Category: The Daughter Project
Good Thing No One Else Was Listening
“Merry Christmas,” he said, walking into her room.
“Daddy,” she began, “you know what? I heard Santa last night.”
“I did, too,” he confirmed. “Let’s go see if he brought any presents.”
She led the way to the tree and let out a giggle before she reported her findings.
“I wanna open this one,” she said, pointing to the biggest present.
“Actually, it’s better if we start with the gifts from relatives. Then you can open the gifts from Santa. Is that a deal?” he offered.
“Deal,” she agreed.
“Okay then. Let’s start with Uncle Sam’s gift. What do you think he gave you?” he asked.
She struggled with the bow until, at last, it relented, at which point she lifted the heavier than expected box. She sensed a liquid inside, and like any American child, guessed with more excitement than adults have the capacity to fake, “Is it…wah-der?!”
“Yes child, it’s water. The one thing in life you’ll never be without due to your ‘kul-cherr and hair-i-tij’. Sam waited all year to surprise you with this once in a lifetime gift,” he laughed to himself, head shaking.
“I don’t know,” he answered, “why don’t you open it and find out?”
Christmas Cookies
Then in the morning, the two of them began their weekend day as usual.
She pleaded “Daaaddy” while prone and unmoving. He went to collect her. As it was the weekend, he convinced her it was to be a lazy day, so more sleep was necessary and allowable. Now in his bed, she seemed to try to sleep. That lasted all of three minutes. After thirty minutes of unsuccessful attempts to quell her, he finally agreed to wake up.
“You forgot my chair,” she reminded him, standing and pointing to the table and chairs.
“That’s right I did,” he groggily responded. “How can you help me make chocolate chip pancakes if you don’t have your chair?”
“I want cocoa puffs,” she confessed.
“Really? That’s too bad. I want chocolate chip pancakes, so that’s what we’re having. It’s going to be a rough life kiddo.”
****
“What kind of cookies are we making?” she wanted to know.
“You’re not going to know them by name, but they’re called peanut butter blossoms. They’re special Christmas cookies.”
“Christmas cookies?”
“Yep.”
“Can I pour it? Can I pour it? Can I pour it?”
“Sure. Be careful, it’s heavy.”
“What’s that daddy?”
“It’s peanut butter.”
“You’re putting peanut butter with the muh-muh-margarine?” she asked, inquisitively seeking proper pronunciation affirmation.
“Yep, that’s what the recipe says to do.”
“Can I stir?”
“Uh, your bowl just has flower. But sure. Go ahead.”
“Look daddy, I’m stirring.”
“Yep, you’re doing a great job.”
“Why are you stirring so fast daddy?”
“Because-”
“Watch me stir fast!”
“Whoa, slow down. Try to keep the ingredients inside the bowl. You didn’t make the mess because you stirred fast, it’s that you didn’t watch what you were doing when you stirred fast. When I stir fast, I’m always watching the bowl. Understand?”
“Like this daddy?” she asked, beginning to speed up while looking him directly in the eye, again seeking approval.
“No silly, you’re still not looking at the bowl.”
“Why are you stirring so fast daddy?”
Luckily, for him, the war had acted as a preparation of sorts for relentless interrogations such as these.
“Just keep stirring your bowl H-.”
Candles, Flowers, Frustration
Sitting next to me at the table, her little body was shaking, arms bent at 90-degrees, fists clenched. “You know daddy, when I get frustrated, I smell a floor and blo ow a cannel,” she says so fast I couldn’t quite translate the three-year old speak into English.
“What?” I respond laughing. “You do what when you get frustrated? Why are you getting frustrated?”
“You know,” she begins to shake again, “when I get frustrated, at school, Miss Jen says when I get frustrated I smell a flower and blow out a candle,” she says, thinking she made her point clearly.
“You smell a flower and blow out a candle?” I ask slowly, enunciating.
“Yeah. At school when I get frustrated,” she reiterates, offering her wide open eyes and nodding head as evidence of her conviction.
“Who taught you this? Your mother or school?” I ask, more curious to discover if I’ll believe she is telling the truth when she answers than what her answer is.
