Category Archives: Emma

What She Does

Posted on July 15, 2012 | 19 Comments

“Daddy, watch what I can do.”

This is exactly the kind of statement Emma, my 6 year old, makes before she jumps from the coffee table to an adjacent sofa in the living room.  Or power slides 12 feet across the dining room floor, or goes off in to a non-choreographed dance for a half an hour that would have brought rain if she were a Cherokee, or simply runs around the house with no purpose beyond the whims of her 6 year old body.  That is my Emma.  It’s what she does.

I think about how she used to be such a shy little girl and not a rain dancing daredevil.  More content with clinging to any free leg or burying her head between my 3rd and 4th true ribs.  Only in the briefest of moments, without anyone watching, would she allow her timid shell to crack just enough to show her true side.

Now only a few days away from turning seven, Emma has had a break out. She has shattered the shell that once kept her head firmly planted on my shoulder and her voice barely above a whisper.  She has emerged as the girl who races to the front door or up the stairs, the one who is making funny faces, jumping down the steps, and giggling at her own humor.  She is the girl who can light up a room with her smile, make us all laugh at the dinner table, or parkour through the living room and over the dog.

Every day I watch what she does and shake my head.  I am at times, in disbelief, or laughing, or being mesmerized by what she does.  She leaves me wondering how in the world she came to be this way until I realize she reminds me of someone else who had the same effect on me.  My dad.

He had all of the personality Emma gives to us on a daily basis.  His demeanor, his lack of inhibition, the goofiness (in the best sense of the word), his quiet thoughtfulness, his sense of humor, Emma has it all.  My dad was prone to “ice skating” in his socks on the hardwood floors.  He wasn’t above jumping in to a pool with all of his clothes on.  He was never too serious, never without a joke, and completely unforgettable because of what he did.

Emma likes to tell me she remembers him but I know she doesn’t.  I think she believes she “remembers” him because she really wants to but she was less than 12 weeks old when he died.  She barely can remember where she took her shoes off let alone remember back to when she was a newborn.  She “remembers” everything we have told her.  She “remembers” the pictures I have shown her, the anecdotes I have told, and she “remembers” the memory we have built up about my dad.

Yet, I look at my 6 year old, who will be turning 7 in a few days, and I see the characteristics of the man she never knew.  The little girl who was too shy to show her face now wears fake mustaches and talks in gibberish just because it’s funny to talk in gibberish.  I hope he’s watching…and laughing.

“Daddy, watch what I can do.”

It seems I can’t help but watch.  Lord knows I’m either going to be entertained or I’m going to need to call 911.  I’ll turn to watch because it has been so much fun watching her for the past 7 years.  I’ll turn because she can make my sides hurt from laughter watching her leap from furniture, breaking out in to a spontaneous dance,  or making funny faces.  Because she can make my heart melt when she tells me she loves me out of the blue, or when she puts her arms out for a hug, or when she displays the same qualities and characteristics of the man she never really knew.

The truth is I will always turn to watch my Emma because I don’t want to ever miss a moment of who she is and what she does.

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Posted in Dad, Emma

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Start of a Revolution

Posted on July 4, 2012 | 12 Comments

When in the Course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature’s God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

“Dad, I’ll make lunch.

I was not only surprised my 9 year old volunteered to make hers and her sister’s lunch but when did I become ‘Dad’ (I could have sworn it was ‘Daddy’ not more than 10 minutes ago)?

Yet, despite my disbelief, Hannah was rooting through the kitchen for the peanut butter, standing on the stool to grab chips, asking Emma if she wanted an apple, and completely oblivious to me, as she prepared lunch.

He has endeavoured to prevent the population of these States; for that purpose obstructing the Laws for Naturalization of Foreigners; refusing to pass others to encourage their migrations hither, and raising the conditions of new Appropriations of Lands.

I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t see this coming.

More and more, I have seen my kids beginning to grab a hold of their independence.  The two little girls, who used to be able to nestle comfortably on my forearm, had begun to migrate hither and towards doing things for themselves.

That feeling of ‘I can do it myself’ has been a prevailing attitude in my kids since they were old enough to hold a spoon. While I applauded their adorable claims of independence, it always came back to me (or their mom) to fix a shirt buttoned wrong. Pick out clothing that matched, wipe butts, and fix meals.

It always came back to ‘Daddy’.

They were jobs, at times; I performed like Superman heroically rescuing Lois Lane. Except for maybe the butt wiping (any parents’ kryptonite).  They were things my kids depended on me for and I did.

