Repetition all over again...dear DSI-ary

I usually have a good idea where Izzy gets some of the things she says. It's not hard to find her influences as she goes about her day. There are time however, when she will let something fly that has no basis in anything but her own skewed reality. This was one such occasion. I picked her up from school as usual and she wasn't acting at all like her self.
Daddy:"What's the matter, you seem upset?"
Isobel:"Hrmph."
Daddy:"No, really pick, what's the matter?"
Isobel:"Hrmph."
Daddy:"I can't help you if you don't tell me what it is."
Isobel:"Hrmph."
Daddy:"O.K. when you feel like talking..."
Isobel:(cutting me off) "My eyebrows stink."



I suppose it was inevitable that this day would come, I just didn't think it would happen until she was well into her teenage years. Isobel has informed me that she no longer likes school, in fact she hates it.
"I am five now(for two days by her calculations) and I don't like school anymore. It's boring for me now. I should be done."
"What is boring about it?" I asked.
"We do all the same crap all the time," she said. "we sing wheels on the bus and we do spelling and learn about dinosaurs. Over and over again and I've done that too many times now. I should be done."
I thought about this for a while. It was not something so black and white that had a definite solution and if I were too laid back about it, I would appear to not care about her education which would give her permission to not care either. And that just wouldn't fly around here.
"Maybe you could talk to the teacher about how you feel and maybe she might be able to give you some new things to do that you don't know already."
She pounced on this. "I tried to talk to her already. I asked her what the hell we are doing here but she wouldn't answer me."
I tried to sympathize. "Maybe you just have to tough it out for a bit more to get to the new stuff. I was bored a lot in school too but I did get to learn lots of new things."
"I HATE wheel on the bus." she said.
I could see she was starting to get pretty wound up over things and I felt bad but I was also a little giddy at the tirade that I knew was about to be released. She didn't disappoint.
"AAAAND, Edith is younger than me and she pees her pants. AAANNNDDD she doesn't know what dead is. I told her her do you now what dead means? She said that it means they put a blanket over you and you go to sleep and that isn't it at all. I do that every night and I'm not dead. I told her that dead means dead and that's it and I don't pee my pants. And that's why I don't want to go to school anymore."




So it was Isobel's birthday this week. The big 05...it really does seem like it was yesterday that I could hold her in one hand. (which I learned quickly is a very stupid and foolhardy thing to do...) She wanted a video game like the Boy has ans so we got her one. A pink hand held which has become her new best friend.
My mother called to wish her a happy birthday and asked her what she got. The conversation went something like this.
Nana:"Happy birthday Isobel. What did you get from Mummy and Daddy?"
Isobel:"I got a DSi, a pink one."
Nana:"Oh, what is that? What is a DSi?"
Isobel:"It's a DS with an i in it."

She has one game, the point of which more or less eludes me but she seems to enjoy it. Not nearly as much as she enjoys its other features. It has a built in camera and effects to manipulate the pictures you have taken and it has a voice recorder...a diary...an invisible friend that can finally give feedback. She has been speaking into this thing virtually since she unwrapped it and she speaks to it as though it were a person.
"So where was I? Oh, yeah, I have to go back to school and I hate school but I already told you that."
Maybe she has a friend overseas that she sends these messages to?
She walks around the house giving guided tours to the DSi.
"This is our kitchen and that is my Mom. She is making supper. And that's my brother. He is playing a DSi too. And that's my Dad and he drinks scotch.(Single malt to anyone thinking of a nice gift and in my own defense, I was not drinking at the time.)
When I was a kid the best gift I ever got was a pellet gun like all the other kids in the neighbourhood. There was a sense of belonging and being like the rest of the gang once I got it. I slept with it a couple of times...My brother shot the next door neighbour in the ass(and blamed me for it) with it while he mowed his back lawn and I never saw the gun again...
Izzy hasn't taken to sleeping with the DSi just yet but she has joined in with the ranks of millions of other kids hunched over little glowing boxes, slowly going blind from squinting. It is a heartening feeling and really does give a sense of family now to yell "SUPPER!" at the top of my lungs and have two kids completely ignore me.

