It should’ve been California!

Several pre-Tristan months ago, Marcel sang to me.  But she wasn’t trying to be affectionate.  She was trying to be mischievous.

I had wanted her to finish dinner with us.  She, however, wanted to watch television. She tried to slip away from the table but I grabbed her.  I had intended to spoon feed her, which is sometimes the only way I can get her to eat her meals.  She, however, tried to distract me. She grabbed my head, looked deep into my eyes and, with a slight smirk, sang…

“You’re my sweet-heart.”

This caught me off gaurd.  It’s a beautiful sentiment–the kind of sentiment that a father dreams of hearing from his daughter–but, given the circumstances, not a sentiment at all expected.  Moreover, I had never heard that song sung by anybody before, much less Marcel.

I think Marcel suddenly realized that she liked it as much as I did, though, because she sang it, again.

“You’re my sweet-heart.”

I needed to know from where this came.  I tried to use my eyes to ask the question by looking into Marcel’s.  She, however, became embarassed by the emotion and evaded my gaze by fiddling with a button on my shirt.  When I pressed and angled to find eye contact, anyway, she wrapped her arms around my neck and hugged me close.  She didn’t totally let go of the sentiment, though.  In fact, she sang it again.  In my ear.

“You’re my sweet-heart.”

I was thrilled by this song, and confused by it, too, because I didn’t know where it was coming from and agitated by it, as well, because the confusion it caused interfered with my joy.  I had to know why I was so lucky, so I queried my wife. She, however, was just as confused as I was.  Meanwhile, Marcel became frustrated and hit me on my chest then sang, again.

“You’re my sweet-heart.”

Maybe she became frustrated because she thought I was ignoring her song to talk with her mother.  In that moment, however, I felt that Marcel was waiting a beat between verses so that I could respond with my song, and had only become frustrated because I wasn’t chiming in.  But this was just a feeling and only hesitantly, for fear of breaking the spell, did I echo my big girl.

“You’re my sweet-heart.”

And she responded.

“You’re my sweet-heart.”

Then, it got more amazing.  Soon, she didn’t wait a beat.  Instead, she kept singing.  Only now, her voice sang along with my voice and my voice sang along with hers.

“You’re my sweet-heart/You’re my sweet-heart.”

Soon our common verse and common metric also became a common note and common tone.

“You’re my sweet-heart/You’re my sweet-heart.”

“You’re my sweet-heart/You’re my sweet-heart.”

“You’re my sweet-heart/You’re my sweet-heart.”

Then, as magically as it began, it crescendoed.

“You’re my sweeeeeeeeeet-heaaaaaaaaaaaaaaart!”

After a beat, Marcel let go of my neck and turned to sit in my lap.  I tried to hold her close but she calmly wriggled free and walked into the tv room.

One of the things Marcel does while she passes time on the potty is “read.”  When she first started pottying, she “read” books about going to potty.  That’s because “reading” then wasn’t about the “reading” as much as it was about the pottying.  Now that she has the pottying fundamentals down now (at least, in theory), we’re broadening our potty library. So I am also taking this opportunity to broaden the mission.

Specifically, I’m trying to teach Marcel how to read.

I remember learning how to read when I was 3-4 years old.  I think I was laying on the kitchen floor when it first clicked.  Either the youngest or the oldest of my three sisters was my teacher.  I definitely remember that it was “The Daddy Book,” by Stewart. We don’t have it (at least, not yet), so I went with her request, “Green Eggs and Ham.”

I started with the title.  It took a bit for Marcel to see that I was referencing the symbols on the cover, instead of just saying the words like she was.  I had to touch each word to make the point.

“This is ‘Green’.  This is ‘Eggs’.  This is ‘and’. This is ‘Ham’!”

Marcel nodded her head solemnly then did her own pointing.

“What’s this?”

“Green,” I answered.

She moved on to the next word.

“What’s this?”

“Eggs,” I answered.

“What’s this?”, she continued.

“And,” I continued.

“What’s this?”, she again asked.

“Ham,” I again answered.

She nodded solemnly again, then patted me on my shoulder and congratulated me.

“Good job.”

Despite being one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever known, my mom always had a grounded perspective on beauty.

Perhaps it’s because of what she learned from one the stories of fighting for civil rights in her deep south, hometown.  She, and others, were at a demonstration when a member of the authorities questioned, in a syrupy sweet, Southern drawl, why she had joined the demonstration.

“Don’t you know that we love you?”, he sincerely asked her.

My wife never heard that story but she’s no less grounded.  Whenever I forget myself and praise my daughters about their good looks, my wife is always there to correct me.

“Tell them their smart!”, she scolds.

If my daughters have heard that story or noticed the scolds, they haven’t let on, but I’m sure that they’re getting the message.  For instance, Marcel didn’t hesistate to test out her new safety scissors on one of her braids the other day. One inch less later, my children have proven that they won’t let their beauty get in the way of the pursuit of knowledge.