The Anguish In Her Voice...Sometimes You're Just The One...

She walked over to me tonight and asked me a question with a defeated look on her face.
      Isobel: "Daddy?"
      Daddy: "Yep?"
      Isobel: "Can I just ask you something?"
      Daddy: "You can always ASK anything."
      Isobel: "Can we go to the playground after supper?"
      Daddy: "We'll see."
      Isobel: "So probably no?"
      Daddy: "No, probably yes."
      Isobel: "Really!?!?!"
      Daddy: "Sure."
     

         Not the usual intro I know, but this has not bee the usual week. I am a health care worker. I have seen all the bodily fluids of all colours and descriptions and I have managed to keep a cool head through all manner of crises regardless of what they may be. None of them however, involved my children. I have to admit that where my children are involved, all senses of rationality go out the window and I become singular of purpose  and motivation and if you happen to be in the way when the situation occurs, be helpful or be elsewhere.
     Monday, I was looking very forward to seeing my daughter play in her first official soccer game. She was outside skipping and playing in my car and I opened the door to call her in for supper. She couldn't see me for the reflection on the car windshield so I went closer to the car to get her attention. She acknowledged that I was there and I motioned for her to come in. She got of the car and time stopped.
       I was about fifteen feet away from her and I could tell by the look on her face that something had gone terribly, terribly wrong. I knew from my own experience that one or several of her fingers were now in the closed door of my car and I felt the sickness gurgle around my stomach and rise in my throat.
    Now Mrs. narrator and I (along with I'm certain a bazillion others) have been down this same path. I was being dropped off back at school after lunch and had a hockey stick and skates in one hand and not a lot of attention was being paid the the safest mechanics of closing a door. My thumb entered the door and the fear and the pain ripped it right back out. Mrs. Narrator has a similar history. I lost Thumbnail, a pair of ugly home made mittens and got a week off school. By comparison, I am a weakling. My daughter is no weakling...not by a damn stretch.
     I said before, once she had closed her finger in the door, we both knew instantly what she had done. Here is how tough my daughter is. She had the forethought to actually open the door, extricate her trapped thumb and then close the door properly. If i live to be a hundred and seven, I will never be that tough.
      After she freed herself, the panic set in...for both of us. I went into a flat out run trying to close the distance between us as quickly as I could. I picked her up and held her tight and turned to face the house, seemingly in one motion. I ran as hard as I could. It is only about fifty feet to the porch and the front door from where my car was parked but it may as well have been fifty miles. And here is the thing that killed me...still is killing me.
     By the time I picked her up, the initial shock had worn off and now the pain was coming on hog wild. Oh the terrible throbbing that just won't stop no matter what you do. She was in such agony that she just started screaming 'Daddy, Daddy. Daddy, Daddy...' over and over. My heart broke a little right there. I didn't know what to do but hold her and run for the house. I asked her about that when we went to the playground and she said it hurt so bad, that was all she could think to say, nothing else was making sense in her head.
      I barreled through the door and barked at Mrs. Narrator to get out of the way. I threw open the freezer door and started grasping at anything cold enough to put on her thumb... Thankfully Mrs. Narrator remained calm enough to actually find something frozen and useful. Note to self, while frozen dinners may be an outstanding taste treat, they are entirely useless as a first aid device.
      She was miserable for longer than I have seen her in a while and she absolutely did not want me to leave her side. I mentioned that I would go to the soccer field and get her uniform and then it was OK if I went for a while. By the time I got back, she was eating a little and already in better spirits. She ate mostly sweet junk but it all helped her feel better and what parent won't indulge a sweet tooth when a, decently serious, injury has occurred.? She was OK to go to school but was disappointed that she probably wouldn't be able to write.

      That night I didn't sleep well and I could hear her voice echoing in my ears, "Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy." I woke more than a few times expecting her to be standing at the foot of the bed, in some catastrophic condition. She wasn't but the message was firmly in place...I see now why Mothers become Smothers in a heart beat...hell, I was afraid to let Isobel get into the car by herself after school.



