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.

 

Vacation Edition

I’m writing this blog to catalogue the history of my life in my daughters’ world so I don’t lose and forget any of our wonderful memories. During vacations, however, we’re working too hard developing memories to find time to get to a computer and write them down. In those instances, I’ll fill one post with multiple entries. This is one of those instances.

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8/16/2008:

So maybe I was a little premature in announcing a change in Tristan’s sleep patterns. She woke up several times a night, in the middle of the night, every night, last week. Worse, my wife continues her practice of always waking me up along with her and Tristan.

Specifically, she asks me to change Tristan’s diaper while she runs off for a little potty time herself, even if all Tristan wants to do is to nurse. I mean, if diaper changing won’t stop the crying, why do I have to be miserable along with everyone, too? One night, however, Tristan didn’t want to feed. She really just needed a diaper change.

Or maybe something else was happening.

Tristan’s crying didn’t abate when I removed the dirty diaper, as it usually does when she’s only complaining about a dirty diaper. And, as I pulled out the cold wipe, I fully expected her crying to intensify when I slathered it across her bottom. Instead, she quieted precipitously.

By this point, she had turned to look at the lamp, which bathed her face in a warm glow. And as I finished the job and taped the fasteners, her eyes closed, her hand, previously raised in a clinched fist, slowly fell and a smile–a BIG smile–spread across her face.

And a little misery was a small price to pay to see that.

8/23/2008:

When I was growing up, my Dad was very much involved in my life.  He read me the Bible through Exodus and taught me Amazing Grace.  He also taught me Chess, Checkers, Backgammon and Monopoly. And when it came to football, baseball, basketball and, even, soccer, he never missed a home game.

He’s a grandparent (“GP”) now, though, and he expects to only have the easy parts.  So he was taken aback when Marcel ordered him to get in line.  Even though I was feeding Tristan a bottle, I tried to save him, and jumped in line behind Marcel but she insisted that all of us–my Mom, my wife and GP–get in line behind her, too.  Defeated, my Dad complied.

We marched out of the den, through the library, the dining room, the kitchen and then all of the way to nursery.  In the nursery, there’s an oval area rug where she sat down, Native American-style, and ordered us to do the same, taken my Dad by surprise, again.  Again, nursing Tristan and all, I tried to take the weight and sit down for the group but, again, Marcel insisted.  Defeated, my Dad compromised and sat on her bed.

As soon as everyone was seated, Marcel started in with the songs.  We sang several rounds of an incomplete “A, B, Cs”. Then we played instruments. Tristan and I had a pillow masquerading as a basketball which Marcel informed the group was a guitar.  My wife, Grandma and GP had “instruments”, as well.  When we were done, Marcel instructed us to put the instruments behind us (surely so we wouldn’t be distracted during the next activity), then we sang new songs.

It became clear to us that Marcel was mimicking her daily experience at fancy daycare.  This revelation filled me with comfort and gratitude that my daughter was being so well nurtured and inspired by the people to whom I entrust her.  This revelation filled my father with something else, altogether: It filled him with a question.

“When do we take a nap?”

 

Midnight Train

My parents frown on pride. They say that we should learn to be grateful, instead. Well, at 4 am the other night, I was proud.

At 4 am the other night, Marcel woke up and wouldn’t go back to sleep. This doesn’t happen as often as it did her first month, obviously, but it still happens from time to time.

Usually, we can get her right back to sleep by finding and returning her pacifier or laying the covers back over her. Sometimes, those things aren’t enough and we have to bring her back to bed with us. Often, that’s our first choice. But there are those times when even that won’t get her back to sleep and she constantly asks for things–water, Little Bear, tickling–to avoid any of us going back to sleep. This is what I thought I was in for the other night when she woke up at 4 am, then asked to go to potty.

Now, I’m not a loving father. I’m a spoiling father, which, according to my story, is a whole other, higher level of loving. But at 4 o’clock in the morning, it’s hard to be patient. Still, Marcel didn’t just ask for a drink of water. She asked to go potty, and that’s a big deal.

We didn’t have a potty problem with Marcel as a baby because she never, ever cried about her diaper, which pretty much meant we could change it when it was convenient for us. That great situation, however, is now turning into a not great situation because Marcel still has no motivation to ditch the diapers and go to potty.

