Tree House

“Let me show you what tree,” my daughter said as she surveyed our yard.

This was one of those times I was hoping the parental bond I've read about was strong. Because if we weren't in synch she was going to be disappointed. I'd already picked out the tree for the tree house...

She walked up to each tree and gave it considerable thought. I knew I was being set up from the way my wife was giggling.

“Not that tree!”

This only made my daughter consider the tree with more consideration. After a moment she shook her head and moved over to the next tree.

Fifteen trees later, she slowly approached the tree. “Daddy, this is the tree.” (We'd been talking about this tree for the past two years. We'd drawn up detailed plans. My daughter would spend hours dreaming about tree house and this was The Perfect Tree...)

“Are you sure?”

“I'm positive.”

“Ok,” I added a mellow-dramatic sigh so she wouldn't think all her hard work had gone to waste. “Is this going to be too high?” I pointed to the perfect fork to anchor the base. It was a good ten feet up. I made sure to raise my voice and look at my wife while posing this question. My daughter was of the opinion that it was too low. My wife and I made eye contact and there was no more than her usual concern for my lack of planning. Still maintaining the eye contact, “Are you sure this is NOT TOO high?” My wife smiled and that was all the answer I needed. (After years of marriage, we've developed a highly complex method on non-verbal communication.)

“Can we start building right now?” My daughter was already planning how to decorate her tree house.

“I have to get the lumber first.”

“Will the tree support it?” My wife has a knack for asking irresponsible questions.

“And directions.” I added with only a slight mutter.

“Today?” I knew she was excited because she was bouncing on my foot.

“I'm going to Lowes now.”

“Yeah! We're going to have a tree house tonight!” She ran off to tell her brother.

By the time I'd made my way to house, a pile of toys were piled up in front of the door. “What are these for?” I asked a little blur running past.

“For the tree house!” my son didn't miss a beat as he dropped his current load and went back for another.

“You do know it's not going to be ready today?” I asked a random blur.

“We have faith in you, daddy.”

It's unfounded faith like that that makes fatherhood all worthwhile

After a trip to Lowes, I had the directions, a load of lumber and optimism. The sticking point was how I was going to anchor the two 12 foot long 2X10s (If you've never tried to work with a twelve foot long 2X10, they are really long and probably weigh several hundred pounds) so they were both level. There was also the added difficulty that the tree was on a hill and my stepladder was definitely not hill friendly. I figured I could use two shorter boards, get those level and anchored to the tree and then use them to support the main joists. After a few hours, I had the two braces bolted into the tree and one of the 2X10s also level and anchored.

“It is done yet?” My daughter asked from the foot of the tree. The blood pounding in my ears had drowned out her normally un-quiet approach.

“Do you see a tree house?”

She actually paused and looked around me. “No?”

“Then it's not done yet.”

“Can I come up?”

Right now, there were two 2X6 boards about three feet long, one on each side of the tree. There was one twelve foot long 2X10 resting across these. The other 2X10 was wedged next to me. I was balanced on a branch holding a level and a chain saw (It seemed like a good idea at the time.). The step ladder had fallen over a few minutes ago and I was not sure how I was going to get get back to the ground (aside from the obvious method.)

“It's going to be that high?” My wife asked from up the hill.

I knew from her tone of voice that there was something wrong. “Yes.”

“Isn't that too high?” This was my wife's way of saying it was too high.

“Is it too high?” I asked my daughter. She was closer to my wife and I was pretty sure after all those hours of labor, my daughter was much safe than me.”

"No. It needs to be higher.”

“Are you sure it's not too high?”

“Mommy said you have to put a quarter in the jar when you use that word.”

My daughter, apparently has excellent hearing.

“Mommy, what's eight times a quarter?”

At least I'd perfected the art of balancing on a rickety step ladder while using a chain saw. Doing it all over again wouldn't be that hard... My wife definitely has to work on her silent communication skills because I'm out of quarters.

Amnesia

My daughter is crazy.

I guess I should qualify that statement: Either my daughter is crazy or I've completely blanked out her baby-hood and my wife is way more relaxed that I ever suspected.

This realization came at the end our vacation. We'd spent the day at a beach on Lake Erie (yeah, I was surprised too.) snorkeling and playing in the sand. This summer, both our kids became amphibians. My daughter, never to let her brother out-do her has been trying to keep up with him. This has caused no end of gasps and frantic dives across the neighborhood pool as she simply dropped out of the Wal-Mart inner tube. She has her own swimming stroke, which can best be described as a cross between a graceful mermaid gliding effortlessly through the water, a semi-truck hell bent on reaching it's destination and an octopus that has suddenly realized it has 6 more arms than normal creatures and hasn't quite figured out how to make them all work together. Oh yeah, and she spirals while she swims.