Is that all there is?...Santa, Jesus and Everybody...

We were at my sister in law's on Christmas eve. It is an annual ritual that we all enjoy and look forward to all year. Mrs. Narrator, to see her sister; the Boy and I for the wondrous spread she puts out every year of groovy snacks and finger foods of every type imaginable and even more exciting deserts. And Izzy gets the chance to perform in front of a captive audience that hangs on her every word.
She had been spending he time frightening everybody with a flashlight.
Izzy:"I'm scary with this flashlight. Daddy, you try to scare me with the flashlight."
Daddy: "It's not going to be too scary if you know it's coming, right?"
Izzy: "No, just do it. It'll be scary alright."
Daddy:(holding flashlight under chin) "I am the ghost of Isobel's father...oooohhh..."
Izzy's Aunt called out that it was time to open presents.
Izzy:"Very scary Daddy. Now let's go have a look at what I always wanted."





Christmas day started early around our house this year...very early. The boy started coming in at 3:30 a.m.(NOT and exaggeration) and proceeded to come back every hour on the hour until we relented and finally got up at a quarter to seven. Izzy to her credit, had to be roused from her bed. And so we made our way downstairs, two racing-two stumbling and complaining about the time and the need for caffeine, to discover the true meaning of Christmas...gifts. Because that really is what it's all about stuff- and how much stuff you can get. He who dies with the coolest crap wins, right?
The living room was packed full with more crap for the kids then I frankly, remember buying. And the kids lost their minds...that's really the best way to describe it...and the kids lost their minds. I remember the first instance of a sound not unlike the ripping of paper, followed by a high pitched sound in the neighbourhood of high C and not much after that. I held a video camera, figuring to catch all of this merriment for posterity. The footage is all but useless. Blurs of whipping arms and that damned high pitch whine is all that I managed to capture.
And the kids lost their minds...and why not? I don't think any of us were any different. The gifts have changed along with the price tags but the madness is the same I'm certain. I don't doubt for a second that somewhere in my past is a relative who went mad with joy Christmas morning when he found out he got a pair of wool socks, so who are we to be any less joyous?
Isobel is my child without any doubt. She had ripped through three or four wrapped packages and was on to the next before the Boy had even finished reading the back of his first. The Boy who is incidentally, meticulous and careful in his gift opening, has a line of parentage separate form Izzy and though his Grandmother always sends a little something for Izzy, the simple fact remains that he gets more presents. I was in a similar situation when I was younger and it kinda bugged me back then. it was not lost on Izzy either.
After she had gone through all hers she looked at all he had left and asked, "Is that it? Is that all there is for me?"
I tried to explain to her about The Boy's grandmother.
"She likes to send presents at Christmas time and she sent you something too. She didn't have to but she did. And it wasn't that long ago that you were more interested in the paper than the gifts."
"I know that Daddy but now I like gifts. Are there any more for me?"

I find it strange and ironic that the entire build up to Christmas, all the guessing and hoping and buying and love and heartache, is over within five minutes of the first piece of paper being torn...and the kids lost their minds...















There are a couple of things that happened this year that really put Christmas into perspective for me. Were were sitting around the dinner table at my In-Law's place on Christmas day, after coffee and cake when Izzy suggested we sing. Like the miserable adults we are, nobody wanted to. Like the retired and nothing to lose guy he is, Mrs. Narrator's father started singing and shamed us all into joining him. we started off with Christmas carols that nobody knew all of the words to and meandered into The Beatles 'Yellow Submarine'(SumBarine Isobel corrected us) until we finally landed on 'On top of Old Smokey'
The unbridled happiness and zeal that was firmly displayed on Izzy's face was a look I will never forget. She seemed to get more out of the singing than any of the gifts she received...and she loved her gifts. She was pumping her hand across her chest like an old drunken sailor, absolutely rapt with joy. Of course, my camera was nowhere near...
The second happened only today. We were down in the basement, Izzy playing and me on the treadmill when I fully took in the glory that was my daughter.(also no camera) From bottom to top as follows; pink cow-girl boots, flower print short pyjamas and matching flower print tank top and Santa hat that is at least eight sizes to big. She wandered about the basement with a brown paper shopping bag making fart noises and thanking the lord.
"Phhttt, thank-you Jesus. Phhttt, thank-you Jesus. Phhht, not now Jesus, Phhhttt Oh Jesus, Phhhttt, come on Jesus, Phhhttt, thank-you Jesus."
...god bless us everyone...

