The You're So Weien blog is no longer in service here. However, it is up and running at my www.house of weien.com website.

Kick It!

If you are unfamiliar with the Molly Shannon's Sally O'Malley skit from SNL, check out this one from when the last Sopranos was going to air.


Then, check out what happened when we mentioned it to the girls:

We were laughing so hard we couldn't tell them to stop. I could barely breathe.

Girl, You'll Be A Woman Soon

We have been riding our bicycles as a family often this past summer. Emma has her own sweet bike, and Abbie and I have two new cruisers. A chariot-like two seat cart is Ellie's vehicle and great love during our expiditions. She sits in the back and sings, eats, reads, and plays with toys. It is a great workout for the cart driver, and Ellie keeps interesting company as well.

Upon completing one such ride, my wife pulled the little one up our extremely steep driveway, into the backyard. Abbie was parking the bike and huffing from the last push of energy. Ellie was chatting with her pedaling chauffeur.

"Why are you breathing like that?" Ellie asked.
"I'm tired from the ride" answered Abbie.
Ellie agreed and proclaimed that she wasn't tired at all. Probably attempting to avoid any excuse for a potential nap.
"Well, maybe you can pull me in the cart next time?" her mother joked. Ellie paused,giggled, and answered, "Naw, not with your big helmet, and not with your big hair..." she began.
"Don't you dare say big butt!" Abbie thought to herself.
"... and your big boobies." the three-year old finished.

Ellie is full of strangely angled questions. Coupled with her recent fascination on female anatomy, she hit Grammy with this doosey recently.
"Grammy, do you have big boobies?"

What are we to do?

Last week the girls were home from school (Thanks Columbus!) and were watching a favorite film. Suddenly Ellie runs to me with her blanket and asks if I can help her to get "boobies."

Not knowing how to assist with such a request, I tempered it down and tried to tie the blanket around her like a gown.
"NO!" she screamed. "I want boobies like Emma!"
I looked up at her sister who was engrossed in the movie. She had stuffed her blanket into her shirt creating prosthetic breasts. I stuffed the blanket into Ellie's shirt and satisfied her feminine need. Here is the outcome.

Sitting, Waiting, Wishing

Parents should understand my dilemma. I hope.

It was a wonderful fall day. We had spent the first half of it visiting a local pumpkin patch and fall festival. We played games, took a tractor hay ride, and participated in a fun scavenger hike. The girls were joyous and so were we. The second half of the day was filled with a series of errands to multiple stores across the town. By the end of the day, we were all getting hungry, but we didn't care to come home to cook a meal. Before we left the far side of town to come home, we took a vote, and all agreed that we would go to the Buffalo Wild Wings restaurant. The estimated time of travel to finally get to Wild Wings was probably 20 minutes.

2 Minutes into Trip
Ellie yells, "I want to eat!!"
"We are going to Buffalo Wild Wings right now, kiddo." Abbie informed the back seat driver.

4 Minutes into Trip
"I want Buffado Wide Wins!" hollers Ellie emphatically.
"Ellie, we just told you that we are going there right now. We just have to get across town." I reminded.

7 Minutes into Trip
"Mommy, I'm hungry." the nearly four-year old informed her mother.
"Ellie, we are going to eat right now. We will be there in just a few minutes. Please just be quiet." Abbie pleaded.

10 Minutes into Trip
"I'M HUNGRY!!" she screamed.
"Hey! We just told you, again, we are going to Buffalo Wild Wings. We will eat as soon as we get there. Be quiet and just be patient, would you?" Both Abbie and I were starting to get angry as the traffic became congested.

12 Minutes into Trip
The traffic was thick, but we were almost through the worst before arriving at the area that would thin out.
"I want to go to Bufadoes..." she began.
I quickly interrupted, as I slammed on the brakes avoiding a fender bender, "You need to get the shit out of your ears and be quiet."
I signaled and turned into the left lane that had a few less vehicles in it before I realized Ellie was returning words from my sudden outburst.
"You need to get the shit out of your mouth, Daddy!" she declared.

Cuz You Shine On Me Wherever You Are

"Star light, star bright, the first star I see tonight," Emma began.

Since we have been spending a lot more time outside in the evenings; watching sunsets, having campfires, and enjoying the warm weather, the girls have quickly learned how to wish upon the first star in the sky.

She continued, "I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight."
With her eyes tightly closed, she held her breath and paused. When she was done wishing, she opened her wonderful blue eyes and turned to me with an enormous smile and said "Amen."

I didn't teach it to her that way, but I figure it can't hurt.

