The Physics Of Apples And Trees...Izzy's History Lesson...

Nature is taking it's course in our backyard. It is littered with the corpses of baby birds. However we found one fat and fuzzy live one.
     Isobel: "Daddy, come quick I found a real live baby bird!"
     Daddy: "It's probably a fledgling, a baby that's learning how to fly."
     Isobel: "His head is all yellow. Come see, come see!"
     Daddy: "That's not his head honey, it's his beak. He wants food."
     Isobel: "Well, what do we feed him?"
     Daddy: "Well, hopefully the mother is around or he's not going to make it."
     Isobel: "Make what?"
     Daddy: "If the mother bird doesn't come back to feed him, he'll die."
     Isobel: Daddy if he dies, can I have him?"


      I am a writer. I have always been a writer. One of my earliest memories was winning a book as an award for writing a short story in the sixth grade. I think my greatest frustration with the band I left home for was my lack of writing input. I was never much of a tune smith but I am hell of a lyricist if I do say so myself. It's the words, the craft of putting them together in a way that is clever enough to impress me but also exciting enough to hold the attention and common interest of whoever happens to read them.
      And so, as it turns out my friends my progeny has started down the dark and infernal path of the writer. She has been crafting a story all year long and presented it to us only just yesterday. I was so impressed by it's honest and genuine depth of emotion that I couldn't keep it to myself. In fact, Isobel will be providing the bulk of this week's blog. It remains unabridged and uncensored, I insist on the purity of the original manuscript. So without further ado, Here is I saw a Bird in My Yard Today (It's a working title)
      I like the trtlls in the tab. And wen I dopt my watt bottl it was fanny. I liket the zoot. Is fun alt zoos. I liket it som ucn. I wat to go thar agin.
       I liked wen Babar and Cheieste got in to the car an wet nom and got clthing and Cheieste got a pritty dess and Babar got a vice soot.
      My faurit prt was wen Scre ran awae fam Freddies tem and got a hrt leg and never cen back.
      Wen I went to the Tosi Shritrc hous I lki bycing the coces. And they tosdid like sholmine and thay wr strs and moos and hrts.
      Me and my famaly want to the bech. And we plad in tho watr and we foud los of cams.And we allso foud shrc teth.
      Me an my mon wet soping at zarze. And aftr we wet to Chceces and I got a chce pop. And we all so did Das reviooshn and we did wac the wesill. And we did hit the bre. And then we lefte to nom.
      Me and my tamale are laring on tarc ond hat sune day and I am tand. The rest of my tamale are tand too! even my oqmo and my groqpo are tond toe! I like Mexacoe!
      My babysitr and me and Owen wete for a wack in the foniste and my bolde sitr woct met and I.
      Wan I wnt to the fornst with my dald I gate sprad by a skoke and it stingckt.
      Wan I wat outsid to plae. It strtid to ran and then it mad a ran bowe.
     Wqon-I wot-to Brot-Wod-Frm my-Faa-Nrt-Prt.
      Me and my daddy wet to the past ofis and wen we got into the car a bie faw in to the cor.

      Truly it is breathtaking. I have often wondered how I could express my Faa and now I have been shown the way and just the other day as I was walking to the past ofis, I was wondering if I should invite my groqpo over. I've just noticed that today Isobel brought home a folder called Isobel's Self Portrait Book. I suspect she will be having a show at the National Gallery this time next year.



      I have been driving my father in law's car for the past little while as my ancient Ford gets fixed. (again) Isobel's keen powers of observation of the painfully obvious kicked into high gear.
      "Hey, you're driving Opa's car." she said.
      "Yeah," I said. "Mine is getting fixed."
      "Again?" she asked. "Didn't it just get fixed?"
      "Well yes," I began. "but that was for the brakes. This is for the motor."
      "Your car sure needs to get fixed a lot." she said.
      "Well my car is from 1997."
      She thought about this for a while and a look of wonderment and disbelief came over her.
      "Your car is from 1997?" she asked.
      "Uh-huh."
      "1997, like when everything was grey?"

