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Excess Early Morning Warm-and-Fuzzies

A scruffy-headed Fisher climbs onto Daddy’s lap and makes sleepy observations about a picture hanging on the wall…

F: Can you please turn the chair so that I can see that picture?
D (complying): Can you see it now?
F: Yes. Daddy, why is Cory wearing my jacket, and Cory’s jacket is on me?
D (looking more closely): Oh, I guess you are right. I’ve never really noticed that before. I don’t know, Fisher, why you are wearing each others’ jackets.

Pause.

F: That’s okay, Daddy. We can wear each others’ jackets because Cory is my sister. (Pause.) Daddy, I liked those muffins soooo much.
D: The one you are eating in the picture?
F: Yes. Thank you for buying me that muffin to eat.
D: You’re welcome, but it could have been Papa who bought that muffin for you.

Pause.

F: I don’t think so.
D: Why not?
F: Because Papa bakes muffins for me and Cory. And that doesn’t look like that kind of muffin. So, I think you bought that muffin for us. So, thank you, Daddy.
D: Well, you’re welcome, Fisher. Do you want me to buy you another one of those muffins today?

Pause.

F: No, not really.
D (smiling): Why not? You like those muffins soooo much, remember?
F: No, I don’t. I LIKED those muffins so much, but I don’t like those muffins right now. I am bigger than I was in that picture, but…
D: Yes, you are, Fisher.
F: …you can buy one of those muffins for Cory because Cory is my sister. She will still like that kind of muffin.
D: Okay, Fisher. Maybe I’ll do that.
F: Thank you, Daddy, for buying that muffin for my sister.

Too bad excess early morning warm-and-fuzzies for “my sister” can’t be captured in a cup, to be splashed in his face as he winds up to deck/tackle/kick/pinch/insult her later (and he will no doubt, within six hours, twelve at most, wind up to deck/tackle/kick/pinch/insult her)…

Wrappers

On the way to tennis practice…D/C/F: I’m friends with the monster that’s under my bed…get along with the voices inside of my head…
D: You’re trying to save me, stop holding your breath…you think I’m crazy…
F: Girls sing better than boys, right, Daddy?
D: Well, I like girl singers better than boy singers, but not everyone agrees.
F: But, girls sing better than boys…
C: Except for Bruno Mars. Bruno Mars sings super good, right?
D: Everyone has different tastes in music. Some people don’t like girl singers. Or Bruno Mars.
F: But, the boy in that song is not a good singer.
D: Which boy?
F: The one that’s the monster under her bed. She’s friends with him, but he doesn’t sing good. She sings good, though, right, Daddy?
D: The girl is Rihanna. She definitely sings better than the boy, but he’s not trying to sing. His name is Eminem, and he’s a rapper, which…
C: The boy’s name is M&M?
D: Yes.
F: He’s a candy?
D: Well, he’s a rapper, but the name he uses is like a candy.
F: A candy can have a er, eh, uh wrapper. Is that why that boy’s a wrapper?
D (pulling into the parking lot): Well, no, not exactly. A rapper is someone who…
C: He doesn’t sing very good. I don’t like that part.
D (giving up): That’s right. She sings better than he does.
F: Much better.

On the way home from tennis practice…

D/F/C: It’s going down, I’m yelling TIMBER, you better move, you better dance, let’s make a night you won’t remember, I’ll be the one you won’t forget.

Everyone goes silent after the chorus.

F (while Pitbull is rapping): I think girls can sing better than boys, Daddy.
D (considering whether to delve into Ke$ha as a girl who can’t really sing and Pitbull as another boy who doesn’t even try to sing): That’s right, Fisher. They sure do.

D/C/F: It’s going down, I’m yelling TIMBER…

The Patience to Braid

D: Cory! Please stop moving your head!
C (stamping foot and…moving her head): But, Daddy, you don’t have to yell at me!
D: I am not yelling. Believe me, if I were yelling, you would know it, and you would not like it. I am…
C: But, you don’t have to be so mean to me! I know you just want to be mean to me!
D (reaching up in another attempt at a satisfactory pony tail): Actually, no, I don’t. I just want to finish your hair.

Thankfully, Cory most often wants to wear her hair down (with a headband), but there are days when she requests something fancier. To accomplish “something fancier,” Daddy needs Cory to hold her head just so, tilted up and looking straight ahead for the three minutes it takes to brush it smooth and get the tie in.

But, having given up combing his own half-inch-long hair about five years ago, Daddy has the worst time maintaining patience while pulling Cory’s longer hair into that ponytail, yes, usually a simple ponytail, not two pigtails, not anything that could properly considered a bun, much less a braid of any kind. Whether it’s a lack of fine motor skill, too little practice, or a block of some other kind, Cory can never keep her head still, Daddy can’t get something decent done, and, after five minutes, Daddy is gritting his teeth.

That’s one of the reasons why Tuesdays rock. Because on Tuesday mornings, Mirna is here. And Mirna loves to braid Cory’s hair, all kinds of braids. Whatever the girl requests, Mirna has the patience to pull it off, even as Cory changes her mind midstream two, three times. Cory never complains that Mirna is holding her head too tight or insisting too strenuously that she stop moving her head. Somehow the two of them get it done with minimal fuss and muss.

C (as Mirna finishes an asymmetrical braided look for this Tuesday): Daddy always pulls the bottom of my hair (gesturing toward her neck) too tight. And, I have to tell him to fix it.
D (from across the room): And, do I fix it?
C: Uh, huh.
D: And, do you need to learn to hold your head still so that I can get that ponytail done faster?
C: Yes. (Pause, cheeky smile emerging, wagging her finger at Daddy…) And, you need to learn to braid hair like Mirna, Daddy!

He sure does.

 

Birds Meet Window

F (staring out the back window): Cory! Cory, come! Come! There are two birds sleeping in the garden. (Long pause.) Cory, come! Come, see the sleeping birds. (Longer pause.) Hey, Daddy! Those birds are sleeping, right, Daddy?
Two birds flying together at breakneck speed broke their necks by slamming into a big window at the back of the house this morning. Boston and Kohl seemed to have minor heart attacks at the sound of the collision, but the glass held. (Such a good omen, right?)D (taking a long time to answer, considering options): No, Fisher, those birds died.

Trigger fifty questions…Did it hurt those birds when they hit the window? If they are dead, can they fly again in heaven? Can we take them back to the pet store like for Flower (their dead goldfish)? If they were blackbirds, that is okay because blackbirds are bad witches, but because they aren’t, that makes us sad, right, Daddy? Their nails look sharp, right? Don’t bury them! Birds eat worms, but if you bury them, won’t the worms eat those birds?

And so on…