New Car, Caviar, Four Star Daydream

My six-year old, Emma, has been earning an allowance for many months now, and it wasn't until recently when we were on a vacation weekend away from town did she realize that all of her earnings could go towards purchasing stuff!

A few days after our trip she was assisting her mother with her shopping at Pier 1 Imports. It was in the store where she had a near epiphany.

Her eye was drawn to a colorful Chinese Yo-yo that was in a clearance bin. "How much is this, momma?" she inquired.

Looking at the tag, her mother answered, "One dollar."

The child stood motionless, the wheels grinding uncontrollably in her growing mind.

"What's the name of this store?" she finally broke the silence.

"Pier 1." Abbie answered.

Spinning around in a circle, very cautiously, she surveyed the mountains of furniture, knick-knacks, and candles surrounding her. Her mouth dropped open in amazement.

"Does that mean that EVERYTHING here is just ONE DOLLAR?" she questioned with the spectacular bewilderment likened to Charlie in the Willy Wonka's great chocolate factory.

After the glowing rush of adrenaline finally wore off from the actual truth, she still bought that Chinese Yo-yo, as well as one for her little sister.

Girl, You Really Got Me Now

Food makes kids insane. This morning was no exception, however, I was forced to realize that my oldest has been taking comedy notes for the past six years. Usually she is the observer of such humorous events, or she creates hilarious situations unintentionally. This morning she became the comedian.

Emma insisted on telling me stories of various subjects with half of her breakfast clinging to the side of her face. I repeatedly asked her to wipe her face with the untouched paper napkin sitting next to her plate. Finally, I ignorantly stated, “Will you PLEASE wipe your face? You look retarded!”

Abbie shook her head and rolled her eyes at me.

Emma immediately responded, “It’s because I look like you!”

Ba-dum-bum.

Abbie echoed haunting teases of my childhood, “Oooooooh, you got him good, Emma! Good job!”

After I caught my breath, I also praised her for her wittiness.

People Try to Put Us Down

We were at the flower nursery preparing to gather a cartload or two of various species of plants for our backyard landscape project. The girls were ecstatic and full of vigor. Under such energized situations, as most parents are aware, children will often perform unimaginable dangerous stunts or extremely outrageous acts of rudeness. My wife and I were privy to the laws of childhood enthusiasm and were automatically prepared.

Within minutes of reaching the front-gated area, Emma, our oldest began the fervor. “I want to push the cart!” She suddenly appeared with an empty cart for us.

We continued to peruse the various daisies, delphiniums, and other blooming beauties, until a crotchety voice appeared like a clap of thunder. “You took my cart!” the 80 year old, hunchbacked, shuffling woman accused my daughter. The grey-hair promptly grabbed the open side of the cart as if to start a tug-a-war with my six-year old.

My wife was quick, “Oh, I’m sorry, did we take your cart?” she apologetically asked. Emma was horrified by the wrinkled accuser and kept silent.

The elder paused, looking back and forth from Emma to Abbie with a stern, angered face. After a moment exchanged glances of confusion, she then blurted, “Mine is full! This is empty!” Instantaneously, her cane-toting compadre informed her that their cart was next to the register. The granny then turned around and hobbled back to her brimming cart of botany, not saying a single “Sorry” or even an “Oops!”

I shook my head, grumbled a derogatory remark, and continued my shopping. “Where is that girl’s guardian?” I queried myself.

The Girl With Kaleidoscope Eyes

We were sitting outside. The sun was nearly set. I had lit a campfire in our outdoor fireplace. We began the story-telling game. I started it off.

"There once was a boy that lived in a garbage can."

"He was hungry, and built himself a fire." my wife continued.

Just as my oldest was about to take part, her younger sister asked very sweetly, "Emma, can I go now?"

Emma agreed to let Ellie go ahead.

"And then he was eaten by a dragon!" Ellie exclaimed with great enthusiasm and expression.

We laughed, then trying hard to keep the story from suddenly ending before she even got a chance to participate, Emma scrambled, "Then the dragon had a belly ache."

I decided to introduce another character, "The boy had a friend, a little girl."

Abbie jumped in, "The little girl was very sad that her friend was gone."

All eyes darted to Ellie, who was sitting on her mother's lap. She was transfixed by the flickering flames, but conscious of the ongoing campfire tale. "And a lion ate her!" she blurted without a single blink.

Another roar of laughter overcame us. Instead of fighting the slaughterous tendencies of her sibling, Emma entertained them, "Then the lion ate the dragon." she said giggling.

