Father-Daughter Week

For the last week, Wifey has been out in California for her mother's memorial service. The Bug and I wound up having to stay behind. Frightening thought, I know -- two kids home alone...

But, with the help of awesome neighbors, perseverance of youthful idealism, absorbency of Viva paper towels, and therapeutic charm of children's song and dance, we made it! Well, one day to go. Then we set out during the witching hour to scoop Wifey up at the airport.

I thought I had figured out all of the Bug's hiding places and idiosyncratic names for things until I hit a few roadblocks these past few days. We were down to only two pacifiers whose whereabouts were known, until I looked at a pile of them outside of the the cat door in the back. Apparently, out of arm's reach.

And it was only after having a plastic toy monkey shoved in my face by a toddler screaming "Monkey mayonnaise" over and over again, that I found out she had started calling bananas, "mayonnaise." I blame that vowel song about liking to oat, oat, oat opplos and bononos.

We still have some bugs to work out, but we're doing fine.

Li'l Miss Mess Police

The Bug's recognition of "icky trash" has escalated to new levels. "Messy" now means icky trash that requires immediate attention, and is often met with an undue amount of condescension and/or outrage. Especially when the one expelling such vitriol is the one who made the mess.

Any spills or detritus with enough audacity to place themselves upon the Bug's person cause such insult as to release a titan of a tantrum. "It's only water," comes provides no comfort to the afflicted.

Oddly enough, the following substances are not considered messy or icky trash: pesto, white cheddar powder, sand, and "big boogies."

Even more curious is the Bug's fondness for Curious George, hardly a neat freak.

The Sincerest Form of Flattery

Yes. I am nearsighted. No. I do not always wear my glasses.

The other day, I was helping the Bug get some tunes going on Pandora. Not a big deal. It just involved looking back and forth between the remote and the TV to type and make menu selections.

As the station was loading, I look over to see the bug, with another remote inches from her face, squinting her eyes just about shut and raising her upper lip enough to expose her top row of teeth while she slowly pressed buttons with her thumb. My vision isn't that bad.

Another fun thing to do is say "big daddy." Not just say it once, or even ten times, but to repeat it on a loop measured best by minutes. "Big" must often be emphasized by volume, duration, and fully extended arms.