(Whispering)

More on this later, but Annie and Colleen have set up my bedroom as a sleeping area for "the kids". I have to whisper in my bedroom, and use a flashlight to get around...

Wonder where I'll be sleeping tonight...

on my tip-toes...

I got a call from my friend Veronica today. The good news is she has been hired on as a full-time director at the company for which she had been working as a contractor. The job sounds like it has good pay, good benefits, up front stock, and a good bonus plan. Way to go! She is very happy, and likes the company. She has been in limbo since being let go in a RiF some time ago. We are very happy for her, and she seems to be walking on Cloud 9.

Unfortunately, her call told me some bad news, too. Well, bad news for Annie and me, not bad news for her. She has donated her mare Topaz to a riding school in Pleasanton. Topaz is now being regularly ridden by kids, and is happy. She will be there for the rest of her life, as is their policy. Even if she becomes sick, or can't handle the riding anymore, she will be cared for. Annie has been riding Topaz for so long, I don't think she remembers a time when she didn't ride.

There was no way to avoid telling Annie. Just the other day, she was complaining about not having ridden Topaz in "forever". As I approached the school to pick her up, I started going slower, and slower as I tried to figure out what I would say. We pulled away from school, and I began asking her about her day, as usual. I confess I wasn't listening much to the answers, though, dreading what was to come.

She finished telling me about her day, and I informed her there was something I needed to tell her. "Veronica called today, and told me that she didn't have Topaz anymore." Her face lit up, and I thought, hey, this isn't too bad, but what am I missing? She excitedly queried, "is she selling her to us?" Crap. "No, honey, Topaz has gone to live somewhere else." "What!" Her face went into her little hands. I waited a moment, unsure what she was doing, until her little body began to shake with sobs. Her face came up with tears tracing patterns down her cheeks. "I'll never see her again!" I tried to tell her that Topaz was in a place where she was very happy. "If only Veronica could get another job, she wouldn't have to get rid of Topaz!" she cried, while her eyes continued to drip. "Well, she did get another job, but she wanted to find a place where Topaz could grow old and be cared for." This didn't do anything to help, of course. Finally, after reminding her that Topaz was very happy, and telling her we would look for another place to ride horses, she calmed. Veronica had given me the name of a more local riding school, and I promised to look into it. She remained melancholy all the way home, and I don't think the king-sized pack of M & Ms is really going to help, but it was worth a shot.


Update: 1 hour later - she's watching a horse move and dancing around like nothing's bothering her. Meanwhile I'm still dealing... Kids are so resilient... Hating being the messenger

Annie stayed home from school today, because she woke up last night feverish and couldn't stop coughing. As the day winds down, she is definitely feeling better. She just came running up asking to take Tolkien for a walk, because the neighbor was taking her dog for a walk. Unfortunately, I had the feeling the neighbor really didn't want company. I told Annie she couldn't take Tolkien for a walk amidst the "but, but, but". She had been sick, it was cooling off, and Tolkien isn't much of a walker since he hurt his leg. I told her that if she was still better tomorrow, maybe we would go for a walk (none of this feeling sick again when it's time to go to school). I tickled her a little, and she stopped pouting. I heard her telling Tolkien to get up, and from the sound of it, he did as expected and just wagged his tail and continued reclining in the driveway. The quiet that followed made me a little nervous. I went to check and found her standing at the end of the garden... waiting for the neighbor to return.

Now she is telling me that she's bored. And everything is boring. Saying I was bored as a kid was the fastest way to being put to work. I think I may have to try that with Annie...

Not bored

Annie just finished her homework for tomorrow. She was working on this one workbook regarding shapes. The shapes were three-dimensional objects, which she was to find in a two-dimensional medium. It was driving me crazy. The poor girl is thinking that a sphere is just another word for circle. I gathered things in the house that look like the objects she was working on: cylinder, sphere, cube, and cone. I know it is just a start, but man was it difficult for me. You see, I'm kind of a stickler for accuracy, although my friend Rodney would disagree.

