This morning Gert realized she left her backpack in Mom's car and refused to go to school with out it. "I don't want to put a rubber band around my papers," she declared with gravitas. So we went to break into mom's car at work and steal it.
On the way back I was chatting with her about superpowers. What superpower would you want? Why? What's good?
"Hey Dad," she said, "turn up the music."
"Why do you like this song?"
"No, I just want you to stop talking."
Showing posts with label Gert. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Gert. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Monday, February 19, 2007
Holiday
Everyone else had the day off, so I took it off too. It's unusually warm, so mom, Gert and the dog are out walking while I make a pot of gumbo (surprisingly calorie friendly to two cyclists trying to get in shape for warm weather).
Sadly, today we finally accepted the fact that our trainer is dying. Admittedly, it was cheap. I bought it not knowing if I would stick with it. I did. And, now with two people using it and my switch from gently using it to abusing the crap out of it, it can no longer live. So, we decided to buy a new one and then laugh as our monthly budget mocked us. Stupid money.
For the hell of it, I decided to see if Matilda's bike would fit on the trainer. It did. This amused the hell out of Gert who immediately jumped on and, I kid you not, rode for 20 minutes straight:
As she ended up her impromptu work out, or if you wish to call it "playing on the trainer," she gritted her teeth, went into oxygen debt and kicked in "Gertie Power", the secret something she uses to blow away the neighborhood while they watch in awe and terror.
After re-hydrating, she relaxed with the cat.
Now she's laying on the floor in the garage, with her bike on top of her, claiming that she's stuck and in dire need of help lest she die a horrible death after being crushed by a 14 pound child's bike that, honestly, is barely touching her.
All in all a good President's Day. Nice work, George and Abe. Thanks for making my daughter's drama fit possible. Rock on democracy!
Sadly, today we finally accepted the fact that our trainer is dying. Admittedly, it was cheap. I bought it not knowing if I would stick with it. I did. And, now with two people using it and my switch from gently using it to abusing the crap out of it, it can no longer live. So, we decided to buy a new one and then laugh as our monthly budget mocked us. Stupid money.
For the hell of it, I decided to see if Matilda's bike would fit on the trainer. It did. This amused the hell out of Gert who immediately jumped on and, I kid you not, rode for 20 minutes straight:
As she ended up her impromptu work out, or if you wish to call it "playing on the trainer," she gritted her teeth, went into oxygen debt and kicked in "Gertie Power", the secret something she uses to blow away the neighborhood while they watch in awe and terror.
After re-hydrating, she relaxed with the cat.
Now she's laying on the floor in the garage, with her bike on top of her, claiming that she's stuck and in dire need of help lest she die a horrible death after being crushed by a 14 pound child's bike that, honestly, is barely touching her.
All in all a good President's Day. Nice work, George and Abe. Thanks for making my daughter's drama fit possible. Rock on democracy!
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Riding Indoors is Dangerous
I've hit my stride again. It's been cold, I've been sick, the bike was sick . . . in December and January everything conspired against my sitting my butt in the saddle.
No more! I'm back on my usual schedule of two on, one off of indoor training and have discovered an unnatural love of the more endurance style intervals. Sure, sprints are nice, but the long, slow build of a climbing repeat and the weird sensation that I'm actually stronger at the end of the third repeat than I was on the first is a giddy feeling.
NOTE: There is a Gert/Matilda story at the bottom of all this. I will tag it with the word "Shazam!" in bold, if you want to skip the cycling babble.
One thing I miss about riding outdoors, other than being outdoors and the actual sensation of riding, are the other cyclists. For the most part, cyclists fall into three categories:
1. Recreational: Serious, but out for fun. Often wearing weird clothes, with panniers sometimes, or in one case, on a black road bike with a pink basket. Seriously. Generally road/trail rule Nazis, but in a nice way. Tourists, retirees, fit families. Generally chatty and kind, will always stop to ask if you need help if you pull of to the side for any reason.
2. Hardcore: Self-explanatory. There are two types. Dickheads and nice guys. If they ride alone they tend to be arrogant, selfish, pissed-off dickheads. I don't say this in a bad way. Often, on a windy day, you can count on someone hanging on your wheel without letting you know they've shown up and suck your wheel for a while and then pass you on a hill without so much as a wave. The dickheads tend to think they are better than everyone else out there and that you, as the guy or gal who is not on their team or in their club, do not deserve to share the road with them. Key point: They never wave to other cyclists. This is important.
That being said, there are also hardcore cyclists that are out there and enjoy the community aspect of cycling. They'll announce themselves as they come up behind you, stop to chat, talk about bikes, etc. They'll always stop to see if someone needs help and will compliment you on a good ride of they come up and follow you. You'll laugh together as they watch you overcook a turn and nearly slide across the road and you'll admire their climbing skills as you slowly slip away from them on a long hill.
These guys always wave, nod and say hello to any cyclist on the road. Any cyclist. A local racer, who oozes respect around here, is fond of saying that no matter what you're doing acknowledge each cyclist you see. Because two miles down the road it may be their hand pump that saves your ass or their patch kit, tools, or anything else you might have forgotten when an unfortunate situation occurs.
