Zander: Dad! I’ve got so many cars to turn over!!
Me: (Pausing from my duties in the kitchen to listen) Really? Why is that?
Zander: Well.. I put all of my cars in my backpack. Then my backpack was too heavy so I dumped them all out on the floor.
Me: Yeah..
Zander: Well, now they’re all over the floor and they’re upside down. So I have to turn them over.
Me: I see.
Zander: No you don’t. They’re in the other room!
It’s not acceptable to punch a little kid, right?
“Could I have another zwer-wink, please?”
“Zander. It’s a D. Say it. Dah Dah Dah. Dah-Rink.”
“Zwer–”
“No! Dah. Dah. D. Say the D.”
Zander has problems with diction. Certain letters and words he is just unable to articulate correctly. I blame his fingers. Namely the fact that he continues to suck them and essentially has learned to speak with his fingers in his mouth. His tongue is so used to forming words around the fingers that even when he takes them out–you can’t tell the difference.
It drives me nuts!
And so went our little lesson this evening during dinner. He wanted another drink and I wanted him to pronounce the word correctly. We tried.
And tried.
“Dah—-rink. Dah–rink. Dah-rink.” I tried to get him to repeat it with me.
“Dih Dih Dih,” he forced from his lips.
Zoë chimed in, an attempt to help. “You could say der—rink!. Der. Der. Der. Der—rink.”
“Or you could just say——drink!” Zia offered clearly fed up with the whole exercise. “Just give him some more milk, Dad.”
Sometimes, they are just words. They should have meaning. Depth. Instead they are hastily formed without emotion, little more than making sure the spelling is correct.
My head was full this morning of thoughts and ideas. Words to express how truly grateful I am. How fortunate I am. Emotions muddled.
Words like–my greatest joy–mute when I tried to speak them. Others like–my true, my purpose, everything, beautiful, happy were left swimming in my head.
These words and more I wanted to shower upon you this morning, This day that is yours. This Mother’s Day.
And now it’s too late. For nothing that I could say or pen will ever compare, let alone compete, with the outpouring of genuine emotion that came from our dear son, Zane.
“Dear Mom,
Thank you for working so we don’t have to live in the street.”
How am I supposed to compete with that!
Zia: “Hey, Dad. Whatcha doin?”
Me: “I’m just cleaning the kitchen.”
Zia: “Oh…..(short pause to catch her breath)……I’m running around.”
And with that she turned and raced from the room, screaming as she ran.
It’s a good life!
Zane: Hey, Dad? Can we start going to church a little more often?
Me: Well, sure. I suppose that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Why do you ask, though?
Zane: Because, Lent starts tomorrow and I just thought it would be a good thing to do for Lent.
Me: (Thinking about what a good kid he is.) You’re absolutely right. We should make an effort to go to church more often. So Lent, huh?
Zane: Yeah.
Me: So, Zane—-What are you giving up for Lent?
Zane: (Pausing just a moment to think, looked up with a sincere smile and proudly announced…) CARROTS!
Zella: I have on a hat!
Me: I see that Zel…
Zella: It’s a Superman hat!
Me: No….that’s a fireman hat.
Zella: It’s a Superman hat!
Me: Zella, Superman doesn’t wear a hat.
Zella: Oh. (pausing a moment to think) Do clowns?
Me: Well, sure. Sometimes they do.
Zella: Then you’re a clown! And I’m Superman.
I’m not sure, but I think I was just insulted by my 2 year old.
He doesn’t miss much. His ability to absorb a scene, noting minute details in just a flash is something to behold. Zane and I were watching some football this weekend as a father and his six year old athlete want-to-be son are oft prone to do.
At one point during the afternoon a commercial for NFL.com is shown. In the commercial some guy in an airport is engrossed with his laptop and NFL.com when Marissa Miller (shame on you if you have to ask) comes and sits down next to the guy. She takes a peek over the guy’s shoulder and rather than acknowledge her, he glares, turns away and shields his laptop. Marissa smiles, rolls her eyes, lifts up her cover issue of SI and begins reading. (It was over in a matter of seconds.)
Excerpts of the conversation that followed…..
Zane: Dad, why are there girls in Sports Illustrated?
Me: Why wouldn’t there be girls? Girls play sports, too. Why do you ask?
Zane: But that girl. She wasn’t playing sports. (Oh…..Now I see.)
Zane: Why do they have one with just girls in it? (Referring to the Swimsuit Issue.)
Me: Buddy, trust me. One of these days you are going to appreciate that issue. Really. You will look forward to it.
Zane looked at me, cocked his little head to the side and thought for a second.
Then he laughed and said, “Dad, you’re so crazy!”
I file them in like little ducks. Everywhere. It’s a scene of repetition, an endless replay loop of loading and unloading, filing in and out from car to door and back again. I’m kind of used to it now. It’s commonplace. This morning I had some information to pick up from the church office. I’ve been conned into leading the 3-4 year old class at this year’s Vacation Bible School. (God bless my mother-in-law!) And so each morning next week I’ll be leading a group of 3 and 4 year old children in their daily Bible School activities for St. Mary’s Catholic Church. It’s kind of funny. My sister-in-law said, “Wait. Aren’t you Methodist?” “It’s worse than that,” I replied. “I’m Baptist.”
So as I pick up my information packet this morning the woman at the church office proclaims, “My, don’t you have a lot of helpers.” To which came the following responses:
Zoë: I help a lot. I made Daddy’s coffee this morning. (She did. And it was great. Irish cream–freshly ground beans.)
Zane: I help, too. Sometimes I make the coffee.
Zia (speaking in her loudest outside voice that begs to be heard above the clamor or four siblings): I don’t do anything. I’m just cuteness!
She’s got a point.
