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."