(Started in February, 2015)
Hello my friends. After many, many requests via email, phone, and text to resurrect my blog (thanks, Jenn), I have decided to once again take computer in hand and see what sparks may fly.
Zinnia is now 3 1/2 years old. She was six months old just a butterfly wing ago, but I blinked, and here we are, living with a delightful, funny, head-strong, kind, creative being who melts my heart on a daily basis. Yesterday, we had the most blusteriest snow storm I've seen since my days in Wisconsin. To Z, a snowball fight means not only hitting me with a snowball, but having me make it for her as well. (She doesn't quite get the whole competition thing.) At least once every snowball war, she takes aim, smiles, and lets loose, only to have the snowball roll off her fingertips mid-throw, go straight into the air, and land on her own head.
Recent lifetime highlights: Jenn and the artist Formerly Know as Baby Z. had just returned form spending X-Mas in Portland with Jenn's dad. I was waiting for them behind the "Do Not Enter" cordon where excited greeters are forced to wait in this post-9/11 era as we crane our necks in an effort to catch a glimpse down the wide hallway on the opposite side of a trio of revolving doors. At last, Jenn and Zinnia rotated through. Z. was clearly looking around for me.
"Zinnie!" I said.
She saw me and ran the 20 yards between us straight into my arms. I scooped her up and we melted into each other in tearful embrace. Z. kept leaning her head against my chest, stroking my cheek and saying "Papa, papa." I've never been greeted with such love and open enthusiasm before and don't expect it again ... at least until the next time Jenn and Z. take a trip. Fingers crossed.
Last weekend it was my turn. Jenn was out of town, and in the deluded belief that Zinnia had to be occupied the entire time her mama was gone, we went out to breakfast, perused the bookstore across from the breakfast place where we read not one, not two, but three Dr. Seuss novels while sitting on a beanbag chair. (And man, are those things fucking long. As a kid I loved them, and they were the perfect length. As a parent, some of the Seuss books feel like the kid equivalent of "War and Peace.")
When it was time to go, Zinnie didn't want to leave (since goodbye's can be so tough), and she melted down right there on the bookstore floor. After the tears stopped flowing, we went the library to get some new kid books. Z. decided she wanted "in" with a group of older boys who were running amuck through the stacks of the library. They didn't notice her until, in a desperate attempt to get their attention, she said: "I have to poo." (It worked.) Then it was time to leave again, after, of course, the requisite melt down. Next we went bowling, where Z. bowled three games and averaged 72 per (with the help of gutter bumpers and a steep ramp that kids use to send the ball flying down the alley). After Zinnia's "I-Want-To-Play- Three-More-Games" EPIC melt down, we went home for lunch, watched two episodes of "Super Why," and then lied down for a nap. It didn't take, so I turned toward nap time's evil cousin---"Quiet Time."
Quiet time, of course, consists of Zinnie lying or sitting in bed or crib and seeing how far she can push the boundaries while trying to distract and charm her parents until she can "legally" get up to play some more. She might, for example, realize at these times that she really, REALLY needs to give her mama kisses or that her happiness, nay, her entire world, depends on having a certain stuffed animal that she hadn't thought of or seen for weeks, but now she suddenly cannot live without it.
Because Jen was in Portland, we had pre-arranged for her mother and mother's husband to come to town to help out with Zinnia on Saturday evening and Sunday, while I went to work. They arrived as quiet time was ending and regaled Zinnia with the usual heaping scoops of love and admiration before leaving for Costco and to a movie. Z. and I went for a bike ride, with the plan for me to pedal us to the food co-op for some coconut water and a lollipop (respectively), but a wind started to blow, and we ended up cutting the trip short when we rode past a playground and decided to stop.
All in all, a good and exhausting day. Not sure what i was thinking with all this beyond, Don't want to be sitting at home and I want my kid to have a good time. Maybe just a tad of the Disneyland dad syndrome, which is ironic because you'd think i would have gotten the message following her 25th melt down. When she started to wail when it was time to leave the park, I had had enough:
"Really, Zinnie?" I said a tad sarcastically. "We have to do this again? Is this really how you want to end our time here?"