I try to be the second type, but I'm too self-hating to think I belong to either group. I don't feel at that level yet. I probably am, but I still feel like the chubby guy huffing up a hill.
3. The spur of the moment cyclist. They generally come out on holiday weekends and ride big box store bikes. There is nothing wrong with this and I personally feel that anyone out on the road is a good thing. But safety-wise they can be a nightmare.
Why? Well, 90% don't wear helmets or are wearing the wrong helmets or are wearing improperly fitted helmets. That's okay though, since it's their thick brain pan that will be oozing out the very goo that gives them motor functions.
Simply put, they do not know the rules. They often ride in groups of four, spread across the road or trail. If they are on a trail they can't seem to stay on their side and come barreling straight at you. They do not know how to signal that they are stopping, turning, slowing, etc. They often don't even announce "on your left" when they pass people. You gotta let people know you're there. Walkers, riders, skaters, cars (though not by shouting). When you call out to let them know that you are coming by they freak out and yell at you. That happens to me a lot.
And then there's the weaving.
Those that come out more than one time quickly learn the rules of the road and trails.
I'm not complaining, mind you. Just my observation. Some roadies are dicks, some touring cyclists are weird, some roadies are nice, mountain bikers tend to be the nicest, holiday warriors are dangerous.
Let the hate mail flow.
Shazam!
Riding inside today I was feeling fantastic. I was back at my favorite ride time, doing my favorite indoor workout and having a great time. I'm going through a particularly intense section of the workout when in comes Matilda. I figure she's getting something out of the room.
Apparently not. She walks up to my bike, looks me in the eye and bellows (at inhuman levels), "Ooort! Ooort! Ooort! WAAAAAAAH! Oooort!" And she's gone. Why did she do this? I do not know. But I can assure you that it was, in fact, the most annoying sound ever to emanate out of a human mouth.
Later, when I was getting ready to "sprint to the line" at the end of my final interval, Gert comes in the room. She tackles the cat, then complains that the cat does not love her. Raising my cadence I grunt in understanding.
Then, for a reason that is not yet clear and that psychologists may never understand even after years of study she jumps in front of my bike, starts doing the Cabbage Patch, chanting, "Oh yeah. Uh huh. That's right. Oh yeah." And she's gone.
My wife apologized for teaching her the dance, but I still do not understand why she did it. In a way, however, it felt a little like being on a stage of the Tour and having some lunatic run along side of me while I rode up a mountain.
That being said, if one of the kids dumps water on me they are so grounded.
No more! I'm back on my usual schedule of two on, one off of indoor training and have discovered an unnatural love of the more endurance style intervals. Sure, sprints are nice, but the long, slow build of a climbing repeat and the weird sensation that I'm actually stronger at the end of the third repeat than I was on the first is a giddy feeling.
NOTE: There is a Gert/Matilda story at the bottom of all this. I will tag it with the word "Shazam!" in bold, if you want to skip the cycling babble.
One thing I miss about riding outdoors, other than being outdoors and the actual sensation of riding, are the other cyclists. For the most part, cyclists fall into three categories:
1. Recreational: Serious, but out for fun. Often wearing weird clothes, with panniers sometimes, or in one case, on a black road bike with a pink basket. Seriously. Generally road/trail rule Nazis, but in a nice way. Tourists, retirees, fit families. Generally chatty and kind, will always stop to ask if you need help if you pull of to the side for any reason.
2. Hardcore: Self-explanatory. There are two types. Dickheads and nice guys. If they ride alone they tend to be arrogant, selfish, pissed-off dickheads. I don't say this in a bad way. Often, on a windy day, you can count on someone hanging on your wheel without letting you know they've shown up and suck your wheel for a while and then pass you on a hill without so much as a wave. The dickheads tend to think they are better than everyone else out there and that you, as the guy or gal who is not on their team or in their club, do not deserve to share the road with them. Key point: They never wave to other cyclists. This is important.
That being said, there are also hardcore cyclists that are out there and enjoy the community aspect of cycling. They'll announce themselves as they come up behind you, stop to chat, talk about bikes, etc. They'll always stop to see if someone needs help and will compliment you on a good ride of they come up and follow you. You'll laugh together as they watch you overcook a turn and nearly slide across the road and you'll admire their climbing skills as you slowly slip away from them on a long hill.
These guys always wave, nod and say hello to any cyclist on the road. Any cyclist. A local racer, who oozes respect around here, is fond of saying that no matter what you're doing acknowledge each cyclist you see. Because two miles down the road it may be their hand pump that saves your ass or their patch kit, tools, or anything else you might have forgotten when an unfortunate situation occurs.
I try to be the second type, but I'm too self-hating to think I belong to either group. I don't feel at that level yet. I probably am, but I still feel like the chubby guy huffing up a hill.
3. The spur of the moment cyclist. They generally come out on holiday weekends and ride big box store bikes. There is nothing wrong with this and I personally feel that anyone out on the road is a good thing. But safety-wise they can be a nightmare.
Why? Well, 90% don't wear helmets or are wearing the wrong helmets or are wearing improperly fitted helmets. That's okay though, since it's their thick brain pan that will be oozing out the very goo that gives them motor functions.
