Tiny Dancer

From early on, my wife has called Marcel “Tiny Dancer.”  I believe it’s inspired by the title of the Elton John song, but not the lyrics.  Frankly, I don’t remember what Marcel did to invoke the reference.  But it is apt.

Still it’s hard to make that claim, sometimes.  There’s a tinier person in the house, for one thing.   For another thing, Marcel’s vocabulary and maturity often make it easy to forget that she’s still just a four year-old little girl.  Size and capacity, however, are the only hindrance to the claim, because she absolutely loves dancing.

The first hint was her enthusiasm for the movement class at her fancy daycare.  Over a year ago, she’d come home doing these startling things, like throwing her hands over her head then falling to the floor, where’d she’d push herself in semi-circle.  Later, the yoga tutor that the school brought in for the kids offered that Marcel was her most focused student.

We took those cues–and Marcel less enthusiastic embrace of her soccer classes–to enroll her in ballet.  She loves ballet.  We never have any trouble getting her out of bed to go to ballet.

The funniest episode, however, involved rock music.

Sometimes, we gather in the kitchen or office and listen to the iPod or iTunes.  One evening, Nelly Furtado’s imminently danceable tunes started blasting.  Marcel wiggled and whirled accross the kitchen floor, as the rest of tried to catch up.  She left us in the dust, however, with one particular move.

She climbed up on the chair, wiggled, looked over her shoulder and, just after flashing a mischievous smile , threw her nose up with all the haughtiness of royalty, turned away and wiggled to the beat some more.   I don’t think any of us held our composure in the wake of THAT.

To be honest, the implications of her Madonna-like command of a rock performance are a little scary, but in a tiny dancer, it’s just joy.

 

Don’t Call it a Comeback

Tristan has an umbilical hernia.  It makes her already outie belly-button protude even further.  Over time, the hernia will heal.  Now, however, she likes to hold it.

She doesn’t just hold it, though.  She holds it when she’s drinking from her bottle or sucking her thumb.  Almost invariably, she does the latter (suck her thumb) immediately after the former (drink her bottle) because she always does the latter (suck her thumb) when she’s sleepy, which is also often the result of the former (drink her bottle).  It’s a hell of a sight.

This cute, cuddly, little baby-girl grabs her bottle, throws back her head, grabs her umbilical hernia-enhanced outie belly-button, then waddles through the house and, thus, morphs into a little bubba.

Not Buddah. 

Bubba. 

There different…except that they’re both very satisfied. 

As is Tristan.

 

Put One Foot in Front of Another…

Tristan walked for the first time, last weekend. She only took three steps, but she walked. She didn’t walk again, however, for a whole other week.

The second time was today.  She was trying to walk all the way from me on one short side of a friend’s dining to my wife, on the other side.  Tristan tried several times.  After starting, she would lose her balance, fall and then continue the journey on hands and knees. She’d hug her mother at the completion of the walk/crawl, then crawl back to me to start the effort all over to walk to her mom, all over again.

The most amount of steps she took at any one time was five, and, usually, she only took one to three steps, but she did so repeatedly.   It was a joy to behold.

I can’t wait to she recognizes that she can walk to me, too.

 

More Milestones

It’s an amazing thing to see your baby grow.

Marcel, for instance, is in the middle of spurt that’s making her taller than everyone else in her class. Of course, we see the most growth in Tristan, who turns 11 months old, soon. Her growth isn’t just size, though. Her growth is also in strength.

The most shocking growth in strength was her crawling.  Marcel never crawled. Instead, she would, while in a kneeling position, hop whereever she wanted to go. Then, fourteen months into life, she started walking.

The most remarkable growth, though, isn’t physical. It’s mental.

Marcel started reading this week. She can’t read sentences. But she can pick out words that repeat in a story. She picked out the words “scrub” and “row” from Sandra Boytons’ “The Going to Bed Book” and the words “daddy” and “cuddles” from Gutmen’s and Hallensleben’s “Daddy Cuddles.” I have looked forward to the day I taught my children to read since before–long before–I even had children, so this was huge for me.

