‘You Know Better, Daddy’

The other day, I’m playing with my two-year-old daughter, Belle. She asks me to put her Barbie doll’s hair in a pony tail, so I do.

But then I try to spice things up by twisting it to the side. Belle frowns.

“Daddy, pony tails are straight,” she says. “You know better.”

Apparently, the danger in teaching kids the proper way to live is that they may eventually hold you to the same standards.

For example, when I burp, Belle now says: “Excuse you, Daddy!”

She’s also fond of saying, “Daddy, I need some milk. You know better.”

Most parents try to teach kids not to listen to rock music at volumes audible by people in Sri Lanka. We're no different with Belle. Recently, I was listening to The Three Tenors.

Anyone who listens to classical music knows it’s hard to set a good volume because most of the time you can’t hear it--then suddenly it blasts you at quadruple forte.

So the Three Tenors are singing vociferously and Belle says, “Daddy, that’s too loud for the squirrels and the birds. You know better.”

Growing Up Fast
But while she’s learning fast, sometimes things get jarbled. Like the other day, I took her into the bathroom to wash her hands. Afterwards, she says, “What’s that, Daddy?”

“That’s a urinal,” I say. “That’s yucky—no touch.”

“I sit in urinal,” she declares, moving toward it.

A few days later, she’s drawing with her godfather, Jason Kotecki--a cartoonist, author and public speaker. They're creating these great drawings, but Belle's baby brother, Johnny, keeps grabbing them, causing them to crinkle.

“Johnny!” she says indignantly. “No frinkle the paper! No frinkle!”

At dinner, we’re eating spaghetti and Belle says, “Mommy, more sca-betti, please.”

“You mean ‘more spaghetti?’” I ask.

“No. More scabetti, Daddy,” she says, nodding assuredly. “Yep. Scabetti.”

She pronounces other big words rather clearly. The other day I got her to use commingle in a sentence, i.e., “The scabetti sauce commingles with Daddy’s clothes.”

"That’s what I get for wearing a white shirt," I say, frinkling my nose.

Then Belle says: "You know better, Daddy."

For Love of Danger

My one-year-old son, Johnny, loves danger. All you have to do is crack the door to the stairs or garbage and he’ll hustle toward it like a tree frog.

So he’ll undoubtedly be attracted to the carnival when it comes to town; those rides are one rusty bolt away from certain catastrophic death.

I mean, have you ever seen a new, sleek carnie? They’re always riddled with shady chain-smoking characters who are way too old to be at a kiddy attraction. If they don’t kill you, the funnel cake will.

So my kids will be all over that. Although they thought they were going to enjoy the car wash at the local gas station. However, when the garage door closed, the lights went out and the mechanical beams that spray water and wax kicked into gear, both Johnny and Belle, my two-year-old daughter, burst into tears.

How could one daddy be so cruel?

Afterwards, Belle, still sniffling, said, “Daddy, I done cryyyyingggg... Waaaah!”

But she bounced back quickly. The next day she was up at the top of a slide that was seemingly 200 feet in the air. It was totally safe, but I still fretted. I kept thinking about what my mom used to tell me when I was a kid: “I have too much INVESTED in you!”

There was another parent there and I wondered if she thought I was like Michael Jackson, dangling his baby over the ledge. I felt like saying, “I didn’t name her Blanket--don’t look at me like that!” Then her kid went down the same slide as mine. Both kids slid down the slide gleefully and said, “Do that again!”

Belle doesn't need me to feel safe. The other day the babysitter came and Belle said joyfully, “Bye-bye mom. Bye-bye dad. Bye-bye!” So much for separation anxiety. Sure, she blew us kisses, but I half expected her holler “TOGA PARTYYYY!” as soon as we closed the door.

I guess all a parent can do in a situation like that is pray. Belle has recently started praying before bed—particularly for her friends like Allison, Andrew and Leah. Which is really sweet. However, she also prays for her grandma’s dog and her mom’s trophy, which her mommy won for being an excellent Mary Kay consultant.

The trophy sits in our kitchen and Belle loves it. In fact, it’s kind of her imaginary friend. “Hey Daddy, I ate all my grapes,” she says.

“That’s great, Belle,” I say. “Good job.”

“Can you tell Trophy I ate all my grapes?” Belle says.

“Hey trophy, Belle ate her grapes,” I say.

“Is Trophy excited?” Belle asks.

“Thrilled.” I say.

“Trophy wants to celebrate,” she says.

“I’ll get the togas,” I say.