Simply put, they do not know the rules. They often ride in groups of four, spread across the road or trail. If they are on a trail they can't seem to stay on their side and come barreling straight at you. They do not know how to signal that they are stopping, turning, slowing, etc. They often don't even announce "on your left" when they pass people. You gotta let people know you're there. Walkers, riders, skaters, cars (though not by shouting). When you call out to let them know that you are coming by they freak out and yell at you. That happens to me a lot.
And then there's the weaving.
Those that come out more than one time quickly learn the rules of the road and trails.
I'm not complaining, mind you. Just my observation. Some roadies are dicks, some touring cyclists are weird, some roadies are nice, mountain bikers tend to be the nicest, holiday warriors are dangerous.
Let the hate mail flow.
Shazam!
Riding inside today I was feeling fantastic. I was back at my favorite ride time, doing my favorite indoor workout and having a great time. I'm going through a particularly intense section of the workout when in comes Matilda. I figure she's getting something out of the room.
Apparently not. She walks up to my bike, looks me in the eye and bellows (at inhuman levels), "Ooort! Ooort! Ooort! WAAAAAAAH! Oooort!" And she's gone. Why did she do this? I do not know. But I can assure you that it was, in fact, the most annoying sound ever to emanate out of a human mouth.
Later, when I was getting ready to "sprint to the line" at the end of my final interval, Gert comes in the room. She tackles the cat, then complains that the cat does not love her. Raising my cadence I grunt in understanding.
Then, for a reason that is not yet clear and that psychologists may never understand even after years of study she jumps in front of my bike, starts doing the Cabbage Patch, chanting, "Oh yeah. Uh huh. That's right. Oh yeah." And she's gone.
My wife apologized for teaching her the dance, but I still do not understand why she did it. In a way, however, it felt a little like being on a stage of the Tour and having some lunatic run along side of me while I rode up a mountain.
That being said, if one of the kids dumps water on me they are so grounded.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
She is a Scientist
While I'm getting over the sting of Gert telling me that I was annoying her in the car this morning (and I deal with the fact that my office mate, a 45 pound Border Collie, has hellacious gas) I thought I'd recount happier times when I wasn't getting on Gert's nerves and the dog still had gas. Note: did you know that hellacious is actually a slang word? I did not know that.
Last night we were watching some movie on the Disney Channel about tweens in trouble or seeking understanding or trying to fit in or learn an IMPORTANT LIFE LESSON while looking fabulous and perfectly balanced both hormonally and mentally. Not like real kids, who turn on you in an instant. Like this morning.
I'm getting over it.
Anyway . . .
"Dad, that boy must be a scientist," my frighteningly verbose five-year-old says to me while watching a frightenling scientifically adept tween used beakers, test tubes, bunsen burners and what not.
"What makes you say that?"
"He's mixing chemichers." She twisted her face for a moment. "Chemi-CALs."
"That's right sweetie."
"Uh oh," she said as the chem lab exploded, "that wasn't a good idea." And then a series of events were set into motion, caused by the spilling chemicals, that only being submerged in water could solve.
We cuddled and continued to watch the movie. Or, more likely, I blanked out for an hour after asking why, if water fixed the problem the characters weren't cured earlier. They stated that the movie took place over ten days. No one showered in that time?
Ew. Gamey.
Last night we were watching some movie on the Disney Channel about tweens in trouble or seeking understanding or trying to fit in or learn an IMPORTANT LIFE LESSON while looking fabulous and perfectly balanced both hormonally and mentally. Not like real kids, who turn on you in an instant. Like this morning.
I'm getting over it.
Anyway . . .
"Dad, that boy must be a scientist," my frighteningly verbose five-year-old says to me while watching a frightenling scientifically adept tween used beakers, test tubes, bunsen burners and what not.
"What makes you say that?"
"He's mixing chemichers." She twisted her face for a moment. "Chemi-CALs."
"That's right sweetie."
"Uh oh," she said as the chem lab exploded, "that wasn't a good idea." And then a series of events were set into motion, caused by the spilling chemicals, that only being submerged in water could solve.
We cuddled and continued to watch the movie. Or, more likely, I blanked out for an hour after asking why, if water fixed the problem the characters weren't cured earlier. They stated that the movie took place over ten days. No one showered in that time?
Ew. Gamey.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Get Over It
This weekend Gert and I took our friend Mike to the bike shop to pick up his bike. Long story, not very interesting.
Gert loves the bike shop. It's filled with expensive things she's not allowed to touch, plus a small section of kids' bikes. The guys at the shop love her too because she is completely fearless about her bike riding.
However, she has gotten in trouble in the past with an old manager at the shop for touching and sitting on the kids bikes. So, I sat down with her to have a chat about it.
"Gert, since you're coming to the bike shop with you have to understand you can't touch the bikes when--"
"Dad. I'm so over that. I'm five now."
And she didn't. She did drool over a pink bike that she desperately wanted. But, like dad, she merely stroked and and sighed, just like I did with the light as a feather racing bike.