Daddy's little ham...A Christmas Carol...

Mrs. Narrator had come home from grocery shopping and Izzy grabbed the toilet paper and disappeared. We found her putting her doll to bed on it, complete with pillow and blanket.
Daddy: "Put the toilet paper back. It's not a bed for your doll, it's toilet paper."
Izzy: "It's not a bed, it's just for her to lie down on because she is a very sickly Asian."
Daddy:"A what? A sickly what?"
Izzy: "She has a sickness. A very sickly Asian kind of sickness and this helps her feel better."


It is that time of year again. The Seasonal glut of food and booze and presents and late bedtimes for the kids and sleep deprivation for the folks. And I love every second of it. There are far too few things in this life that are equal to the unbridled joy and lunacy of kids on Christmas morning. Watching the Romanesque orgy of avarice that possesses every kid from here to Tucumcari on the morning of December 25 warms my old frozen heart.
That being said, who was the bozo that said, "We're gonna have this Holiday, right and on this holiday we're going to give the kids pretty much everything they have ever wanted-with no strings attached. (OK, with you so far. Sounds like a gas) And then we're going to take these gifts and we're gonna wrap 'em up in colourful paper that we're gonna let the kids tear into shreds and throw around the house and we're not gonna care. (OK, a little messy but what the hell the kids get to have have a break too, right?) Then we're gonna let the kids eat crappy, sugary sweet food all day and run around like lunatics and we're not gonna do anything about it. (Man the kids are gonna love this one) And now here's the best bit. The kids are going to wake up at at a quarter past three on the morning of Christmas and the will be unable to get back to sleep and will continually ask 'can we get up yet?' (Wait, what's the middle part again?) Eventually you will relent and give into the kids by uttering the traditional holiday morning blessing. ("Alright, we can get up. Oh Christ, is it really six thirty?")
I loved being in the Christmas pageant as a kid and the apple has not fallen far from the tree. Izzy's very first Christmas show was last week. The drawback of working the night shift is missing these little gems as they actually unfold. The miracle of the modern age that we live in is the digital camera that Mrs. Narrator took with her.
Wow...is the word that instantly came to mind. As in wow if there was ever any doubt as to my role in her parentage it is gone now. Izzy is a super star of the highest order...OK I'm bragging a little but the fact remains she commanded the stage. Leonard Malten would have said her axe swinging was as realistic as he had ever seen. Pauline Kael would have made note of how she owned the stage by actually edging the kids on her side off of it and Gene Shalit would have noted that she may not know how to read but that Isobel knows what the number three looks like. Her hand gestures at the end of the performance (completely unscripted and improved I might add) brought a flair to the show that would have been that much less if they had been missing...The video itself is making the rounds in the family and I promise to post it up here if I am able. For now, let your imagination take you to a gym in southern Ontario, where you can watch a four year old girl in a red skirt and a green shirt live out the highs and lows in the life of five little Christmas trees...






And now a Christmas carol written by the Boy, The original occupant of the Fuzzy Blue Chair. Had me in stitches when he first sang it and will still make me smile whenever I hear it...enjoy.


Jingle Bells, Batman smells
Robin laid an egg.
The Batmobile lost a wheel
And the Joker got lost in some tall grass.


Merry Christmas from all of us at Wisdom from The Fuzzy Blue Chair!

Izzy and Buzz Aldrin...who wrote this story, anyway?...

