Crayon-ing Achievements

"If I had a blog or something, I'd write about this," Belle said, looking down at the floor. 

My eyebrows shot up so far on my head, it looked like my hair had a toupee. 

"Challenge accepted," I said. 

This was in early spring in our playroom, and I really planned to write about what she pointed out in the days that followed. But, as it always does, life happened. School and Hebrew school and gymnastics and laundry and baseball and soccer and birthday parties and Girl Scouts and play dates and laundry and family gatherings and Girls on the Run and lawn mowing (I still needed a little me time) and trying to keep all three children fed with something besides pizza and chicken nuggets and laundry, so much laundry.

It'll make your head spin if you don't stop occasionally to take a deep breath. And there were two milestone events later in the spring that made me pause and wonder where the time went: my younger daughter's graduation from preschool and my older daughter's graduation from fifth grade. 

(Lest you worry about my son feeling left out: Don't worry, he's been living his best life. He wrote a note to his school crush to determine if they could "be friends"; she responded "yes" -- and drew a heart. When asked on a school assignment what the reading was about, he responded: "Earth. It's obvious," leading to a talk with his teacher. And, since January, with a straight face, he has told my 5-year-old that she's 4 years old and turning 5 in the fall, correcting her when she tells him she's 5 years old and even leading me sometimes to double-check the math in my head.) 

My oldest began kindergarten sitting at a little desk in our dining room, watching her teacher on a laptop. She strode into her 5th grade graduation ceremony in the school cafetorium a smart, silly, sometimes sassy, always caring young lady. Sure, middle school girl drama might be fifth-grade-girl drama on elephant steroids, but she has a good head on her shoulders, and it's been amazing watching her start to figure out who she is and who she wants to be. Besides our in-house babysitter and activities director when her sister has friends over.

Speaking of our youngest, while I was very excited at the fifth-grade graduation, I was feeling more nostalgic at the preschool graduation. Our daughter's departure capped nine years of "us" schlepping a child 20ish minutes to preschool four times a week. And by "us," I mean "Belle," who did most of the morning drop-offs and led the Parents' Association the last three years. I'm worried she might start driving south on I-95 on the first day of kindergarten out of habit.

Talking to parents with their first kid in preschool this past year, I wanted to pat them on the head, let them know everything would be OK and then walk away chuckling to myself. I went from breathlessly awaiting photos from my oldest daughter's day in her 2's class to not opening the app for days at a time this year. There is something magical about seeing your child make friends on their own and thrive in a classroom setting for the first time. There is something more magical about not having to wipe their butts after they poop.

Which brings us back to Belle's writing challenge. With all of the school transitions pending, she wanted to update our playroom this spring by replacing a small art table with big-kid desks for each child to have their own space to work. This included buying a crayon organizer with sections for different colors, meaning we could consolidate the roughly 85,482 half-filled boxes of crayons we had into one location. (On a related note, I frequently say "crayons" as "crowns." I used to believe it was a Baltimore accent thing, but now I believe I've been mispronouncing it all along.)

As she sorted the crowns -- er, crayons -- she noted they were different sizes and worn down at varying angles. Some were missing wrappers, some were giant-sized for beginners. Some were standard, others sparkled. But they all had been used and used well. 

She was filling the containers, in other words, with memories. 

"If I had a blog or something, I'd write about this," Belle said, looking down at the floor with a smile on her face.

Your turn, dear.  

The Tooth of the Matter

To understand why Belle said, at approximately 2:50 a.m. Jan. 2, "I can't believe I'm going to be up the rest of the night because of the f----- tooth fairy," we first need to go back about 42 years.

I was born with a small mouth and a short tongue. If I stick my tongue out, it looks like I have a third, fat lip. When I lick an ice cream cone, my whole face approaches the cone the way a bulldog approaches its water bowl. The problem is my tongue is tied very close to the front of my mouth. This causes words to sometimes spill out of my mouth in a jumbled mess, and sometimes I can feel my mind moving four times faster than my jaw. 

My son has inherited many things from me - dashing good looks, a love of reading, the appreciation of a quality fart. He also has my small mouth and short tongue. His dentist told us last year he probably would need braces by the time he's 8 to make more space in his mouth for his adult teeth; I had braces the first time around the same age and then had braces again in my early teens.

