I learned last week, that as a father, I was sorely lacking. My wife informed me that every Friday, my daughter has a picnic at preschool and is supposed to have a sandwich for lunch. Apparently, she’d been severely stigmatized by having to make do with cans of ravioli.
Her eyes lit up when I asked her if she’d like a bologna sandwich. “Yes!” was accompanied by a little happy dance. For those of you that have been following our antics, you will know that a plain sandwich would never do for my daughter. So, we went over the list of additives and she gave me her order.
That evening, when I made the lunches, my daughter got a bologna sandwich with mustard and mayonnaise, just like mine. As we were leaving for school, I told her about her sandwich. (I have to admit, I was proud that I’d finally stepped up and met my parental responsibilities. In all honesty, I thought it was cool to make the same lunch for as I made for myself.) Each item in her lunch brought a happy nod. Fig newtons, crackers, peaches and a bologna sandwich with mustard and mayonnaise.
Both my wife and my daughter immediately pipped in, “No, not mustard!” The look of horror on both their faces was a shock. This was the little girl that dunked strawberries in mustard and came back for more! Besides, that's what she asked for.
I know for a fact that my wife is her mother because they both put their hands on their hips and, in unison explained that it was supposed to be ketchup and mayonnaise. Armed with a correctly made sandwich, my daughter went off to school much happier and ready to finally take her place among the sandwichers of the world.
Now that I finally knew how to feed my daughter, I was ready for the weekend lunch and knew that my inability to to properly make a sandwich wouldn't leave my children starved. My son, the picky eater, made due with a boring peanut butter sandwich. My daughter and I settled down to our gourmet sandwiches. (Granted, I'd ruined mine by selecting mustard instead of ketchup.) (You may be wondering where my wife was during this historic lunch setting. Being a blatant coward, she tends to keep a safe distance when my daughter and I explore the more creative side of fine dinning.)
Now, there may be doubters that think mayonnaise and ketchup, or even mustard and strawberries do not make a gourmet. And you'd be correct, but they are encouraging signs and she is still pushing her frontiers. My daughter confirmed her gourmetness by peeling the bread off her sandwich and using the tortilla chips to scoop up the ketchup and mayonnaise. (I think she has a future being a judge on the Iron Chef. No matter what they have to use, she'll be more than happy to try it. Only problem is, she'll give everyone high scores.)
During one of our normal night's out (My wife was working late and so I “cooked” by taking them out.) I was tired and both of the little monsters behaved through the whole dinner. There wasn't any blood and, for the most part, neither one terrorized the other. It was when my son asked, “Daddy, can we have dessert?” that I realized it was all a shameless plot and my hopes that they'd turned into civilized beings evaporated.
“What do you want?”
“Cheesecake!”
Now, cheesecake is not technically a dessert, it's more a state of being, so I couldn't say no. We ordered two slices and each promised I could have a taste of theirs. When the waitress came back with one slice, I knew my evening of peace was gone. The other piece had been dropped and this was the last piece of cheesecake.
Quick thinking and diplomatic skills were called for as both kids realized they were going to have to share! An order of ice cream was placed and I guarded the cheesecake while the waitress raced away.
(I've been told that sometimes the blog rambles, is disjointed or plain doesn't make any sense until the end. I have no problem blaming that on the little studied Parental Senility. I think this condition deserves a government grant and a team of scientist. Luckily, finding participants will be easy. Just look for a car with at least one child seat. If you're concerned that, once again, I've gone off on another train of thought, don't worry. I'm about to pull it back... I think.)
Both settled into the ice cream and cheesecake, and I even got a bite or two. My daughter's true gourmetness was confirmed after she finished her vanilla ice cream. Without any self-consciousness, she took a bite of garlic bread. While her eyes did water a little, it was, apparently, the perfect compliment to ice cream and cheesecake.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Graduations
It's the time of year when flowers are in bloom, the weather's warming up and children are belting out songs without a care in the world. This is the third year we've been blessed with off-tune singing. One of the nice things about having our daughter go to the same preschool as our son is that we don't need to spend as much energy translating.