Winter is finally upon us and there had been a sudden drop in temperature after a few days of rain. It was cold and snowy now and we all felt it.
Izzy:"Daddy, I'm cold. Real cold."
Daddy:"I'm not surprised. It's cold out. Cold and damp...it's the kind of cold that goes right through you. Gets right into your bones." (I felt a little like Quint from Jaws as I spoke of the cold)
Izzy: "I've been eating snow! BELCH."




I hate winter. Loathe it. But the kids love it as all kids seem to. Izzy and the Boy are both at home in it and they both seem impervious to the cold. A trait which came from neither Mrs. Narrator or I.
Now sometime during the summer months, Isobel got a donation bag of clothes from one of the kids she used to go to daycare with. Before we get cards and letters asking about our financial situation, the donations have been happening for as long as Izzy has been in day care and to anyone who is the parent of a little girl that changes her outfits as much as Izzy does, it's a godsend.
In this particular bag of clothes, were two snow suits. The girl who donated these clothes, though older, is not much bigger than Izzy so I was a little perplexed when out came not one but two snowsuits that were big enough to fit her and my daughter both...Since the arrival of these suits, Isobel has spoken of virtually nothing but winter and snowmen and snow angels.
Are snow angels snow men that are dead? she asked me.
"Sure are." I said. But I had to step back and ponder the brilliance of this line of thinking. I had never heard this question before nor thought of it myself...it's scary sometimes just how smart she really is...
"Daddy?" she began.
"Yes my delicate tulip?" I replied.
"Daddy what's dead?" she asked...
So for the remainder of the summer and all through the fall and Indian summer and fall again that seemed to go on forever, Izzy's willing it to happen finally did and the snow fell. I picked her up from school and she could barely contain the excitement of being able to make a snow angel, her very first.
She ran from the car on a direct course to an open snowy spot in the backyard, her gigantic snow suit threatening to swallow her up as she ran.
"Weeeeeeee-hawwww!" she yelled as she ran.
She walked around for a bit, like a dog flattening it's bed and then proceeded to flop on her back and begin top move her arms and legs. Giggling and laughing as she did it. And then a scream ripped the air.
"Daddy!" she screamed. "Daddy! Daddy!!!!!!!!!!"
Horrid things flashed momentarily through my mind until I realized, thins was our backyard. How much danger could she possibly be in. Still I hurried to see what was wrong.
"Daddy!" she bellowed and cried again, worry in her voice. It must have seemed forever, the minute and half it took me to walk from my car to where she was in the back yard
There she lay, on her back like a cross between a turtle and Buzz Aldrin on the surface of the moon. Gigantic tears mixing with clumps of snow running down her face. I leaned over her and I could see the nervous excitement and fear and exuberance all crossing her face. It was an amusing picture.
"What's the problem, baby doll?" I asked.
She looked around and whispered, "I can't get up."













My favourite time with Izzy are story times at bedtime. Not because I love reading to my kids...which I do but because I have tried over the years to warp the behaviour of my children with the stories I read them. It is my right as a parent to deceptively try to get my children to do my bidding.
If there is a part of the story where a character does something particularly rude, I will insert a more polite scenario. For example, the Big Bad Wolf used to knock on the door and wait to be invited in and Goldilocks always cleaned up after herself before she left the house. O.K. so neither kid actually ever bought it and I stopped doing it. But I figured if it worked just once, then what the hell?
One night I figured I would give it a go again to see what happened. We were reading "Pinkalicious", one of Izzy's favourite books about a little girl who becomes obsessed with the pink cupcakes she and her mother made and eats so many of them, she turns pink. In my telling of the story however, every time she does something she's not supposed to, I read that she either did what she was supposed to or that she did the wrong thing and knew she would have to live with the consequences.
Izzy kept looking at the front of the book and back to me.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"Is that what it really says? That's not what Mommy said when she read it. Is that really what it says?"
"Oh yes," I said magnanimously.
"Who wrote this book?" she asked indignantly.
"Why?" I asked
"This book sucks."

A Return to Crap...Snow falling on Concrete...

The brilliance that is my progeny:
I had just gotten out of the shower when Isobel flung open the door.
Izzy: "Daddy, I want to tell you something that doesn't matter."
Daddy:"What? You want to what?"
Izzy: "When you are wearing pants, THEN you have clothes on."
Daddy: "What? I don't understand what you are talking about."
Izzy: "Never mind, it doesn't matter."