He also was self-conscious about not being able to make certain sounds. A speech therapist worked with him twice before telling us the problem is that he physically can't maneuver his tongue and recommended he work with a myofunctional therapist, which is Greek for "not covered by insurance." She is giving him daily exercises for his tongue that we sometimes do together. He already can make his tongue in the shape of a taco. My attempt looks more like an open-faced gyro.

The myofunctional therapist recommended my son go to the orthodontist to evaluate his crowded mouth. We agreed, knowing sooner rather than later he would need braces. What we did not know was that "sooner" meant "one week later," and on Dec. 30, he had braces on a bunch of his top teeth. (He chose for the colors of his braces' bands orange, black and purple, something else he inherited from me.)

So, when he came into our room at approximately 2:30 a.m. Jan. 2, I immediately asked if his teeth were hurting. He said he just needed a drink - from a cup right beside his bed. I tucked him back in and then noticed our eldest daughter's bedroom door was open, which I thought was strange because Belle closes all the kids' doors before we go to sleep. 

But to understand why Belle said, approximately 20 minutes later, "I can't believe I'm going to be up the rest of the night because of the f----- tooth fairy," we need to go back to earlier in the evening.

I would tell you the exact time but that would imply I remembered to put money under my daughter's pillow in exchange for her tooth. Instead, I know Belle told me sometime earlier in the day to do it in the evening, I acknowledged receipt of the request and promptly forgot.

We were already a day late for the tooth fairy but no kids noticed because of New Year's Eve festivities. My eldest daughter also figured out who the tooth fairy was a few years ago when she observed the tooth fairy's handwriting looked suspiciously like mine. (I switched from an all-caps style to my version of cursive, but we couldn't fool her.) Since the younger kids still had most of their teeth to lose, we reached an unspoken agreement: She would keep getting $5 per tooth in exchange for keeping the tooth fairy's identity a secret. 

(Yes, $5 a tooth. I'm sure when my youngest is losing her last teeth we'll be Venmoing her $35 a molar.)  

Back to the early hours of Jan. 2. I went back to our bedroom and told Belle our son was OK. She then told me I needed to do the tooth fairy for our daughter. I found some money and tiptoed into my daughter's room. Naturally, she woke up immediately. 

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"Uh, just checking on you. Your brother just woke up," I said, closing my door on the way out.

I walked back to my bedroom.

"You need to give her the money," Belle said. 

I walked back down the hall. 

"I don't have a note but I want to give you money from the tooth fairy," I said. "Where's your tooth?"

"I want to keep my tooth," she said.

"Keep your tooth?"

"Yeah."

"OK, here's the money."

I walked back into our bedroom. Belle shot out of bed. 

"I heard the whole conversation down the hall," she whisper-yelled, implying our son could have still been up and heard the illicit transaction, too. The tooth fairy, she told our daughter, had to take her tooth or else would not be doing her job. My daughter ultimately handed over the tooth, and I gave her the $5. 

We closed her door and went back into our bed around 2:50 a.m., at which point Belle, who had not slept particularly well the previous nights, said, "I can't believe I'm going to be up the rest of the night because of the f----- tooth fairy." I buried my head as far under our blankets as possible to muffle my laughter.

I slipped a note from the tooth fairy under my daughter's door before she woke up. The younger kids did not ask about the tooth or tooth fairy the following day. 

Most importantly, the f---- tooth fairy did not keep Belle up. My snoring did. 

Man on the Run

I was brushing my younger daughter's hair in her room after a bath when, from across the hall, I heard my older daughter in the bathroom tell Belle matter-of-factly, "Some girls in my class are getting their periods."

A noise came out from deep inside my gut, like the dying moans of a beached whale. I continued brushing my younger daughter's hair in the hopes each stroke could keep her from growing up. 

But I had already seen the past and future of girlhood thanks in part to Girls on the Run, an after-school program my oldest is in that I helped coached last school year. Twice a week, girls in third through fifth grades met to build life skills and run, culminating in 5K races at the end of each semester.

My daughter participated last year as a third grader, and I only knew of the program whatever she told me when she came home from practice. In August, she was on the wait list and upset she wouldn't be on the team with a bunch of her friends. When we found out the child of a coach automatically is on the team, I realized I could help out once a week. So, without knowing exactly what I was getting myself into, I volunteered to coach.  