    After she mashed her thumb, she didn't want me to let her go. Even after Mrs. Narrator made several offers of cuddles and even the offer to feed her her favourite food, she wanted to stay with me. I wasn't complaining but you know me, I was curious. I asked her why she wanted to stay with me after all that good stuff was going to come her way. She thought about it for a bit and said;
      "Your lap is more comfortable that Mummy's and sometimes you're just the one I need."

On Unfamiliar Ground...Ummm...what now?...

   We were doing her homework, plurals when she wrote down a word that I began to erase.
      Isobel: "Hey, what's wrong with that?"
      Daddy: "You can't use that word, you can't."
      Isobel: "Why not, it's OK."
      Daddy: "It's not right. What word are you trying to write?"
      Isobel: "Foxes."
      Daddy: "And how is that spelled?"
      Isobel: "F-O-X-S."
      Daddy: "ES."
      Isobel: "ES."
      Daddy: "And what did you write?"
      Isobel: "F-U-X-S."
      Daddy: "Sound it out."
      Isobel: "...gasp! I'd get kicked out of class."


       I find it a touch ironic that in there last couple of weeks this column has become a little bit more about me and what is happening in my life and just little snippets of what is happening with our Isobel...but I think it was always as much about my growing as it was her.
     So here I am a college man and I figured I would have an easier time finding a job of some permanence with my new skill set...when it rains it pours. I was hired by one place more or less before I had even graduated  another interview followed soon after that and another after that. I am in a place where I have never been before...I am the popular choice of employees, they want me as much as I want them and that truly is uncharted territory for me.
      It is an odd thing to be able to sit through an interview and actually answer the questions they asked you with absolute certainty and a measure of intelligence that just doesn't happen in any of the factory jobs I've ever interviewed for. George Carlin had  it right, they want you just smart enough to run the machines and just dumb enough not to question the shitty situation you have found yourself in. I've worked a lot of factory jobs and I was either handed them or bullshit my way into them or a little of both...but no more.
      One of the interviews I had, was a series of questions ranging from conflict management to witnessing of abuse concluding with a question I have never been asked in a job interview. 'If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?'
     I was taken rather aback; "I wouldn't wear glasses anymore." I blurted out followed by a short chuckle. I went quiet after that, intrigued by the question and actually trying to come up with some kind of intelligent answer. The interviewer looked at me uncomfortably when she saw I wasn't going anywhere beyond this question until I had said my piece.
      I took what seemed to me to be an unusually long breath and said; "I don't think I would change anything. I am pretty OK with who I am. It's taken me a very long time to get here but I kinda like who I am now."
      And I think do...mostly. There are always going to be things I could point out as needing changing, like I wish I had less grey hair and fewer wrinkles, , I could use a moderately thinner waistline and more time to tend to the lawn but these are things that don't keep me up at night wondering if I am a good person. I think maybe I holler at the kids too much when I get frustrated but this career seems to make all the little things I used to holler about seem really insignificant.
     I used to think that maybe I was selling out in a way...trading my Rock and Roll credibility for something else entirely. Maybe there are a few people who think that way too...maybe I'm paranoid or just thinking too much. It's the change, the change of the routine that terrifies me and makes people edgy and angry. I felt so out of place and frightened those first few days of school. I'm certain I was just as grey and ashen looking as Isobel was on her first day of kindergarten. And then all of it changed. School's out and it's on to the working world but how do I feel about it?
      I have a close friend, like an older brother who has a a degenerative disorder of the central nervous system and should the need arise, I am completely capable of taking care of him. My parents, most of your parents, all of our parents are getting older and who is there to take care of them as they become frail? Well OK, it likely won't be me but it will be someone like me hopefully.
      So what would I change about myself? Contrary to popular belief, I wouldn't change a thing. Do I think I sold out? Sold my Rock and Roll soul but gained the world... I think I bought in.


      So Izzy came downstairs with the belt of a smoking jacket wrapped around her hand and wrist.
      "Are you going to box somebody?" I asked.
      "No," she said "I have a broken hand from a fisting accident."
      Stunned silence is the best way to describe what followed as that particular phrase left my daughter's lips.
       "Ummm...what now?" I asked cautiously.
       "A fisting accident. Isn't that what you call it when you hit somebody with your fist, fisting?"
      "That is exactly what it is called."
     Honestly, you couldn't make this stuff up.
     