"Daddy," she started to ask me last week. "Is crap a bad word?"
"No," I said. "I don't think crap is a bad word."
"Even for me?" she asked.
"Even for you." I said.
"My teacher said I shouldn't say crap because it's a bad word."
"Well," I began. "What's O.K. at home isn't always O.K. at school and if your teacher says you can't say crap, then you can't say crap at school. I don't care if you say crap at home. It's O.K. here at home."
"That's good," she said "I've gone back to saying crap, you know."
A few days later Isobel insisted on wearing a tank top under a sweater to school one day. In the middle of a nasty December cold snap. Both Mrs. Narrator and I told her how cold it was outside and how cold she would be all day if she didn't put on something warmer. Sometimes you have to let them, learn the hard way.
By the time I got to her after school (after approximately six seconds outside) her skin was taking on a blueish hue and she could barely speak over the teeth chattering.
"So your tank top days are over 'til next summer. Too cold, right? You'll be lucky if you don't get pneumonia." (Another vastly illogical parental chestnut that I have been waiting my entire life to use.)
"What's m-m-memonia?" she chattered.
"You get really sick." I said trying to sound concerned and fatherly.
"Like how sick?" she asked, the colour starting to return to her cheeks. "like have to stay inside in bed sick?"
"Oh yes," I said.
"And would you get a temperature?"
"Burning up," I said.
"You g-g-go on fire?" she shivered again. "Holy c-c-crap, you'd burn the bed."










So Izzy was downstairs in the basement with me again, wrapped up in the old silver tree skirt again and knocking stuff over while "Queen Isobel" berated her lazy subjects again. It was a lot of;
"You people just don't get it." Crash.
"You will be punished!" Crang.
"You will respect me and listen!" Wham.
I was preparing to say something about the mess that she was creating and how she and her subjects had better start cleaning it up...and then something odd happened. The Avril Lavigne song "I'm with you" (Damn Cold Izzy calls it) came on the ipod (Yes thank-you it is on my ipod...for Izzy and me) and Izzy closed her eyes, put her head back and started turning slowly to the music. It was strange and beautiful all at once and it made me think of someone turning on a snowy day, catching snowflakes on their tongue as they turned round and round. I don't know why but that was the image that went through my mind.
My kids are brats. As was I and my siblings brats to our parents and Mrs. Narrator was to her her parents and your kids are brats and so were you and so are everyone else's kids. Brats, brats, brats... But they are precious, kids are. The most meaningful thing you will ever do in your life is raise your kids. I don't think I know anything more about parenting than I did four years ago, the only difference is now I feel like a Dad.
The holidays are coming up...spoil your kids. They deserve it.

The school marm and the whistle blower...Metal before bedtime...

There was a slight nip of winter in the air and the derby girls had invaded the house to make t-shirts. In these situations, the blender usually comes out and hilarity ensues. Izzy was naturally thrilled. I remember that nobody was drinking, not even your humble narrator(which in itself is strange with a house full of derby girls!) when Izzy began chasing after Mrs. Narrator.
Izzy:"Drink beer , Mummy!"
Mrs. Narrator:"What!?!"
Izzy:"Just drink it, Mummy. Drink it. drink it, drink it. Drink alcohol, drink it!"




