You Are My Sweetheart

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.

 

Tragedy

They come upon us suddenly.

One moment, our family is a big jumble of “happy,” laying on top of one another, watching television or playing outside. Then the next moment is…tragedy.

Eyes tighten. The wail starts slow and low but soon builds to room filling proportions. The head falls back in time with the crescendo. Then…bum, bum, bum, buuuuuuuum…the collapse.

And “the terrible twos” have arrived.

Anything can act like an invitation. Deny a cookie to save space for soon arriving dinner and we get…tragedy. If a commercial is on when we turn the television to “Little Bear”, then we will soon be watching…tragedy. Bring a yellow cup when she really wanted her juice in the green one, then you have brought…tragedy.

I didn’t want to be the parent who couldn’t control their child. I didn’t want my baby to be the baby that runs through the store breaking things because she didn’t get her way. I do want to spoil the girl, but I don’t want her to actually spoil. Ah, there’s the rub.

My parents are all about spoiling Marcel. They rarely visited me before she was born, which, now that I look back on it, was a drag, and they only stayed at my house once. Now, however, I see them every other month, including last weekend. And if they get a hotel when they are in town, including last weekend, then they take Marcel with them. But neither one of them is willing to be the bad guy. They never want to be the bad guy. So they only spoil her. And between my spoiling her and their spoiling her, we get…tragedy.

Tragedy actually came a few months before Marcel’s second birthday. And it took about three months before we learned to combat it, effectively.

We couldn’t bring ourselves to spank. She’s too little and too cute. “Time out” would just bring on more screaming, thus defeating the purpose. “No” was plain ineffective. Soon, we started to worry. Then we discovered “eye contact”.

“Eye contact” is simple. You just insist she look you in the eye when you discuss her problem with whatever denial she was suffering at that moment. You don’t have to raise your voice or even speak sternly. This is fortunate because I’d rather not scare my child. Direct eye contact is enough to force her to back down and hear what you’re saying. I think it makes her feel guilty.

That is, it makes her feel guilty when my parents aren’t around. When my parents are around, she feels too entitled to feel much of anything else. The rest of us get…tragedy.

 

Favorite Sounds v.3

Marcel has adopted a few signature sayings. Their meanings are not always obvious, so I’m including translations. I’m sure this list will change over time. For now, though, it is:

Neo: Cousin Nilo.

Apasie: Pacifier.

Mon: Come on.

Mere: Come here.

Shicken: Chicken

Boon: Balloon.

Fou-wer: Flower.

Ooh are you doing? (Often said with expression of extreme confusion and concern): “What are you doing?”

I be back!: “I’m going to leave your presence so I can do something you don’t want me to do.”

Stay!: “Seriously. I be back.”

Grandpa: Grandpa.

Grandpa: Grandma.

Oh, god. (Said quietly, to herself): I’m not quite sure what this means and, frankly, I’m too scared to ask.

 

Favorite Sounds v.2

“Shit.”

That was Marcel’s first curse word. At least, that’s what I thought she said. I wasn’t 100 percent sure, though, and decided to ignore it as the accidental blabber of a two year old.

Then she said it again.

“Shit.”

This time I looked at my wife to see if I was hearing right. It just so happened that she was looking at me to see if she were hearing right. It was clear that we both heard something, but, perhaps because we didn’t want to hear what we had heard, we remained unsure. So we went to instant replay.

“Marcel. What did you say?”

“Shit. Shit. Hurry up!”

Those were Marcel’s third and fourth curse words.

Before you laugh, please realize that it sounded like gunfire in the distance. She spit them out in a low voice, with great urgency and agitation. In the best of circumstances, saying it that way, with that inflection, is scary, but from a two year old, it’s down right ominous.

I guess it’s my own fault. Now, I don’t mean to say that she hears me say that. I’m not afraid to admit I have a sailor’s vocabulary. In fact, I’m a connoisseur of all types of vulgarities. Since Marcel was born, however, and when I’m in her presence especially, I have no reason to swear like that. I might emit a very pleased “shiiiiiiiiiiiit” from time to time, but not gunfire obscenity.

This long weekend, however, was spent in the town where I was born. It’s the home of my mother’s family. Several cousins have children her age. There are lots of things that would excite her.

It was particularly exciting to bring her that weekend. My grandmother is rebuilding her home after a tornado ripped through the town and her living room. Moreover, she wasn’t just rebuilding but was expanding and adding new landscaping.

More importantly, it was a family reunion of the descendants of my great, great grandparents and their five daughters. I was eager to see the family, and was hopeful that I’d meet people I’d only known from old stories.

As I expected, Marcel was having a grand time. It seemed like every moment we spent in our motel room, she was scratching at the door trying to get back out to see the people and the house—to see her people and to see her house.

She had gotten so caught up in the excitement that at the end of one evening, when people were cleaning up for the next day, she grabbed a mop, started sweeping and, when someone tried to take the mop, batted away their hand and grandly exclaimed, “I working”, which were new words, too.

So, if she was excited enough to bat hands to work for this event, in this town for this family, then I shouldn’t be surprised that she’d be willing to kick our butt a little bit to get there quicker. Maybe, I should be a little proud.