The things a daddy does
This is what all the fussing and cussing was about. To give you an idea of the size, it is 51 inches tall.
I always knew my husband would be a good dad. I never heard even a hint of "must have a son" from him (even though he does loves sports). Now that our daughter has gotten a little older, she is serving capably as a playmate for him. They play Lego Batman on the PS3, they talk about super heroes, and they rummage through the pantry (in search of baked goods) together. They conspire to keep things from me, such as a red light accidentally run and a hunk of toothpaste smeared on a freshly-laundered dress. Last night I was on the phone with my mom but could hear the two of them singing Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, replacing all of the verbs with the word "fart." They were both howling with laughter.
I took care of most of the Christmas preparations, but P took it upon himself to go out and get her four sets of super hero figurines. "Ugh," I thought. He handed them to me to wrap and I put as little effort into it as humanly possible.
When A opened those packages on Christmas morning, however, the two of them huddled excitedly over the action figures. "That's the Flash! That's Wolverine!" They talked about which of the toys depicted super heroes and which were villains. I just shook my head. "Bless their nerdy little hearts," I thought. But then it happened: Wonder Woman somehow turned up in the dollhouse.
"No super heroes in the dollhouse!" I said (quite emphatically, I might add.)
"Maybe the super heroes can hang out in the attic of the dollhouse," replied my husband as he posed Wonder Woman in the kitchen.
"How about we dig a hole under the dollhouse and they can live down there?" I suggested.
Meanwhile, one of the legitimate inhabitants of the dollhouse, the mama, disappeared. We searched everywhere for her. Later, we learned that the figurine had never left the dollhouse - my daughter had shoved her into the oven and closed the door. I am not really sure what to make of that. I had trouble finding a family to live in the dollhouse and bought what I could find, which is why the house is inhabited by an African-American mom, an Asian dad, and a blond-haired, blue eyed daughter. We're all about diversity here, people.
On Christmas Day, our daughter received a little make-up set from my sister-in-law (and T, if you are reading my blog: this is war. Your kid is getting a drum kit and a puppy from us next Christmas. And oil paints.) The set included little bottles of nail polish. The kid demanded to have her fingernails painted almost immediately. And P, God bless him, obliged. When he was done painting her nails, he blew on them. Then he flapped his hands at the wrist and said, "Dry them like this."
When I met that young Marine on the dance floor those many years ago, I never pictured the day when he would paint his little girl's nails and, moreover, do it so precisely. I never imagined that young jarhead saying, "Wipe your gyna*!" and then making up a little song about the importance of doing just that.
In a few years, when she is accusing us of ruining her life just by breathing, I hope she'll remember . . .
I took care of most of the Christmas preparations, but P took it upon himself to go out and get her four sets of super hero figurines. "Ugh," I thought. He handed them to me to wrap and I put as little effort into it as humanly possible.
When A opened those packages on Christmas morning, however, the two of them huddled excitedly over the action figures. "That's the Flash! That's Wolverine!" They talked about which of the toys depicted super heroes and which were villains. I just shook my head. "Bless their nerdy little hearts," I thought. But then it happened: Wonder Woman somehow turned up in the dollhouse.
"No super heroes in the dollhouse!" I said (quite emphatically, I might add.)
"Maybe the super heroes can hang out in the attic of the dollhouse," replied my husband as he posed Wonder Woman in the kitchen.
"How about we dig a hole under the dollhouse and they can live down there?" I suggested.
Meanwhile, one of the legitimate inhabitants of the dollhouse, the mama, disappeared. We searched everywhere for her. Later, we learned that the figurine had never left the dollhouse - my daughter had shoved her into the oven and closed the door. I am not really sure what to make of that. I had trouble finding a family to live in the dollhouse and bought what I could find, which is why the house is inhabited by an African-American mom, an Asian dad, and a blond-haired, blue eyed daughter. We're all about diversity here, people.
On Christmas Day, our daughter received a little make-up set from my sister-in-law (and T, if you are reading my blog: this is war. Your kid is getting a drum kit and a puppy from us next Christmas. And oil paints.) The set included little bottles of nail polish. The kid demanded to have her fingernails painted almost immediately. And P, God bless him, obliged. When he was done painting her nails, he blew on them. Then he flapped his hands at the wrist and said, "Dry them like this."
When I met that young Marine on the dance floor those many years ago, I never pictured the day when he would paint his little girl's nails and, moreover, do it so precisely. I never imagined that young jarhead saying, "Wipe your gyna*!" and then making up a little song about the importance of doing just that.
In a few years, when she is accusing us of ruining her life just by breathing, I hope she'll remember . . .
*pronounced "guy-na" - it's a family term
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