After a couple of reflective seconds, I continued, "The lion looked into the heavens and thought about the little boy, the little girl, and the dragon."

Abbie followed my lead, "The lion thought how nice it must be in heaven."

It was Ellie's turn again. Did our orations change her mood? She lifted her tiny chin and softly declared, "And they were like diamonds in the sky." She glance upward to spot the first stars of the evening.

Emma must of heard the closing music crescendo, for she completed the fire-lit tale with a well-appreciated, "THE END!"

We Can Work It Out

A mother of one of Emma's schoolmates relayed this conversation she had with our oldest recently.

"Emma," she asked. "What does your dad do?"

The mother had seen me at many of the school events and needless to say, most of the volunteers are not usually men. I suspect that having such a good-looking fella around causes the women-folk to inquire.

"Huh?" my daughter answered.

"What kind of work does your dad do?" she rephrased.

Without a bat of an eye she answered, "He helps people that can't help themselves."

"That's quite a job description." the mother thought to herself as she performed a follow-up, "So is he a social worker?"

The six-year old replied frankly, "No."

"So, does he work out of your home?"

"No." Emma answered.

The line of questioning continued by the confused, yet intrigued woman. "Is he a therapist?"

"No. He just helps others."

It was at this point the mother decided that she was going to have to get the real answers from one of us.

After hearing her story, I decided to ask Emma the same thing to see for myself what she thought. I began, "Hey honey, do you know what I do?"

The freckle-faced child stared at me.

I tried again, "Do you know what my job is?"

"Yes." she boldly answered with no further explanation.

"What is my job, babe?" apparently I had to phrase the question in a more correct format.

"Your job is to make sure that Ellie and I are safe."

I Want Candy

Our first born, Emma was quiet, patient, and absorbed each rule we introduced to her without question or argument. She spent her time looking at books and enjoying our company. Within a week of deciding that she should try to begin to use the toilet, she was completely potty-trained. She gave us the false impression that we had this "parenting thing" perfected.

As soon as our second child's head poked out of her mother, we knew we were dealing with a different creature. Ellie was colicky, restless, impatient and refused any rule unless it was her own concept. It wasn't until this past year, after her third birthday that she finally began to simmer down; just a little bit. We bribed, begged, and even gave up the potty training ordeal until she finally decided herself that it was time. She is a negotiator, where her older sister is the good soldier, taking her orders as they come.

Since rules are only speed bumps for Ellie on her road to life, we have been forced to reduce her instructions to three simple concepts:
1. Do not cry over silly things.
2. Do not be mean.
and the last one, which is the one she always "forgets"
3. Listen

Parents, these three simplified rules have worked for every situation we have experienced with our more difficult, ill-tempered little girl. They have even worked with her big sister. I highly recommend them, for you can take any altercation and quickly explain to the irrational offspring why they are in the wrong. It doesn't mean that the child will always care to know what it is they are doing incorrectly, but it has created a small, safe-haven for our sanity, and a sturdy basis for our disciplining for the past month or so.

Tonight Ellie was bursting into flames and crashing hard. She had played vigorously this afternoon, and it was later in the evening before we began winding the girls down for bed. There was one burst of tears when bed was mentioned. Then a second explosion when she was told to brush her teeth. She screamed at her sister to put the toothpaste on her toothbrush and was immediately confronted by me, again, as she stood at the bathroom sink screeching. Her chubby face was blotchy from exasperation when I asked her what the problem was. I knew she wanted someone to turn the faucet on for her, but not a single legible word emanated from her tiring tonsils. I began the three rules to coerce her into asking me for help.

"Ellie, you do not cry over silly things, right? Now, what do you want?" I calmly questioned her.

She refused to answer me.

"What do you do when you want something?" I continued.

Not even a budge from her tense, tiny frame.

Attempting to get her to communicate with me, I tried a different approach. "What do you do when you want a piece of candy?" I figured this would be a "slam dunk".

Without raising her eyes from her toothbrush she answered instantly, "I go poop in da toilet."

And I'm Losing Control

The girls have a problem with the frequency or maybe the volume of my voice. I am constantly battling for their listening attention. Because of this, I have become my mother. I have comfortably fell into the rambling gyrations of fits and actions of a person who would otherwise be considered mentally disabled if found alone on the streets. On-lookers are aware of the fragile emotional state parents' reside when they hear the symptomatic rants of neglected or ignored mothers or fathers. Smart people cross the street to avoid any unexpected lashings.

Despite the constant nagging I shower onto my girls, they sometimes surprise me and remind me that this is, in fact, my job to repeat myself throughout the day, and it is theirs to pretend they can't hear me, and test the outer edges of my sanity.

