Father Daughter Dialogue

On the first day back to school after a lovely and relaxing Winter Break, things were running a bit behind schedule. I had to preserve this, because it so perfectly captures how things go these days. This is from an email that Captain Sweetie sent to me about his morning with Sursels:

She, as we headed out the door, sarcastically: "Daddy, I'm hoping that we can hold off on any snow shoveling or any other kind of distraction this morning." (I swear, she sounded EXACTLY like me, down to the one of voice.)

Then later, clearly not being able to let go of this, she said, "Why exactly were you running late this morning?"

Me: "I had to iron a shirt".

She: "Wouldn't it have been better to iron it last night?"

Me: "Yes, honey, but I was busy last night paying bills, and didn't check my shirt until this morning. Sorry we're running late, we'll still get there on time"

She: "Well, couldn't you.... oh never mind."

Quietly fuming about the delay

Me: "I think we're going to get there by 7:57. Not great, but not late"

She: "They have this middle school gathering thing on Monday. To sort of 'bring the school together'. It's kind of annoying."

Me: "Here we are, 7:56, not too bad!"

She: "We got lucky."

Who's kid is she, hunh?

The same sarcasm, the same inability to let things go.

The same need to MAKE THE POINT THAT YOU SCREWED UP AND IT'S INCONVENIENCING ME AND I DON'T WANT YOU TO DO IT AGAIN.

Oh yeah, un hunh, I know how to press her buttons because I INSTALLED THEM. Snap!

I love my family.

Mother's Day and Nicknames

My lovely family took me out to dinner on Mother's Day (Mothers' Day? Well, MY day anyway)--mostly because I insisted. While dining, we had a conversation about nicknames.

Sursels has the kind of personality that lends itself to friends creating nicknames for her. Tonks is such a loving older sister, and also so verbal, that when we started counting off how many nicknames Sursels has (and we forgot to add "Sursels") we were quickly approaching 20.

We came up with about 4 for Tonks.

Me? If you exclude the titles "Mom" and "Mama," I have one. Cate.

To which Tonks reached across the table and patted my hand. "We love you. You just don't have a nickname."

It was the way she said it, coupled with that sympathizing hand pat: "We love you." It just hit me as sweet, and sad, and funny all at once.

THAT is a Mother's Day present to cherish. After all, Tonks is 15, and a public declaration of her affection is not something I expect by any means.

The Irish Al Capone

You know, there is much wisdom in the current trend to give children unusual names. I say that because my brother and his two sons have very straightforward White Anglo-Saxon Protestant names.

Which it turns out they share with Irish terrorists, so they are on the no-fly lists.

This was especially a problem as they tried to fly out to vacation in Palm Springs last week. The cranky NWA employee at the ticket counter (are they getting screwed on contract negotiations? on the merger with Delta?) was completely flummoxed by the fact that my 12 year old nephew was a child, and thus did not have a driver's license to verify that he was not some radical IRA member bent on making a point to the English. In Palm Springs.

So this cranky employee just kept typing away at her terminal, and not saying anything to my brother or his wife about what was going on. For forty minutes. As the time for the flight got closer and closer and they started to get panicky about actually making the plane.

"What's going on?" they asked.

Cranky NWA employee said nothing for a long time, then said she couldn't clear my nephew to fly.

This has happened before, and it has taken a supervisor to come over and input some sort of override, which is pretty easy to convince them to do, since my 12 year old nephew is short and wiry and looks younger than his 8 year old brother.

"It would take too long to send you over to the supervisor. You will miss your plane," says cranky employee. "Of course, you are going to miss your plane anyway."

Finally, someone gets wind of the situation, and a supervisor comes over, and the problem is resolved in 10 seconds. They manage to make the plane, but are NOT in the most relaxed mood. Except for my nephew, who has now dubbed himself "The Irish Al Capone," and demands to be treated with RESPECT!

Do You Hear What I Hear?

The Famille Evil attended a Christmas concert this evening. The conductor and MC was an older woman who spoke very quickly, and so her words tended to blur together as they traveled the vast open spaces up to the balcony where we sat.

The event included a sing along of old, well known carols--first verses only--but some are not often sung these days. Thus, I had the following whispered colloquy with Bunny:

Bunny: What did she say?

Me: "Good King Wenceslaus."

Bunny: I thought she said "Good King What's-his-face."

See how the brain works to make some sense of random syllables?

They're At It Again!

Bunny and Pony are having dinner together in the dining room. You can tell they are having a good time, because the volume is turned up to "raucous."

That's the thing with these girls: they get so engaged in their stories and interactions that the punchlines of their jokes tend to get VERY LOUD. It's hard to listen to, because the actual words they are saying get lost in the VERY LOUD VOICES.

But tonight, it couldn't be a sweeter sound: because Pony has been sick for at least the last four days, lying in bed and looking like a pale imitation of herself. She's been in to the nurse practitioner, on antibiotics for 48 hours, and not getting better. This afternoon, she hit a skid, and felt absolutely terrible--and looked it too.