   
     

Standing in an Open Doorway...The Minions...

      We were walking up to bed, reminiscing about the other night when the power went out.
      Isobel: "Daddy, you're really lucky to have an Ipod."
      Daddy: "Well, you'll get one too. You're just a little too young yet."
      Isobel:  "Chase is lucky to have one too."
      Daddy: "You'll get one too Pick, you're just..."
      Isobel: "And Mummy is lucky to have her Iphone."
      Daddy: "I..."
      Isobel: "You all have something for when the power goes out. You all have something to do. I don't have anything to do."
      Daddy: "Well you'll..."
      Isobel: "No, I don't have anything to do except sleep. Which sucks but is very good for you. It makes your bones and hair grow."


      So here it is. At 44 years of age, I am a college grad...Holy shit. I always thought that as a musician, there was a certain cool factor involved when your kids tell their friends what you do...and there is. Same thing for a writer I guess but here's the rub Are your kids ever proud of what you do when it's all flashy and rock star? Do they look at you and say 'My Dad makes me proud' when you write a work of fiction? (or a weekly column) Maybe...I don't know.
      What I do know is that the profession dare I say it, the career that I have chosen has made me something I didn't think possible...it has made me want to be a better person. I don't mean that I am a great person beyond reproach or improvement, just the opposite in fact. What I mean is that I have been a cocksure bass player and a half-assed writer but mostly a carbon blob working in sector 7g for most of my adult life and I have been resigned to being one of the bungled and botched. Teased by glimpses of greatness that were always just out of reach.
      I have changed the briefs of the incontinent, I have held the hands of the lonely and the dying. I have fed the disabled and I have wiped away the tears of the demented and I have loved every minute of it. Somewhere in the midst of all of the bodily fluids and out and out weirdness, I found me...My first day of my first placement, Mrs. Narrator asked me what I thought of it and I told her I didn't know yet, ask me at the end of the week. Inside I had asked myself just 'what the fuck had I gotten myself into?'
     It had sunk in, exactly what it was this job had entailed and I didn't know if I was capable of doing it, any of it. Learning about health care in a text book and putting them into taxes are two completely different things but the first resident I was given was a man I had known in my past and in his way he had remembered our meeting. I washed him I changed him, I held his hand when he was frightened, I laughed with him when he was funny and I sat with him in comfortable silence when his condition made it difficult for him to speak.
      By the end of that first day, I was picked by the woman across the hall from my first resident. She said I had a kind face and she thought there should be more people sticking up for the people that can't do it for themselves anymore. I don't know if I am any kind of advocate for the elderly but it was nice to be thought of in that capacity.
     By the end of that first week, Mrs. Narrator asked me again what I thought of it. I sat for a minute and collected all of the information that was racing around inside my head.
      I said "It feels like this is what I am supposed to be doing."
     I have never worked in any sort of job where the smallest action, seemingly insignificant, can make a enormous difference in the well being of another person. Even in a band, though the folks were entertained, the day after they were on to the next thrill coming to town. In a factory, they only give a shit when you aren't there and even then not really.I went home every day from that first placement (and all the others afterward) knowing I had made a difference in people's life and they in mine. It was and is overwhelming. Things might have been very different had it not been for my first four-the first four reasons why I know that I made the right decision.
      Ah but it is bittersweet...I met and befriended some amazing people along the way, classmates I will likely never see again and the saddest of all, the harsh reality of this career. All of the first four have since passed on. I am not sad though. I am happy for them that their struggles are over and I am honoured beyond words that I got to know them as well as I did and they have all taught me that the worst thing you can do is allow another person to struggle if you have the power to prevent it.
      So sitting here on a Tuesday night, listening to Rain Dogs and wondering if my kids will be proud of me for what I've done I think they will one of these days...hell, I'm proud of me