We were walking out of the local library, books, CDs, and movies in hand. I was telling the six and three year old that their mother was going to meet us and that we were going out to dinner.

"Mommy is going to meet us here in a few minutes." I began, "Get out of the parking lot, please, Ellie. Come hold my hand. Emma, get out of the parking lot, come over by us. Ellie, give me your hand, please. EMMA! Get out of there. Come over here with us."
As the two of them began bickering over who was carrying who's books, I raised my voice to continue.

"We are going to put all of our stuff into the truck and go out for dinner with your mother, okay?"

Only the spring wind spoke between the three of us.

We reached the truck and I began placing all of our borrowed items into the vehicle.

"What are we doing?" Emma asked concernly.
"Where is Mommy?" Ellie chimed.
"What are you doing with my books!" Emma started to cry.
"Where is Mommy?" Ellie chanted.

"Girls! I just told you. We are putting the things in the truck and Mom is going to meet us here. I am really getting tired of repeating myself. I shouldn't have to, and a lot of the times, I tell you things so you are safe, like in the parking lot just now." I started my parental breakdown.

At this time, the two of them were facing my backside as I dumped our collection into the truck, I continued my lecture to the unfazed audience.

"We are dropping our things off and Mommy is going to meet us! Got it?" I asked.

There was nothing but silence between the two children.

"Now what did I just say?" I questioned their listening comprehension.
Simultaneously the two answered, "Got it?"

I slumped onto the truck seat attempting to hold back the tears of desperation.

So Kiss Me and Smile For Me

The gaggle of children ages three to five were exploring the neighborhood with the babysitter. Each had a magnifying glass to inspect every crack and critter found in the vicinity. The exploration toured the surrounding neighborhood in the kiss-warm, spring sunshine. An airplane flew overhead and the adult troop leader pointed to the sky and made the adventurers aware of its presence. Talk quickly shifted to the speculation of where the aircraft was headed.

"Where do you think it is going?" she asked.

"Disneyland!" exclaimed one rascally boy.

"New York!" shouted the bold, blonde girl.

"The airport!" my precious Ellie calmly stated.

My girl was right.

Please, Don't Wake Me

Ellie had taken a hard, long nap after her exhausting walk to the park with Abbie. After a couple of hours I felt I needed to wake her up. I knelt beside her bed and softly caressed her hair with my hand. Ellie's bloodshot eyes opened as she saw that it was me.

"Hey sweetie," I began in a gently whisper, "I was wondering if you might want to get up from your nap?"

She closed her eyes, pulled the covers tightly around her shoulders and said in a tired, crackled voice, "In five minutes I will get up."

I don't know where she got that one, but in less than the time than she had specified, she was downstairs in her robe asking for milk.

Do You Really Want To Hurt Me?

The game I started a couple of months back was one that my mother had played with me as a child. As a parent, I am now aware of the purpose of its invention. In order to avoid the instinctual child's reaction of moaning when the mentioning of changing into their night-time clothing, a race makes it a lot more interesting. It is the Mary Poppins approach to parenting, and it usually works like a charm.

"Let's see who can get their pajamas on the fastest" my mother would exclaim, and I would run to my room at lightning speed to beat her.

When I taught my girls the game, Emma loved it. She would oftentimes defeat me dramatically with her exchanging of clothing. She would then taunt her three-year old sister, Ellie that she had beat her, even if the youngster had no idea that she was included in the contest.

Ellie is a fast learner and she has demonstrated her new talents of hastily undressing and dressing into her own PJs. She has also discovered that she thoroughly enjoys rubbing her success in her big sister's face.

Last night I encouraged Ellie to perform a quick change into her pajamas, and she was off like Seabiscuit at the sound of the bell. Her sister was still downstairs and oblivious to the happenings in their room. As she stepped into the bedroom, Ellie was half dressed and scrambling to stand to get her shirt off.

"Look out Ellie!" I cheered "Emma's going to beat you."

Emma looked at me blankly as Ellie screeched with delight towards the challenge.

"I AM NOT RACING!" Emma blurted in sudden tears. She slumped down on the bed, began to cry, and screamed repeatedly, "I'M NOT PLAYING! I'M NOT RACING!" Emma continued her protest as Ellie completed by pulling her PJ top over her head and inserting both of her arms through the sleeves sequentially with great zest.

"I WINNED YOU! I WINNED YOU, EMMA!" she hollered in excitement, overpowering Emma's insistent refusals.

"I beat Emma, Daddy." Ellie informed me as she ran to my side, hugging me in victory as I laughed out loud.

