Viola solo Christmas 2018

Dancing with a two-year-old Princess

One evening a couple weeks ago, my nine-year-old daughter put a "dress-up" fairy princess dress on her younger sister, A. Princess A. announced, "I pretty!" Then, as I swept the dining room floor, she ran up to me and said, "Dance [with] me, daddy. Dance me."

So I traded the broom for a pint-sized, pacifier-wearing princess. And we danced.

Several days later, A. and I danced again. As we did, A. kept repeating, "My name is [A]. I dancing with my daddy. I dancing like a princess." as we sailed back and forth across the living room floor.

While I took rest breaks -- yes, I *am* in peak physical condition, thank you for asking -- A. danced on her own, flailing and twirling about as she chanted, "Shake your booty! Shake your booty!"

A. grew increasingly impatient with my rest breaks. She kept demanding, "Get up dad! Dance me more!" I complied with those demands. Each time I did, the booty shaking stopped and A. danced like a princess once again.

My daughter thinks John Cena is better suited to save her from domestic violence than I am

My two oldest daughters, ages 9 and 10. were discussing domestic violence today. The nine-year-old wondered aloud what they'd do if their boyfriends ever hit them. I said, "Call your dad. I'll resolve the problem."

Ignoring me, the nine-year-old answered her own question: "I'd call John Cena."

Ten-year-old: "You don't have his phone number."

Me: "That doesn't matter. Call *me* if he hurts you and I'll come beat the crap out of your boyfriend."

Nine-year-old: "But he would think you're puny. You're a small man." (I'm 5' 6")

That, my dear, is why God invented baseball bats.

*Note: I recently lost an old acquaintance -- an amazing mother of three small children -- to domestic violence, so it's an especially sensitive topic at the moment. This blog post is not intended to make light of domestic violence, those who carry it out, or its victims.

Two little girls wade into the Oxford comma debate

In which two of my daughters debate the Oxford comma, sort of:

C. (age 7): "Dad, what's 'Sarah, Plain and Tall' about?"

Me: "It's about a girl named Sarah, who is apparently plain and tall."

C.: "How do you know that?"

Me: "From the title of the book."

C.: "What if it was about three people -- one named Sarah, one named Plain, and one named Tall?"

L. (age 9): "It's not. The title would have to have commas."

C.: "It does have a comma."

L.: "But it would need more for there to be three people."

C.: "No it wouldn't."

L.: "Yes. It would need a comma after 'Sarah,' and another after 'plain.'"

C.: "No it wouldn't. It just needs one comma to make three people."

L.: "[C.]! I'VE BEEN TO SCHOOL! I KNOW WHERE COMMAS GO!"

C.: "No, it--"

L.: "DAD, WILL YOU PLEASE TELL [C.] THAT I KNOW ALL ABOUT COMMAS? SHE THINKS I'M STUPID!"

In which my eight-year-old daughter discovers she's special -- just like all of her sisters

A couple nights ago I was putting my 21-month-old daughter to bed in her crib. I gave her a hug and a kiss. Then, as I laid her down, I said, "Goodnight, A. Remember daddy loves you!"

Then, from behind me, I heard my eight-year-old daughter ask, "You say that to HER too?!!"

This surprises you, dear daughter? Of course I tell her that. I tell ALL my girls that when I tuck them in bed, not just you. Silly goose! I'm an equal opportunity dispenser of love for my children.

An evening spent with my seven-year-old daughter -- and getting critiqued

Scene: C is sitting on my lap, head nestled against my chest.

C: "Daddy, why are your whiskers white?"

Me: "I don't know. Stress?"

C (running her hand over my cheek): "You have such beautiful little white whiskers." A pause. Then, "Keep them that way. Don't grow them out or shave them."

Okay, you like the Don Johnson look. Got it.

C: "What are all those little dots?"

Me: "I don't know. Are you talking about the whiskers that are still dark brown?"

C: "No, the pink dots."

Me: "Oh. I don't know. Zits, maybe?"

C: "Ugh. They're ugly. I hope I never get zits on my face."

Good luck with that, kid! And thanks for the compliment.

C (running her fingers through my hair): "Dad, your hair feels greasy. It always feels greasy. Even right after you wash it, your hair still feels greasy."

Note to self: Purchase degreaser and use it in place of my regular shampoo.

C: "Dad, you look like you could play football."

Me: "What makes you think that?"

C (inspecting my arm closely): "Because you've got big muscles. Your muscles look huge. And you're really good at catching things." A pause. Then, "But you'd probably have a hard time with the running part."

Nothing makes a man feel like a side of beef being looked over by a USDA inspector more than an evening spent with his seven-year-old daughter.

In Which An Elementary School Daddy-Daughter "Masquerade Ball" Gets Hijacked by Glitter and a Glum Girl

For weeks, my daughters and I have been looking forward to attending the annual daddy-daughter dance at my eight-year-old daughter's school. The long-awaited day finally arrived, so this evening the three school-aged girls and I attended the event, which was themed "Masquerade Ball."

At the entrance, the girls each got colorful masks covered in sequins. (The ten-year-old flatly refused to wear hers.)

The fathers were not so lucky. Each of us was given a black mask covered in glitter. Glitter! As every right-thinking individual knows, glitter was spawned in the infernal realms. Glitter is pure evil. It is the bane of my existence. And yet . . .