     Ladies and gentlemen, it is time to finally clear the air. I have been the perpetrator of a terrible lie. For many years now, I have been telling you of Isobel and her beloved minions. I have even gone so far as to describe the minions to you as small yellow goggle eyed fellows who bow to Izzy's every whim. I also mentioned that i felt the minions were now turn of the century Russian peasants moaning and wailing at Isobel's commands But I have been set straight by the mighty dictator herself.
      This past weekend, I was helping Isobel to dust her room. (if you listen close enough, you can hear my Mother howling with laughter at the prospect of me dusting anything) We had moved all of her trinkets and statues off of her bed shelves and sprayed down the Pledge. She gave it a generous wiping and I was getting ready to put the things back on the shelf when she interrupted me.
      "Daddy, I need to put the minions back in the right order. I'll do it."
      And she did. The minions were nothing as I had pictured them to be but this is straight from the little tyrant's mouth. These are the minions. Four terracotta warriors, a bust of FDR that looks like Mortimer Snerd and a small statue of a highlander that bears an uncanny resemblance to christ. Without further ado I give you the Minions...

The Wicked What Now?...Minions Grow In the Sun...

       She came home with a book from the school library, she hurriedly dug it out and proudly showed me the title.
      Isobel: "Daddy look what I got!"
      Daddy: "What have you got?"
      Isobel: "A book from the library."
      Daddy: "Oh yeah?"
      Isobel: "It's called Werewolf attack, isn't it cool?"
      Daddy: "It is. I can't help but notice you've been getting some interesting books out of the library. Monsters and werewolves and natural disasters."  
      Isobel: "Yep."
      Daddy: So...?"
      Isobel: "That's all that I want to read about  now, tears and death and fire."



      Nearly May and the warm weather seems as though it is finally here to stay and Izzy has been soaking it up from the second the snow began to melt. She has also been playing with Mrs. Narrator's roller derby whistle. The minions now have audible clues (beyond Isobel screaming at them) to be absolutely certain her will is obeyed.
      I was eavesdropping on her as she was out playing tonight. You can't make this stuff up.
      "Phweep!" went the whistle. "You there!" she bellowed at a minion. "You! What are you doing?"
      She waited for a response that she clearly did not like.
      "Phweep!" went the whistle. "Nope, nope. Not like that at all. That's six laps!"
      "Phweep!" went the whistle.
     At this point, I could picture the minions cringing as that damn whistle blew and blew ...and blew. I used to think that the minions looked kind of like the little yellow guys from Despicable me and I confess that it was after seeing this movie that I started calling her imaginary friends that. It seemed appropriate then and more so now. Now however, I picture them as something more akin to turn of the century Russian peasants under the yoke of her oppression.
"Phweep!" went the whistle." Dang it Carl!"
     Wait, what?!?! a name? The minions had never had a name before, they were always the faceless nameless masses. This could be good. (potentially, I may have misheard what she said but I am going to stick with Carl)
      "Phweep!" went the whistle. "Six laps. No, no there's no use...NO! SIX...LAPS!"
      There was silence for an unnatural amount of time. I looked out and saw she was down on one knee talking to the downed minion. (Who the worse? The kid who has imaginary underlings or the father that refers to them as though they were real entities?)
      "Are you OK?" she asked. "You went down hard. OK? Good. That was funny. I don't care who you are, that was funny."
      It could be worse, she could have no imagination at all...

      Mrs. Narrator was off to the wilds of Michigan this past weekend and Izzy was supposed to have a movie type play date. She was unceremoniously stood up and so Mrs. Narrator suggested that perhaps I could take her. I jumped at the chance. Off to see the wizard we went.
      Oz the Great and Powerful was neither. I am not a huge fan of James Franco, just saying. It's not going to chase any Oscars anytime soon but Isobel loved it. The problem with movies like that (where you are familiar with the story and the general outcome) is there is never enough witch time on screen.
      "Daddy, when is the witch coming?"
      "Soon, baby."
      But it's never soon enough.
     "Holy crap, that guy just tripped and dumped all of his popcorn on the stairs." I'd like to say that she whispered this but that wouldn't quite be the honest truth. I'm certain the guy was embarrassed already but that's the beauty of being a kid, brutal honesty without reproach.
      Finally the witch was about to arrive.
      "Daddy why are her tears burning her face?"
      I have to admit I was stymied by that one.
      "Um...not sure. Maybe the badness in her heart?" I bluffed.
      "No, that's me." she said.
      Soon it was green skin and pointy hats and cackling laughter and one happy little girl on the way out of the theatre.
      "Did you like the movie?" I asked her.
      "Yep!" she beamed.
      "Were you scared?" I asked again.
       "Phfft, no!" she said.
       "No?"
       "No way, that witch wasn't so scary. I would have shot fireballs at everybody, even the munchkins and then burnt them all up. Who would be there to stop me then? Nobody."
      I mentioned to Izzy that for many years when I was a kid, I was afraid of the Wicked Witch of the West.
      "Really?" she asked in an almost mocking tone.
      "Yep." I said.
      I am not afraid of the Wicked Witch of the West anymore...I may just be afraid of the seven year old dictator of the backyard, though...even if she doesn't have a pointy hat.