I was one of two dad-coaches during the winter program and the only dad coach in the spring program. But the only time I felt out of place was when the other coaches were sharing childbirth stories prior to practice one day. "I had an ingrown toenail removed once," I said in a moment of silence. I'm thankful they didn't make me run laps.  

The two lead coaches had been in their roles for a few years and created a well-oiled machine. Each practice involved a lesson on effective communication or self-confidence, for example, with group activities and time for self-reflection, followed by some running. I largely kept quiet and observed, figuring the lessons would resonate more coming from women, plus I didn't want to teach the girls any lessons in mansplaining.

Once school dismissed for the day, the girls stampeded toward our meeting area, releasing their pent-up energy and searching for food, with lots of giggling and loud talking. Some days, the giggling and talking would last for the entire practice but I was impressed with how insightful their answers could be, how wise beyond their years they occasionally sounded.

I say "occasionally" because this still was, at its core, a gaggle of 8-to-11-year-old girls. The group dynamics make for a great anthropological study. Most of the girls congregated with the other girls in their grade, although there was never any hesitation to work with girls in different grades during group activities. There was friendly roughhousing but also lots of cartwheels, dance routines and singing. Elementary school girls are just as silly elementary school boys, minus the constant fear of one randomly hitting the other with whatever object is nearby.

Having a fourth grader also allowed me to see where my daughter came from and where she was going. It was an evolutionary chart in real-time. There were some days where I could not imagine her as a fifth grader, others where it was hard to remember her as a third grader. Time, like the girls during practice, moves slowly before suddenly speeding up.

The Girls on the Run program culminates with all of the teams in the county gathering for a 5K run. Each girl runs with a parent or adult, and the course is lined with cheering supporters. My daughter and I were bundled up and walking more than I wanted to in December. In June, we were sweating and trying to keep to a two-minute run, one-minute walk routine for her, and a two-minute run, one-minute-run-a-little-slower-because-stopping-and-starting-was-not-good-for-my-legs routine for me.

The last meeting of the semester was a party, where parents are invited and the girls receive their certificate for completing the program. As the coaches congratulated each girl, my daughter gave me a big hug. She's asked me to coach again next year. I've already started working on my childbirth story.

In-Laws, In the House

I've known my in-laws almost as long as I've known my wife.

Belle was living at home when I met her. Our third date was New Year's Eve (aggressive, but when you know, you know) and I offered to pick her up. 

"You realize this means you'll meet my parents," Belle said. 

"What do you want? I'm trying to work."

"Yeah, no problem," I said, not realizing until I was driving to her house that I actually was meeting her parents.

Perhaps it was best I didn't overthink it. Her parents were warm and welcoming, albeit busy preparing for their own New Year's Eve party. During our courtship, I would come over for dinner once a week and slowly became part of the family, eventually joining family vacations and feeling comfortable not feeling like I had to be "on" while around them.

My in-laws are great people and wonderful grandparents, and I'm thankful we have such a good relationship.

Yet nothing could prepare me for when they moved in this spring.

For several years, they had talked about renovating the main level of their house, a project that would require them to move out. We have a bedroom and full bathroom in our basement, and extended an open invitation for them to temporarily relocate. It was all theoretical and way off in the distant future.

Then, earlier this year, they finally found a contractor they liked. Then they had renovation plans drawn up. Then we were figuring out when they would be moving in. Then we were clearing out a shelf in our pantry to accommodate some of their food. Then I was moving my desk from my "office" in the bedroom basement to my bedroom. Then I was helping them unload their cars at our house.

Before they moved in, I mentally prepared by doing a little math. My in-laws said they would be living with us for up to two months. Having watched enough HGTV renovation shows, I immediately added two weeks to their estimate. It's not that I was counting down the days until they left; it was more a way of not even thinking about the calendar during their stay.

Their first morning got off to a rough start. Or, should I say, a "ruff" start thanks to their dog. (Please don't try that Dad Joke at home; I'm a trained professional.) My father-in-law feeding the dog and taking her out for a walk at 6 a.m. woke up all of the kids. Not that the kids were mad; they are crazy about the dog and gave her all the attention she could handle. 