Even though Emma is only six-years old, we have noticed a cyclical emotional change in her that correlates to a 28-day cycle. She was at the apex of the emotional side of the system last night, and this sibling rivalry exposed it completely.

With Emma still flailing her arms in anger on the bed, I herded her competitive sister out of the room and down the stairs, but not before Ellie attacked Emma one more time like a vicious chained bulldog attempting to break free.

"I WONNED YOU!" she barked as I picked her up and carried her off.

Emma wailed.

My wife came to Emma's side, chuckling, but wanting her to calm down. This took several minutes of compassionate conversation between the two females.

Ellie perched herself on the couch downstairs, head half-cocked, absorbing the entire dialogue. With a smile of satisfaction she turned to me and said with a full-hearted laugh, "Emma is funny."

The argument was settled when my wife and Emma came down and explained to Ellie that the taunting really hurt Emma's feelings, and that Ellie should apologize. She did, and the rest of the evening the two kept their distance of each other.

That's Amore

I was drawn into the girls’ bedroom the other morning because of an exaggerated wail emanating from my six-year old, the oldest. Tears covering her face, she jumped towards me with great relief as I entered.

“Daddy! Ellie called me a ‘Too Toop!’” she yelled as she blinked out a half dozen teardrops.

I held my breath as I glanced between the two of them. Ellie was sitting on the floor of the room with a sheepish grin and Emma was standing beside her bawling her eyes out.
Annoyed, but still laughing my words I responded, “Do you even know what a ‘Too Toop’ is?”

Wiping her wet cheeks she whined, “NO!”

“Well, then, you shouldn’t get upset about something you don’t even know what it means.” I was really trying to make light of this conflict.

From her sitting spot on the floor, Ellie began to explain in an angelic, informative voice, typically unaccustomed to her, “It is Spanish…”

Both Emma and I whipped our heads towards her cherub face to hear her explanation, “It is Spanish for ‘I Love You.’”

Walking Man

It brought great joy to me to see the elderly Asian couple walking together again.

It had been months since the two were seen out early in the morning together. They had become a friendly daily fixture to the landscape as I drove to work. She always had a ball cap with an extra long and floppy bill. He stood almost a foot over her, balding and peppered with bits of reminders of his younger hair color. They weren't always in the act of walking. Many times she was propped up against a bench or a neighborly wooden fence. He would be about eight paces ahead of her staring at her like a golden retriever patiently pleading for the walk to begin again.

One day the man was replaced with a younger, shorter version of himself. A son, I casually thought to myself. The young man was more overweight and usually was sitting with the resting woman.

After seeing this a handful of times, I had suspected the worst. A sadness briefly filled me as I sped by at 35 miles per hour, concerned about punching the work clock timely.

About 4 or 5 months later, they older man returned to the side of the fledgling exerciser and a warmth filled me.

"He isn't dead!" I exclaimed and pointed interrupting the chitter-chatter of little girls in the back seat. My daughters didn't even slow down. Instead they sped along with their thoughts, their ideas, their life.

I've Got Nothing To Say But It's O.K.

This Saturday morning I chose to get up at the same time I rise during the week. The girls were already playing in their room. I walked in to greet the day with them. Ellie was uncharacteristically elated to see me.

"Daddy, are you going to play wif us?" she asked.

"No baby," I yawned, tying the cloth belt to my robe around my waist, and rubbing the sleep from my sensitive eyes.

"Ooohhh." she answered, "Then are you going to be playing wif your own self?"

Emma chuckled.

Knowing that her question was completely innocent, I still had a difficult time answering directly.

"I am going to make some coffee."

Lay My Hands On Heaven, And The Sun, And The Moon, And The Stars

My buddy, Rob warned me about four years ago about the "Why Stage" of child raising. "Every answer to a question, every answer to an answer is followed by another question of 'Why?'" he instructed, "It goes like this:
'We have to get in the car, honey.'
'Why?'
'Because we have to go to the store?'
'Why?'
'Because we have no food. Do you want to eat?'
'Why do we eat?'"

Ellie is currently in the "Why Stage". Abbie has been telling me about the 15+ minute inquisitions to and from the baby sitter's this past week. Ellie has perfected this stage and has pushed it to the outer extremes by incorporating it into her bedtime activities.

We were watching television last night and could hear the stomping of her young feet down the stairs.
"Ellie?" I said in a stern voice. "What do you need?"
"Um... I wanted to ask a question... um... What are you watching?"
"We are watching TV, what do you need?" I repeat.
"Um... can you tuck me into bed?"