I had to bite my tongue while working on cylinders in particular. Cylinders do not have to be round, folks. It is not a requirement. I know... She's five and a half. Maybe the real problem I'm having is remembering being taught things in primary school that I found out later were wrong. My first English course in college began with "forget everything you were taught in high school about the English language." Ok. That was a waste of time... The high-school coach who told me about Newton's Third Law? What a joke. After my first couple of years in college, I should have gone back and demonstrated it with my foot in his butt. However, I guess he wasn't all bad. He gave me back my squirt guns on the last day of school... I would have been defenseless on the way home from school otherwise...

So, I'm toying with the idea of advancing her math skills beyond her requirement. I could stop by a craft store and get some foam pieces and demonstrate... and I probably will. I'm nervous, though. My sister is largely responsible for teaching me to read and write. She was a great teacher. However, she began teaching me cursive, as did my parents, before I was supposed to know how to do it. They were told that I was learning it incorrectly for the current curriculum. This seems ludicrous now, given that everyone I know writes cursive differently. I'm waiting for the note from school that just says "stop it."

"Do not worry about your difficulties in mathematics. I can assure you that mine are still greater." — Albert Einstein

Rebel teacher

Annie is now five and a half. As I left kindergarten this morning, I got a kiss on the cheek, an "I love you", and she was off to play with her friends. It reminded me of something I've been fond of saying: every stage she goes through is better than the last. Granted, we have a ways to go before the teenage years. I hope I still believe that it is a good stage!

God has an interesting way of encouraging the next level of development, even though there are new fears everytime a child's degree of freedom is extended. When she first started trying to walk, I'd hold her hands and she would walk around... and around... and out... and back again. My back was killing me. I'm about 6'4", and she was less than three feet tall. I had to stoop a lot, and couldn't wait for her to start doing this on her own. Of course, my initial reaction is that she's going to fall a lot, is going to start getting into things she shouldn't, etc. But the back pain provided a reason to get over those fears.

I figure when she starts driving it will be the same. I'll be so sick and tired of driving her around all the time, I'll be glad she can drive herself. And I'll have to temper my fear everytime she goes out that she'll get hit on the road, or lose control on the curvy roads... Ok, I'd better stop thinking about that right now. I have ten more years...

As we've gone through our stages, though, I do find a warm sense of nostalgia for her early years. I am proud of her independence and adaptability, but miss being needed as much. I remember getting her out of her crib, wrapping her in a blanket, and sitting on the deck to watch the sun rise. She slept through it as often as not, but there was none of this "five more minutes!" when I got her up. When I look at her there is a shimmering of images as I see the person she is, the person she is becoming, and the person she used to be. I see her eating her cake on her first birthday. She had cake all over her.... except for one of her hands, which she stuck in Soren's mouth to be cleaned. I gave her a bath, let out the water, refilled the tub, and bathed her all over again.

I see the little girl who, although she could barely walk, would get up and dance to the music from Law and Order, and get upset when it was over. There's also the girl that would cry when I left her at daycare (which resulted in me crying when I left daycare). The excited kindergartner on her first day of school. The crying baby that I used to soothe in the winter by taking her outside to watch the trees dance for her in the wind... And now, the girl who confidently says good-bye as she begins her school day.


In the jumble of thoughts and images about her growing up, though, I think I am still most fond of when she was still small enough to comfortably fit in the crook of my arm. Granted, she still likes to snuggle in my lap sometimes, but she has a tendency to grab me in uncomfortable ways sometimes. Yes, I still have some chest hair left.
I won't say I miss the way she used to talk, but it was very sweet (no backtalk). I love the way she laughs now, which she does a lot. But, there was something that made you just want to drop everything and snuggle with her when she would laugh or when she said bye to me.

Pardon my reminiscing, we now return you to the present.
Weeds have nothing on growing children

Finally. Annie will eat fish. You see, her mother doesn't eat fish (although I did get her to eat sushi once). As a result, Annie thinks fish is icky. This caused a problem when I was dating this lady some time ago. She made this wonderful dinner of chilean sea-bass. It was exquisite. I asked (forced) Annie to try it. She made a face and said "I'm going to throw up". I think that was one of the reasons that that relationship didn't work. At any rate, my attempts to encourage her to try fish were unsuccessful. When she spent the night at Colleen's they had fish sticks. Being a good guest, she tried it (I mean, come on, Colleen was eating it!), and decided she liked it.