The dog turned out to be the most challenging part of my in-laws' stay for me because, most days, I would be home alone with her. She was used to being the center of attention; I was used to getting my work done without trying to figure out why a dog was whimpering by my desk. But, just as we figured out my father-in-law could feed and take out the dog through the basement each morning, the dog and I developed a truce where I would give her an extra piece of kibble and she would sleep quietly while I worked.

As the weeks went on, everyone got into our new routine. The kids loved having their grandparents around, and Belle and I loved having the help so we could more easily be in three places at once with all of our kids' activities. I felt like a stranger in my own home the first few days but then it was business as usual, despite not being able to do my business as usual in the basement bathroom, my in-house hideaway.  

Sure, I may not have walked around the house in boxers in the morning or before bed. And I may have scooped fruit out of a container into a small bowl instead of using a toothpick to take directly from the container. And I may have held in roughly 56,000 farts. But it felt good knowing we could be there for family when they needed us.

It also probably helped that the contractor was on schedule and my in-laws were able to move out after about 10 weeks. And, to answer your question: No, we are not getting a dog.

Watching You, Watching Me

I've always liked to joke that my oldest daughter is "X-years-old going on teenager," a line that is typically met with an uneasy laugh from other girl dads. Now, however, I can pinpoint exactly when my 9-year-old became a teenager: Friday, May 17, 2024 at 8:13 a.m.

The Gift of Gabb

How we got here goes back to December, when she received a Gabb watch for Hanukkah that some of her friends had. Basically, it bought us a few years of her not asking, "Can I get a cellphone?" because it allows her to call and text people. But Belle and I control her contacts, and we've set it up so she can only contact the two of us during school hours.

Our daughter, who was not a watch-wearer previously, took to wearing her Gabb and not abusing the privilege. The watch became a security blanket, too, allowing her to feel comfortable when we dropped her off at birthday parties knowing we were just a text away. (Being able to leave a kid at a birthday party for a few hours is an underrated parenting milestone.)

It's strange having my daughter in my phone contacts, but most of the texts to me are silly emojis or asking what's for dinner. (The answer, of course, is "Nothing you'll eat.") And it's nice to be able to text her if we need to update her on who will be picking her up from her after-school activities. 

There has been the occasional hiccup, however. During school days, she only texts us during early-afternoon recess. So I was just a bit freaked out when I was working at my office one day and got this mid-morning message: "I am literally so scared right now." I frantically texted her and got no response. I frantically texted and called Belle even though I knew she was in a meeting. Eventually, I learned my daughter's comment was a reaction to a big thunderstorm that had passed over the school. We all had a talk that night about sending texts like that.

Thankfully, we haven't had an issue since. We overhear a lot of voice texts to her girlfriends discussing play dates and updating her grandmothers on what's going on in her world. We'll text her to ride her bike home from a neighborhood friend's house. She's starting to assert her independence with our encouragement. She can watch her younger siblings and figured out the identity of the tooth fairy but still likes to have her mom brush her hair after a shower. On most days, there is a sweetness-to-sass ratio of about 4:1.

But Friday morning, May 17, was not one of those days. It was a sunny but cool spring morning. Belle suggested she wear pants but our daughter insisted on wearing shorts. As she did every morning, she walked ahead to the bus stop with a friend, wearing sandals and no jacket.

Right before Belle headed to the bus stop with our son, our daughter sent Belle a text asking her to bring her Native slip-ons to wear instead of her sandals. A few minutes later, she also asked her to bring a jacket "because it's cold now."

"I just have the Natives," Belle texted on her way to the bus stop.

"Okay," my daughter replied. "I am freezing, but whatever."

"OK, well, you should've kept the pants on. I don't know what to tell you."

"Ok," my daughter said. "I'll spend my days freezing."

I'll spend my days freezing. I could feel our daughter's eyes rolling when Belle showed me the texts. It's the perfect combination of exasperation and silliness. I spent about a week using that line around the house as a non-sequitur. ("Danny, you need take the trash out." "Fine, I'll spend my days freezing.")

Our daughter came home from school that day unfrozen and as if nothing happened. That should only be the extent - and result - of our battles with her as she gets closer each day to actually becoming a teenager, but I'm not naive. So I'll just be on alert for these flashes of sass, which I imagine will become more like a steady stream.

I just wish I knew when they'd happen. If only I could set a watch to it.