Counting down the days until Beth’s thirteenth birthday with a few reposts from the archives.

Originally posted: Jan 20, 2006, Beth’s age: 8

Beth and I were leaving Tae Kwon Do and I heard the sound of sudden submersion behind me. I looked back and saw Beth up to her shins in water.

(Defensively) “Dad, I stepped in a puddle by accident!”

(Angrily) “Beth, that’s the only puddle in the parking lot and you had to walk about ten feet out of your way to get to it. The only thing accidental about it is you didn’t mean to get soaked half way up to your knees – because you didn’t expect it to be so deep.”

(Sheepishly) “How did you know dad?”

(Honestly) “Been there, done that, Beth.”

Counting down the days until Beth’s thirteenth birthday with a few reposts from the archives.

Originally posted: Jul 10, 2005, Beth’s age: 7 (almost 8)

Last week we had a little problem getting Beth ready in the morning. Gaping, bleeding wounds will do that to you. She was feeling playful and decided to hide under her bed after we asked her to get dressed. Unfortunately, she caught her leg on something sharp and we wound up in the ER rather than the rec center (for summer camp).

“Dad, were you angry with me when I cut my leg?”

“No Beth, I’m not angry with you. I was angry when you didn’t listen this morning, but I wasn’t angry that you cut your leg, I was just worried.”

“Dad, I wish I could go back in time and get dressed instead of hiding under the bed, then I’d be at camp right now.”

“That’s true Beth, but it will be o.k. Sometimes we all learn lessons the hard way. Even your mom and dad.”

“So listening and getting ready this morning would have been the easy way?”

“I think so.”

Beth thinks about this for a few moments, before asking a question.

“Dad, what would be the medium way?”

Counting down the days until Beth’s thirteenth birthday with a few reposts from the archives.

Originally posted: May 10, 2005, Beth’s age: 7

I was at work and struck by the hour: noon already? On a whim I begged off early, promising to make up the time later (a line borrowed from the procrastinator’s creed). This whim eventually brought me to my daughter’s school, just as her and her like were being released for the day. She wasn’t expecting me, and didn’t notice when I fell into step behind her, stride for untroubled stride. She was carrying a large paper bag: the end of the year, accumulated wealth from a well used second grader’s desk. Without comment or warning I plucked her burden from her grasp. She turned, perturbed, expecting to confront a bully. When she found me instead she looked a little worried, but that worried gaze quickly gave in to excited chatter when she learned I was there solely because I felt like it – because I wanted to see my kid.

Later that day, when the day had no right to be called “day” anymore, Beth was settling down for bed. We said our prayers, tucked in the covers, and said our good nights. As I was closing the door Beth asked me to wait. She waved me over and I sat at her side.

“Dad, today was my favorite day. I love you dad.”

If words can melt a heart, then mine’s a puddle.