The Littlest Gonzo...

      So the WereWoof has been howling a bit this week and is apt to be for a little bit longer. (4 A.M. is not a time that anyone should be getting up going to work) So Isobel suggested that she should write the column this week...I was far too tired to argue. So what follows then, will be entirely her own. My only contribution this week will be this; I have recently discovered how difficult it is to explain to a seven year old girl that a baby carrot shaped like a penis is funny, without revealing that the baby carrot is shaped like a penis. Take it away Isobel.


      2013 MY DAY
 Today was good I had a tuft Bieinne But the rest of the Day was OK. You know you mlet have some tubel at frest But tron the wrest of the Day it ees Beter. Today we lernd abat symatrys it was fun! Today wors asam!

     Noveber 10 2012
remeber iasdoly mackesus solde. remeber insdory is suppos to be sold.

     Lecilys
Ill, will die.Ill die
inside melt it bruns whoooo
I willserwe I will stay Alive
Pepole Don't understand That I am me.
I am who I am me,

    2013 MY DAY
Today was Asome I finnish all my work I've done a lot of work today. Today was full of work. But sins I did all the work I eot a Gele ben. It was good. I loved it it was cinahol likedmint Gele-ben it was good. How els pot a Gele-ben foru BePei eat eeyenben. I had a grat day. Today was Asome. Hoeweig had a grat day? girls ix pepell had a grat day.

     VEN AVIA
I can loc you up
in my closit wen no wars arown
I can pot your hede in my pooct
Be sac youn ou tou
I can do anething
Becas yar so good to me
baby baby

    Lyricy
I'll die if I haffle to insiad me

thars a fier. that burns
Whoo my life begans and
ends without the fath that
we lern save me from the
Darkidd places save me from
myself Im a loaded eun a
anlc son But Im nobodys
Hero Iv comeundun Im on
the run Blecy Im nobodys hero
nobodey hero to hely your
scars I'll Will give you dvretine
I can. Thiss war of herts
We will riz and tack a stand
I can led to sowth
ashin I am just a main
I'm a loded eun an oly
son whoo I come undud
I'm on the run yeah Im
nobodys hero nobodys hero
nobodys hero this moders
cros is to have ta lesist
and we fell the lost of
livs I left oisck
Im a loded eun an only
son but Im nobodys hero
I'v come undon Imon the
run Yehe Im nobodys heros
I loded eun an only son
and Im nobodey herg
Iv come undon Imon
the run hehe Im nodods
Hero Im no bodeys hero
Im nododeys hero
     

The Heart and Soul of the Blog...Mrs. Narrator Cries Big Sloppy Tears at the loss of her Youth...

      She was sitting on the counter, 'helping me' make the lunches and espousing about the evils of the world.

      Isobel: "Daddy, do you know that if you stay on the computer too long you can die?"
      Daddy: "Sorry?"
      Isobel: "If you stay on the computer too long it can kill you. There are these things called viruses."
      Daddy: "Those are a different kind of virus, honey. They don't make you sick, they make your computer sick."
      Isobel: "No, our teacher said that too much time on the computer wasn't good for you and there are bad things with computers called viruses and you always talk about getting viruses too."
      Daddy: "Well that is true but I didn't..."
      Isobel: "And viruses are bad, right?"
      Daddy: "Well yes but..."
      Isobel: "So my teacher was right, too much time on the computer will give you a virus and you can die."



