MyThreeDaughters

I’m not at my best in the morning. Wife might say that’s a generous understatement. But that’s the backdrop.
This morning: I deposited Fontaine at school, came back home and wife got ready to go running.
“Go ahead and get in the shower, they’ll be OK,” she said of Elizabeth and Rose.
Often, she’s been right, but news stories and blog entries are not written about when things go right.
Wife goes running.
I get in the downstairs shower, get out, put on boxers, lather my face with shaving cream. (This is a really exciting blog isn’t it? Stay tuned, next week: Tooth brushing.)
Elizabeth yells down, sufficiently loud for me to hear her from upstairs, as well as blow out the windows of several nearby commercial buildings.
“DADDY! CAN YOU COME UPSTAIRS?!”
I walk to the edge of the steps: Elizabeth, what do you need?
“DADDY…I need you to come upstairs.”
What do you need me to do, once I get there?
“DADDY…I need you to do something, UPSTAIRS.”
I trudge upstairs. Again, I am in my boxers. Shaving cream covers my face. It is cold in the house in boxers. When I enter her bedroom, I am not happy.
Me: What…Do…You…Need…Elizabeth?
“Daddy…”
Yes, Elizabeth.
“Daddy…”
If she says “Daddy” and pauses one more time, I think, a piece of my brain is going to die.
“…Can you get that pink princess dress off the hook?”
You mean no one is injured? I came upstairs and Rosebud isn’t hurt or bleeding?
Nothing?
That’s what I was thinking. What I said was: Sure Elizabeth, this one?
“That one, yes.”
Here you go.
“Daddy…”
Oh my gosh.
Yes?
“Thanks, Daddy.”

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Fontaine said it in all sincerity, so I feel a little bad about taking off on it.
But…(insert witch-like laugh here).
The other day the girls drew a picture together and they were showing us, when Fontaine says, “And I’d like to give a shout out to Elizabeth for…”
Wife and I looked at each other.
Give a shout out?
What’s up with first-graders giving out shout outs?
To four-year-olds.
And let me tell you, our girls generally don’t look too “street,” unless the street has shops like Boden and Garnet Hill.
I know, we all know, where she got the phrase: Either hiphop has overtaken America, or vise versa.
Because I, a 45-year old boring white guy, can quote a rap song and say:
Peace, and have a pleasant day.

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When in the past parents have told me that they spent all weekend working on a kid’s school project, I thought several things:
a) Shouldn’t do your kid’s work for her (we use she pronouns here at MTD.com, because we only have she’s).
b) That stinks for you.
c) Really? And you only got a B minus? Bummer.
But now, after a three-day weekend of researching, finding materials, building and decorating a miniature giraffe ecosystem, I get it.
It’s not so much that the parents do the project, it’s that they…harumph, oh man, I got something corporate caught in my throat, they facilitate it.
We facilitated a trip to the Supercenter to get clay, to build our, I mean “her”, giraffe. We facilitated a car ride to the library to check out giraffe books. We facilitated by saying, C’mon, you’re almost there…the next part is the fun part…OK, now all you have to do is…Now, just one more thing.
By my mixing colors together to get the perfect shade of giraffe hair.
And by, Dad-like, and now that I write it I can’t believe I did this, cutting out a piece of dry wall as a platform for the whole African savanna.
But Fontaine wrote the report herself, built the giraffe herself and painted its color scheme on herself. And named it, for it’s big ears, “Eary.”
The three-day weekend ended with my wife and I, hovering over Eary, paint brushes in hands.
Just touching up a few things.
I hope w…Fontaine gets an A.

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Went to the Supercenter on Saturday. Because even us wannabe yuppies face tough times, not to mention Silk soy milk and Horizon organic un-soy milk are like a buck cheaper than at Teeter.
I heard that, and you know, I hope I’m not giving anyone up here, but I heard that the moms from a certain local private school hit the Supercenter one morning a week after kid drop-off.
But the Supercenter parking lot is never for sensitive ears. I always come home and tell Wife a snippet of dialogue.
Two weeks ago, it came from a Dad dragging his four-year-old or so daughter across the lot: WHY DID YOU BRING THAT DOLL ANYWAY? I TOLD YOU NOT TO BRING IT AND YOU BROUGHT IT ANYWAY, AND NOW LOOK WHAT HAPPENED!
(Uh, sorry Daddy, I’m four. I wanted to bring my doll while we went on your phenomenally boring errand.)
This Saturday, though, the self-esteem building scolding I overheard was this. I kind of favor this one, largely for pithiness. Mom, while loading groceries, to her child already in the car:
I told you get in the car. I didn’t tell you to turn on the freakin’ radio, you dork.
(Oh, I thought you said, “…and TURN the freakin’ radio on, you dork.” Sorry, my bad, Mom.)
That’s right, I’m not proud. I scurried in the Supercenter, got the organic milk and Huggies wipes, and scurried out to my car.
I did turn the freakin’ radio on, loudly, but I am not a d…

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