Now we are at the other side of the spectrum. I bought some breaded fish fillets and we've been eating them.

Daddy: I'm tired and hungry. How about we order pizza tonight.
Annie: No, I want fish.
Daddy: We ate all the fish last night.
Annie: You ate all the fish!!!!
Daddy: No, we ate all the fish last night.
Annie: Can we buy more.
Daddy: Not tonight.
Annie: Darn it!

Yes, the darn it thing has gotten on my nerves lately, but it could be worse, I guess.
And what kid doesn't always want pizza? Well, at least it's progress...
Fishy.

Annie is currently watching Long Shot. It's a movie about a lady making a life for herself through dressage.

Daddy: I'll let you watch the horse movie while you eat.
Annie: Nooooo. I have to act it out. I can't do that while I eat.
Daddy: Well, we can pause it while you eat.
Annie: Nooooo. Then I can't watch anything while I eat.
Daddy: You don't need to watch TV while you eat, it's a special thing for you to do.
Annie: *humph*
Daddy: The movie is long. By the time you finish eating you will still have time to act out the rest of the movie.
Annie: Ok.

I do admit that I love to watch her act it out. When Colleen and Annie play during kindergarten at recess Annie now plays the part of the horse in this movie. Colleen plays Spirit. The growth in imagination is wonderful.

If you ever get a chance, read the book The Neverending Story.
The movie only covers half the story. The first half of the book provides a metaphor for the need for imagination. The second half of the book covers the danger in letting imagination dominate one's life. It's great stuff. On top of that, it was written (I think) in 1979. This was before the advent of so many of the dynamic media choices we have now. The book is written in two colors: one color for things that happen in one "world" and another color for things in the "other world". It's absolutely great.

Anyway, I like Annie's adaptation of her imagination.

Flying on the back of a dragon... or horse... or whatever...

Our mornings are generally rushed. Like everyone (I hope) we always seem to be about five minutes late. Well, I'm rushing... I go in to check on Annie's progress with getting dressed, and she has Lilo trapped in the corner, or is playing on her little piano, or is talking to her "kids" - stuffed animals. Well, we'd not be us if we didn't try to increase the difficulty level of getting ready in the morning. For the past week or two, we have a new ritual.

She gets up, makes her oatmeal, feeds the cats (and talks to the cats while she has their undivided attention), goes to the bathroom, and then sits down to eat. The Harley-Davidson blanket is draped over her chair to limit the contact with cold wood. Her special Annie blanket (made by my great-great-aunt) is over her legs, because... well, just because. Her first few bites usually inolve the ice we've added to expedite the cooling of the oatmeal. That's all the old routine, now we've added a step.

The school sent home some printouts of various words, numbers, and letters, which I cut out and put in a bag (that they supplied... Thank you!). I begin pulling out various cards and showing them to her. I'm amazed at how much her brain seems to work like mine. I've a visual learner, and I think she is, too. She takes one look of the cards, and then her eyes drift somewhere else while the brain takes the image and begins to decipher it. I always do the same thing. No one in college would ask to see my notes, because I never took any. So her mind focuses on deciphering the image, and the wheels begin to turn. She sounds out each letter. Sometimes her focus returns to me, "is that a silent 'e'?" "Yes." "What letter is it for?" "You tell me." "The 'i'". "Right, it has the long 'i' sound." Her focus drifts again, as she quietly sounds out the word. Her sounds get faster, and faster as she puts the pieces together. Then, her focus returns to me and she gets the smile of the conquering hero. She says the word, and we have a high five over it. Of course, the eating of the breakfast has slowed down, but it's worth it.