“Miss Jen said at school,” her arms assume the position, but no shaking this time, “when I get frustrated, I should smell a flower and blow out a candle,” she says, not showing any signs of actually becoming frustrated during my uncalled for inquisition.
“Smell a flower and blow out a candle, eh?” I mutter to myself, this time widening my eyes as I take a deep breath through my nose and exhale through my mouth. “Ha,” I say, rolling my eyes, smirking. “What will they think up next?
Winning’s Shimmer
Before he knew it he noticed he only had one blue and one green ring left in his cereal bowl. Looking towards her, he saw he was clearly going to win. Coming at the rings from the side, he lifted them out of the milk with one experienced motion. After removing the spoon from his mouth he shocked her with the news.
“Guess what? Looks like I win.”
“Huh uh, daddy. I’m gonna win.”
“Nope. I already won. Don’t you understand? You can’t win.”
“Huh uh, daddy. You don’t get the trophy.”
“I most certainly do get the trophy. I do. Don’t you see that I won? You always tell me very clearly that when you win, I lose. Well, today I won, and that means I get the trophy.”
Her tears really didn’t bother him until the sound of their creation became deafening. And that only happened as he grabbed the trophy. Not a total arse, he put the trophy back on the table. After all, she was only three-and-a-half. The roar softened to a whimper.
Taking his bowl to the counter, he kept up the banter, making sure she didn’t miss the lesson. He came back and saw she was finally done.
“Can I have a little bit more?” she asked, making the universal sign for ‘liddle bit’ with her thumb and forefinger.
“You can, but you need to understand that this only further proves that I won. Having more cereal after I’m already finished means that even if you had finished the first round before me, you still wouldn’t have won today. Today, I won and you lost. Don’t worry about it. There’s always tomorrow.”
She nodded to placate him.
He watched her finish her second helping. Now carrying her bowl, he made his way around the corner into the kitchen. Upon returning to the table, he noticed she was gone. Her bedroom was in direct line-of-sight only 15 feet further from him than the table. Sensing movement, he peered into the darkness and recognized the little girl. “Why the hell is she standing in her bedroom in the dark?” he thought to himself. His eyes adapting, he saw a shimmer of gold–center mass. Moving only his eyes, he looked down at the table. The trophy was gone.
“Like they say, ‘If y’ain’t cheatin’, y’ain’t tryin’.’,” he thought to himself in a southern accent, smiling proudly.
She’s A Djeeen-yus!
“Trees,” she said in response to the prompt he gave.
After hearing “I see…” and seeing his finger point to the cars on the page, she responded, “Cars.”
He turned the page. The next page had two scenes. In the first, the main character painted a wall blue. In the second, the main character’s friend colored the wall red with a crayon. He continued the challenge-response game.
“I see…” he queried, pointing to the blue.
“Paint,” she finished.
Smiling ear-to-ear, he chuckled. “Ha. Good. I would have also accepted ‘Blue’.”
Fear’s Heat
Waking up, he kept his eyes closed. He was uncomfortable for sure. Besides feeling like he was sleeping on uneven ground, he felt a disabling heat surround him. It was a stifling heat. He thought back to the last thing that he could remember. He knew he was not alone. He knew they had traveled to this place, their destination. But where were they? And where was she? And why was it so hot?
Sweating, he could feel his pants clinging to his legs as if he had just climbed fully clothed from a hot spring. A curiosity overtook his movements and he reached out with his hand blindly feeling for anything. He felt something hot. That’s all he knew for certain. Suddenly he felt, not cool air itself, but the memory of cool air–the memory that cooler temperatures existed somewhere not too far from where he was.
Time taking effect, he began to remember where they were. It was a campground. They had setup their tent, and she wanted to take a rest. He couldn’t believe his luck, and so they both crawled in the tent, sun blazing. He remembered that before dozing off into a restful slumber he reassured himself that she couldn’t get into too much trouble within the confines of a tent, especially not a four-season, dual-door, dual-vestibule beaut like his. Still, she did have a sleeping bag, a water bottle that emptied at a rate equivalent to a sippy cup, and Pingu, her pink penguin.