What I didn’t expect to be even more amazing and more huge to me was the day that Tristan learned to play.

A few months ago, Tristan was sitting in her high chair, drinking from her bottle, when she got bored and threw that bottle on the floor. Marcel retrieved it and returned it to Tristan in her high chair, then went back to what she was doing. Tristan, however, simply threw it, again.

Marcel, again, got up, retrieved it and went back to what she was doing but, this time, went back with one eye looking over her shoulder at Tristan. Tristan, again, started to throw her bottle but, this time, she waited for Marcel to come back to her.  When Marcel came back, Tristan smiled and dropped the bottle at the feet of the waiting Marcel.

And thus, Tristan, for all she knew, invented the game of “catch” and taught her big sister how to play.

It was an amazing milestone to behold.

 

Showtime!

I had tickets to go to the inaugural parade.  It was more important for me, however, to watch this inauguration with my daughters. It wouldn’t have been easy to take the girls to the parade and probably impossible to take them to the swearing-in so, if I wanted to watch the inauguration with them, then we had to stay home and watch it on television.

There were more obstacles than just parade logistics, however.  There was, namely, my daughters’ impatience.

Of course, there was never any expectation that Tristan would understand what was happening.  The most I could hope for from her would be that she would be awake at the peak moment and, maybe, would cheer when I cheered, even though it was only because I was cheering, too.

There was an outside chance, however, that Marcel would appreciate what was happening. One hurdle to even that, however, was that Marcel demands that our television always broadcasts, as she puts it, “her shows.”

Another hurdle was that, even if I did get her to acquiesce to allowing me to turn on my show, there was no promise that she would watch it.  In fact, there was a real risk that she would leave the room to find some other form of entertainment.

But my new president, who had, at best, only an outside chance when he started this journey nearly two years ago, had inspired me.  Thus, with most of my family at the parade route, my daughters and I sat down to watch the swearing-in ceremony.

The parade of speakers and performers went about their solemn duties in joyous fashion.  The emotion built moment by moment, on the mall, around the world and, yes, in my heart, as well.  It may be impolitic, but for the first time in my adult life, there wasn’t any fear of being foolish for feeling inspired by the American promise.

That isn’t to say that Marcel and Tristan cared–it wasn’t easy to keep them by my side throughout the entire program–but I cared, and so I did keep them by my side as we watched the singers sing, the musicians play and the preacher, the controversial preacher, preach these words:

“Today, we celebrate the hinge point of history with the inauguration of our first African-American president of the United States.”

The crowd responded with a cheer. Then, to my great surprise, Marcel threw a fist in the air and cheered, too.  And I felt pride that my young daughter understood the significance of today’s events. Then, however, I felt fear as I wondered how this three and half year-old little girl, who I had hoped had been insulated from the world’s horrors, could know that these words were worth cheering.

Then she turned to me, and with a face filled with a smile as big as her excitement, exclaimed:

“Now, it’s time for my show!”

Yes, child, that day meant that it is, in fact, time for your show.

 

It’s Morning in American, Again

As we sat down to breakfast on the first morning of my parents visit to celebrate the inauguration of our next president, Marcel directed the discussion.  Specifically, she directed everyone to tell a story.

She was first and, not surprisingly, her story was all about her.

My wife’s story was next.  Her story wasn’t about Marcel.  I could tell from Marcel’s facial expression that that wasn’t what was wanted so, when my turn came, I made up a beautiful story about my wonderful daughter.

My father was after me.  He could also tell that he was supposed to talk about Marcel.  He couldn’t quite bring himself to full complaince with the unsaid directive, though, so he started a satirical tale about my oldest child.

“Once upon a time there was camera…”

Marcel knew what was up, though, and immdiately cut him off with a curt, “Next!”

My mother, however, had no intention of letting down one of hers.

“Once upon a time, there was this beautiful grand-daughter…”

Marcel, not needing explicit explanation that the grand-daughter being described was her and not one of the two other grand-daughters, beamed like the morning sun!