Then the guys at the shop started prodding her with the future. "Gert, you're a good bike rider, right? Well, you should get a Stinky. They're pink and they are really cool!"
And so it began. Gert now desperately wants a $4000 mountain bike and I think she's dreaming of singletrack. Thanks Zack for bringing that up. I'm so screwed.
Gert loves the bike shop. It's filled with expensive things she's not allowed to touch, plus a small section of kids' bikes. The guys at the shop love her too because she is completely fearless about her bike riding.
However, she has gotten in trouble in the past with an old manager at the shop for touching and sitting on the kids bikes. So, I sat down with her to have a chat about it.
"Gert, since you're coming to the bike shop with you have to understand you can't touch the bikes when--"
"Dad. I'm so over that. I'm five now."
And she didn't. She did drool over a pink bike that she desperately wanted. But, like dad, she merely stroked and and sighed, just like I did with the light as a feather racing bike.
Then the guys at the shop started prodding her with the future. "Gert, you're a good bike rider, right? Well, you should get a Stinky. They're pink and they are really cool!"
And so it began. Gert now desperately wants a $4000 mountain bike and I think she's dreaming of singletrack. Thanks Zack for bringing that up. I'm so screwed.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Special Powers?
So, I have my bike back and after 9 days with nothing to ride, I was eager to ride again. I was setting up the trainer and testing the contact between the wheel and the fly wheel thing (I have no idea what it's called).
I noticed Gert standing behind me, looking a little like Damien from the Omen. "Hello Father," she cooed in a sinister tone. "How do you start pedaling on the trainer?"
"Oh, just like normal sweetie," I responded. "I put it in a light resistance and start pedaling. It's a little different than starting on the street, but not too much."
"I see," she said, her expression unchanging. "And, exactly how fast can you go on the trainer? How do you get going that fast?"
"It's a combination of the resistance and the gear I'm in honey. Believe it or not, if the resistance is a little higher than it is now I can do a sprint that gets that wheel really spinning."
"Will you show me Father?"
"Sure!" Loving the attention and getting to talk about cycling with my progeny, I jacked up the resistance and worked my way into a sprint. I wasn't warmed up, so it was only a half-hearted sprint, but surely impressive to a five-year-old girl who rides a sixteen inch bike.
Gert clapped, but not in a childish way. It was more mocking. "Excelent Father," she said. "However, while your skills on the bicycle are admirable, you would not be able to match my riding abilities on my bike. I can go fast, you see. Faster than you. Quick as a wink! And it is not because I need to train, dear Father."
"Uh, okay honey."
"No, Father. Training is not a need for me. Because of my special powers, I will always win. So go ahead and train your heart out. Cough your lungs up onto the tarmac Father, because you will never be able to vanquish me and my special powers! HAHAHAHAHAHA!"
And she was gone. Shaken, I went on with my training. However, I was left with a cold feeling in my stomach that something important and life-altering had just happened. Upon getting off my bike and cleaning up I realized what I had to do. It is clear to me now.
I will lie about Gert's age, get her a junior road bike and start entering her into boys' juniors races. Because, with her attitude and special powers she will eat them alive on the road.
Oneofusoneofusoneofus.
I noticed Gert standing behind me, looking a little like Damien from the Omen. "Hello Father," she cooed in a sinister tone. "How do you start pedaling on the trainer?"
"Oh, just like normal sweetie," I responded. "I put it in a light resistance and start pedaling. It's a little different than starting on the street, but not too much."
"I see," she said, her expression unchanging. "And, exactly how fast can you go on the trainer? How do you get going that fast?"
"It's a combination of the resistance and the gear I'm in honey. Believe it or not, if the resistance is a little higher than it is now I can do a sprint that gets that wheel really spinning."
"Will you show me Father?"
"Sure!" Loving the attention and getting to talk about cycling with my progeny, I jacked up the resistance and worked my way into a sprint. I wasn't warmed up, so it was only a half-hearted sprint, but surely impressive to a five-year-old girl who rides a sixteen inch bike.
Gert clapped, but not in a childish way. It was more mocking. "Excelent Father," she said. "However, while your skills on the bicycle are admirable, you would not be able to match my riding abilities on my bike. I can go fast, you see. Faster than you. Quick as a wink! And it is not because I need to train, dear Father."
"Uh, okay honey."
"No, Father. Training is not a need for me. Because of my special powers, I will always win. So go ahead and train your heart out. Cough your lungs up onto the tarmac Father, because you will never be able to vanquish me and my special powers! HAHAHAHAHAHA!"
And she was gone. Shaken, I went on with my training. However, I was left with a cold feeling in my stomach that something important and life-altering had just happened. Upon getting off my bike and cleaning up I realized what I had to do. It is clear to me now.
I will lie about Gert's age, get her a junior road bike and start entering her into boys' juniors races. Because, with her attitude and special powers she will eat them alive on the road.
Oneofusoneofusoneofus.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
My Little Princess
Gert likes me. I mean, seriously likes me. I don't know what I've done to deserve it. Yes, I'm her dad and she has a natural affection for me. Of course.