I don't approximate this tone very often, so when it pops out, I kinda trust it. Zinnia looked at me, sniffled one last time, and decided no, she didn't want to end our time at the playground with another meltdown. Instead, on our way home and as her papa heroically battled the sudden brisk drop in temperature and semi-howling wind that had just kicked up, Z. decided she had an uncommon number of questions. To flesh out the image a little: we have a Chariot bike trailer--top of the line--with a plastic window one can pull over the mesh window in front so the kid can still see out but not get wind-blown. Now Zinnie almost never talks to me on our rides. If anything, she puts up with them until she finally says through her boredom, "I want to go to park." However, on this day, with her papa wearing a tee shirt and shorts as he pedaled through the cold and bluster, Zinnie decided she needed to point out various things she was noticing along the way.
"Mumphll ubba ghuggds, papa?"
I turned my head but kept ridiing. "What's that, Zinnie?"
"Papa, "Mumphll ubba ghuggds?"
I tried to ignore her and kept pedaling.
"Papa!"
No Answer.
"Papa!!"
No Answer.
"Papa! Papa! Papa! Papa!"
Her tone was picking up an urgency. I pulled over, dismounted, and detached the plastic cover from the trailers front to un-muffle her vooice. "What is it sweety?"
"Did you see that bird?"
I looked at her slightly amused, but also a bit narrowly. "No, baby."
"It was a pigeon."
"Thanks, sweetheart. Okay, now we're going to keep going. Do you need some water?"
"No."
"Okay, here we go."
I pedaled about half a block.
"Mumphll ubba ghuggds, papa?"
"What's that Zinnie?"
"Mumphll ubba ghuggds, papa. Papa! Papa! Papa!"
I braked, and it would not be an overstatement to say "yanked" the plastic cover up from its Velcro hnge and unzipped the mesh door. "What?!"
"What are those things you put your feet into?
"These?" I said pointing.
"Yes."
I started laughing. "They're called toe clips, honey."
I leaned over, my eyes welling from my daughter's utter innocence and complete dearness and loveability.
"Oh. They're very shiny," she said, smiling.
"Yes they are sweety. Yes they are."
Hello my friends. After many, many requests via email, phone, and text to resurrect my blog (thanks, Jenn), I have decided to once again take computer in hand and see what sparks may fly.
Zinnia is now 3 1/2 years old. She was six months old just a butterfly wing ago, but I blinked, and here we are, living with a delightful, funny, head-strong, kind, creative being who melts my heart on a daily basis. Yesterday, we had the most blusteriest snow storm I've seen since my days in Wisconsin. To Z, a snowball fight means not only hitting me with a snowball, but having me make it for her as well. (She doesn't quite get the whole competition thing.) At least once every snowball war, she takes aim, smiles, and lets loose, only to have the snowball roll off her fingertips mid-throw, go straight into the air, and land on her own head.
Recent lifetime highlights: Jenn and the artist Formerly Know as Baby Z. had just returned form spending X-Mas in Portland with Jenn's dad. I was waiting for them behind the "Do Not Enter" cordon where excited greeters are forced to wait in this post-9/11 era as we crane our necks in an effort to catch a glimpse down the wide hallway on the opposite side of a trio of revolving doors. At last, Jenn and Zinnia rotated through. Z. was clearly looking around for me.
"Zinnie!" I said.
She saw me and ran the 20 yards between us straight into my arms. I scooped her up and we melted into each other in tearful embrace. Z. kept leaning her head against my chest, stroking my cheek and saying "Papa, papa." I've never been greeted with such love and open enthusiasm before and don't expect it again ... at least until the next time Jenn and Z. take a trip. Fingers crossed.
Last weekend it was my turn. Jenn was out of town, and in the deluded belief that Zinnia had to be occupied the entire time her mama was gone, we went out to breakfast, perused the bookstore across from the breakfast place where we read not one, not two, but three Dr. Seuss novels while sitting on a beanbag chair. (And man, are those things fucking long. As a kid I loved them, and they were the perfect length. As a parent, some of the Seuss books feel like the kid equivalent of "War and Peace.")
