Little m Long a

Always tell the truth.  That way, you never have to remember what you said. Mark Twain

According to legend, and other manuscripts held in general high regard, there are ten commandments.  Ten rather specific edicts which, if  followed closely, serve a fairly good moral foundation.  Arguably, a person that holds to these tenets would be in pretty good standing with the rest of society.  God, too.

Conversely, the person (whomever he or she may be) that voluntarily acts in such a manner that directly opposes these ten simple rules would as a result fail to maintain such elevated standing with society.  Or her parents.

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So we’re in the car yesterday, as we often are,  and we’re having a conversation, as we often do.  I’m not quite sure where the conversation turned or how it got here, but it did.

Maura expressed her deep love of all things football.  I echoed my fondness and Zane chimed in as well.  Then Zoë spoke up,

“Well, I don’t like football.  I thinks it’s dumb.”

In horror, he may have even shrieked, Zane said, “Anyone who doesn’t like football will have to leave the family.”

To which Zoë nonchalantly replied, “I don’t care.”

Without missing a beat, Zane shot back at her, “Fine!  Best of luck at the orphanage, Zoë.  I hope they have good gruel.”

I stepped on a moonbeam at the top of the stairs last night.  The damn thing nearly tripped me.  Funny thing, moonbeams.

That actually has nothing to do with anything but for some reason I felt it needed sharing.  My world seems to be spinning at an alarmingly fast pace as of late.  Not out of control, mind you, just faster.   I’m struggling to keep pace fearful that I’m going to miss something important or at the very least fail to recognize that something significant is happening.

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Zoë:  Dad, what’s for dinner?

Me:  You’re sitting right next to it.  I told you that you’d see it again.

I made a nod towards the bag from Panera.  The bag from Panera containing the uneaten portions of sandwiches and soup that were left over from lunch.  The kids had begged for something to eat and were beside themselves with excitement when we stopped to pick up the soup and sandwiches.

They ate practically nothing.

Zia, whom I thought was sleeping, chimed up from the back seat:  Well, in my world again means tomorrow!

(We had spaghetti.)

The last time I checked, I had successfully completed the third grade.  OK, successfully might be stretching it as a descriptor but I made it through.  And no, I do not have a diploma or letter of recognition to commemorate the occasion.  But then again, I come from an era where mediocrity was not celebrated.

It was expected.

It was generally assumed that if at the end of the third grade school year your name is on the list of students moving to the fourth grade that you had completed the requirements for the third grade.  There were no ceremonies, no pomp.  Just move along.

How is it, then, that I find myself once again in Mrs. Reed’s third grade classroom?

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The van had a button.  Things were pretty easy.  You want the back lift-gate open?  Press a button.  You want the back lift-gate shut?  Press the button again.  Easy.

We don’t have the van anymore.

In all honesty, that is the only feature I miss about that van when compared to our new vehicle.  Well, new is kind of stretching it.  It was new to us in June.  New to us I have to say because the actual newness of the vehicle wore off some two years earlier when it was in fact at that time a new vehicle.

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Yesterday, I had a little girl.

Yesterday...

And then…..

A few years passed by

And suddenly….

She grew up.

And I love her more and more with each passing day.

Still My Little Girl

Happy Birthday, Zoë!

As spoken to me this morning by Zoë’s little friend, one of two who spent the night with Zoë in honor of her birthday party.

Westayedupunitlthreeo’clockinthemorning!

Wewatchedtwomoviesbutwecouldhavewatchedthree.

Thenwedideachothers’hair.

Andthenwehadapillowfight.

Afterthatweplayedwiththecat.

Ican’thavecoffeeunlessit’sthedecafkind.

MymomsaysIdon’tneedthecaffeine……

It took me a while to understand it, too.

With school officially back in full swing, we
are finally settling into some routines.  Namely, homework
routines.  To say it’s been a struggle to get Zoë to buckle down and
focus on her work would be a gross understatement.  She has issues with
focus.  Some things she just feels are more important.

I get that.  I, too have been known to stray from the task at
hand.  I prefer to call it multitasking.  However, when it
comes to her schoolwork, focus is a priority.  House rule.

I try to check all of her work but there are other things that need my
attention and at times, my job in that regard fails miserably.
Fortunately, Maura is there to pick up the slack.  Even on nights when
she is working late she will make sure to give  Zoë’s work a good
once over before going to bed.

The other night she noticed quite a few errors and left a note to Zoë
enumerating each.  She also left me a note to make sure that I went over
the problems with Zoë before she left for school that morning.  It’s
what she does.  Maura leaves notes.

Zoë began reading the note and started correcting the mistakes in her
homework.  When she got to the second page she looked up at me in
frustration, held up the note and said, “Dad, she’s yelling at me in her
note!”