      So it was that time of the decade and I ventured out to clean my car. Izzy was eager to help and that was a very good thing because ninety percent of the god-damned mess was hers anyway. So there we were, garbage bags and cleaning rags in hand and gas masks firmly in place, when lo and behold what should Izzy find but the jolly elf himself.
      "Santa!" Izzy squealed and I knew in an instant that St. Nick had just robed me of my helper. Off she went to sit on the porch and catch up with an old friend.
       I should state here that Santa has been in my car almost literally since the last time I wrote about him-forgotten and filthy. His youth seemingly returning as his white beard became brown with mud and his once proud, welcoming arms now twisted and floppy after months of being stomped on by a little girl too busy to pay him any mind.
      "Daddy can we put new batteries in Santa?" she asked.
      "Well," I said in a totally non-committal kind of way. "Geez, I don't know if he'll still work. He's been in the back of my car and under your feet for along time. I think he might be broken fore good."
      "We could try anyway." she said with a tone of pleading in her voice.
      "We can try." I agreed.
      So we did. We put fresh batteries in the fat man and Izzy pushed the button...well half of a Santa dance is better than no Santa dance, right?
      "Daddy!" she screamed with delight. "The switch is on demo, that's why Santa only goes half way!"
     She moved the switch over and sure enough Santa gave us the full dance. Izzy was beside herself with joy. She has been making him dance almost non stop since we brought him back to life. She has even made him an accomplice in her latest game called 'Bad Cat.' This involves imprisoning one of the cats in the overturned laundry basket while Santa perches on top and sings his Christmas hip hop song. It's good to see the littlest dictator and her chief lieutenant together again.
      I started to see parallels between Santa and this blog...I would see Santa every day, every time I would take the kids to school or drive somewhere, there would be a flash of red in my line of sight. Nothing so obvious as 'Oh, there's Santa' but just the same knowing it was him and how important a role he played for Izzy. This blog is the same way I think. It's not always uppermost in my mind (or any body's for that matter) but it's always there just below the surface occupying a place of some measure of importance...and just when I think it might be time to throw it away, a new dose of batteries get put into it and away we go again.
      So I guess as long as Santa can stick around and provide fun and enjoyment just by doing his thing, we should too. So thanks to you all and...Merry Christmas?

      The world we live in now is very different from the world I grew up in. I don't remember the first time my attentions turned to the fairer gender but I do remember I was completely uninformed about the entire topic. Now if I had grown up in the world my children are growing up in, things might have been entirely different. The Internet is a wondrous tool with vast resources and all of the knowledge of the world at your fingertips.
      To that end, I don't think we can call him The Boy anymore. Not to put too fine of a point on it but calling him The Boy just doesn't seem to cut it anymore. Children grow and I am starting to understand that it is harder on the parents than it is on the children. Children want to grow up...and why not. Being a kid sucks if you're a kid. Go to bed when they tell you, get up when they tell you, clean your room, eat your vegetables get off the god-damned computer- when I grow up, I am not going to do any of that crap. But for the parents, watching your babies grow up and leave the nest is to be faced with the fact that while they are growing up, we are growing older.
     Ah so many things change and continue to change until the house is empty and you're left with your memories and visits during the holidays...next time you see Mrs. Narrator, buy her a drink or some hair dye...I think she might need it. The Boy ain't a Boy anymore...

Serenity NOW...Spring Has Sprung...

      She was lying in bed...trying to avoid bed time...
      Isobel:" "Daddy my nose hurts."
      Daddy: "Go to sleep, Izzy."
      Isobel: "No really, my nose hurts. I hit it on the bathroom stall door."
      Daddy: "Wait, what? How did you hit your nose on the stall door?"
      Isobel: "I was turning around and when I turned back I wasn't looking and I hit my nose across the door."
      Daddy: "I guess that'll teach you to keep your nose out of other people's business."
      Isobel: "Wait, what? Daddy, that doesn't even make sense when you are trying to do something. You are  smelling someone else's business."
      Daddy: "Wait, what?"
      Isobel: "And that's just gross."


