Which is right?

Which is right? Truly great things have a couple meanings.

My darling girls. They're the sweetest things.

"Don't get Dad anything for Father's Day. This is all I want," I told my girls earlier this week. We went to the EBT's restaurant for lunch. This is where I had my wedding rehearsal dinner, so it's a special place.

Madeline has asked to eat somewhere with a dance floor, "So we can dance, daddy." I truly dread this. "Why do I have to dance for the girl?" I think to myself.

The girls had different things in their head. They did have plans for Father's day.

Saturday, 6:15AM. 

Boom, clank, clank, clonk. The sound of steel echoing on steel from the pots and pans hammering into each other woke me up from the kitchen. The girls are making breakfast. I'm positive it's for me, this is their early Father's day present, I thought.

The day before we rode our bikes to the store.

Friday, 4:40PM

They picked out a cake mix.  Minutes before they asked for chocolate and vanilla cake frosting.   I told them it wasn't satisfactory in our house to eat icing on a spoon, "OK, well can we get a cake for the frosting?" they asked.

"Sure", I replied. I don't like icing that much, but I can put some cake in my gullet without a problem. We left the store with me riding my bike at a precarious, caty-wompus balance -- I was prepared to fall on my side repeating my sixth grade trek to middle school carrying six periods of homework and associated text books in my back-pack, while I attempted to center my back pack on my back while biking to school in the morning.

I made it home without repeating that event.

Saturday, 6:45AM

The girls bring up breakfast. "Here's breakfast," Terra proclaims handing me a plate.  I got a flour tortilla with egg and Tobasco. Yum. Pizza and eggs taste delicious with a little of that action. Mom received a plate with thawed frozen strawberries and some oatmeal. The lackluster delivery made up for delciousness. "That took a long time to cook," I thought, looking a breakfast burrito in my mouth. It was a little cold, what else where they doing? Of course, more going on.

Saturday, 6:55AM

 I can taste the tobasco. Who can eat breakfast without tobasco? I looked at my bank balacnes with the girls debit card's balances on my phone, like I pretty much always do -- you're only a victim survivor of credit fraud once. "What's the $40 withdrawal from Madeline's account from Walgreen's? and it's dated two days from now?!" I walk downstairs. I need some answers. I need espresso and caffeine. The girls are still clankering around. "Oh, good. Dad, since you're here, can you get the cake out of the oven? I'm scared of the heat." Yeah -- a couple weeks ago the girls turned on the wrong burner and things caught on fire -- I don't blame you for being afraid.

Friday, 7:40PM

Jack and I stayed at home while Mom and the girls go to Walgreen's to pick up some prescriptions. The girls go in by themselves and pick up some candy (and it turns out to be other things)


Saturday, 8:10AM

The girls aren't allowed to use their debit cards without a parent knowing. It's a rule. Electronic payments will kill a college kid, I want the girls to know what electronic payment means. For now it means you can't buy other stuff you want, in college it means massive debt on revolving accounts with nose-bleed interest rates. "What did you guys buy on Madeline's account at Wal Mart?" asking with the the brevity of parents that have been disobeyed. It took a while to get the information. Candy and sunglasses, for Father's Day is the answer. "Why did you spend so much on sunglasses? and candy?? for daddy? I'm so old my teeth are falling out, I can't eat candy!!! I don't need candy." There's some pouting and anger now by the girls. They proceed downstairs.

Makeup

Let's go downstairs and talk with the girls. They still don't get it. We walk down the stairs with determination, then I melted. The downstairs was setup for a surprise party. Streamers and balloons are everywhere, there's a table cover, the chairs have been setup for a family of five to sit. On the table is a box and a ginormous card. The girls have clearly spent hours working on this.

And speaking of the girls, they're a lump on the couch in the downstairs.  A lump of sobbing flesh for the talkings we've just had.

Question

So, what's the right thing? Continue with the discipline? acknowledge the effort that's been done? Praise and pretend to be ignorant? (and wrong?) or discipline, follow-through, and consistency?

Picutres in my head

Jack has pictures in his head. They're dreams! When his big iPod runs out of juice, we need to charge it up, Jack complains, "It's charged down."

driver's license

Jack calls my badge I use from work his driver's license. "That's my driver's license, Dad," he tells me.