I got her back into bed, and I threaten her, "Do not get up again. Do you understand?"

"Um... I have a question?" she replies, ignoring my demand.

"What is it?"

"Um..." she starts, her eyes focus upward towards her eyebrows, quickly thinking of something, "Are you going to paint our faces tomorrow?"

"I painted your face for the Super Bowl, baby. I am not going to paint your face tomorrow. Now, do you have any other questions before I leave?"

"Yes." she responded immediately, "Um..." her eyes darted around the bedroom looking for something puzzling. "Are the flowers just Emma's or just mine?" she asked while staring at a vase on a shelf nearby.

"Those flowers are Mommy's. She is sharing them with you and Emma. They are not yours, they are Mommy's." I answer. "Is there anything else?" making sure there was no other reason for her to get up.

"Yes, Um... Are you going to paint your face tomorrow?" she questions with a devilish grin, apparently aware of my answer.

"No, honey. I am not going to paint anyone's face tomorrow. Now, one last question and that's it."

"Ok, Um..." she paused shortly to create the whopper with a beaming smile, "Why is the moon out?"

With all my might I tried to not laugh, but failed miserably. Through snorts and laughter I replied, "Because it is bedtime, you need to go to sleep. Good night."

"Good night," the sweet angelic voice echoed from under the covers.

I Was Dreaming When I Wrote This, Forgive Me If It Goes Astray

My girls celebrated the Super Bowl like any true-blooded American with painted faces and high energy throughout the beating of the Bears by the Colts yesterday. We ate, drank, and danced at half time to Prince's medley of hits in the pouring rain.

Ellie decided around the 4th quarter that she had enough, and rested herself in our friend's guest room that doubles as their library. Ellie thumbed through a few books, until she found the right one to put her to sleep.



The oldest enjoyed the joyous Colt defeat much to the dismay of our gracious hosts. Upon pulling into our garage we noticed that Emma had finally succumb to the dream master.

And You May Ask Yourself-Well...How Did I Get Here?

The first center group had one. So did the second, and the third groups. Only the last center group of kindergartners did not have a long-winded, chatty story-teller. All in all, it was a good day. It was much better than I anticipated. I figured that the succession of cold, snowy days might of lit a fire in most of the youngsters, and I was slightly dreading what I might run up against during my volunteer hours in Emma's class. I was rewarded with funny little snippets from some very active minds.

I am unsure how the first girl was able to breathe. She kept her eyes focused on some object on the wall or ceiling above me while she rambled on from one happening with her sister, on to what her mother said, and then onto what her grandmother commented about what her sister had first done, which made her think, and then ask someone about why it happened, but she was sure she was right, but her mother said one thing.... and this lasted for at least five minutes. If she wasn't such a fast little worker, I would of interrupted her, or at least attempted to interrupt her to redirect her energies into the task at hand. As it was, she was almost done with the worksheet, and it was keeping everyone at our table thoroughly entertained. So I stared at her, listening intently, wondering when the sentence would end. Her little chin was dancing with the river of thoughts as they spilled from her mouth.

The second girl wasn't a run-on speaker, but she did include everything on her agenda for the weekend, which included a sleep-over and a birthday party for a friend. "Her name is Eleni, which is almost just like my name. It is the same except her name is spelled E-L-E-N-I and my name is spelled E-L-E-N-A." The constant flow of words from her cute little mug reminded me of the cartoon mouse of my childhood, "SomepeoplesayItalktoomuch, Idon'tthinkItalktoomuch, DoyouthinkItalktoomuch?" Again, I stared, smiled and envisioned her in ten years on the telephone with her friend from the first group, and I shuddered.

The icing on the proverbial cake was the last squeaker. It was her second day in the class; a new student that had just moved up from Phoenix. She was shy until I broke the ice and asked her, "Hello. What is your name?"

That was enough of an invitation for her to begin her fast-paced sharing of information, "Alex, Chris, Uncle Johnny, Suzy, Rachelle, Ben, and Mommy are all coming over to our house and we are going to PAAAAAAARTYYYYYYY!" The last word was emphasized in volume and expression that had remnants of my high school days, and was punctuated with an ear-to-ear grin of delight. I nearly shot snot out of my nose in surprised laughter.

From The Thinnest Thread We Are Sewn Together

January started with Emma's first pair of glasses, and ended with her first tooth being pulled from her tiny jaw.

She had been working on the loose tooth for over a week or so. She stepped out of her shower last night and told her mother with a tongue covering most of her words, "Der is a holed dehind my toof!"