I suffered the indignity of wearing the be-glittered mask. Long after I took the mask off, my face was still covered in black sparkles. GRRRR!!!!!!

My daughters can no longer complain that I never do anything for them.

The disc jockeys at this event, as is their custom, played the "music" at an eardrum-shattering level. Even my daughters complained about the noise. While the ten-year-old stood around with her fingers jammed in her ears, the seven-year-old begged me to take her home in order to escape the deafening roar.

I told her no. We needed to wait until the dance was over, I said, because the last song they played, always appropriately daddy-daughter-themed, would be the only one actually worth dancing to. Sure enough, the final song was Tim McGraw's "My Little Girl."

As I heard the first few notes, I hurriedly looked around for my daughters. The eight-year-old was at the far end of the school gym and completely engrossed in her friends' activities. So I grabbed the ten- and seven-year-olds, lifting one in each arm. And we danced.

Tim McGraw began singing, "Gotta hold on easy as I let you go/ Going to tell you how much I love you/ Though you think you already know . . ."

My heart soared. At last, the moment I had been waiting for! I joined in, singing at the top of my lungs as I swung my daughters around: "You've had me wrapped around your finger/ Since the day you were born."

Then my ten-year-old daughter shattered my reverie. "Dad, why do we always go to [L's] school activities but never to mine?"

I said, "We *do* go to your--"

S: "No we don't! We didn't go to the school carnival!"

Me: "That's because it cost money. This was fr--" I realized that the dance had cost money, too, so I stopped mid-sentence. I did not think my oldest daughter would understand that I would've sold one of my kidneys -- or any other internal organ -- if that's what it took to afford going to the daddy-daughter dance. But a for a school carnival? Pffffft. No way. I'd keep my organs, thanks.

I tried to get back to Tim, belting out, "Sometimes when you're asleep/ I whisper 'I love you' in the moonlight at your door--"

S: "How much did this cost? Huh? How much?"

Me: "Fifteen dollars."

S: "That would've bought sixty carnival tickets!"

Me (singing again): "Go on, take on this whole world but to me/ You know you'll always be my little girl."

S (shouting): "It's not fair dad! It's not fair! We never ever go to this kind of stuff at my school."

Me: "That's because your school never ever does this kind of stuff."

I rejoined Tim, "He has a poet's soul and the heart of a man's man/ I know he'll say that he's in love/ But between you and me, he won't be good enough!"

S: "Dad! Dad! I'll pay for my school activity! If it costs fifteen dollars, I'll pay for it. Whatever it is, I'll pay the cost. I've got the money."

Me (singing): "Beautiful baby from the outside in/ Chase your dreams but always know/ The road that will lead you home again--"

S: (Keeps shouting to be heard over the music.)

Me: "Go on, take on this whole world but to me/ You know you'll always be my little girl."

As the last notes of the song played and I gently set both girls back down on the ground, S. continued her diatribe unabated. The eight-year-old, preoccupied with a loose tooth, rejoined us and we headed for the exit.

On the way home, I drove in silence as the youngest kid complained about how bad her feet and ears hurt from the dancing and "music." The next oldest concentrated on wiggling her loose tooth until it finally fell out into her hand. And the oldest? She complained unceasingly about how unfairly her parents treat her.

Perhaps next year I'll save my money, my organs, and my hearing.

Cocoa Puffs versus Trix: a Toddler Weighs in on the Debate

This afternoon, there were two boxes of General Mills cereal sitting on the table: Cocoa Puffs and Trix. 

My 19-month-old daughter spotted the cereal boxes. 

She climbed up onto the table, pulled the bag out of the Cocoa Puffs box, and poured the contents onto the dining room floor. While I stared at the spreading sea of Cocoa Puffs, she picked up the box of Trix, pulled out the bag, climbed down off the table with it grasped in her fist, and ran down the hall. 

As I swept up the Cocoa Puffs, she wandered around the house eating fistfuls of fruit-flavored goodness, thus proving that one out of one kids prefers Trix over Cocoa Puffs.

In Which My Daughters Educate Me about Maturation and being a Preteen

Scene: I am in the minivan driving the girls home from school.

L. (Eight y/o daughter): "Dad, did you know that girls can hit puberty and start their periods when they are eight years old?"

Me: "No."

L: "[Redacted] told us so. Girls can start their periods that early! So [S., her ten-year-old sister] and I could start our periods any time now."

Me <thinking>: Ohhhh boy!

L: <voice rising into a panicked shout>: "So we are both really worried about periods!"

S. (Ten y/o daughter): "No we're not!"

L: <still panicked>: "Periods, periods, periods! I don't want mine to start now! I don't want that! And [S.] is older than me. She could start any time! What if she starts next week?"

Me <thinking>: Kill me now!

C. (Seven year-old daughter): "What's a period?"

Me: "It's a punctuation mark."

If anyone needs me, I'll be out buying a dog.

My Daughter Enriches Her Vocabulary

How vocabulary expansion lessons go at our house:

Eight-year-old: "Dad, what's a 'hunch'?"

Me: "A feeling or a guess about something."

Eight-year-old: "I have a hunch that you are going to lose all your hair. You are going to be bald by the time you turn fifty."

Sigh