We'd tried all week to find a good place to snorkel. My son kept asking and even when the only place we could find was the normal Ohio Lake Erie murky water, he loved it. My daughter proclaimed, “I ta tish!” (I saw fish, if you don't speak snorkel.) She also saw a mermaid, forever silencing all the anti-mermaid critics. (The fact that we were standing in three feet of water and I couldn't see my hand as soon as it was under water shows just how deep the anti-mermaid conspiracy runs)

Well the last day of vacation, we found The Beach. The water was crystal clear, for Ohio. Visibility was an astounding ten feet. Both kids finally really Saw. Our quick stop to check it out turned into several hours and my son dragging first me then my wife out to swim over the coral reef. (To a seven year-old on his first real snorkel, a bunch of seaweed (or whatever it's called in Lake Erie) looks like a coral reef.)

We finally pried them out of the water and de-sanded them and went for a late lunch. As we were eating, my son listed his favorite things from the vacation in order. Between bites, my daughter chimed in also. This isn't what convinced me she is crazy, also though it does support the conclusion. (When she is eating, she is single-minded, just check out the last article.) No, what convinced me was when I checked to see if she was listening. Her consistent “Yes,” to every question lead me to believe she was already asleep and it just hadn't reached her mouth yet. So, I added, “I really liked when we went sky diving.”

The got a little pause as she looked up with a disgusted look on her little face. “We didn't go skydiving this week, daddy,” she said in her daddy-you-are-a-moron-but-I-still-love-you-and-hope-I-didn’t-get-too-many-of-your-genes tone of voice.

Well, at least she was still awake. Then she patted my arm and said, “When I was a baby, we went sky diving. You and me.”

“We did?”

A simple nod put the matter to rest in her eyes.

“What else did we do when you were a baby, that I've forgotten?” (Trust me, I can spin a pretty good yarn, but nothing compared to what she pulled out next...)

“We climbed the Rocky Mountains.”

“Oh?”

Another nod as she dipped a french fry in her ketchup, also known as dippy. (My daughter is the queen of dipping. It doesn't matter what she's eating as long as there's something to dip it in.)

Then she pointed to the tartar sauce for her fish and explained, “This is called 'pretend sand' in Africa.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, not all dippy is pretend sand in Africa.”

“What's not?”

“Ketchup.”

“What about salsa?”

“That's pretend sand.”

“French fries?”

“Gorsh.” The amazing thing, she didn't even pause...

“How about fish?”

“Neenee.”

“And how do you know African?”

Another pat on my shoulder, between bites of gorsh. “When I was a baby, we went there, you and me, daddy.”

Everyone has warned me that when my daughter mutates into a teenager, I am in trouble. They go on and on about how I won't understand her or be able to talk to her. Until this past week, I'd put their comments down to exaggeration. Now, I'm not so sure. On the one hand, she's already speaking a language I don't. On the other hand, apparently I'm a pretty cool dad cause I've already taken her skydiving and mountain climbing and to Africa. (I was afraid to ask why we went to Africa with my wife sitting. After all, she's obviously laid enough back to let me do all these things, but I don't want to push the limits until I've been fully briefed by my daughter on all our antics.)

Fire Truck

“Fire truck! Daddy, I see a fire truck!” This is what my daughter cried out on Halloween this year as we sat on the side of the road. We were taking a break from collecting loot and candy. No, there wasn’t a fire. The local volunteer fire department drives through our neighborhood (and others) every Halloween and Christmas. My son loves fire trucks and has spent hours and hours educating his sister on the subtleties of the different kinds. She knows a fire truck when she sees one and made sure everyone within earshot knew it was coming.

When my son started speaking, he had a problem with the letter L. Pillow was pronounced “Piwwow.” We weren’t concerned. (There were many times in college when I had a hard time pronouncing almost all the letters. This only tended to happen on the weekends, so I wasn’t that worried about it.) But we did work with him. We made a list of words that started and had the letter L in them. We’d carefully pronounce them. He could hear the difference, but couldn’t quite get his mouth around that one letter. When he learned his letters and started reading, he saw what the letter L looked like. That helped. Now, when we wrote the words with the L’s in them, he saw where it was in the word. Pillow went from “Piwwow” to “Pillllow.” (He was dedicated and persistent)

Now, since my son had the problems with the letter L and the TH, you might think I’d expect the same from my daughter when she started talking. But, she’s lead me down that same path many times. My son was a picky eater; my daughter ate anything that she could catch. My son was a loud sleeper; my daughter never made a peep. My son is surprisingly (considering his mother) agile and coordinated; I don’t think there’s an obstacle my daughter hasn’t first tried to go through.

So, while my wife did her thing, (reading, researching, talking to other parents and generally learning all the options) I knew my daughter would pretty much wake up one day and be completely fluent in English and probably a few other languages. This time, she was not going to fool me.