“Welcome to my world, Zoë.”

She started arguing, yelling at the paper in her hand, talking to the note as
if it were Maura in person.

“Zoë, stop arguing.  You know she can’t hear you, right?”

(wagging
the note in the air)  “But Dad, she started it!”

I spent the better part of the morning wrapping arms.  Casting arms, really.  In some convoluted and seriously disturbing realm of the make-believe an accident had occurred.  There were injuries.  Possibly deaths.

A good medic turns attention from the hopeless and focuses on hope.  Salvaging those who realistically have a chance.  There’s little time to mourn the lost.  I didn’t want the details.  “Stay detatched.  Guard your heart,” I kept telling myself.

“You’ll live to fight another day, kid.  You were lucky.”

“Oh, and the pink felt really makes a statement.  It brings out the color in your eyes.”

Zoë offered her arm wrapped in a paper towel and asked for tape.  “I need a cast,” she had said.

Now, I’ve got no qualms with a paper towel cast, but if you’re going to have one it should be done properly.  Batting.  Felt.  It should at least look like a cast.

And so went the morning.  The afternoon was spent at the pool.

We hadn’t made it three feet inside of the door when Zoë made for the casting supplies and ran upstairs to Maura.  “Mom, can you give me a cast?”

“Sure.”  And Maura promptly began applying a textbook sugartong splint.  (It’s what it’s called, seriously–she’s a doctor, she should know.)

“That’s not right!”

“Zoë, it most certainly is right.  This perfect.”

“Well, that’s not how Dad does it.”

“Oh really.  Well I do this all of the time.  In fact, I did this exact splint last night.  When was the last time your Dad made one?”

“This morning.”

Well there you go..

Zoë has this thing about water getting into her nose.  We’ve been trying to coax her into just swim goggles (as opposed to the full on mask she is so fond of) with little success.  Today, we went to the sporting goods store and got a nose plug.  And of course some pink goggles.

We’ll see how it goes in the morning.

We are winding down on another year of piano lessons.  The big project for this month was the Guild Auditions where Zoë had to play before a judge eight selections from memory, transpose one of the pieces, play the scales and cadences associated with each of her memorized pieces and recognize by ear some major and minor chords as well as a few intervals.

Completely nerve wracking does not begin to capture how strung out I have been over this.  Getting Zoë to practice this year has been drudgery.  It’s like bathing cats.  She’s got too many other things she’d rather do.  Focusing on piano lessons unfortunately is not on her list.

I honestly felt she had not practiced well enough for the audition.  I was torn, though, between holding her to the piano and thereby making her loathe it or giving her some leeway and keeping the whole experience enjoyable.  Letting her practice in her own way on her own terms.  We tried to strike a balance.

I thought as the time drew nearer for the audition she would get nervous or buckle down and, now don’t get me wrong, she did practice more, but there was still very little sense of urgency or intensity.  When I picked her up from school today I told her that she had just two hours before the audition.

Her eyes widened and she took a deep breath.  She paused.  I was prepared for the encouraging speech.  You know, let her know everything would be fine that she was ready and would do a great job.  She looked at me, eyes still wide and said, “Do you think I should wear a pretty dress?”

It’s not that she doesn’t care.  She just doesn’t get worried or upset about it.  She’s too busy having fun.  I wish I could be as laid back.

She actually did a fantastic job.  She had one little mistake on Fur Elise–she just skipped three lines.  No pause or stutter.  Just left them out.  The judge made the comment that it was an interesting interpretation of the piece but that she should take another look at the music.

I couldn’t help but laugh because she learned the entire piece by ear and memory.  She never once looked at the music.  Wouldn’t know what she was looking at if she did.

As we left I turned to Zoë and said, “Boy, am I glad that’s over!”

“Why?”

“I’m just glad it’s over.  It’s so much hard work and pressure.”

“Yeah……but not for you!” she replied and then skipped off to the van.

Maybe she takes it more seriously than I give her credit for.  But I’ll be damned if it shows.

Friendships are initiated with little more than a nod or a common lingering glance.  A shared interest in purple.  Companionships are formed more slowly.  Over time, as conversations expand in depth and significance.  Interests are shared, goals mutual.

Relationships are formed of necessity. Of proximity. Of intrigue. Of desire.  Many of these bonds, over the course of a lifetime, will continue to strengthen yet others will simply crumble and wither away.  We cling to what we can, cherish what we’ve got and try not to waste energy on what is forgotten.

Today I observed.  A father.  Proud.

I watched as my daughter.  My first-born.

My Zoë.

Received her first communion.

She was beautiful as was the ceremony.  I watched her glow as she spoke with her classmates, with the parents of her classmates, with the priest, with total strangers.  No apprehension or timidity was evident.  She was confident and comfortable.  Happy to be in a place with friends and family.  Content with exactly who she is.