 

Hobbes Debunked

There’s nothing quite like the feeling of your child wrapping their small arms around your neck and laying their head on your chest.

Marcel didn’t do it as an infant. If you picked her up, she might lay her head on your chest but her arms would certainly be hanging down by her side. Usually, though, her head was on a swivel trying to figure out what was going around her. Marcel didn’t start hugging until she was a toddler.  Marcel was much more of a kisser.

Tristan, on the other hand, hugged almost immediately.  In recent weeks, she’s started to develop swivel-itis and, thus, the feeling might not last.  Yet, a full bottle in a quiet room can still, almost always, induce a nice, long hug.

The result is that, now, I get that feeling all of the time from both of my daughters.

And, thus, my life is sweet, loving and full.

 

Kiss my boo-boo

Every parent knows the drill.

A crash, a cry, you rush to the scene but all that’s really hurt is peace, not piece, of mind. Thus, a quick kiss and rub, with perhaps minor admonishment, allows everybody to go back to their happy state.

In reality, this time was no different. There was the crash, then the cry, then the rush to the scene. The difference came when my wife arrived.

“What’s wrong, darling!”

Marcel pulled down her pants and pointed to her butt.

“Boo-boo!”

My wife must’ve hesistated. Marcel wouldn’t tolerate a deviation from the routine. So she insisted.

“Kiss it.”

Then the flow of events proceeded as normal and everybody went back to their happy state.

I think.

 

It’s a Beautiful Day

The day after Christmas, we went to my mother’s house.  Amazingly, my non-Christmas clebrating, Jehovah’s Witness grandmother had come to visit bringing a slew of that side of the clan to visit. I couldn’t miss that.

Marcel and, for her first time ever, Tristan got to hang out with many of their paternal cousins.  Tristan tended toward the older relatives who coddled and cuddled her constantly.  Marcel, meanwhile, ran wild with the younger cousins.  This was from the moment we got there and until our last day.

There was some time when we were away from the ruckus, though.  Bedtime.  (We slept at my mother’s house while most of the activity was at my youngest brother’s home.)  But, even then, the fun wasn’t far from mind.

In fact, our first morning began away from the action at my mother’s house with Marcel yelling for me.  She had awoke in a relatively strange bed and wasn’t sure were to go,  so she called for me to come get and guide her.  I walked into her bedroom and told her that she could get out bed and join the rest of us.

You’d think her mood would be frightened or, at least, angry, but it wasn’t.  Instead, she eagerly climbed out of bed and, as she walked to exit the room, kindly informed of what was to come.

“It’s a beautiful day, daddy.”

 

Near Death Experience

I almost killed my wife, last week.

In my defense, it wasn’t my fault.  I was just trying to feed Tristan.  We had decided that she was ready to progress to solid foods, and I was trying to feed her a rice and formula concoction.   There were problems, though.

First, this concoction was difficult to handle.  Depending on how much and how long ago you add the formula to the rice powder, it can be either a dry mush or a watery mess.  Even under the best circumstances, bibs are inadequate.

Second, progressing to solid foods means more than just ditching the formula but also trading the bottle for spoons and forks.  Tristan, unfortunately, was more interested in the spoon than the food.

Thus, I never really even got to the problem of getting Tristan to open her mouth and swallow (can a toothless baby chew rice mush?) and it quickly become an afterthought? It wasn’t an afterthought for Marcel, however.  Marcel kept her eye on the ball and soon piped up. 

“You gotta do the airplane, daddy?”

This is when I almost killed my wife.

If I had been more prescient, it wouldn’t have been a problem.  But I wasn’t thinking.  Instead, I was working to get food into my baby girl’s mouth but between the food sliding off the spoon, then trouble getting her mouth open and, worst of all, failing to get the spoon past her grasping hands, I was failing miserably.  And it was frustrating!  So I just blurted out.

“But she’s just like King Kong!”

Fortunately for all concerned, my wife eventually stopped laughing at me long enough to breathe again.