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.”