isobel: "What the heck is that smell?"
Daddy: "What?"
Isobel: "Oh god, seriously what is that smell? Did you fart or was that the cats?"
Daddy: "Umm...I'm not sure at this point. Could've been either one of us."
Isobel: "Oh my god! (cough, cough, hack gag)
Daddy: "I'm pretty sure that one was me."
Isobel: "Oh god Daddy. I'm getting the Febreeze."
Daddy: "What for?"
Isobel: "Because there is something dark and rotten around your bottom and I think the cats are beginning to smell like you."

Sundays are pretty ritualistic around here. No we don't preform rituals on Sundays (at least not until my back is better) rather they are virtually the same every week. We all generally sleep in, get up and eat ...something resembling breakfast. Occasionally we have The Big Sunday Breakfast but only if Mrs. narrator is feeling motivated to cook said feast and if she isn't, so what? She earns her rest as much as the rest of us and Sundays around here are about as laid back as you can imagine. Even more so after Mrs. Narrator leaves for her Sunday roller derby ritual.

After she leaves, we all assume our respective Sunday positions. The Boy on his couch, ipod in hand. Me on my couch, remote in hand and libation at the ready. And Izzy is usually off doing her absolute best to ensure her rule over her minions is absolute.

Now as I have mentioned, lately Isobel's life has gone from the world of make believe to the real McCoy. Flesh and blood friends and everything and she has been spending a good deal of time at her friends house. I was reminded indeed that it was our turn to be the friend host. And it was. I don't mind when Izzy has friends over, really I don't. But as I said, Sunday has a ritual feel to it, a routine if you will.

Anyway, so it was our turn and around 1:30 Candace showed up for a play date. I love this kid. Peter Boyle in make up...you remember her. Off they thundered, upstairs to play dress up. Now I should mention at this point, that during the course of my Sunday routine, I will often doze off while watching television. Nothing wrong with that, that's what Sundays are for right?

Have you ever dozed off and woken up because you felt you were being watched? It's odd to wake up hand have Peter Boyle as a little girl staring back at you.

"Hi Candace," I said a little confused.

She stood there for what seemed like too long before she actually spoke. "Hi." she said and then remained silent and still.

"Candace, come back upstairs." Isobel shouted from her room...none too soon.

There was thumping and giggling and more thumping and

then there was quiet. I am assuming it was quiet because I dozed off again.

I opened one eye and noticed that Candace was standing in front of me again. Staring at me again.

"I am supposed to wash my hands every time I go to the bathroom." she said.

"That's really important to do." I said. What could I say?

I need to say that despite what you are thinking, Candace is not a creepy kid. I think I was the creepy kid...nobody would tell me if I was or not so I just assumed I was. Candace is not creepy. The reason for the silent wonderment was about to become clear.

I overheard Izzy and Candace murmuring and suddenly Izzy shouted down at me.

"Daddy, Candace doesn't know what to call you."

"How about Lloyd? I've always liked that name." I said.

"Daddy!" Izzy whined. "Seriously she wants to know what to call you."

"Why doesn't she just call me Sid?" I asked.

"She didn't know your name. I told her to call you Daddy."

"But I'm not her Daddy." I said. "Sid would be fine."

About an hour later I had dozed off again ( these are not long sessions of unconsciousness mind, just little cat naps here and there) and awoke to find Candace and Isobel staring at me. Isobel was wearing her black angel wings and halo and Candace was wearing a black party dress of Isobel's and carrying a pitch fork. They were both glaring at me and menacing me with devilish sneers. Both actually looked as though they might be constipated but nevertheless devilish!

And for a kid who hasn't said more than a handful of words to me in the entire time she has known Isobel, Candace was about to utter the moist poignant thing I had heard all day.

"Hello Sid." she menaced at me.

"Stop, stop," Interjected Isobel. "That is not how we say things as Dark Angels!"

Candace let out a heavy sigh. "Well, you would know." she sighed.

I have recently begun playing music again. Non-bagpipe music that is. This has come as a gigantic delight to Isobel. Not only does she get to sing whenever she wants, now she has an accompanist whenever the mood strikes her.

I have taken to playing as often as I am inspired to do so and she always wanders down to see what I am up to.

"Daddy?" she yelled down the basement stairs "Daddy, are you down here?"

"Yep Pick I'm down here."

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Playing my guitar." I said.

"Wait!" she hollered. "I'm coming down there with you."

I guess she figured I would stop before she had a chance to compose and so the drive was on to get to me.

Thump, thump, thump across the kitchen floor, followed by thump, thump, thump down the basement stairs and in record time she was sitting beside me.

"So, you're playing your guitar, huh?"

"Yup." I said.

"Can we work on my song?" she asked.

"Sure," I said and started strumming. "Whenever you're ready."

"Baby it don't matter what kinda clothes you wear. It don't matter how you have your hair." (I am paraphrasing. There were distinct lines about clothes and hair and there was some sort of rhyme including them both. Truth be told she was reciting boy band lyrics to one of my tunes)

"I am really getting good at this." she said.

"You sure are." I replied.

"Can we play it again ?" she asked. "Only this time make it more rock and roll."

"Sure thing Pick."

Anybody looking for an opening act this summer?