      Somebody wrote once that having children keeps you feeling you...it's all a god damned lie.


     

Best Father's Day Ever...Isobel at the Zoo...

      The school year is winding down and soon we will all get to sleep in a little while longer but for now it is still up and at 'em at 'oh my god' o'clock.
      Daddy: "Time to get up Pick."
      Isobel: (rumble, groan, moan) "What?"
      Daddy: "Time to get up. Wakey-wakey. Eggs and bakey!"
      Isobel: "Ooooh. I had a dream. A very bad dream."
      Daddy: "Oh yeah? What was your dream about?"
      Isobel : "It was about my butt."
      Daddy: "You had a dream about your butt?"
      Isobel: "Yes."
      Daddy: "And?"
      Isobel: "My underwear lost the fight."



     Father's day was this past weekend and it was the best Father's day ever. Even if it wasn't, you have to say it was-haven't you? Last year I remember that Isobel was quite excited for the day to come around so she could give me her school made trinket but this year she was positively beside herself. It was all I could do to stop her from telling me what she made for me.
      "Look," I said one day after school. "Don't tell me. I want to be surprised on Sunday. If you have to tell somebody, tell Mummy."
      This hadn't dawned on her, that she could tell her mother and get the information safely out of her system before she burst and I would remain none the wiser. With relief visible on her face, she shuffled me out of the room and spilled her guts to her mother. Though this wasn't nearly enough to satiate her desire to share what she had done. In an hour she was willing to tell me what she made me.
      "I'll tell you what I made for you if you want."
      "No honey," I said. "I don't want to know. I want it to be a surprise."
     "But I really want to tell you." she pleaded. "Can I please tell you just one thing?"
      "Do you just have the one thing?" I asked.
      "No!" she insisted.
      By the sincerity in her voice, I knew that she did have more than the one thing to present to me on The Day so I gave in.
     "OK," I said. "you can tell me one thing."
      "I made you JAM."
       She breathed the last word out, as though it were something slightly sinister but something I couldn't live without.
      "Oooh, jam. I can't wait." I said all the while visions of the six year old version of 'jam' racing through my mind. I was a little nauseous already.
      Sunday came and I was up before anyone else...come to think of it, when am  not? Remnants of the night shift I suppose. Anyway, soon enough Isobel was marching into the living room with my Father's day goodies. First came out a card, the usual hand drawn fare. A snappy rendering of Isobel and me stopped beneath a stop sign. (we are so very safety conscious) Next came a Father's day faux Newspaper front page. Written by Isobel and Angel (a child I was unaware of perhaps? Clearly I was not consulted when she was named..) A picture of me in the top corner-complete with new Warby Parker glasses.
      My parents have been telling me most of my life that I was special. Actually they told a lot of people that I was special....some of them were complete strangers if I recall. Well now it is official. According to the Father's day edition of The Scoop, I was voted #1 Dad because I am special. It is in print therefore it is true and I won't discuss it any further.
     Now as for my credentials...let's just have a look see at what my progeny has listed as my finest qualities. (beyond my explosive specialness of course) According to the paper;
 My Dad and I like to: Go get Cow Ice Cream. Now I am not entirely certain what that is assuming that all if not most ice cream is cow ice cream in the strictest sense of the word but in Isobel's world I wouldn't doubt she was hoping for toad ice cream and they were all out that day.
I Love My Dad: When he feeds me. This is by far the funniest thing I have ever seen attributed to my child. I was unaware that there was an option to not feed them. I assumed it was some sort of rule. Things will be different around here on the weekends, I can assure you of that.
3 Fun Facts About My Dad: 1) He is the coach of my soccer team.
                                               2) He takes me to Victoria park to play
                                               3) He takes me to school everyday.
     OK...I have never coached any sports team in the entirety of my 43 years on this planet. Not one. While we are on this particular subject, Isobel has not yet ( in her six and a quarter years on this planet) signed up for, let alone played an organized sport of any kind.
      Further more, the only time I took her to Victoria park, she was spooked by a sinister looking junior kindergarten kid and she panicked and wanted to come home. I have no doubt of course that Isobel is my child. She is far too moody and black of humour to be anybody's but mine. It does however, beg the question; 'Who in the hell doing all of this fun and exciting shit with my kid? And is he available to baby sit once in a while?'
      But that wasn't the last of the goodies, no no. Next came the jam...I know what you must be thinking, worm jam or some other vile dark smelly ooze that kindergarten teachers allow their students to spring on kindly, unsuspecting Fathers. No in fact it was a lovely strawberry compote that seems to go best with slightly melted peanut butter on a toasted english muffin...On the label it says 'To Daddy. Love Isobel'
 Best Father's Day ever...