Finally, he heard her whispering. It was unintelligible, so he made the decision to open his eyes and see she was up to. Looking towards her whispers, he was immediately struck by a fear brought on by the inexplicable. Her hair was soaked. Her shorts just below her waistline were soaked. In a moment, realizing she had not ‘rested’ but stayed up playing for who knows how long in a hot tent with no vents open, her sweaty hair made sense. But why were her pants wet? She was a potty trained three and a half year old. Then he finally heard a full sentence as she guiltily turned, pouring water into her hand.
“Okay Pingu, we’re almost done with your shower.”
How To Raise A Toddler
(If you’re short on time, skip to the bottom for numbered instructions.)
Okay, bedtime story complete; she’s down. What the? Why would they make something a toddler is supposed to put in her mouth out of cardboard? It took less than two hours for her to flatten the red-party-favor-blower-thing with her brimming with saliva little mouth. Gross. Yep, I’m throwing it out. I’ll just deal with her tomorrow. She probably won’t even remember that it existed. (#1)
“Daddy!”
Yup. She’s awake. I’d guess that it’s probably around 8:00 am. It’s got to be. I already heard my housemate leave for work. Let me just check my phone to see what time it is… 7:00 am! Oh well. I want waffles this morning anyhow, so I could use the extra time.
“Daddy?”
“What is it?”
“Where’s my red thing?”
“What red thing?”
“Daddy, can you turn on the light in your room?”
“Just eat. When you’re done, you can turn on the light yourself. You’re a big girl now. You can reach all the light switches in the house. Turn them on and off yourself as you please.”
“Daddy. I’m done. Peez I get off the table?”
“You’re done?! You haven’t finished your waffles. How are you going to have enough energy to make it to lunch?” (#2)
“Daddy. Peez I get off the table?”
“Fine.”
“Daddy. Where’s my red thing?”
“I threw it… it probably got thrown away. It was broken.” (#3)
“Who breaked it?”
“It’s ‘broke’, not ‘breaked’, ‘broke’. You did. Don’t you remember?” (#4)
“I breaked it?”
“‘Broke.’ Yep. You sure did. You should be more careful next time. Okay, hurry, you have to go to school.” (#5)
“But I didn’t break it.”
“The point is, it is gone.”
“Are we going to the mountains today?”
“No, you have school today. We’ll go to the mountains on the weekend.”
“Oh.”
“Okay, let’s get moving. I’ll get your clothes, time to go potty.”
Not quite making it to school (daycare) on the first trip, I was back in the driveway needing to grab the bathing suit I had told myself not to forget. Leaving her in the running car on the drive during the short trip into the house, I thought of all the morons who’ve car-jacked a car with a kid in the back. Not even fully closing the front door for fear of locking myself out, I might as well have put out the bat-signal.
Feeling the front-door give a little as I twisted the just unlocked handle, I pushed further only to curse myself. Apparently I didn’t remember to lock the deadbolt this morning before leaving like I told myself I would last night during a bout of all-too-common laziness. Who invented deadbolts that require a key to lock it on the inside of the house anyhow? Safe neighborhood, I’m sure.
Upon approaching the car, her child seat was empty. More curious than concerned, I saw movement on the other side of the seat. Good for her. She finally knows how to unlock the seat-belt. Finally, we made it to the ‘Early Learning Center’.
Crying , she wrapped my pinky and fore finger in her left and right hands which had acquired the grip of a python overnight. I pried my fingers free and left her in the arms of some accented foreign lady who is her teacher.
This is probably not doing any long-term damage to her. (#6)
Instructions for How To Raise A Toddler:
Step 1 – Lie as much as you can to the toddler and yourself.
Step 2 — Use the fact that all other parents are also lying as reassurance that you’re on the right track.
Last Night.
I could see them clear as day, but it wasn’t his eyes. It wasn’t one feature. While menacing, his eyes weren’t what caused me to not look to my right. Or to my left. Or down the ladder. Or in my child’s room. His eyes weren’t what caused me to turn on the lights in the bathroom, which I never did at this early hour.