I had hoped things would change at Fancy Day Care. Fancy Day Care helps support potty training. They instructed us to bypass pants with buttons and stick with elastic waistbands to help the effort. When I heard Fancy Day Care announce at the new parent orientation that they were potty training the kids, I even let out a whoop. But they aren’t having any more luck then we are and, so, we’re still stuck changing diapers.

Then, at 4 am, Marcel asked to go to potty. Now, like I said, I was skeptical. But this potty thing is important to me, so off we trudged to potty.

Then, after getting on her throne, she asked for a book. Now, I was getting even more impatient and more skeptical, but, like I said, this potty training thing is important to me, so we handed her the book. And while Marcel “read” the book and related to me what was happening, I hunkered down on the side of the tub and tried to bide my time. Then a miracle happened…pffft…Marcel farted.

The first time she ignored it. The second time she turned red and stole a couple of glances my way because she was embarassed. She had no reason to be embarassed, though. She should’ve been proud. Particularly, when she, as my mother says, eliminated. I was proud. My daughter, for the first time, actually felt an “elimination” coming and got us to the bathroom in time to do something about it. I was so proud, in fact, that I woke up my wife and told her to go see the miracle for herself.

Then I was grateful. Because I got to go back to sleep while she took over the potty training.

 

Favorites

When Marcel wakes up in the morning, she comes to get her daddy and the two of us go downstairs to the family room, where she sits in my lap, I spoon feed her yogurt and we watch “Little Bear.” It’s our thing.

At night, when Marcel is forced to go to bed, she insists that I read her a book and sit in her room until she goes to sleep. Sometimes, she wants me to sing her a lullaby. Sometimes she wants me to shut up so she can go to sleep. Either way, she wants me there.

For a long time, this led me to believe that I was the favorite parent.

Last Monday, there was a change in the routine. I still did the morning feeding and the nightly tuck-in. But I also had to do the morning drop off at Fancy Day Care, which is on the other side of downtown from our home.

Normally, when I travel toward downtown, I head west only a little bit, before jogging south to get to the major cross town route through downtown. When my wife travels downtown, she likes to head a little further west before turning because that’s her favorite way to the major cross town route that travels along downtown’s northern edge and that’s the way she takes Marcel to school.

“Straight! Straight!”

That’s how I found out it’s now Marcel’s favorite route, too. All the way to Fancy Day Care, my little girl gave me explicit instructions.

“Turn! Turn!”

“Stop! Stop!”

“Go, daddy, go!”

And then, on the way home from Fancy Day Care, I forgot to bring pacifiers. Marcel came right out and told me that she didn’t love me. That day, if I wanted love, I had to look elsewhere or, as she put it, “Cyrus (a classmate at Fancy Day Care) loves you.” But when I asked her, Mommy and Grandma didn’t love me, either. Apparently, they were on her side.

Thus, I found that while Marcel does have favorites, those favorites aren’t parents.

 

First Parent/Teacher Conference

On Wednesday, my wife and I went to our first ever Parent/Teacher conference as parents. (I was so excited that I mistakenly called my wife on Tuesday afternoon to scold her for not yet picking me up and risking our tardiness. Thankfully, she thought that that was cute.)

The point of this conference wasn’t so much to tell us about Marcel’s progress as it was to review the rules and procedures with the parents. Of course, I was only there to hear about my child. Realizing that Fancy Day Care had another agenda, I started looking for clues where I could find them. Those clues where apparent immediately.

In the stairway to Marcel’s classroom, was a billboard entitled, “All About Me.” On it were polaroids of Marcel and her classmates alternately placing their shoeless and sockless feet in two buckets–one filled with ice and the other filled with warm water.

In the picture with Marcel, her back was to the photographer. Worse, she was at the back of the group of children that stood in front of the bucket in this picture. Still, she was at the center of the picture and her quiet focus dominated the scene. Needless to say, I was very proud that she found a way to turn last place into first place.

The pride grew as I found four Marcel artworks in her classroom. Judging by the dates on the artwork, her latest creation was a collage of fall foilage. I know I’m “Dad” but, frankly, it’s beautiful. All of the leaves and seed pods were the same brown. There differences lied in their shapes and textures. And their beauty lied in their arrangement. And that beauty was all Marcel’s doing. In particular, I liked how she placed the smallest seed pods on the largest leaf.

Marcel also worked with roller colors. I’m not really sure what that is, but the effect is similar to finger painting. The first one (or at least the one I assume is the first one), was essentially just one color.

