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.