But my kids are on the doorstep of being 10 and 7 (and ready to kick the door in).  What I and their mom were once called on to do for them, they have, with increasing regularity, wanted to do on their own.  They have slowly been laying the groundwork to declare their independence.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.

All the chores, responsibilities, and duties called upon me by my kids hasn’t always been easy…or enjoyed.  There were times when stress has gotten the better of me, exhaustion stripped away my patience, and 7,000 peanut butter and jelly sandwiches reached levels of tedium to bore any man.  Yet, in the end, I relished my kids’ dependence on me.  It was a boost to my ego, at times elevated me to superhuman levels in their eyes, and frankly, it was my job to be there for them.  A job I have cherished.  And a job I don’t know if I have prepared myself to give up yet.

But now my kids understand that they were created equally.  They have been endowed with certain unalienable rights, like Life, Liberty, the pursuit of Happiness, and the right to grow up.  And grow up they are.  Before my eyes, they have transformed from my babies to my little ladies.  Little ladies who once called on their ‘Daddy’ to do the things they are now ready, willing, and able to do.

If history is any teacher, it will do me no good trying to fight it.

So I stand back and watch.  I watch my kids do more and more for themselves. I watch as Hannah stands in the kitchen making lunch and firing off the first shot in a revolution.

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Posted in Emma, Hannah

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Soup’s On

Posted on January 31, 2012 | 16 Comments

“Daddy, I’m hungry.”

My youngest and I were shedding our coats and boots in the garage.  We had just spent the last hour and a half shoveling snow.  Actually, Emma had been making snow angels and firing snowballs at me while I shoveled out my car and the neighbor’s mailbox.  Her cheeks were red and the edges of her hair that had been sticking out of her hat were wet.

My wife and our oldest daughter were out (conveniently) so my 6 year old and I spent the morning outside.  It was just the first thing on my list of things to get done that Sunday.  After shoveling and dodging snowballs, I was hungry too.

“Sounds good kiddo. Let’s eat lunch.”

“Should I get my tray Daddy?”

Most Sunday afternoon’s, my kitchen is turned in to a diner and I turn in to a short order cook as I prepare anything from a peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to scrambled eggs for the kids.  They get to eat out in the living room on their trays and watch television.  The half an hour reprieve gives me time to do begin whatever it is that is on the docket for the day.  That Sunday my wife asked me if I would like her to write down what needed to be done (which is never a good sign).  The President gets the same sort of list from his generals but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t say anything about finishing the laundry.

Our desire to have our kids actively involved with as much as possible short of Himalayan yodeling, time is a commodity. Too often, I find myself moving to try to keep up with the speed of life.  I’m dropping off at this practice and picking up from that lesson.  I’m home from work long enough to change my pants only to leave for the next activity.  There is laundry that needs to be done then folded.  I have a basket of wrinkled clothing in my room so mountainous; the white shirts on top could be mistaken for snow caps. And there never seems to be enough time to get it all done.  This day was really no different.

“No. Leave your tray. Let’s eat lunch in the kitchen.”

It would have been easy for me to say yes to Emma’s question.  I could have made her a ham and cheese sandwich, flipped on the television, and gone about my duties for the day which were plentiful.  I was fairly certain my wife wrote something down about emptying the dishwasher before we had to eat with our hands off of paper towels.  I also remember something about the wash not folding itself and the vacuum cleaner being unable to vacuum from the closet.  In the face of all of that, I decided to eat lunch with my daughter.

I made soup.  Actually I opened up some soup and heated it (which, when I’m cooking, equates to being homemade).  The two of us sat at the island in our kitchen together with our bowls of chicken noodle trying to find the coolest edge so we could start eating.  We talked about the snow.  We had a contest to see which one of us could slurp the loudest.  We laughed.  Emma negotiated for extra chocolate syrup in her hot chocolate (and won) and not once did I notice the speed of life moving past me.

I’m busy. You’re busy. We’re all busy.  We’re all looking for more time to do all that is asked of us. And the time we get is valuable. It’s just not as valuable as the people you spend it with. Sometimes you have to forget about trying to keep up. For the 40 minutes or so Emma and I spent slurping, laughing and talking, I could have been doing a lot of other things but none of them seemed important in that moment.  I was with my little girl and those things, moving at the speed of life, were all going to have to wait until we finished our soup.

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Posted in daughter, Emma