      I have been in the parenting game precisely seven years. Coincidentally that is the same amount of bad luck one gets from breaking a mirror...So what I am seeing now is a side of my daughter that I frankly, don't much care for. The attitude that comes from this kid is staggering and I guess my question -is this kind of thing normal? Is it a little girl thing? Is it a thing for her age? Am I wrong to want to chain her to a pipe in the basement until it all goes away?
      It really wasn't that long ago when I was the world to my little girl. I still am but lately I am a source of disappointment and contempt for her. It's not an occasional thing either, it is all the time.
     "I am full." she'll say.
     "How can you be full, you've had no snacks and you ate two bites of your food?"
     "I don't like it."
     "I don't care, this isn't a restaurant." I have waited years to fling this chestnut at my child...it is the birthright of all parents to state the painfully obvious to their children. My problem is the inner child that is so firmly rooted beside the writing desk in my mind always answers for Izzy; 'You're damn right this isn't a restaurant, if it was, I wouldn't have ordered this shit.'
      I suppose she comes by it honestly. Mules will run away from her mother after she's made her mind up about something and I am about as dark and moody as it gets. I don't shout for long but I stew forever. I can remember my mother making me sit at the table until all my peas were gone. In childhood terms, this meant I had to sit at the table until the dog or I or both of us vomited whole peas. The whole while, grumbling under my breath that she'd get hers...somehow. Either way, I figured I didn't really have to do as she told me. That dog had a cast iron constitution but between me and my sister having to sit at the table, it had developed a pathological fear of peas.
      It isn't always about food, though that is a gigantic source of friction. Her inability to pick up after herself is also one of the bones of contention that litter this house like the Paris catacombs. My ex-wife used to jokingly call me 'Pig-Pen' and say a little cloud of dust followed me wherever I went. She probably wasn't too far off the mark and again...my progeny has only just dropped from the tree. She can take the living room from neat and tidy to ground zero in about three seconds. She's a passionate and inventive player. Didn't they call it the Passion when Jesus died?
     I think the worst is the out and out defiance. She did something...probably a great many things over the course of the day that culminated in pin point accuracy of the final act of ghastly indignation-sitting on the counter and I had just had enough.
       "Go to your room, now!"
     She did not. She went to the living room, sat down and began watching T.V.
      "I thought I said go to your room?" I asked incredulously.
      "I don't want to." she said.
   I suddenly understood why we got hit with wooden spoons, spatulas, Hot Wheels tracks, hands, the cat, really anything within arms reach.
      I don't want to...if I had told either of my parent I didn't want to do something I was told to do, I would still be walking with a limp.
      But what could I do...I can't hit her, even writing it seems stupid and ignorant. We are a lot of things around this place but ignorant and violent isn't one of them. No, I'm afraid the answer is simple and staring me right in the face and also scaring the living shit out of me. The only real answer is to hold on and weather the storm...keep steering her in the right direction and hope she doesn't insist on making too many really bad decisions like I did...just the same, I better be ready when she does.



     It has been a long cold winter and it seems spring has finally arrived. As far as Isobel is concerned it has.
        "Can I go outside in just a hoodie?" she asked.
       "I guess," I said. "Will you be warm enough? It's not that warm out."
      "I'll be OK." she said.
      I didn't pay much attention to it. I looked out the window sometime later and she was in her usual summer position-sitting on the hood of my car barking at the minions wearing just a t-shirt.
      I called her to the door.
      "It is not warm enough for just a t-shirt. You need to wear more than that.Put your sweater on and do it up." I said using the Father voice.
      "Daddy," she began.
      "No," I said. "Look at your arms, they are beet red."
      "What does that mean?" she asked.
      "It means you are getting to cold, the blood is rushing around your body trying to keep you warm. If you don't put on something warm
 all the blood will move from your skin and start surrounding your insides, trying to keep them warm. Then your skin will go blue."
      "Blue?" she asked.
      "Yes, blue." I said. "And then in a little while from that, you would die from hypothermia."
      Gigantically dramatic but she really did need a sweater."
      "Would I come back as a zombie?"
      "Oh forget it, put a damn sweater on, will ya."