When Izzy was a baby and a very colicky one at that, I used to sing her to sleep. Walking back and forth across the kitchen floor. I didn't (and still don't) know many sing babies to sleep kind of songs and so I sang her what I knew. The Beatles, the Who, the Pogues, I think I might have even thrown in a Clash song or two.I marvel when I see what a huge impact music has had on Izzy, though I can't say it surprises me. At four she know what she likes and doesn't like and will listen, ad nauseum, to her current favourite song until she learns the lyrics...well her versions of the lyrics. I actually caught myself telling her to "turn the racket down!" the other day...good god, have I become old and unhip at 42? Though it is a little disturbing to hear my daughter sing about brushing her teeth with a bottle of Jack (with an electric dolphin toothbrush no less) I appreciate how quickly she picked up the lyrics and the nuances of Kesha's dance moves. Ok so Izzy was starting to dance like a stripper and we had to put the kibosh on her Kesha listening...but still she is the only four year old that I know who's life has a soundtrack.
She has invented her own class of music. We will be driving along and Whitesnake or someone of their ilk will come on the radio. "Now THIS is crappery!" she will say. Her lyrical interpretations are the stuff of legend...we get to hear them endlessly and so I'll share them.
(To the tune of Heaven's on Fire by Kiss Izzy's favourite band): "Feel my feet, take it to Juan. Burn with me, Heaven's own farm." Brilliance at it's peak.
She went through a Kate Bush period for a while, Babooshka was at the top of the hit Parade.
Izzy: "What is a Babooshka?"
Daddy:"It's kind of a head scarf."
Izzy:"That's stupid. What the hell does that have to do with the song? Nothing, that's what."
Is she wrong?
Lately she has been singing song about everyday events. Some of her own writing(composed on her light up play along piano), some inspired by her favourites.
Izzy: (Tickling the ivories) "I should be wearing...I should be wearing...I should be wearing...SHOOOOO-OOOOES!!!!!!!"
The other night she came up with a grammy winner. (To the turn of Def Leppard's Foolin' but in the voice of (insert low guttural death metal voice of your choice)
Izz: "Buh...buh...buh...BEDTIME! dahn, dahn, ( yes she makes the guitar noise when she sings the song) Buh...buh...buh...BEDTIME!
Rock-a-bye baby...






Izzy has taken to wearing Mrs. Narrator's high heels and walking around the house with a pointer and asking everyone to point to a number 12. I was severely reprimanded and told to stay after school because I pointed to a number 12 instead of the 13 that she had actually meant. Mrs. Baker (I wasn't even going to begin to try and explain that one to her) told me that I was being punished for not knowing what she meant in the first place...good lord, there's two of them now...
All through out this Izzy had been asking me to play with the flashlight which I had been telling her she couldn't. She said it was the school microphone and that she needed it to make announcements. I explained that I have one flashlight left that hasn't disappeared or been dismantled and I wanted to keep it that way. Maybe I was sick or maybe she's just too cute but I relented and let her play with it.
She snatched it from my hands eagerly and held it to her lips.
Izzy: "Owen, come to the office. You have been very bad for saying crap and need to be punished. NOW OWEN!" ...tight pulled back hair and pantsuits are what all the four year olds are wearing these days, right?...

No matter how strong your relationship is or how idyllic your life, we are all human beings and we will all lose our patience and our tempers from time to time. Mrs. Narrator and I are no different. We do however, have the difference of having children that can sense when the upper hand of an argument is shifting and will jump on board with the winning team and gang up on the loser. I am seldom on the winning team.
One Sunday, tempers flared and patience boiled over and the shouting started. I quickly went from seething, to angry, to just going to go upstairs now and keep my mouth shut. And as I was going upstairs I distinctly heard my muse, my little inspiration say to Mrs. Narrator, "Oh yeah? Well he made me go to my room!"

Do you know who I am...More fun than yelling at the cat...

We were at the mall once and we were in a crowd of people, waiting in line for food if I remember. Now in these situations, nature has a way of causing things to happen that make this already unpleasant experience even more so. I didn't hear anything but I could certainly smell it.
Izzy: "Oh god, Daddy who did that?" she nearly shouted.
Daddy: "Shhh, not so loud. I don't know but it sure is bad."
Izzy: "I've never smelled anything like that in my life. Somebody stinks." she said, still shouting.
Daddy: "Not so loud , honey." I said half chuckling. "But you're right," I whispered. "somebody does stink."
We got our food and made our way to the table. By the time we got there, Izzy had a look on her face that was not unlike some one holding a turd under her nose and that she was not displeased about it. It looked half disgusted and half thrilled.
Daddy: "What's the matter?"
Izzy: "Nothing, nothing is the matter."
Daddy: "Then what is that look for?"
Izzy: "It was me."
Daddy: "What?"
Izzy:"It was me...I Fahted." (she said it just like that, with a posh English accent)
Daddy: (stunned) "You rule."