      The kids are in the final weeks of school which for all concerned (teachers included it would seem) it really just a matter of counting down the days until it is over. What better way to do that than to cram in as many field trips as humanly possible in the last two weeks of school?
      The Boy just brought home permission slips for three field trips...decent ones too, not the wandering around outdoors or going to some local farm to pick beans kinda crap like I got. No, The Boy is getting to go to the Warplane Heritage Museum among others. It's a good thing it is for school and the legalities would boggle the mind because if I found out he got to go up in a bomber or fighter plane, I might not let him back in the house purely out of spite and jealousy.
      Tomorrow, Isobel is off to the zoo. The zoo! I think I went to Waterloo park when I was in school where they had a couple of peacocks in cages, a couple of raccoon refugees and one mouldy, foul tempered porcupine. Are you frigging kidding me?
     So she is off to the zoo tomorrow and when she was talking about it, describing to me what she might see I sensed something a little unsettling in her voice.
      "Daddy, do you know there are bears there?"
     "Oh yeah?"
     "Yeah." she said "And birds and deer and a petting zoo."
     "Oh, a petting zoo. Aren't you lucky."
     "And there's wolves." as the words left her mouth, the tone in her voice told me she was nervous about the wolves.
      She had not been to a proper zoo since she was very little  and I think maybe she had not been told a vital piece of information regarding her upcoming trip and the animals featured in the petting zoo portion
      "Honey, you know all the animals are in cages, right? and that only farm animals are for petting?"
      She thought about this for a bit and I could see the calmness wash over her.
      "Yeah, I knew that."
     The animals will be very thankful for the bars after tomorrow.

Stranger Danger...Ms. Mixalot...

      We were watching T.V. and Isobel started a conversation with another of her highly logical interjections.
      Isobel: "Daddy?"
      Daddy: "Yes my petulant petunia?"
      Isobel: "Daddy if you picked my nose..."
      Daddy: "Wait, what?"
      Isobel: "If you were picking my nose..."
      Daddy: "No."
      Isobel: "Wait, what?"
      Daddy: "No."
      Isobel: "What do you mean no?"
      Daddy: "I mean no. I don't pick noses, that was your Mother's deal."
      Isobel: "What do you mean?"
      Daddy: "When you were a baby, your Mother picked your nose. Seemed liked every time she fed you, she was up there digging around."
      Isobel: "Seriously?"
      Daddy: "Seriously."
      Isobel: "What kind of monster is she?"