She makes me feel like a good dad. No, strike that. She makes me feel like Super Dad. That, in her eyes, I can do no wrong. Even when I'm an idiot and I do something wrong, she pats me on my cheek and says, "That's okay Daddy. You did your best."
Last night she went shoe shopping with her mom. Apparently it was a strictly fabulous experience. Shoes were tried on and now she no longer looks like David Banner transforming into the Hulk. Aside from her trepidation that this is yet another sign that she is growing up, which is something she defiantly does NOT want to do, she had fun.
They stopped at the local grocery store (now with lower prices) to pick up something. After they were checking out, they paused by a bench. It's the same bench where Gert and I have waited for mom while she checked out. It's difficult to tell to the naked eye, but this particular bench is not actually in the grocery store. It lays at the bottom of the ocean and when you sit down, you have to swim and avoid the fish and dolphins. It's a very special bench.
Gert stopped at the bench and said, "This is my special bench with Daddy! I need to sit here to remember my Daddy." So she sat down with a pensive look on her face, while the rest of the shoppers assumed that her father was dead and not sitting at home listening to Neil Young. She sat for a moment, reminiscing about the good times we've had swimming on that bench next to the machine that dispenses lottery tickets, hopped off and they came home.
Later in the evening I was tucking her into bed after reading a few pages from her book (more on that later). She hugged me. "Daddy, I'm never going to get married."
"Why not? Not that I'm complaining."
"I'm going to live here forever with you." Then she put her arms around my neck, hugging me cheek to cheek.
There are a few moments in life that can be described as perfect. And, frequently, those that are deemed perfect rarely pass muster upon reflection. This moment, with my child's cheek against mine and her small hands laced around my neck I experienced a perfect moment. One that I have folded neatly and filed away for another time.
About the book . . . she's recently become obsessed with the movie A Little Princess. Not the Shirley Temple version, but the superior Alfonso Cuaron version from 1995. I say superior in a completely superlative manner. Cuaron crafted and shot the most perfect children's movie ever made simply by realizing that kids aren't stupid and have the capacity to appreciate beauty and magic.
My daughter certainly does. She loves that movie with all her heart and has recently begun reading the book with her mom. Gert's five, yet she follows the narrative clearly and is engrossed in the written story of Sara Crewe. She even recognizes parts that were not filmed and subtle changes to the story.
I believe her connection to the story is twofold. One, it's very much about magic. Not the kind of magic that actually alters the world around you, but the kind that you believe in from inside of you. The kind of magic that transforms the person that you are inside, that allows you to see beauty in all manner of things. Gert has that kind of magic, and a staunch belief in it.
Second, is the root of the story. Yes, it's about a child suffering in an adult world. Children love that sort of story. But, at its heart, it's a love story. Not a romantic love, but familial love. Sara and her father are separated and torn apart by horrific means. But they fight, against all logic, against all odds, against the very forces of time, distance and even death, to be together as a family.
Gert makes me feel like Captain Crewe and she's my Sara, my Little Princess.
There's a scene in the movie that I can no longer physically bear to watch because of Gert (and she's noted the difference between the film and book version as well). They sit in Sara's room at her school, trying to say goodbye as her father leaves for war (unique in the film). Cuaron masterfully and gently cuts from a master shot to a series of medium shots and eventually to a closeup of the father and daughter. Sara traces her father's face.
"What are you doing," he asks. "Memorizing me by heart?"
"No," Sara replies. "I already know you by heart."
Tears me up every time because, by the time it gets to that point, that final close up, I no longer see two actors. I see the face of my own daughter looking at me.
So, for my little Gert I give you her favorite song from the movie. It's called Kindle My Heart. The very fact that she has the song, and the circumstances under which I was able to provide it to her, may only lead her to believe I really can do anything.
But, my little Gert, as Captain Crewe said, you can be anything you want to be, my love, as long as you believe. And I believe that you are, and always will be, my little princess.
Even if you do grow up and get married. Even with big feet.
She makes me feel like a good dad. No, strike that. She makes me feel like Super Dad. That, in her eyes, I can do no wrong. Even when I'm an idiot and I do something wrong, she pats me on my cheek and says, "That's okay Daddy. You did your best."
Last night she went shoe shopping with her mom. Apparently it was a strictly fabulous experience. Shoes were tried on and now she no longer looks like David Banner transforming into the Hulk. Aside from her trepidation that this is yet another sign that she is growing up, which is something she defiantly does NOT want to do, she had fun.
They stopped at the local grocery store (now with lower prices) to pick up something. After they were checking out, they paused by a bench. It's the same bench where Gert and I have waited for mom while she checked out. It's difficult to tell to the naked eye, but this particular bench is not actually in the grocery store. It lays at the bottom of the ocean and when you sit down, you have to swim and avoid the fish and dolphins. It's a very special bench.
Gert stopped at the bench and said, "This is my special bench with Daddy! I need to sit here to remember my Daddy." So she sat down with a pensive look on her face, while the rest of the shoppers assumed that her father was dead and not sitting at home listening to Neil Young. She sat for a moment, reminiscing about the good times we've had swimming on that bench next to the machine that dispenses lottery tickets, hopped off and they came home.