It's not a license. It's the badge I use to get physical access to my building at work. I use it for other things at work, too.

Jack loves it, he wants it all the time. I take it away and he whines. This Sunday, he was allowed to wear it (big mistake on my part). We went over to see family and Jack played outside with his cousins on the tire swing, on the playground, and playing chase.

"Jack, where's Daddy's driver's license?" I asked the boy. "I don't know, Dad." My stomach inched up my throat a little. It's going to be difficult for me to get in to work without that "driver's license," I thought to myself.

"I don't know," replied the four year old, "It's in Mom's purse." Yeah, Mom, she rescued the badge.

So yesterday, we conspired to make Jack a driver's license. It looks exactly like mine does in a lot of ways. Madeline and I cut out a 1" by 1.5" picture of Jack from a photo and taped it on the badge with some shipper's tape. It really does look good. I got Jack a badge holder and an alligator clip (or whatever those are really called) so he could attach to his clothing.

When Jack came home we show him his new driver's license. Madeline and I are beaming and ask leading questions, "What do you think Jack?"

"I have a driver's license!!!" Jack exclaimed, "Now I can go to work with Daddy!!!!!"

Bam. Instant. Heart. Melts. Why do they have to be older than four?

Jack woke up this morning early, he wanted his driver's license and big Thomas train. He wore the driver's license all day at pre-school. The teachers thought it was adorable.

Throw Up

Jack threw up for the first time this weekend.

It was about 2:30AM and I heard the pitter-patter of feet from Jack's room to mine. He crawled in on his Mom's side. I tried to coaxing him on my side -- I woke up at 2:00AM for no reason, and was just looking up stuff on the Internet with my tablet, but Jack pretended he didn't hear me. Thirty minutes later there was a vomiting sound.

"Oh, No!!" Jack's Mom exclaimed and got up to take him to the toilet. He heaved a little, but quickly started crying, "What is it??" Jack creaked out, "What's coming from my belly?" It was the first time he'd thrown up since at least he was able to ask a question. He was slightly offended by the bile.

"Oh . . . Jack," Mom said sympathetically, "That's throw up, you're sick."

"Oh," then a pause, "What does throw up start with?" Jack croaked with fatigue and sickiness.

Mom and I both glanced a knowing look, this boy is obsessed with letters. "Throw up starts with a 'T', Jack," Mom replies.

I went and got a bucket from the Simple Human trashcan we have in our bedroom's bathroom and put that by the bed.

"What's that?" Jack asked inquisitively -- now pretty much wide awake.

"That's a bucket, Jack," I answered; and then responded out of reflex, "'Bucket' starts with a 'B.'"

"That's right, dad. Bucket starts with 'B.'"

Pants

Mom just held up a pair of shorts.

We've been trying to get Terra to pass off her laundry to little avail. Today she finally did.

"Here's how long I've been trying to get Terra to give me her laundry," Mom says holding up a pair of shorts before putting them in the washing machine.

Here's how short the shorts are:

Jack passes by, "Those are my shorts from when I was a baby."

Jack's Christmas Recital

Recital. Show. It's Jack. He's singing. With his best bud Blake.

In the Spirit of Hugging

I'm hugging an appliance. Now, my baby's catching the fever, too.

I don't mind doing dishes. Dishes themselves aren't so bad. I think almost half the work in getting dishes into the dishwasher (at least our old one) is the amount of work it would take to get a dish clean just with soap, water, and a scrubbing pad. I know now, I hate drying.

Drying is a pain in the neck. You end up with a soggy dish towel or a heap of paper towels. The water runs all over the counter and while the drying is occurring, it takes up valuable counter space.

This week we finally had the time to get the appliance repairman out. He announced the damage for getting it fixed; and there would still be a leak on the left side that would also need repair -- we nixed the dishwasher.

The new dishwasher runs without leaking. I'm really proud of that because I installed the new dishwasher (which was super easy). The old dishwashers are happy they only have to put dishes in the machine, and the broken dishwasher is in the garage -- waiting to get hauled out to the curb for someone else to scrap.