Abbie examined the nugget of enamel and could see that the time was near for its excavation.

I was working in my office and was beckoned to come upstairs. Upon my ascending, Emma informed me of the importance of my presence, "My toof is looth." she mumbled through her snaking tongue.

"Do you want me to pull it?" I offered jokingly. She nodded emphatically.

"I tried, but I couldn't quite grip it," my wife explained as she handed me a tissue.

Emma's bird-like head titled 90 degrees back from her body, her mouth wide-open, her eyes fixed on me, and her tongue still fumbling around with the pebble-sized tooth. I pinched the dangling tic-tac and slightly pulled. Her eyes sprung open in fear as she began to perch her feet up on her toes. I was beginning to stop, when Emma's eyes lightened with a strange curiosity, and her body lowered softly upon her two flat feet.

Abbie was turning blue from her lack of oxygen. A huge exhaust of breath belched from her when Emma turned her bloody mouth towards her skittish mother. The deed had been done. Not a single tear or scream. Not even the expected panic from the sight of the spit-diluted blood dripping down her chin.

My little girl is growing up.

Come On, Feel The Noise

No words needed for this little ditty.

One Thing Leads To Another

I told the previous story so I could tell this one.

Ellie survived the quick stomach flu, and was sledding a day later along with her sister, a number of the neighborhood kids, their parents, and me. There is a vacant lot about half a block away with an amazing slope. We will surely miss it next year, since we expect it to have a home built on top of it.

The three-year old was timid about riding the steep mountain, but she felt safe in my arms on our thin piece of plastic that we refer to as a sled. She and I took the virgin flight, and as expected, she absolutely loved the adventure. Her big sister wanted to share the fun with her, so the two of them boarded and proceeded to fly down the hill, hit a bump, and swerve right into a port-o-potty conveniently situated directly in their path. That was about the end of our sledding experience for the day, but I was able to encourage her to go down one more time with me. As I was placing her onto my lap, she took the oversized mittens that enveloped her tiny hands, and covered her entire face to avoid seeing our trip. By the time we reached the bottom of the hill, she was squealing with delight.

"I flewed!" she exclaimed as we started our trek back up the mountain.

As we reached the top, a neighbor friend that noticed Ellie covering her eyes before we left asked, "Ellie, did you peek at all going down the mountain?"

To which Ellie promptly replied in a very adult-like informative tone, "I did the last day in da cup but I had to stay at home and not go to Manissa's (Melissa, the baby sitter) so I laid on the couch and wested."

I had to clarify the question to the child, as well as the answer to my puzzled neighbor, "You PUKED yesterday, honey. Did you PEEK through your mittens today?"

Yakety Yak

My three-year old performed a well-executed puke into a pitcher this past Friday. The stomach bug that had been whirling around at the baby sitter's finally landed in the belly of my little one. After soiling Abbie's pillow (a delight to wake up to) we were suspicious of her health. She acted fine and we made excuses that it was simply a choking spell that brought the small bit of bile out into the open.

As Abbie drove with the girls to start the day, Ellie began to spew, and baptize my new truck's back seat with the little amount of breakfast we gave to her. It was at that point we knew something was "up."

So she was spending the day on the couch resting, and continually telling me that she was hungry. I gave her a little water, and waited. I instructed her what to do if she thought she was going to puke again. I placed the large container directly to her side. She found it very interesting and practiced with imitated gags and coughs. Now, this is a disgusting lesson, similar to explaining to youngsters that it is okay to place your head down towards the same place where they are expected to urinate into the toilet. To my very pleasant surprise, Ellie can take instruction well, as she used the pitcher correctly to collect the upcoming round of vomit.

As a parent, you always feel helpless in this sort of situation, however, I was gleefully proud to inform her mother of her accomplishment. That was, after she reveled in telling the story in her own misshapen string of words.

Was A Jolly Happy Soul

Lots of cold snow this weekend. Great for sledding, but poor for building snowmen. That didn't stop my girls though.

My Girl

Following in her father's footsteps, my six-year old daughter got her first pair of glasses today. I think she was as excited as when she got her ears pierced. It is another form of apparel, I suppose.

I was six and in kindergarten when I got my first spectacles. I do not have the same worries my parents had to have though. The fear of a football crashing and shattering the expensive eye wear is not the biggest concern in our household right now. We are more afraid of the Speedy Gonzales maneuvers of her three-year old sister.

I wasn't given much support at the doctor's office either. The energetic woman that assisted us smiled, while looking directly at me and said, "I will be seeing you soon."

We are all very happy for Emma.