Later in the evening I was tucking her into bed after reading a few pages from her book (more on that later). She hugged me. "Daddy, I'm never going to get married."
"Why not? Not that I'm complaining."
"I'm going to live here forever with you." Then she put her arms around my neck, hugging me cheek to cheek.
There are a few moments in life that can be described as perfect. And, frequently, those that are deemed perfect rarely pass muster upon reflection. This moment, with my child's cheek against mine and her small hands laced around my neck I experienced a perfect moment. One that I have folded neatly and filed away for another time.
About the book . . . she's recently become obsessed with the movie A Little Princess. Not the Shirley Temple version, but the superior Alfonso Cuaron version from 1995. I say superior in a completely superlative manner. Cuaron crafted and shot the most perfect children's movie ever made simply by realizing that kids aren't stupid and have the capacity to appreciate beauty and magic.
My daughter certainly does. She loves that movie with all her heart and has recently begun reading the book with her mom. Gert's five, yet she follows the narrative clearly and is engrossed in the written story of Sara Crewe. She even recognizes parts that were not filmed and subtle changes to the story.
I believe her connection to the story is twofold. One, it's very much about magic. Not the kind of magic that actually alters the world around you, but the kind that you believe in from inside of you. The kind of magic that transforms the person that you are inside, that allows you to see beauty in all manner of things. Gert has that kind of magic, and a staunch belief in it.
Second, is the root of the story. Yes, it's about a child suffering in an adult world. Children love that sort of story. But, at its heart, it's a love story. Not a romantic love, but familial love. Sara and her father are separated and torn apart by horrific means. But they fight, against all logic, against all odds, against the very forces of time, distance and even death, to be together as a family.
Gert makes me feel like Captain Crewe and she's my Sara, my Little Princess.
There's a scene in the movie that I can no longer physically bear to watch because of Gert (and she's noted the difference between the film and book version as well). They sit in Sara's room at her school, trying to say goodbye as her father leaves for war (unique in the film). Cuaron masterfully and gently cuts from a master shot to a series of medium shots and eventually to a closeup of the father and daughter. Sara traces her father's face.
"What are you doing," he asks. "Memorizing me by heart?"
"No," Sara replies. "I already know you by heart."
Tears me up every time because, by the time it gets to that point, that final close up, I no longer see two actors. I see the face of my own daughter looking at me.
So, for my little Gert I give you her favorite song from the movie. It's called Kindle My Heart. The very fact that she has the song, and the circumstances under which I was able to provide it to her, may only lead her to believe I really can do anything.
But, my little Gert, as Captain Crewe said, you can be anything you want to be, my love, as long as you believe. And I believe that you are, and always will be, my little princess.
Even if you do grow up and get married. Even with big feet.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Ladies and Gentlemen We are Floating in Space
As my recently Black Cherry colored wife mentioned on her blog, our family is planning a vacation blow out to end all vacation blow outs (she also neglected to mention her new shoes and pedals that are now fully installed and adjusted to her needs so that she can learn to spin in a perfect circle).
Literally. We're taking the girls to Walt Disney World before Gert starts kindergarten. After that, no more theme park based trips. If we travel, it will be somewhere we've never been and will be interesting. I have a list of destinations and attractions that I'd like to visit in my lifetime and they aren't in Florida. For example, I want to tour the entire of the Smithsonian. I know I'm alone in that goal, the girls can go to a spa that week, but I want to wander that sucker for as long as it takes.
Not that there's anything wrong with Disney. I like Disney World. I think it's pretty well documented. That being said, the US is a huge country, with a ton of things to see. I'd love to explore it. The deserts, the mountains, the plains, the coasts (and think of all the places my wife and I could ride our bikes!).
So, in the process of planning the blowout we're looking to take the price down as low as possible. It helps having a place like Magical Journeys to help. They are fantastic. They will not only book your vacation, they will monitor package prices and get you the better deal as time goes on. Just today they emailed me to let me know they revised my price due to a new package released by Disney and they saved me $408. That's $102 per family member. Awesome.
Recently, after using a new-fangled technique we discovered in Popular Pneumonix called "Arithmetic" ("Arithmetoc" according to Tom Waits) we figured out that driving, even with adding two days and an extra night in the kennel for Finnegan, would save us $780. Don't weep for Finnegan. His kennel has a pool and he gets to play all day with a bunch of other dogs. He likes it better than home.
Because we revised with driving, the girls are now moaning with the following complaints:
1. Two days each way? OMG! That's terrible. 11 hours the first day? Ugh. This sucks. Why can't we fly?
Answer: Raise $780 and you can fly. Also, I'm planning the stops in central to southern Georgia on the way down and Tennessee on the way back so that there will be an indoor pool and kid stuff. Plus, more money for souvenirs.
2. In our SATURN? Oh, it's so small!
Answer: You underestimate your Grandfather's need to pamper his girls. Just wait, if he doesn't offer the van he'll offer to drive us down in the RV himself, book massages for each of the girls on the way down and hire butlers to wait on them hand an foot. It is his life's mission to make sure his little girls are happy and nothing will stop him. And, also, I once drove to Texas with my mom and brother in a car about the same size as the Saturn and we lived. And, also, my brother farts. A lot.
