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Moving Harry Potter

Fisher is excited to move the Harry Potter books from Daddy’s and Papa’s room into theirs. He brings them to Daddy one by one, until only the Half-Blood Prince is missing.

A couple thuds echo through the house, separated by Fisher mutterings, made unintelligible by Cory’s louder dialog with her doll. She’s trying to comb out some impossible knots in the girl’s hair before the two of them head out on a trip somewhere. Sounds like it could be Mexico.

D (loudly, from their room, to be heard over Cory): Fisher, you better not be making a mess in there. (Pause.) You better not be taking out all the other books from the nightstand without putting them back. (Pause.) Because if you just throw them all around in there that would make a huge mess. (Pause.) And, I don’t want to clean up another big mess, since I just cleaned up the big mess in your room. (Pause.) That wouldn’t be very fun for me.


F: Okay, Daddy. I’m not making a mess.

More thuds. More muffled muttering. After a bit, Daddy walks in there.

D: Have you found the Half-Blood…(looking down at the nightstand)…um, Fisher…
F (smiling big and stepping around on his tiptoes): See, Daddy, I’m not making a mess in here. (Pause. Daddy stares.) What, Daddy? (Waving a Vanna hand.) Do you like my rows?
Daddy busts out laughing, before picking him up and throwing him, now laughing as well, on the bed.

Embracing Corcoran

Daddy notices a little something different on the top of the worksheets that Cory walks him through, exercise by exercise, in wonderful, exacting, painstaking, comprehensive detail.

D (pointing): What does this say?
C (smiling): Sometimes I like to write Corcoran instead of Cory. (Pause.) Sometimes I like people to call me Corcoran, but they just call me Cory.
D: Yah, they are probably more used to calling you Cory. Most people call me Mike, even though my full name is Michael.
C: I like Corcoran, but some people have trouble saying that right.
D: Me, too. You might never meet another person named Corcoran in your entire life.
C: There is another Fisher at Almond, but there isn’t another Corcoran.
D: True. I mean, there’s no Fisher like Fisher, but there is a Fisher. And, there’s no Corcoran at all, besides you. Would you prefer that we call you Corcoran instead of Cory?
C: No. I like Cory, too.
D: You know what?
C: What?
D: Ima call you something else that could be short for Corcoran instead of Cory.
C (smiling): What?
D: Ima call you Coco. That could be your name when you play tennis: Coco Medeiros.
C (making a yuck face): No, thank you, Daddy. I don’t want to be Coco.
D: No? Are you sure, Coco?
C (smiling again): Don’t call me Coco! I’m Cory.
D (tickling her): Okay, but I kind of like Coco Medeiros, too.
C: I don’t. Just Cory.
D: What about CC?
C: CC!?
D: Yah, CC Medeiros. I like it.
C: No, thank you. I’m only Cory.
D: Cory, Corcoran, Coco, CC all sound good to me.


D: So, how many syllables does Corcoran have?
C: Um, three.

On to the next worksheet…

Free Lemonade

“Would you like some lemonade?”

The twins concocted a plan with the neighbor to put up a lemonade stand to collect money for their school’s drive in support of leukemia. All morning, every other word has been “lemon” or “lemonade.” It’s finally late enough in the day to open up.

Apparently, the theme of today’s sermon at the church right down the street was “giving.” Perfect.

How Things Work

Lying in the middle of the front lawn on a Saturday night, Daddy attempts to make glow-in-the-dark bubbles. First, based on something circulated on Facebook, glow sticks are cut open, the contents dumped into a bottle of bubbles. Nope. Next, based on some Google search, a highlighter is cut open, the contents also dumped into a bottle of bubbles. Nope. The emergence of a mosquito or two ends the experimentation.

Not an hour or so later, the “How It’s Made” that the kids are watching with Papa just happens to be about how highlighters are made. If this show hadn’t hooked them before, it now has.

A couple of days later, Daddy finds Fisher lying on the couch with the TV on. (They are not allowed to turn the TV on without permission.)

D (turning the TV off): Fisher, we don’t watch TV in the morning.
F: Well, it’s not TV.
D: Yes, it is, and it’s the one thing we don’t need any of in the morning.
F: Well, it’s not TV. It’s tennis. That’s not TV.
D (debating whether to go with that, since it WAS tennis): It doesn’t matter, Fisher. We don’t watch TV in the morning.
F: Well, if it’s not a movie or Jake or Doc McStuffins, it’s not TV, Daddy. How about this? If it’s just tennis or if it just shows you how to make things, then it’s not TV, but if it’s a movie or Jake or something, then it’s TV.
D: No thank you.
F (when he argues, he starts a lot of sentences with “well”): Well, that’s how it should be. I think so. Because you need to learn how to make things, Daddy. Because otherwise, how do you know?
D (returning the favor): Well, you know what, Fisher? You don’t know. At least for that day. Because you didn’t watch TV that morning. It’s better to watch no TV in the morning, be on time for school, and not know how to make a highlighter than to watch TV, be late, but know how to mass produce a highlighter.


F: Well, sometimes I don’t think so. Sometimes I think it’s better to just know how things work.
D: Well, I am not talking about this anymore. No TV in the morning.
F (in exaggerated exasperation): Fine! I just won’t know how to make anything if that’s what you want.
D: Fisher, you were watching tennis.
F: Well…

He loses interest in the argument.


Day Leprechauns

Leprechauns got in, scattered gold coins everywhere, finished the window decorations that the twins started, left too many green candies, and used the facilities before heading out. It appeared to have been at least two because “they used both bathrooms.” It’s a continuing mystery why the leps don’t know how to flush.

F (at bedtime): Good night! Sleep tight! Don’t let any more leprechauns in the house tonight!