My son was on the job. Many were the times we’d be driving and I’d hear, “Now, say one.” A moment later, a little voice would chirp, “One.” They worked up to ten in no time. So, with her brother taking care of her vocabulary and counting, I knew my daughter was in good hands. In no time at all, she had one to five down. She even knew those numbers backwards. I found that one out, and also learned that with a five-year old and two and half-year old, you need to pay attention, the hard way. I made the mistake of lying on the floor one fall day to watch a football game. I was aware of the counting down, and didn’t pay it much attention until she landed on my back after what felt like a perfect double flip from the sofa. The giggling from the two of them almost drown out my cry of agony. Now, my back spasms whenever I hear either of them counting backwards from five.

What does this have to do with, “Fire truck! Daddy, I see a fire truck!”? Well, I’ll tell you. I don’t know if my son decided that my daughter didn’t really need to have TR in her list of mastered sounds, or if she decided to once again do the exact opposite of what I’d expected. While she’d mastered the important words, like “please” “more” “no” and “I don’t want to take a nap right now because I am not tired and I really know that you want me to take a nap so you can take one too.”, she couldn’t make the TR sound.

You’d be surprised how many words don’t have TR in them. This would probably explain why I didn’t know this until Halloween night. So, while we were sitting in a neighbor’s yard, my kids both dressed as Spiderman (she found her brother’s old Spiderman costume and claimed it as hers. Clifford and Elmo were both discarded as she proclaimed she was going to be Spiderman, like her brother!). Our neighbors walked by and we’d exchange hellos, the kids talking about which houses had the best candy.

When the fire truck, lights flashing, started down the road. My daughter stood and pointed and for the first time, I found out that she couldn’t pronounce TR. When a three-year old can’t say TR, you might be wondering just what does she use to replace those two letters? Well, my daughter proudly proclaimed that a “Fire f__k” was coming down the street. Somehow, I don’t think the people at Marvel Comics would have approved of her Spiderman impersonation.

Self-Editing

When does our ability to self-edit fail? I don’t mean going back through an email or re-reading the instant message before you send it to make sure you’ve gotten all the you’re, your, its and it’s correct. No, I’m talking about the time lag between when the words come to mind and they pass your lips.

Like everything from gray hair to my sore knees, I blamed my children when I noticed that my self-editor wasn’t always working at full speed. It was only logical. I’d seen my parents and my wife’s parents lose theirs. Granted, my wife was not nearly the angel and child prodigy I was, so it was only logical that her parents would lose theirs. I blame my brother for my parents losing theirs.

But the more I’ve thought about it, the more I realize that this one time, maybe my children aren’t to blame. The first time I remember noticing it was long before we had children. We still lived in Washington, DC and I was an instructor at one of the leading technical training centers there. It was also a government contracting company. (Every business in DC seems to be a government contractor.) Because we did a lot of work with the CIA and NSA and I specialized in security, many military people came through my classes.

Now, over the years, I’ve worked with a lot of Marines. I don’t think I’ve met one that didn’t impress me. The ones that came through my training were, to a man, young, intelligent and driven.

The first time I remember my self-editor not working was during a class that had two Marines in addition to other corporate clients. It was towards the end of lunch and the students were starting to return. Being a professional, I’d reloaded my coffee and played minesweeper during lunch. (I do my best work when I am overloaded on coffee and lightheaded.) (Minesweeper isn’t just a game. It’s a Tao. I’ve often used it to predict events. The first time my wife went for an important job interview, I stayed up most of the night working. The first goal was winning on the advanced level under a certain time. If I did that, the interview would go well. Then I had to win twice in a row, and she would be considered for the job. When I won three times in a row, under a certain time limit, she would get the job offer. The next day, when she came home with the job, she didn’t seem too impressed when I told her how I got her the job.)

As the students returned, one of the Marines asked a question about something we’d covered before lunch. It was a really good question and something we were going to cover that afternoon. I remember the words forming. Saw each and everyone. For. Marine. Question. Good. That’s. A. Very. A. I think my body knew something was wrong because the fight or flight response was triggered when the adrenaline kicked in.

“For a Marine, that’s a very good question.”

Now, I need to explain that there was nothing prejudice or anti-military in my response. We’d spent the past week joking and everyone in the class had a good sense of humor. In fact, when another student said, in amazement, “I didn’t know Lotus Notes did that,” about a security feature, this Marine said, “That’s because you don’t need to know.”

There were two possible responses. Since I’m still alive, he obviously didn’t take the first. He laughed and we spent the afternoon working on his question.

So, I can’t blame my kids for my self-editing feature not working. Now that I think about it, they’ve helped strengthen it. Rather than use the first four-letter word that immediately springs to mind when I see my daughter unscrew her sippy-cup and pour the contents on the carpet I just finished cleaning, my brain catches them and substitutes a string of incoherent sounds.

I know I am more aware of the words, especially when my son started the nightly Daddy, what does this word mean game. To which, I’ve added the second part, Where did you hear that word? So far, we haven’t hit any of George Carlin’s words. The problem is, I know my kids are plotting to see which one will be the first to get daddy to teach them those words. Until then, here’s hoping my self-editor doesn’t overheat.