It will truly be a day she will never forget.
She continues to take steps on a journey that will last a lifetime.  At least that is my wish for her.  My desire for her.  For I know all too well how tenuous a relationship with faith can be.  It takes work and sometimes the work is not so easy.  It’s not uncommon to question it’s merit.

But the work is rewarding and it does have merit.  There is little in this world more valuable than our faith and the relationship we form through it. Zoë is learning that in an exciting way.

My hope is that when the pageantry is over, her faith will hold just as strong.  I don’t need to worry about the beauty part.

She’s got that pretty well locked up.

I asked her not to do it.  Actually, I told her not to do it.  NO MORE NOTES!  My tolerance reserves have been tapped out and there is no foreseeable replenishment on the horizon.  Frustrated hardly comes close to describing my general state right now.

Zoë, fresh off of her stint in detention, has brought home another note from her teacher.  Another note that magnifies and over-inflates the most trivial, yet meaningless and common of second grader actions and activities.  And as has become the norm, the note begins, “Zoë has made a poor choice…”

Really?  Poor choice??  Is that really what you are trying to say?  Are those the carefully chosen words you really want to use?  Poor choice or rather, “Zoë has once again done something to annoy me and I don’t know how to cope!”

Poor choices, to me, would be something akin to “Zoë thought it would be fun to test the fire alarm during mass,” or “Zoë thought it would be a good idea to show the third grade class her underpants.”  Poor choices, to me, might be be somewhere along the lines of, “Zoë decided to see how much tissue the third floor bathroom toilet could hold without it overflowing and flooded the two floors beneath it,” or “Zoë thought sharing food was acceptable and threw her peanut butter sandwich across the lunchroom starting the most horrendous food fight in St. Mary’s history.”

Those are poor choices.

But “Zoë pressed the buttons on her friend’s digital watch and messed up the settings.”  That is not a poor choice.  That is a kid doing what a kid is supposed to do.  They explore.  They touch.  They feel.  They press buttons.

Unfortunately, she pressed your buttons.

Certainly there were no malicious intents and, she asked her friend’s permission.  The same friend, of course, that sold her up the river when she realized you were annoyed and denied having granted permission.

Zoë rarely expresses frustration.  Ask her how her day was and without fail you will get a “Great!” or “Fantastic!” or “Best Day Ever!”  She’s happy and content to the very core.  But this morning I got a glimpse of something else.

While talking about an appointment we need to reschedule, I told her it may not be until June and that at least we wouldn’t have to worry about missing school.  She said it was OK if she had to miss class for the appointment.  I explained to her that the earliest we could get the appointment was June and that we would be out of school for summer.

She looked up with widened eyes at the realization that the school year is coming closer to an end and pumping a fist said, “Yes!  Finally, my teacher won’t be yelling at me anymore!”

It has been a long–loooonnnnggg–school year made ever more so by the ridiculous focus on the minutiae of the life of a second grader.  The scary part is, I’ve got 4 more I’ll be sending her way over the next several years.  And she thinks Zoë is a handful.  God help us all when the twins get there!

“Dad….I’ve got something to tell you and you’re probably going to be mad.”

“Oh, I don’t know Zoë.  When you put it to me like that.”

“Did my teacher call you?”

“Oh Lord, Zoë.  No, she didn’t What is it this time?”

“I got detention.”

“For what??!!”

“Not doing my homework.”

I suppose I should stop the recounting of our conversation here.  Zoë does her homework.  Daily.  We have a homework routine that would rival many Harvard scholars.  I credit my wife here for if it were left to me, the kids would wile away the afternoon hours idly playing in mud puddles, counting clouds and throwing rocks into the river.

As it is, we spend the time more productively with our studies: reading, mathematics, geography, spelling….you know–school stuff.  To that mix there are a couple of study books in which Zoë is to complete daily lessons.  Her only task is to make sure she brings the books home each night so that she can complete the lessons and return them to school the next morning to be checked.

Zoë has yet to embrace the significance of her daily shuttle missions and on more than one occasion forgotten the books at school.  According to her detention slip–4 times.  Seems her teacher was counting.  (I know.  It really seems pretty benign but there are rules…..sigh)

So my little girl, my trail blazer, my rebel is scheduled to serve her first detention.  (Notice I said first.  There will be more–of this I feel certain.)  True to form, though, detention is just one more check on Zoë’s Great List of Adventures.

She was busy yesterday evening making wardrobe plans for the next dress down day.  I told her that maybe she shouldn’t be so hasty there as if she recalls she had just informed me she was serving detention.  Maybe there should be some consequences to that.

“But, Dad,” she said smiling, almost giddy.  “There’s not.  I just get to sit with the teachers for a while after school!”