I Hear The Secrets That You Keep

Getting ready late last night to go to bed. I checked on my sleeping beauties and nearly giggled them awake.

Le Freak, C'est Chic

The wiry boy that can't sit still looked at me as I desperately tried to get him to work on his assignment. He stared and blurted out in a Tourettes-like way, "You have a weird face!" A speck of his slick saliva from his stabbing mouth landed on my upper lip.

I looked at the clock and realized I still had half an hour before I could quietly slip my disfigured poisoned head out of the classroom.

Don't Need Reason, Don't Need Rhyme

As newlyweds, my wife and I lived in my in-laws guest house in Sedona, Arizona. My beautiful bride was finishing up her teaching degree while I worked about 45 minutes away at my firs "real" benefit-provided professional job.

I owned an ancient Honda Civic station wagon that had been a trusty friend throughout my college days. I was reminded about the vehicle recently when my kids began screaming for music to be turned on the car stereo the moment we buckled our safety belts.

"I once had a car that had no radio in it." I lectured. They sat puzzled. Dumbfounded and I believe a little confused as to what the hell that had to do with playing the Sponge Bob Square Pants movie soundtrack they desperately craved. My statement stopped their fingernails-on-the-chalkboard shrieks just long enough for me to clarify myself. It appeared they thought that Daddy was completely going insane. "So I would go everywhere in silence, without anything to listen too." I emphasized.

I think I heard crickets.

"That means that you can live without a song, or noise in the car once and awhile." I continued to ramble since I was given the crazy-guy space they felt I needed at the time.

Then the silence ceased. Anguished heart-broken cries of injustice wailed.

In the winter months, I would leave for work in the dark and return in the dark. It could of been depressing, but I was living the dream man. Later that year, as the aspen buds began to bloom, I noticed one afternoon an oncoming brown Isuzu Trooper approaching ahead. The headlights flashed a couple of times. I thought there was an accident ahead. I lifted my foot off of the accelerator, and stared at the driver of the approaching Trooper. I don't know what I was expecting, but as we passed each other, a woman with long, straight brown hair lifted her arm and waved vigorously at me with a beaming smile on her face.

I was completely shocked. Talk about a random act of kindness. It made my day, although I had forgotten all about it by the time I pulled into our driveway.

Not long afterwards I saw the same Isuzu Trooper flashing it's lights at me as I was going to work in the morning. The straight, long, brown-haired waiving and smiling woman passed me again. This time I had a better idea of what was happening, so I jerkily lifted one hand off of the steering wheel in a classic Chief Cigar wooden statue manner.

This was the start of our game. From there on out it was something to do on the road between here and there. As long as I was on schedule, we usually saw each other and spread a little happiness along Highway 89A.

It was something special, but I never thought about sharing it with anyone. Actually, I never really thought about it until one afternoon recently, I saw the woman coming into town. The same Isuzu Trooper. The same long brown hair. I just about flipped out of the driver seat waving. Then I realized, she did not know who I was because I was no longer in my Honda station wagon.

Then I had to explain to my wife, who sat in the passenger seat next to me, the commuter affair I had years ago.

Brass Monkey

Our friends told me this one. Their daughter, lets call her "Darlene", just turned six. She is my oldest daughter's best friend, "In the whole wide world!" (exaggerated high-pitch voice needed to accompany to get the full effect).

It was getting close to her birthday, and the family was singing the version of "Happy Birthday" that I enjoyed most at that age.

"...You look like a mon-key...... And smell like one too!"

They had a bout of laughter before "Darlene" who is very shy and hates to be laughed at, pulled her father to the side and asked in an elf-like whisper, "Daddy, what is a 'one too'?"

Like A Surgeon

Emma and Abbie were having a discussion following her Kindergarten teacher's recent surgery that kept her out of the classroom the end of December. Emma wanted to know why she wasn't attending.

"Well, you know, she was probably sore after the surgery, so that is why she wasn't in your class." Abbie said.

"How do you know?" Emma interrogated like a cynical teen.

"I had surgery when you and your sister were born. So I know how sore you are after having an operation." Abbie reminded the vigorous 6 year old mind.

Emma thought in her casual, silent way she always does before she added to the conversation.

"And Daddy had that surgery on his leg so you and him can't have any more babies?" she added with a nod of complete understanding.

Nor Does The Wind, Nor The Sun, Nor The Rain

It has been three years and a handful of hours since my brother died.
Metaphorically I have decided that he is my martyr, for I am still striving to be a better person.
Ironically, I have less good intentions than before his death.
And Honestly, I recognize that I need them more than ever.

Cheers Hermano.