Like many people, our basement is the store house for all the site specific items that would congest the entire house if they were allowed to mingle with the other, every-day use items. Christmas decorations, winter jackets, tools, paint cans, old books and boots and luggage and every other thing that has little regular use. Put a little girl with a well developed imagination in the middle of this and she will entertain herself endlessly...really.
I used to think that Izzy would come downstairs when I was on the treadmill because she wanted to hang around with me. Unfortunately, I am just not that cool. The basement on the other hand is a wondrous place where Isobel is queen (complete with Christmas tree skirt cape) and sweaty old fathers just keep on running.
I would like to think that she gets all of this from me but honestly, I am not that quick and I don't think my play universe was quite as developed as hers has become in four years. I marvel at it every time I see it and wonder where she gets it from.
She put on an old sweater of mine and wrapped it around herself and then grabbed two rolls of Christmas paper and was using them like crutches. She hobbled back and forth across the basement mumbling and waving her arms. She stopped in front of me and I could finally see and hear what she was up to. She looked up at me, with a look that no four year old should be able to make and said, "arms for the poor."
"ALMS," I said. "alms for the poor."
"Bombs for the poor?" she asked.
"Skip it," I said. I could sense where this would end up. "Where did you learn that, alms for the poor and crutches and all?"
"I don't know," she said in that way that all kids can say I don't know with out actually opening their mouth that sounds more like MM m MMmm.
Our basement houses the luggage that in general only sees the light of day once or twice a year and Isobel is usually with the luggage on one of these occasions. So it came as no surprise when I saw her racing across the basement floor, dragging a suitcase behind her.
"Where's the fire, Pick?" I asked.
"No fire Daddy, I got a plane to catch."
She raced back and forth, dragging this suitcase behind her, at least a dozen times and finally came to rest at the bottom of the steps. She looked like she was digging through the hip sack she was wearing and was in a heated discussion with the person across the steps. I actually stopped the treadmill, knowing this would be a good one.
"I am going to Trahno and I NEED to get there and you NEED to help me to Trahno. Do you understand me?"
She ran back and forth a few more times until she came to her gate, I am guessing and again she went on about NEEDING to get to Trahno and that the other person NEEDED to help her to get to Trono. And then she said something I wouldn't have expected.
"Lookit," she argued. "I need to get to Trahno today and you are going to help me get to Trahno today, right? Look do you know who I am?"... This column must be more popular than we thought...
We are going back to Mexico in February...I can see myself at the counter, tickets in one hand, Isobel in other waving her at the ticket agent asking "Do you know who this is?"







Our prehistoric cat Gimmo has taken to wandering around the house at all hours of the night yowling...for no apparent reason. He howls when there is no food or water, he yowls when there is. He howls when he is on his filthy chair as well as when he is not. He yowls before, during and after he barfs all over the house. He is a senile, smelly nappy and loud. He is also stone deaf. We all have take turns yelling for him to "shut up!" Which is more stress relief than anything else. He is deaf. Izzy doesn't quite get what deaf is and thinks Gimmo is just being rude.
He was being particularly loud one day and wouldn't stop yowling. He usually quits after a couple of minutes back on his filthy chair but today he would not be silenced.
"Gimmo, SHUT UP!!!!" Izzy yelled..."Yowl," came his reply.
"Shut up Gimmo!!"..."Yowl,"
"GIMMO!"..."Yowl,"
I began to wonder how long this would go back and forth. I didn't have to wait long for an answer. She had gone into the kitchen and grabbed a small, plastic wrapped piece of candy. Obviously not a kind of candy she liked even a little. She walked back into the living room, sized him up and beaned Gimmo dead between the eyes with the candy. He didn't make a sound as he leaped from his filthy chair and hid under the kitchen table.
"Why did you do that?" I asked.
"Well, it's more fun than yelling at him."