Navigate / search

Big Fingers

A mother of one of Cory’s classmates stops Daddy after kindergarten drop-off.

M (mid-chat): Listen, I have to tell you. I just love Cory’s braids! They are so intricate.
D: Yah, she likes to have her hair up every once in a while.
M (laughing): Well, I love it, especially because my husband can’t braid Svea’s hair at all. And I tell him that Cory has *two* daddies, and *she* comes to school with the most amazing braids.
D: Well, if you notice, Cory always wears braids on Tuesday.
M: Tuesday?
D: You see, we have someone come to help clean the house on Tuesday, and she’s been with us for years. Cory loves to have Mirna braid her hair.
M (laughing): Oh! Darn it!
D: Yah, we’ve convinced Cory that neither Papa nor Daddy can braid because, um, our fingers are too big, but…
M: Is that what she calls you two, Papa and Daddy?
D (laughing with her): Yep. Truth is, we could learn to braid but just haven’t. We rely on the fact that our fingers are supposedly too big. Bad dads, I guess.
M: Well, her Tuesday braids are so beautiful! I’ll have to tell my husband…or maybe I won’t.

Have to keep after it with the “big fingers.” At least Cory just loves, loves, loves the practice sessions…

Soccer Versus Tennis

F: Soccer is better than tennis, right, Cory?
C: Uh huh. I like soccer better than tennis. But, soccer needs a team. And, tennis only needs two people.
F: Or four. That’s double.
C: And, when we are old like Daddy, it is hard to find ten or twenty people to make a team, so…
F: So, tennis is better?
C: Uh huh. When we are as old as Daddy, there aren’t any teams anymore.
F: But, we can play tennis when we are old.
C: Right. We can play with tennis with Daddy and Papa.
F: They will be too old to play tennis!
C: I don’t think so. We can play golf, too. Daddy said Papa is going to teach us to play golf.
F: So, when we are are eh, ur, er old like Papa, we can know how to play golf?
C: Yah, when we’re like 40 or 50 or something.
F: That’s old.
C: Uh huh. That’s old. But, we can still play tennis and golf and stuff.
F: But not soccer.
C: Uh huh. I told you. There aren’t any teams anymore. People are just busy working.
F: People are just being boring, right, Cory?
C: Uh huh.

Thanks, Plates!

Other kids over on a Saturday, shoes off to accommodate trips onto and off of the trampoline, Fisher stubs a toe while avoiding the pot containing these flowers. He yells “ow” and keeps running into the house. Guest comments, “Fisher just hurt his foot.” Psshht, he’s fine. He comes back outside a couple minutes later, big toe covered in blood. As soon as Daddy picks him, he begins to cry.

F: Daddy, it really hurts.
D: I know, Fisher. You hurt your toe worse than I thought. Let’s go take a look.
F: I need a Band-Aid! Right now! Right now!

Fisher lies out out on the bed. Daddy assembles everything needed to clean and bandage the foot up. A nice chunk of the tip of his toe has been scraped bloody. It looks pretty ugly.

F (as Daddy dabs it): It really hurts. Ow! Ow! Ow!
D: Sorry, Fisher. It’ll only take a second.
F: I hope the plates start working now. Ow! Ow! It hurts.
D: It’ll be fine in just a sec. Don’t look at it. Just let me get it cleaned up, okay?
F: Okay. I hope those plates just start working. It really hurts.
D (plates?): I’m sure it does, but it won’t hurt that bad in a minute. I think we need two Band-Aids.
F (pulling his foot close to his face to see): Yes, we need two. Hurry! I don’t think those plates are working.
D (huh?): Fisher, what do you mean?
F: Those plates! Ow! Are they working, Daddy?
D: I don’t know what you mean.
F: Those plates in my blood. The ones you said just er, eh, uh stop the blood.
D (smiling, emphasizing the “lets”): Those are platelets. Yes, they are working. See, it’s not bleeding as much any more.
F: Are they making fibers there?
D: Yes. They are making a nice little net across the whole spot. Soon it’ll be a scab.
F: And no more blood can get out?
D: That’s right.
F: I need two Band-Aids though, right, Daddy?
D: Right. Two should do it. And I think it’s time for socks and shoes, too, okay?
F (as Daddy moves to throw the wipes away, foot close to his face): Okay. Thank you, plates, for stopping that blood.

Georgia Why Buys?

Movement in the car next to me catches my eye. A cab has inched up, and the driver is gesticulating at me through the passenger-side window, which he has opened. Thinking he needs directions (who needs direction nowadays?), I turn down the radio and roll down my window.

Cabbie (through slow-moving traffic noises): Hey, fella. I been tryin’ to figure out the license plate.
D: Excuse me?
C: I been behind ya for a while, and I been tryin’ to figure out the license plate. I can’t make it out. What’s it mean?
D: Oh. When gay couples have children, their children are called “gaybies.”
C (making a motion with his arms and eyes indicating that he never would have guessed): Aha!

Space opens up in front of us. It gets noisier as traffic begins to move.

C (smiling): See, I thought it meant someone who bought [muffled].

He pulls away. I couldn’t make out the [muffled] part. (It kind of sounded like “Lugburz”, but I doubt that he thought “gaybies” means someone who buys dark towers.) He didn’t seem anti-gay, even seeming surprised that “gaybies” was connected to being gay at all. What could he have possibly said? Someone who bought…what?

Damn that traffic noise.

Great Future Husband?

C (from their room): Daddy! I have a bad dream.Daddy’s eyes open. Ugh. Middle-of-the-night ugh.

C (a little louder): I have a bad dream, Daddy!

They have never been allowed to sleep in Daddy’s and Papa’s bed.

C (still louder): Daddy! Come! I have a bad dream!

Daddy gets out of bed and makes his way into hers. Snuggles and murmurs. Just as Daddy’s arm, underneath Cory’s head, starts to get uncomfortable, Fisher stirs in the top bunk. He climbs down.

F (whispering): Hi, Daddy.
D: Hi, Fisher.
F: Is there a spot for me?
D: Always.
F: Oh, there’s a spot.
He squeezes between Cory and the bedroom wall.

F: There.

Daddy reaches across Cory to hold his hand. Daddy wakes up who knows how much later. The arm under Cory is asleep. After a moment, Cory shifts, wrapping her arm around Fisher. By the night light, Daddy can see that Fisher is still awake. Fisher smiles at Daddy.
D (whispering): I’m going back to sleep in my bed, Fisher.
F: Okay, Daddy. You can just go back to sleep in your bed. I can sleep with Cory.
D: Love you, Fisher.
F (Cory’s arm wrapped around him): I love you, too, Daddy.

Papa finds them still sleeping together in the morning.

Whether knocking a basket over for Cory to find a toy or sharing his food with her when she’s hungry or helping her sleep after bad dreams, Fisher’s childhood seems like pretty good training to produce a great husband someday…

Have to scratch the bit about training for a good husband…or at least asterisk it. As Daddy hit post on this one this morning, Fisher (who had been up for about 20 minutes) runs into the bedroom. He apparently pulls the blankets off a sleeping Cory, while he yells (YELLS): “Wake up, wake up, you poop on the butt!” She was not amused.