And then, about an hour after that, she started to feel better. You can look in her eyes and the spark that is Pony is there again! By dinner time, she was feeling well enough to be silly with her sister, and that was the very best sound I've heard for several days.

Me (to Bunny): It is so good to hear your sister laughing again, it makes my little heart go pitty-pat.

Bunny: You mean your Evil heart?

Me: Yes, my wrinkled, cold, hard heart, that lies like a dried-up peach pit in my chest. That one.

Bunny: It grew three sizes today!

My children--they know me too well.

1 Rm Gdn Vu

We all know that a teenager's room is a disaster area--it's a comic convention. Which doesn't mean it's funny.

Pony's room had gotten unmanageable. I couldn't get in to get the laundry hamper. I couldn't get in to deliver clean laundry. Pony couldn't find anything to wear on Sunday. I went in to help her and twisted my ankle! It was time for action.

So, while the rest of the Evils were at church, I took on the project.

Realize that we have a small (but charming!) house. It's a late 19th century farmhouse within the city limits--back then, this was countryside. Mr. Sweetie and I bought the house back when it was just the two of us and two little dogs. We had absolutely no plans to have children.

Then we had children.

Which was fine and wonderful and all the positive and negative things parenting is. But suddenly the guest bedroom was going to be for a permanent guest.

Back in the early 90s, my decorating style was all about Laura Ashley/Victorian. Lots of pink, frankly. The guest room was painted a pale yellow (Benjamin Moore "Pearly Gates" IIRC), with a floral wallpaper border from Laura Ashley. We put the family heirloom three-quarter bed (handmade cherry four-poster) in there, with a blue and white quilt. The dresser is also "antique"--possibly from the 1940s. It was terrifically charming. After the crib went into the Bunny's room, all the dark wood antiques went back in. And Pony, being little, had no say.

As time passed, things accumulated. I added some inexpensive white storage from Target--drawers, shelves, etc., to hold books, art projects, science presentations. The baby art remained on the walls as well--a lovely print of sheep and lambs in blues and greys; a Morrisot growth chart; a classic Pooh picture. Again, none of it Pony's choice.

So yesterday, I started moving things. Out. Out of her room. I thought I might just tidy up, get her started, but I quickly realized what you must realize by now: a kid almost in high school doesn't really want to keep all this stuff. But, she also probably doesn't want to be the one to decide to get rid of it. A sentimental dilemma. So I made part of the decision for her, and just took everything out.

Everything off the walls.

Everything on the shelves.

All the shelves.

All the stuff that was displayed, or stacked, or tucked into corners---all of it out.

I left the bed and the dresser. After all, she did need a place to sleep.

And when she came home and saw the newly naked room--she was really excited and happy! Because she had never even imagined her room being such a blank slate. A couple of times during the day she announced "I'm going up into my empty room."

It didn't take her long to decide--she wanted to make her room Asian. I think she may want to keep the bed and the dresser, but everything else is not going back in. She's not ready to part with it all yet--that's what a basement is for, I guess. It is, however, a major step for the kid who never wanted anything to change.

First item of business? I think maybe we will change the Peter Rabbit light switch.

Non-Sequiturs Explained

We took the kidlets to see 1776 at the Guthrie Theater last week. After being in Williamsburg in March, it was a natural, and was a huge hit at Chez Evil. The Bunny downloaded "The Lees Of Old Virginia" from iTunes, they've located film clips on YouTube, and the snappier lines have had a second life around the dinner table.

I saw the film about a million years ago, and didn't remember it being quite so, um, well not exactly indecent, but there were a good number of jokes and references to sexual activity and sexual organs. Not overtly, of course, but unmistakeably salacious to those who can parse the wit. Thomas Jefferson doesn't want to write the Declaration because he wants to go home to his wife. "I burn, Mr. Adams."

Adams sends for Martha Jefferson, and Thomas takes her up to his room, and closes the door on Adams and Franklin. Adams wonders, "In the middle of the day? Incredible." Franklin goads him with "Not everybody is from Boston, John."

Perhaps most obscure is the comment Franklin makes objecting to being called an Englishman. He says "It is like a ox being called a bull. He is thankful for the honor, but would prefer to have restored what is rightfully his." His antagonist, John Dickinson retorts, "When did you first notice they were missing?"

So, after three hours of singing and dancing their way to Independence, as we were walking out of the theater, Pony says to Bunny "If you like this, you'll love Romeo and Juliet."

On the face of it, that is about the most ridiculous comparison ever. A musical comedy revue and a 16th century tragedy? The signing of the Declaration of Independence and the deaths of Paris, Tybalt, Mercutio, Romeo and Juliet? Does affinity for one really mean a fondness for the other?

I think that the Pony meant that the mental exercise of processing the jokes is similar. Pony did say that part of the fun of the 1776 was the verbal wordplay. Like Shakespeare, she said, where you have to think a little bit before you get what is being said. (Pony has had a wonderful English teacher, who made Shakespeare very accessible and even explained the naughty bits.) So, for her, there is more similarity between the Broadway production and the classic tragedy than I would have recognized.