See, three years ago, after we moved from Virginia, we found a great pre-school and daycare for our children. At three and a half, our son was the perfect age for his first graduation. There were four songs his class sang. The first day they practiced the songs, my parental knowledge was seriously threatened. We were driving home and I heard his soft humming from the back seat.
“Daddy, what's the second line of the Turtle song?”
Now, I grew up knowing the twinkle twinkle song. The ABCs were another song I had a solid hold on. But, I can't say I'd ever heard the turtle song. I remembered there was a cartoon he watched, Franklin. “Do you mean the Franklin song?”
“No, the Timmy the Turtle song.”
“How's it go?” I figured if I stalled long enough, we'd be home or something along the way would catch his attention.
“I had a little turtle. His name was Tiny Tim.” He was remarkably close to being on pitch and there was a hint of melody. “I can't remember the rest of it.” There was the unspoken hint that, as his father, the one person he depended on, his role model and absolute hero, I had better step up with the second line.
When he was a baby, we spent many nights signing. He knew all the words to Cat's in the Cradle and Puff the Magic Dragon (Yes, I know the real meaning of the song, but at 3 a.m., it's an easy song to remember and sing.) “Where did you learn the song?”
“At school. What's the next line?”
“What's the song for?” Yes, I was stalling, but the speed limit through the neighborhood is 25 miles an hour and as the president of the civic association, speeding through the winding streets would not send a good example. I just needed a few more minutes and we'd be safely home.
“I can't tell you, it's a secret.”
Bingo! We spent the rest of the drive home talking about secrets, I even tried to see if his mommy had any, but he wasn't selling her out, even for a popsicle,
This year, it was my daughter's turn. One day we were driving home and from the back seat came, “I 'ad a wittle turtle, it name was Tim.” My son and I both jumped in on the second verse (Anyone with kids knows how those songs worm their way into your subconscious. Just walk though any mall and start humming “I love you, you love me...” and all the parent's will go glassy-eyed and join in on the Barney Song chorus.)
As the weeks went by this year, I realized they had a different person doing the program. My daughter added ballet to her routine. I know my son didn't have a ballet section when he graduated. And the thought of the teachers guiding eight 3 and 4 year-olds through Swan Lake guaranteed I'd have a front-row seat.
Every night, sometimes during the afternoon and even once or twice before I had my morning coffee, my daughter would announce, “Oh no! I forgot practice my ballet! Where my radio?” And she'd desperately search. As soon as she found something that could possibly be considered a radio (Believe it or not, apparently a rock on the ground has high innate musicalness.) she'd push a “button” and start her practice.
The last time I saw ballet was the movie with Mikhail Baryshnikov and Gregory Hines. That was pure amateurism next to my daughter's fusion of break-dancing, wall-shaking foot-stomping and a hint of the Charleston. We learned right away to wait for the “Tadaaaaaa” before we clapped. A premature clap earned you a cross, hands-on-the-hips, “I not done yet!”
So, after many months of being serenaded while we ate dinner and post-dinner floor shows, it was time for her first graduation ever. She'd watched her brother graduate from preschool and kindergarten. She'd watched his Christmas and Thanksgiving shows. Every time, she'd been in the audience, quiet and the not-center-of-attention. It was her turn!
My wife and I picked them up after school and went out to for a special pre-show dinner. I checked on our future star, “Are you ready?”
“Yes!”
“I'll be in the front row,” I promised her. (I was having a hard time with my baby growing up. Today, her first musical program, tomorrow she could be on Broadway, and not returning my calls.)
She went back with the rest of her class as soon as we got the school. Our proud family found seats in the front row, as we promised, and waited in anticipation. Would this be The Breakout Performance? How would the other parents feel when they saw the pure, raw talent? How does a three year-old do autographs when she can't write her name?
A hush fell over the room as the teachers led the kids out. Our daughter peaked around the doorway, saw all the people and raced straight to her mother's lap. At least she had a good view of the rest of the program.