As her interest in learning and demonstrating what she's learned continues, she shows another trait of mine (God help her). My mind is typically multi-tasking at any given time. Annie is showing the same thing. We've also been working at reading numbers using the tens and hundreds digits. The best way we do this is to read signs as we go down the road. Now, it's become second nature. We'll be driving to school, and she will be telling me some story, and boom there it is. "... we were playing horses. I was the mommy horse - thirty five - and Colleen was the daughter horse." "What?" "The sign said 'thirty-five'."

I'm not completely sure I want her to turn out like me, but I like the way she thinks.
Glad she looks like her mother.

I often repeat myself in an attempt to make sure I'm understood and my directions are followed. Brush your teeth. Brush your teeth. Brush your teeth. Daddy, you always tell me that, I know. Well, honey, you aren't doing it, so I feel I have to remind you...

These good intentions can backfire, though. As much as we like routine, we do find times for deviating. The other day I had an egg sandwich: bread, egg, slice of cheese, and mustard. True to her mother's family's nature, she wanted a bite (I get no food completely to myself). She liked it, and wanted it for breakfast. The next morning, that's what she had. However, she decided she wanted it again for the next morning, but no cheese.

Scene 1: Night time, before bed.
Annie: Daddy, I don't want cheese on me egg sandwich.
Daddy: I know. You've told me. Go to sleep.
Annie: You always tell me that.
Scene 2: The next morning.
Daddy: Gets out of bed, begins the morning chores.
Annie: Daddy, I don't want cheese on my sandwich.
Daddy: I know. You told me.
Daddy comes in from feeding dog.
Annie: Daddy, don't put cheese on my sandwich.
Daddy: I know, you told me.
Daddy comes back from putting Annie's clothes in the dryer to warm up - don't ask.
Annie: Daddy, no cheese on my sandwich, please.
Daddy: I know, you told me.
Daddy comes back from packin Annie's backpack.
Annie: Daddy, have you started my sandwich? NO CHEESE.
Daddy: I know, you told me.
Daddy comes through after going through the morning bathroom er... deposit.
Annie: Daddy, please don't put cheese on my egg sandwich.
Daddy: I know, you told me.
Daddy comes in after having made the sandwich sans cheese.
Daddy: Annie, your breakfast is ready. You need to feed the cats and eat your breakfast. I made it just like you requested: extra cheese.
Annie: WHAT! Daddy, are you kidding?
Daddy: Yes, I'm kidding. You said it so many times, I just couldn't help saying that.
Annie: Humph.

Can't help messing with her sometimes.

When I was a kid, I ran everywhere barefoot. I climbed trees, ran down the gravel road, you name it. When I was about nine, I jumped out of the cherry tree outside our backyard and landed on a branch. I shoved a five inch wide and four inch long stick into my foot. Ok, it was about 1/8" wide and about 1/4" long... literally. I hurt like you wouldn't believe. I'd had a history of thorns and slivers and my dad always pulled them out with the utmost diligence. This time, he couldn't do it. I had to go to the doctor. After a shot in the foot with some useless painkiller, he sliced my foot open with your generic razor blade. I could feel it go through the flesh of my foot. It was terrible.

It was nothing compared to what I just experienced.

When Annie has had splinters in the past, I've always managed to get them out with a minimal amount of emotional scarring. Tonight? I'm not so sure. We were giving each other a high five, and she said "ow". Maybe it was more like "OWWWWW!" This began the one hour adventure that was the removal of a splinter. I went and got the small sewing kit with a needle that would remove the offending splinter (isn't that what my dad did?). She freaked. No. The splinter would wait until morning. No, sweetie, it must come out now. Wait! Wait! I have to tell you something. (This phrase was issued seventeen times during the trial.)

I tried to show her how to press the splinter out of her hand. I had become very good at this following the razor incident. No dice. She couldn't get it to budge. I was forced to use Daddy power to tell her that I had to get it out. In a midst of tears and "I have to tell you something" she asked (for the fourth time) that I try to just press it out. Praise God, I did. The redwood sized splinter came out, and our tears were over in a manner of minutes (mine and hers). She decided to call her mommy and tell her about it. After which, she fell asleep in record time. Emotional trauma always calls for sleep.

God, please watch over my angel, and let her not get any more splinters...

Not that kind of doctor