      I was early picking her up from school and she came bounding down the hallway when she saw me and jumped up to give me a big hug.
      "You're early," she said. "did you have to wait in the office before I came?"
      "No I just walked down the hallway toward your class," I replied. "I think pretty much everybody at the school knows me. There's no stranger danger here."
     And it occurred to me that I have never had kind of talk with her, the kind of talk where I try to drill into her tiny little psyche, all of the information that will keep her safe from the predators that all parents think are lurking around every corner...and sometimes they come out from around those corners. Anyway, I asked her what she knew about how to behave around people she didn't know.
     "Well," she began. "My teacher said that I should stay away from the ice cream truck unless a parent or other adult is watching me."
      "That's probably a good idea..." I started. "Wait, what? she said you should stay away from the ice cream truck?"
      "Yeah." said Isobel "She said that sometimes people who work in ice cream trucks are bad and they like to take kids away."
      "I think your teacher has seen Chitty-Chitty Bang-Bang too many times." I said half to myself.
      "What?" Izzy asked.
      "...or read too much Stephen King." I muttered some more.
      "What?" Izzy asked again.
     "Skip it, Pick." I said. "Be too hard to explain anyway.
        But I didn't want to drop the subject so we continued our conversation.
      "But you know not to talk to strangers, right? Like if someone you don't know, comes up and tries to talk to you, you know to not talk to them?"
      "Yep." she said nonchalantly.
      "And you know to tell an adult right away?"
      "Yep."
      "Even if they say they know Mummy or me, you don't talk to them or go with them or anything like that, right?"
      "Daddy, they teach us this in school." she tried to reassure me
      "I know Pick, I just want to make sure you understand." I said.
      We drove to the hardware store in silence and I think she might have thought I was upset with her, she had an odd look on her face.
      "Daddy?"
      "Yes Isobel?"
      "Daddy, do you think I should spit on a stranger if they come near me? I think I should do something like that to keep strangers away from me."
      "I don't know if spitting on a stranger would keep them away from you or not."
     "I know, I just said that." she said. "What I really meant was puke. I would puke on a stranger if they ever came near me."
      "Well, that might just keep them away from you." I said, realizing my point was now long gone. Awash in a sea of mental vomit.
      "I can't wait to throw up on a stranger, I've never thrown up on anybody before."
      "Well," I began. "That's not exactly true is it?"
       "What do you mean?" she asked.
       "You threw up in my mouth."
       "Oh yeah." she said. "OK, from now on I only throw up on strangers."
      Something tells me she's going to be pretty safe.




      So the kids participated in 'Jump Rope for Heart' a fundraiser type thingy at the school. They bring home catalogues full of all of the things they can win. The extravagance of the prizes is directly proportional to the amount of money they can leech out of their parents. Grandparents and co-workers are the usual go to folks for this kind of thing. You know what I'm talking about, we are not the only family infected with the fundraising Ebola.
      So both kids managed to get $100.00 in pledges thanks to generous friends and very kind aunties and grandparents and managed to jump rope about six times combined. (OK, that last bit isn't even close to the truth. Isobel had a headache from all the jumping and The Boy was walking with touch of a limp,the next day due to exceptionally sore legs)
     For their trouble they got mostly crap. Light up Frisbees and light up balls. Stuff that look like the Heart and Stroke foundation did a lot of shopping at the dollar store... ho-ho! But all is not lost true believers!
      The last thing to come out of their prize packs was an inflatable bouncy ball with a handle. Like the kind I remember wanting desperately as a kid but never actually getting. They have thrashed each other a few times and had a couple of ear splitting bounce offs. So they CAN find fun in the mundane. Well, time to get rid of the PlayStation...
      Isobel has found a new use for the bouncy ball. She will hold the handle between her knees with the ball part on the other side of her...like a big red butt.
      "Look at my big red butt." she said. "It's giant. I've never seen such a big red butt."
      And then it was on. There was no more bouncing, ( OK, there was a little bouncing)  there was only revelling in the majesty that is the big red butt.
      "Excuse me," she started. "are you looking at my big red butt?"
      "No, I am not." I said.
      "It's not my fault that I have such a big red but and I am sensitive about it, you know."
      She started to try and walk with it and was, of course, bouncing into tables and rattling anything within a foot of her big red butt.
      "Hey, just be careful that you don 't break something with your silliness...and your big red butt." I barked.
      "OK, maybe my red butt is a little too big for that." she said.
     Soon it was bed time and she stopped on her way up the stairs.
      "Where are you going?" I asked.
      "I forgot something." she said.
      "What?" I asked.
      She came back a minute later with a little note book I had given her sometime ago.
      "I forgot my blog book." she said.
      "Your what?" I asked.
      "When something funny happens to me, I write it down in this book." she said. "And my big red butt is funny, funny stuff."