See, three years ago, after we moved from Virginia, we found a great pre-school and daycare for our children. At three and a half, our son was the perfect age for his first graduation. There were four songs his class sang. The first day they practiced the songs, my parental knowledge was seriously threatened. We were driving home and I heard his soft humming from the back seat.
“Daddy, what's the second line of the Turtle song?”
Now, I grew up knowing the twinkle twinkle song. The ABCs were another song I had a solid hold on. But, I can't say I'd ever heard the turtle song. I remembered there was a cartoon he watched, Franklin. “Do you mean the Franklin song?”
“No, the Timmy the Turtle song.”
“How's it go?” I figured if I stalled long enough, we'd be home or something along the way would catch his attention.
“I had a little turtle. His name was Tiny Tim.” He was remarkably close to being on pitch and there was a hint of melody. “I can't remember the rest of it.” There was the unspoken hint that, as his father, the one person he depended on, his role model and absolute hero, I had better step up with the second line.
When he was a baby, we spent many nights signing. He knew all the words to Cat's in the Cradle and Puff the Magic Dragon (Yes, I know the real meaning of the song, but at 3 a.m., it's an easy song to remember and sing.) “Where did you learn the song?”
“At school. What's the next line?”
“What's the song for?” Yes, I was stalling, but the speed limit through the neighborhood is 25 miles an hour and as the president of the civic association, speeding through the winding streets would not send a good example. I just needed a few more minutes and we'd be safely home.
“I can't tell you, it's a secret.”
Bingo! We spent the rest of the drive home talking about secrets, I even tried to see if his mommy had any, but he wasn't selling her out, even for a popsicle,
This year, it was my daughter's turn. One day we were driving home and from the back seat came, “I 'ad a wittle turtle, it name was Tim.” My son and I both jumped in on the second verse (Anyone with kids knows how those songs worm their way into your subconscious. Just walk though any mall and start humming “I love you, you love me...” and all the parent's will go glassy-eyed and join in on the Barney Song chorus.)
As the weeks went by this year, I realized they had a different person doing the program. My daughter added ballet to her routine. I know my son didn't have a ballet section when he graduated. And the thought of the teachers guiding eight 3 and 4 year-olds through Swan Lake guaranteed I'd have a front-row seat.
Every night, sometimes during the afternoon and even once or twice before I had my morning coffee, my daughter would announce, “Oh no! I forgot practice my ballet! Where my radio?” And she'd desperately search. As soon as she found something that could possibly be considered a radio (Believe it or not, apparently a rock on the ground has high innate musicalness.) she'd push a “button” and start her practice.
The last time I saw ballet was the movie with Mikhail Baryshnikov and Gregory Hines. That was pure amateurism next to my daughter's fusion of break-dancing, wall-shaking foot-stomping and a hint of the Charleston. We learned right away to wait for the “Tadaaaaaa” before we clapped. A premature clap earned you a cross, hands-on-the-hips, “I not done yet!”
So, after many months of being serenaded while we ate dinner and post-dinner floor shows, it was time for her first graduation ever. She'd watched her brother graduate from preschool and kindergarten. She'd watched his Christmas and Thanksgiving shows. Every time, she'd been in the audience, quiet and the not-center-of-attention. It was her turn!
My wife and I picked them up after school and went out to for a special pre-show dinner. I checked on our future star, “Are you ready?”
“Yes!”
“I'll be in the front row,” I promised her. (I was having a hard time with my baby growing up. Today, her first musical program, tomorrow she could be on Broadway, and not returning my calls.)
She went back with the rest of her class as soon as we got the school. Our proud family found seats in the front row, as we promised, and waited in anticipation. Would this be The Breakout Performance? How would the other parents feel when they saw the pure, raw talent? How does a three year-old do autographs when she can't write her name?
A hush fell over the room as the teachers led the kids out. Our daughter peaked around the doorway, saw all the people and raced straight to her mother's lap. At least she had a good view of the rest of the program.
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