The thing you must fully internalize about my relation to my family members is that I have worn them down over the years. They used to put up a fight, but beginning as early as high school, their resolve weakened.
“Sure. Whatever you say. Can we just not argue about it?” had become their standard response.
On this night, I wanted to play with the Ouiji Board. That’s not quite true. I could care less about the Ouiji Board, it’s foolish. What I wanted was to make my mom, dad, older sister and younger brother uncomfortable. I wanted to see them squirm.
My brother had that same bone in his body, so we went first. The joy of playing a Ouiji Board with others comes from the fact that everyone wants to believe that you’re telling the truth when you convincingly declare that you’re not moving the planchette.
“Oh, come on. I saw your fingers extend!” could be heard from the peanut gallery.
“I swear I did not move it!” I responded. “What you saw was me trying to not break contact with it. It’s the difference between action and reaction.”
“Fine,” my sister conceded with a voice that betrayed her hope I was telling the truth.
Upon turning down the lights in the basement, the general mood in the room began to shift in my favor. My brother and I made sure that we offered no more than a good tease. Soon my sister wanted a turn.
I didn’t lose ground, but I didn’t gain much either. As a neutral participant, she proved a difficult partner. She lacked the intention of causing our parents fright, but her skepticism wasn’t perfect either.
My mom, never one to turn down a challenge, now wanted a turn. Despite bringing me in to this world, she had a capacity to revert to childlike wonder in a moment. I was in full control now. We asked our questions, the board answered them. My brother even flashed me a questioning look as if to ask, “You’re still just playing with us, right?”
My lying eyes bedded down his fear. My own fear, on the other hand was growing.
The truth was, I was no longer controlling the game. When I am afraid I usually want to cry. Right then, I had to muster all my energy to not begin to cry. Out of nowhere, a remarkable thought came to me, “Is my mom cool enough to turn the tables and fool me?”
I wanted the answer to be true. The thought was at least intriguing enough to hold back my tears. But there was still one more player.
You must understand that my father was literally an altar boy as a child. Only people who have a first-degree connection to an altar boy can really understand what this means. No matter what books he’s read, no matter what life experiences he’s had, no matter how hard he may try to convince you otherwise, he is a believer through and through. And believers don’t fuck with evil. Suffice it to say, he didn’t want to play.
Fear became an ancient memory; I couldn’t even remember tears as my resolve to accomplish my mission was renewed.
“Dad. For real. It’s just a game. What are you afraid of? If you really get scared…I don’t know… just call on Jesus to help you. Isn’t he supposed to rush down in your defense?”
I could tell that I pushed just hard enough, so I stopped. Just because he was a believer, didn’t mean he wasn’t still a man.
Mano y Mano. Father v. Son. I couldn’t help but feel pride. Yet again, I got everyone to do what they didn’t want to do. I had wore them down. They were so weak. Discreetly, as the board spoke to us, I gave my brother a quick smile which he replied in kind.
It was a singular feeling. A light pressure against my fingertips. I figured my dad must be moving it towards me. I released any tension in my fingers. The feeling did not go away. The planchette would not release my fingers any more than the board would release the planchette. My brother’s expression released my tears. My dad’s terrifying scream is what woke me.
Awake, I did not want to open my eyes. Exhilarated, I had to. Moments like these did not give themselves to me very often. Moments where I was awake only in the strictest medical sense. Darkness and fear still remained. A chance to test my manhood. Laying motionless, I hoped to ally the windows dim predawn light to my purpose. I turned my head to the right and opened my eyes. Shuddering with fear, I saw him beside me.
“This can’t be,” I thought.
Hoping that evil can only see motion, I laid perfectly still except for my widening eyes. Finally more light. Looking back now, I can’t blame the stuffed pink penguin my daughter had left in the bed yesterday morning for shedding a tear. I doubt poor Pingu had ever imagined the depth to which a man’s vocabulary would dive upon realizing he’s a fool.
Captain’s Log 