      

It's Pukka Up Time...The Big Clean Up...

We were getting ready for supper and Izzy came into the kitchen.
Izzy: "What's Mummy making for supper?"
Daddy: "Homemade Chinese food."
Izzy: "Really!?!?"
Daddy: "Yep. Go see for yourself."
Izzy: "Daddy, She's making everything I like; noodles and meat and my favourite, Chicken Pox!"


     Mrs. Narrator was away this weekend playing at the roller derby and Izzy, The Boy and I were left to our own devices. The first time for a while and it seemed greatly overdue. Off to the mall for dinner and then off to the thrift store for a little shopping. Izzy had five bucks from the Tooth Fairy that was burning a hole in her pocket so off we went.
    The Boy unfortunately is not so easily amused anymore and the toy grab bags at the Thrift store don't get his heart racing the way they used to. The new BBQ wrap..man...thing however, was more than enough to get him to agree to come along.
      I know The Boy isn't so thrilled with the Thrift store ( I think he figures it to be looking through other people's old crap...which it is) but Izzy and I love it and will almost always find something. This time being no exception.
     At the Mexico house, there is a mall (I know, right?) and in that mall is a McDonald's. They have had the same happy meal toys for as long as we have been going to Mexico. Pukka...Some sort of Japanese seizure inducing bit of fluff that is on at some ungodly hour here. I seem to remember being in the throws of post-op infection laying awake and writhing on the couch when it came on. I remember it made me feel worse. To my knowledge Isobel has never seen this program...unless she has been waking up at 4:30 on Saturday mornings to watch cartoons...I wouldn't put it past her.
      So there we are in the bowels of the thrift store when lo and behold, Isobel finds a Pukka alarm clock and a fairly big one at that. She had found what she wanted and we weren't even in the store ten minutes yet. It was $0.99 so I had my doubts that it would even work. For  less than a buck, I was willing to take the chance.
      We got home and I put batteries in it. It worked and she wanted to go to bed.
      "Maybe you could wait a little bit." I said.
      "Whew," she sighed. "I am so tired Daddy. I really need to go to bed."
      "Pickle, it's 6:30 and it's a weekend. You wouldn't normally go to bed for another two and a half hours."
      "Oh." she said. "Maybe I'll wait a bit."
      Bed time finally came but not without her asking every few minutes if she could go to bed. We set the alarm (not too early) and she went to sleep.
      You know those times when you're really excited for something that is going to happen the next day or worried that you might over sleep so you wake before your alarm? Izzy does now and she doesn't care for it.
      "My alarm clock doesn't work." she moaned.
      "You woke up before it," I said. "If you go back to bed for a bit, it'll go off."
      She didn't like that idea and decide she would try again the next day...a school day so in her mind there was a lot riding on it.We set and checked and rechecked and adjusted the time and off to bed she went, confident in the knowledge that she would no longer need to be awakened for school. No, now she was self sufficient.
      I got up the next morning and expected to have to wake her up when I normally would. She came down with her school clothes in hand and an odd expression on her face.
      "Morning Pick. Your alarm clock worked I see."
      "It worked alright. That thing scared the hell out of me."
      Rise and Shine.

     Izzy's cleaning obsession came and went and her room went back to it's usual state of chaos. I told her she had to clean her room and begrudgingly, she went. She came back down after a few short minutes, couldn't have even been ten and announced she was finished. This I had to see.
      She was not...in fact, she hadn't done anything but play with the cat.
      "Clean this mess up, for real." I said.
     She relented and set about to cleaning. This usually involves being distracted and generally playing more than actually cleaning but she was at least making an effort. After about a half an hour, she came downstairs and asked me to come back upstairs to check on her room.
    All was good but for a Barbie Corvette in front of her dresser.
      "What about that?" I asked.
      "What about what?"
      "The Barbie car," I said. "Why didn't you put away the Barbie car?"
      "Because it looks perfect where it is."
     I can't argue with that kind of logic...

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...