Chivalry Lives

Sometimes, you get such an interesting perspective on your own life from listening to your kids talking to each other. At least, I do.

This evening, we were in the MamaVan, driving across town with my iPod on, playing tunes the kidlets hadn't been around for the first time: Sinead O'Connor, Lisa Loeb. And I was singing along, as I do. This in itself shouldn't be torture; I have been told by disinterested parties that I have a nice singing voice. The scene went something like this:

Bunny: (skeptically and a bit dramatically) Mama. Are you singing?

Me: Well, yes. I like to sing.

Bunny: (very dramatically) But that's torture! That's horrible! How can you do that?!?

Pony: (quietly, in contrast to Bunny's loudness, and perhaps so I don't hear) You can't do that. Mama doesn't tease us, so you can't tease Mama.

Bunny: (immediately stopping the histrionics and putting on an arranged expression of remorse) Sorry Mama.

Of course I said it was okay, and that I appreciated the apology, but I was surprised. I don't think of myself as "the one who doesn't tease," because I think of myself as "the one who is not as fun as Daddy." From this little snippet of insight, maybe the fact that I don't tease is actually something the girls value. I was struck by how deeply they felt the Golden Rule imperative--so that my two girls--my two silly and funny and delightful and happy girls--immediately responded to my being teased as something inappropriate. I was very touched, and my dried and shriveled up heart got a little bigger.

I do love these girls (I know, it's a big secret, isn't it?) and they continue to delight and amaze me, even at their advanced ages. They are really growing up, leaving childhood behind, and embracing the larger world as it opens up to them. But it looks to me like they are bringing some of the best of childhood along with them as they grow.

Easter Bunnies

So, Easter kind of snuck up on me--in that our vacation went until Palm Sunday, and what with getting home and unpacked and back into school routines and dog routines and regular life, I suddenly realized that I was going to be on call to pull off a holiday.

(Incidentally, the hardest part of coming back from vacation? The fact that the Nice Person doesn't take the plates away after you are finished with them and make them disappear. No, once you are at home, YOU have to do the dishes.)

I remembered by Saturday, however, and had time to pick up brunch ingredients, Easter candy and a couple of cool books for presents. Easter Chez Evil is traditionally an Easter egg hunt, with little candies in plastic eggs, and little gifts or coins, and sometimes a slip of paper with a gift for [your name here].

So, Mr. Sweetie and the kidlets had been packed off to church, the cinnamon rolls and turkey medallions were coming along nicely in the oven, and. . . .

I couldn't find the Easter eggs. I bought eggs about, oh, eleven years ago? And had some old baskets that we used each year? And I usually put the whole shebang (there's a word you don't here often any more) into a box that I store in the basement. This year? No box. Couldn't find it anywhere.

So, church is over, family is returning to brunch and egg hunt, they think, and I have no plastic eggs. Quick! It's Captain Internet! Boy, am I glad to see you! Can you tell me if there are any stores open on Easter morning where I can quick get some plastic eggs?

Cape flowing with the speed of typing, Captain Internet scans the websites of the likely candidates. Alas! The vestiges of Blue Laws mean that in the multi-cultural 21st Century, where on ordinary days a noticeable percentage of the staff in retail is Muslim. . .everything is closed for Easter.

So, in the end, I wrapped up the gifts and notes in Kleenex (TM) and hid them around. I took 10 pieces of each of 3 kinds of candy and hid that--so we would know when it was all found. I had a single basket, which the kidlets shared. And you know what? They thought it was cool. They liked the gifts, we had a tasty brunch, and all was well.

But you can bet your ass that I was at Target before 8:30 this morning buying plastic eggs for next year.

Modern Education

Pony's 7th grade geography class is doing reports on various countries. One of her classmates is doing a Latin American country, with a focus on the drug trade. We had this conversation:

Pony: So, then he said "I even have a recipe for cocaine! Do you want to hear it?" And we all said "NOOOOO."

Me: A recipe? For cocaine? What, like "take two eggs and a stick of butter?"

Pony: Preheat oven to 350 degrees and pour in powder. . .wait, that's brownies.

I love my family!

Be Careful What You Wish For!

Mr. Sweetie has just leaned over my shoulder as I was posting. "When are you going to write about meeeeeeee?" he asked.

I could feel the evil smile sliding across my face. Hmmm. He really wants a post about him? Seriously? I mean, seriously?

...

...

...

Oh, but I love him too much to do that to him. At least, I won't do it right now.

What The Kids Are Saying These Days

The family returned to Chez Evil the other day after a couple of hours away. The Dog turned himself nearly inside out with excitement greeting us, each in turn. When he came to the Bunny, she bent down and looked right into his eyes and said, seriously:

"Yo. Word up, Dawg."

Even The Dog was taken aback. So, we have the world's whitest gangsta, right here at Chez Evil.