3. We will not get to fly through a cloud.
Answer: Dad is crushed. Gert's biggest dream was to fly through a cloud. Dad is a horrible person who has crushed the hopes and dreams of a sweet, loving five-year-old who just this morning told him that he does the best job of putting the barrettes in her hair so that it doesn't fall in her eyes and it looks best when he does it. The same girl who, a mere hour before, had told him that she was glad that he and mommy got married because she wouldn't want any other mom and dad because we are the best. And that stupid daddy had to go and ruin it.
All this following on the heels that while we were in Tennessee I could not find her the actual Wabash Cannonball. And, believe me, I spent more time trying that I really should have.
But $780 can buy a hell of a lot of bribes to heal that wound. Not to mention that we can always fly to Chicago for a fun weekend and still fly through a cloud for a much cheaper price.
Ultimately, Gert seems to have forgiven me. The indoor pools helped. However, when I explained that driving would give us more mobility, including driving out to the Cape to visit Kennedy Space Center.
"What's that," she asked.
"That's where they launch the space shuttle."
"THE SPACE SHUTTLE!" Her eyes were wide and I described the rocket garden and getting to see assembly rooms and things that have actually gone to space. She was rapt, excited, dreamy even.
She is so our daughter. A little geek at heart.
"Yeah, but dad," she said in closing, "you know they won't let you go in a rocket. You aren't allowed."
"I know, Gert. I know. That's what it says on the court order."
Literally. We're taking the girls to Walt Disney World before Gert starts kindergarten. After that, no more theme park based trips. If we travel, it will be somewhere we've never been and will be interesting. I have a list of destinations and attractions that I'd like to visit in my lifetime and they aren't in Florida. For example, I want to tour the entire of the Smithsonian. I know I'm alone in that goal, the girls can go to a spa that week, but I want to wander that sucker for as long as it takes.
Not that there's anything wrong with Disney. I like Disney World. I think it's pretty well documented. That being said, the US is a huge country, with a ton of things to see. I'd love to explore it. The deserts, the mountains, the plains, the coasts (and think of all the places my wife and I could ride our bikes!).
So, in the process of planning the blowout we're looking to take the price down as low as possible. It helps having a place like Magical Journeys to help. They are fantastic. They will not only book your vacation, they will monitor package prices and get you the better deal as time goes on. Just today they emailed me to let me know they revised my price due to a new package released by Disney and they saved me $408. That's $102 per family member. Awesome.
Recently, after using a new-fangled technique we discovered in Popular Pneumonix called "Arithmetic" ("Arithmetoc" according to Tom Waits) we figured out that driving, even with adding two days and an extra night in the kennel for Finnegan, would save us $780. Don't weep for Finnegan. His kennel has a pool and he gets to play all day with a bunch of other dogs. He likes it better than home.
Because we revised with driving, the girls are now moaning with the following complaints:
1. Two days each way? OMG! That's terrible. 11 hours the first day? Ugh. This sucks. Why can't we fly?
Answer: Raise $780 and you can fly. Also, I'm planning the stops in central to southern Georgia on the way down and Tennessee on the way back so that there will be an indoor pool and kid stuff. Plus, more money for souvenirs.
2. In our SATURN? Oh, it's so small!
Answer: You underestimate your Grandfather's need to pamper his girls. Just wait, if he doesn't offer the van he'll offer to drive us down in the RV himself, book massages for each of the girls on the way down and hire butlers to wait on them hand an foot. It is his life's mission to make sure his little girls are happy and nothing will stop him. And, also, I once drove to Texas with my mom and brother in a car about the same size as the Saturn and we lived. And, also, my brother farts. A lot.
3. We will not get to fly through a cloud.
Answer: Dad is crushed. Gert's biggest dream was to fly through a cloud. Dad is a horrible person who has crushed the hopes and dreams of a sweet, loving five-year-old who just this morning told him that he does the best job of putting the barrettes in her hair so that it doesn't fall in her eyes and it looks best when he does it. The same girl who, a mere hour before, had told him that she was glad that he and mommy got married because she wouldn't want any other mom and dad because we are the best. And that stupid daddy had to go and ruin it.
All this following on the heels that while we were in Tennessee I could not find her the actual Wabash Cannonball. And, believe me, I spent more time trying that I really should have.
But $780 can buy a hell of a lot of bribes to heal that wound. Not to mention that we can always fly to Chicago for a fun weekend and still fly through a cloud for a much cheaper price.
Ultimately, Gert seems to have forgiven me. The indoor pools helped. However, when I explained that driving would give us more mobility, including driving out to the Cape to visit Kennedy Space Center.
"What's that," she asked.
"That's where they launch the space shuttle."
"THE SPACE SHUTTLE!" Her eyes were wide and I described the rocket garden and getting to see assembly rooms and things that have actually gone to space. She was rapt, excited, dreamy even.
She is so our daughter. A little geek at heart.
"Yeah, but dad," she said in closing, "you know they won't let you go in a rocket. You aren't allowed."
"I know, Gert. I know. That's what it says on the court order."
Friday, December 22, 2006
So, This is Christmas?
