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.’”