By her second work (or at least the one I assume is her second work), she had obviously learned how to use an explosion of colors. I’d like to think it was the inspiration for “Fall Foilage.” Then again, maybe she just learned to be a little more aggressive about getting to those roller colors.

My favorite, however, by far, is entitled “Mommy“. Beautifully, it features long, brown, wispy lines, just like my wife’s hair. Hilariously, the long, brown, wispy lines emanate from a large pointy, proboscis, just like my wife’s nose. I wondered what inspired Marcel?

Either way, “Mommy” is perfect.

And it was the largest, most prominently-placed student artwork in the class.

 

Talent

When Marcel was just a ghostly figure on a sonogram, I used to joke that I only wanted her born “beautiful, talented and smart.” One friend, correcting me, told me that she only “hoped for ten fingers and ten toes.” My response to that was that I’d give “a finger or toe” for “beautiful, talented and smart” because if you have all that, then nine fingers or nine toes isn’t a turn off, but a conversation starter.

Well, Marcel is here now, and we know that her ten fingers and ten toes are beautiful and smart. The suspense, now, is only over what’s their talent.

Maybe it’s photography.

One day, Marcel kept screaming and screaming but nothing we did would console her. We checked her diaper, tried to feed her, swaddled and shushed her, but nothing worked until we happened to put her down on the bed near a pile of torn out magazine pages.

Once we put her down, she reached and grabbed at those pages with a fury and excitement that was really, very surprising. She loved it! It got to the point where pages, not pacifiers, were the trick to satisfy her.

Or maybe it’s musical instruments.

For Marcel’s first birthday, my youngest sister got Marcel a mini electric keyboard, complete with microphone. Marcel loved that thing. She’d turn it on, click on one of the tempos (samba, anyone), plaster her mouth on the mic and raise the roof.

Later, she would sit with my dad at his piano and watch him play or bang away at the keys, herself. It got to the point where she’d look for music, anywhere. When looking to purchase a new house, she ran through a house turning on the clock radio, the boom box and even opened the baby grand piano, all the while screaming, “Music! Music!”

Now, though, I think it’s singing.

I’ve been trying to teach Marcel the “A,B,C” song for months. All I ever got for it, however, was a blank stare.

Maybe she thought I was trying to put her to bed, like when I sing her “Amazing Grace” at bedtime. Even though she didn’t grab my mouth to shut me up so she could get some rest as she sometimes did at bedtime, she still wasn’t overly eager to get involved. She just stared.

Thanks to a few weeks of Fancy Day Care, though, she now joins right in (except for that very difficult part, “L,M,N,O,P”). Just the other day, she even taught me a new song.

Hold the rail/Let’s stay safe!

I’m told this is the walking up the stairs song.

Here’s to hoping they have a “Bring daddy breakfast in bed” song.

 

First Day of School!

Okay, it wasn’t actually Marcel’s first day of school. It was just the first day of day care.

And it wasn’t actually the first day of day care. Marcel attended another day care, previously, but they didn’t do much but keep her alive. This is a fancy day care, that actively engages Marcel in things like singing songs and finger painting. It even has a fancy name.

But it wasn’t even Marcel’s first day of Fancy Day Care. It was actually her second day, but the first was only a half day and my wife stayed with her the whole time.

This was, however, her first, full day of Fancy Day Care, alone.

As we drove up to the valet (I told you it was fancy!), we feared that Marcel would be upset when the teacher took her from the car, so we tried to prep her.

“Marcel”, we said brightly, “you’re going to school to play on the playground! And sing songs! And walk in the gardens! And finger paint!”

Luckily, when we finally drove up, and the teacher opened the car door and Marcel saw all the kids running on the playground, her face lit up like she just saw her momma get off the bus. So we were happy when we left her.

Apparently, Marcel wasn’t happy to see us go. The “Daily Activity Report”, uh, reported, that “Marcel was a little upset this morning.” Fancy Day Care recovered, though, continuing in the DAR that “[w]e talked and told her everything was okay and that mommy always comes back.” That must have been enough for Marcel, as the report also, uh, reported, that she “…read books, played instruments to Dora the explorer[,] danced with streamers” [and]…sang “itsy Bitsy Spider, Old McDonald had a farm[.]”

So, Marcel clearly loves school, which clearly means she’s going to Harvard.

Of course, I know that there’s a lot of time between now and college, which is a lot of time for things to change, including her love and interest in school, which means she could end up at Dartmouth.

But for this week, at least, we can dream big.