Here I sit in an easy chair in our bedroom typing on the laptop, hoping to squeeze in a few minutes, maybe even hours, of work while a pathetic five-year-old lays delirious in our bed, fighting a high fever. Her preteen sister is completely unconscious in her own bed, hopefully to wake before dinner. She’s not sick. She just sleeps a lot these days. And doesn’t bathe, unless we force her to. It’s like living with a monkey with fashion sense and good grades.
But the little one is fighting a high fever. She was attacked by the fever yesterday during the winter party in her Early Childhood class. Five minutes into it, just as they were starting all the activities, getting out the games and spreading out food, she had to go home. She cried. Nay, she wept.
You see, she had been waiting for weeks for this party. She had planned her outfit, made sure it was clean, tried on special shoes. She was dressed to the nines, in her velvet winter dress and fancy shoes that didn’t match, but were purchased for her cousin’s wedding. It didn’t matter. They were the nicest shoes she owns and this party was important.
She planned ahead. She had to go to the sitter’s before school and she planned on telling her to let her eat light because there would be lots of food at the party. And they did have good food. But poor Gert never got to eat a bite. Instead, she was at home burning like a furnace.
Now she’s lying on my bed watching Christmas specials. That’s right, she’s sick only a few days before Christmas, the Super Bowl of a kid’s year. There are parties and family gatherings that need to be gone to, presents to be gotten. But if this fever runs the course the school thinks it will run, she will be doing exactly this until next Thursday. Seven days of fever, high fever and general malaise. We’re hoping they're wrong. We’re hoping that Matilda doesn’t get it. Mom and I can handle it. Jack us up with enough Advil and coffee, we can do anything. But a kid? Missing a Christmas party?
Life sucks.
Last night she came into our room at four o’clock and crawled in bed with us. She told Mom that she heard a voice in her room and that’s why she was here, not because of the nuclear reactor generating heat in her body.
“What did the voice say,” Mom asked.
“Have fun,” Gert replied in her Tom Waits voice.
Not sure if the voice belonged to the Ghost of Christmas on Layaway, we all decided at that point it was safer to stay in bed until the sun rose. It was a chore because I really had to pee.
But there she lays. Three days before Christmas, two days before my family’s Christmas blow out. Sad, little lump that she is.
She’s perking up now thanks to the alternating course of Tylenol and Advil (whatever doctor came up with that idea was a genius), but we know that it’s fleeting. Soon the fever will rear its ugly head and send her back down. She’ll look at me with her heavy-lidded gaze and I’ll wish I could fix everything.
Instead, we’re going to the kitchen to have some Cinnamon toast. I think I’ll use red and green sugar to make it a little more festive. And maybe we’ll sing a carol or two while she feels okay.
After all, she deserves her holiday party. Even if it’s just on a piece of toast.
But the little one is fighting a high fever. She was attacked by the fever yesterday during the winter party in her Early Childhood class. Five minutes into it, just as they were starting all the activities, getting out the games and spreading out food, she had to go home. She cried. Nay, she wept.
You see, she had been waiting for weeks for this party. She had planned her outfit, made sure it was clean, tried on special shoes. She was dressed to the nines, in her velvet winter dress and fancy shoes that didn’t match, but were purchased for her cousin’s wedding. It didn’t matter. They were the nicest shoes she owns and this party was important.
She planned ahead. She had to go to the sitter’s before school and she planned on telling her to let her eat light because there would be lots of food at the party. And they did have good food. But poor Gert never got to eat a bite. Instead, she was at home burning like a furnace.
Now she’s lying on my bed watching Christmas specials. That’s right, she’s sick only a few days before Christmas, the Super Bowl of a kid’s year. There are parties and family gatherings that need to be gone to, presents to be gotten. But if this fever runs the course the school thinks it will run, she will be doing exactly this until next Thursday. Seven days of fever, high fever and general malaise. We’re hoping they're wrong. We’re hoping that Matilda doesn’t get it. Mom and I can handle it. Jack us up with enough Advil and coffee, we can do anything. But a kid? Missing a Christmas party?
Life sucks.
Last night she came into our room at four o’clock and crawled in bed with us. She told Mom that she heard a voice in her room and that’s why she was here, not because of the nuclear reactor generating heat in her body.
“What did the voice say,” Mom asked.
“Have fun,” Gert replied in her Tom Waits voice.
Not sure if the voice belonged to the Ghost of Christmas on Layaway, we all decided at that point it was safer to stay in bed until the sun rose. It was a chore because I really had to pee.
But there she lays. Three days before Christmas, two days before my family’s Christmas blow out. Sad, little lump that she is.
She’s perking up now thanks to the alternating course of Tylenol and Advil (whatever doctor came up with that idea was a genius), but we know that it’s fleeting. Soon the fever will rear its ugly head and send her back down. She’ll look at me with her heavy-lidded gaze and I’ll wish I could fix everything.
Instead, we’re going to the kitchen to have some Cinnamon toast. I think I’ll use red and green sugar to make it a little more festive. And maybe we’ll sing a carol or two while she feels okay.
After all, she deserves her holiday party. Even if it’s just on a piece of toast.
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