When it was time to go, Zinnie didn't want to leave (since goodbye's can be so tough), and she melted down right there on the bookstore floor. After the tears stopped flowing, we went the library to get some new kid books. Z. decided she wanted "in" with a group of older boys who were running amuck through the stacks of the library. They didn't notice her until, in a desperate attempt to get their attention, she said: "I have to poo." (It worked.) Then it was time to leave again, after, of course, the requisite melt down. Next we went bowling, where Z. bowled three games and averaged 72 per (with the help of gutter bumpers and a steep ramp that kids use to send the ball flying down the alley). After Zinnia's "I-Want-To-Play- Three-More-Games" EPIC melt down, we went home for lunch, watched two episodes of "Super Why," and then lied down for a nap. It didn't take, so I turned toward nap time's evil cousin---"Quiet Time."
Quiet time, of course, consists of Zinnie lying or sitting in bed or crib and seeing how far she can push the boundaries while trying to distract and charm her parents until she can "legally" get up to play some more. She might, for example, realize at these times that she really, REALLY needs to give her mama kisses or that her happiness, nay, her entire world, depends on having a certain stuffed animal that she hadn't thought of or seen for weeks, but now she suddenly cannot live without it.
Because Jen was in Portland, we had pre-arranged for her mother and mother's husband to come to town to help out with Zinnia on Saturday evening and Sunday, while I went to work. They arrived as quiet time was ending and regaled Zinnia with the usual heaping scoops of love and admiration before leaving for Costco and to a movie. Z. and I went for a bike ride, with the plan for me to pedal us to the food co-op for some coconut water and a lollipop (respectively), but a wind started to blow, and we ended up cutting the trip short when we rode past a playground and decided to stop.
All in all, a good and exhausting day. Not sure what i was thinking with all this beyond, Don't want to be sitting at home and I want my kid to have a good time. Maybe just a tad of the Disneyland dad syndrome, which is ironic because you'd think i would have gotten the message following her 25th melt down. When she started to wail when it was time to leave the park, I had had enough:
"Really, Zinnie?" I said a tad sarcastically. "We have to do this again? Is this really how you want to end our time here?"
I don't approximate this tone very often, so when it pops out, I kinda trust it. Zinnia looked at me, sniffled one last time, and decided no, she didn't want to end our time at the playground with another meltdown. Instead, on our way home and as her papa heroically battled the sudden brisk drop in temperature and semi-howling wind that had just kicked up, Z. decided she had an uncommon number of questions. To flesh out the image a little: we have a Chariot bike trailer--top of the line--with a plastic window one can pull over the mesh window in front so the kid can still see out but not get wind-blown. Now Zinnie almost never talks to me on our rides. If anything, she puts up with them until she finally says through her boredom, "I want to go to park." However, on this day, with her papa wearing a tee shirt and shorts as he pedaled through the cold and bluster, Zinnie decided she needed to point out various things she was noticing along the way.
"Mumphll ubba ghuggds, papa?"
I turned my head but kept ridiing. "What's that, Zinnie?"
"Papa, "Mumphll ubba ghuggds?"
I tried to ignore her and kept pedaling.
"Papa!"
No Answer.
"Papa!!"
No Answer.
"Papa! Papa! Papa! Papa!"
Her tone was picking up an urgency. I pulled over, dismounted, and detached the plastic cover from the trailers front to un-muffle her vooice. "What is it sweety?"
"Did you see that bird?"
I looked at her slightly amused, but also a bit narrowly. "No, baby."
"It was a pigeon."
"Thanks, sweetheart. Okay, now we're going to keep going. Do you need some water?"
"No."
"Okay, here we go."
I pedaled about half a block.
"Mumphll ubba ghuggds, papa?"
"What's that Zinnie?"
"Mumphll ubba ghuggds, papa. Papa! Papa! Papa!"
I braked, and it would not be an overstatement to say "yanked" the plastic cover up from its Velcro hnge and unzipped the mesh door. "What?!"
"What are those things you put your feet into?
"These?" I said pointing.
"Yes."
I started laughing. "They're called toe clips, honey."
I leaned over, my eyes welling from my daughter's utter innocence and complete dearness and loveability.
"Oh. They're very shiny," she said, smiling.
"Yes they are sweety. Yes they are."
.
2 comments:
So glad to see you pop up in my Bloglovin list. Three and a half-No Way, the time is Not going by that quickly. I couldn't believe it and didn't until the toe clip question !~! Aren't they amazing with their baby-logic and way of realizing that you are at your wit's end. Keep writing and I'll keep reading and commenting-such a deal I have for you, Tom !~!
love love love this - just a perfect little window of the immense love and exasperation that is parenting. Good to see you back at it buddy.
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