Tag: Beth

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D – 27 (One tooth, three teeth)

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

Originally posted: Jan 20, 2002, Beth’s age: 4

Title: One tooth, three teeth

Beth is holding three pencil erasers in the shape of teeth. She advises me (in her typically loud fashion, as if from half way across the house) she has three toothes. Recognizing the grammatical error, I explain to her she has three teeth, not three toothes. Beth, being a relatively stubborn child, insists she has three toothes. This goes on for about a minute or so before I convince her there is no such word as “toothes.”

Finally, she seems to be catching on, so I decide to quiz her.

“Beth, what do you have when you have three?”
“Three TEETH daddy!”
“Good! Very good Beth! Now, what do you have when you have just one Beth?”
“Two missing teeth daddy!”

D – 28

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

Originally posted: Jan 8, 2001, Beth’s age: 3

Title: A Lesson in Physics

Beth, doing her best impersonation of Isaac Newton, reaffirmed a couple of principles this evening: mommy and daddy’s rules are for good reason, and gravity plays no favorites.

Beth was in the family room when she decided Stuart Little was no longer worthy of her undivided attention. “Daddy, could you please give me my balloons?” I promise you I handed them to her innocently, with no idea what she would do with them… despite a couple years of practice as a parent.

Beth has taken to throwing things since staying in the hospital, in any direction that is convenient. Tonight it had unintended consequences.

Back to the balloons. Balloons in general, particularly the large foil – helium filled variety, are not very good for throwing. They’re all surface and no mass. Enter the rock ballast. Wrap it in foil, tie a couple of foil balloons to it with ribbon, it’s still a rock; and it still hurts when its dropped on your scull from 2 – 3 feet in the air. This is just what Beth achieved when, from a lying position, she awkwardly heaved the foil covered rock in the direction that tragically was most convenient at the time – straight up. Actually, I’m not sure if the rock technically hit her in the scull – unless the jaw/mouth is considered part of the scull (high school anatomy escapes me at the moment). Since teeth don’t bruise, and none of them were knocked out, the mishap left no visible marks or scars. There was just a bruised ego (if a 3 year old’s ego can be bruised), and hopefully a lesson as to why she should listen to mommy and daddy when they tell her not to do something.

Anyone got odds on wether I’ve learned anything?

D – 29

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

Originally posted: Aug 6, 2001, Beth’s age: 4

Title: You’re Never Too Young

Beth started the day, like nearly every other weekday, at 6 am. Although this is not out of the ordinary, getting up any earlier than 8 am is inherently bad. I’m neither looking for, nor do I expect any sympathy from those of the medical persuasion, but I think we all can agree to this in principle.

From there, Beth went to school and suffered through a long day. When she arrived, she discovered her teacher would not be there. Instead, she had a substitute – which is almost never a good thing. She didn’t get in a nap which is definitely never a good thing.

Tired from a lack of sleep, and already weary from suffering through a substitute teacher, Cheryl picked her up early to go to the dentist. It was her first time with the poke, prod, scrape, and polish routine. When the pain in her mouth was still around an hour later, we called on our good friend Motrin.

Not until later that night, when Beth was on the potty struggling with something too gross to describe, Beth pitifully announced: “Mommy, I’m having a bad day.”

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D – 30

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

Originally posted: Feb 26, 2000, Beth’s age: 2.5

Title: Beth Finds New Ways to Get Into Trouble

A little while ago, Beth decided she didn’t like having to wait on us to get her food for her. She is, as you know, a big girl now. She is capable of many things, including opening doors, especially the pantry door. Beth subsequently learned the joys of getting her own food when she is hungry. This lead to Beth getting all kinds of things out of the pantry, including things we wanted her to eat, as well as those we didn’t.

Being the logical, thinking parents that we are, we decided to put a stop part of this behavior, while still encouraging her independence. We merely took the things that we didn’t want her to eat and put them on a higher shelf.

Being the logical, thinking child that she is, Beth figured she could fetch the broom and use its handle (or for that matter anything that might extend her reach) to poke items she is not supposed to have (candy and the like) off of the upper shelves.

While part of me was upset seeing this take place so soon after we moved all of that food, I had to suppress an urge to laugh out loud, thinking to myself, “that’s my girl!”

The ah ha moment

This is one of those posts that sounded profound and original one night at 3am… and a little less so as time passed – that, and less coherent.

– – –

People told me what to expect before, but I always humored them. I’m not stupid. I’d see this thing coming way before it happened to me. I wouldn’t be so easily fooled.

Then a few nights ago it happened to me. We were sitting in a restaurant, me and Adam on one side of the table, Beth and Cheryl on the other. As I looked across the table I was struck dumb by what I saw – two heads – one level.

One minute I’m thinking: yeah, she’s in middle school, but I’ve got plenty of time. She’s still a tiny thing. Then in the blink of an eye:

Insta-funk.

There are five years left of what society deems “childhood.” Am I foolish enough to think she’ll disappear in a ball of smoke at the stroke of midnight on that last day? Well, no. But I also realize my child is already gone. In her place is this awkward, child/adult hybrid.

Parents tell stories about events in their childs’ lives and we automatically say, “oh, I can’t imagine.” On some, abstract level we know we can’t. The fun is in learning we really can’t – or couldn’t.

I realized parenthood isn’t just an exclusive club. You know how we are: “you can never imagine what it’s like to have a child until you do.” But we have cliques too. The empty nesters. The multi-birthers (some prefer the hormonaly challenged). The all girl team. The all boy team. The uni-child. The zip code. The pre-teeners. The teeners. The post-teeners (also known as the lingerers). The mix-teeners.

And so on.

Then the larger, simpler truth hit me. It was right there all along, looking me in the face. Why is it the simple truths sometimes seem harder to grasp? Is it just me? What am I getting at? What is the saying about walking a mile in someone’s shoes?

Sometimes it’s hard to understand someone’s life until you’ve lived it. Parenthood happens to be a good tool for bringing a lot of people together. A lot of people share the general experience. But as we put on one pair of shoes, when our first child is born, and we take another off, do our paths irreversibly diverge from the herd?

Do we know less than we think we do about both lives: the one we left behind as well as the one we joined – in the way I took for granted Beth’s growing up? Are we no better authority of the lifestyle of the childless, at our age, than those without kids can be of ours? I’ll wager they’re not the same shoes we wore ten or twenty years ago. They changed – just like parenting changes as our kids grow, maybe with as many “cliques” (or more) as we merry parents.

Now I wonder if/how this “toe in the shoe” phenomenon plays out in the wider human experience.

Was it present when that asshole was smoking behind Cheryl at a Gator game (many moons, two kids, and one wedding ago), prompting a mild asthma attack.

“Ah… I’ve coughed before. It can’t be that bad.”

Perhaps that’s an extreme example – with a lot of willful ignorance, and more than a touch of jack-assery thrown in.

But I wonder how often this kind of thing leads us to draw the wrong conclusions about life.

– – –

I’m sorry. This post probably wouldn’t have happened if I’d talked it out with someone. I should try that sometime.

Joy sink

“Grandma’s coming home tomorrow right? I can’t wait!”

That was Beth Wednesday night, talking to me and our pastor on the first night of confirmation class this (school) year.

“So when will she be coming HOME home?”

That was when Beth realized home can be a relative term.

“Oh,” she replied, crestfallen.

That was when I told her the truth, unvarnished, like I usually do.

Trust is a precious commodity. Cliche, I know – but for good reason. I don’t like being a kill-joy, but I want her to believe me when anxiety has its grip on her, and I tell her why everything will be ok. She’s old enough to remember the times I told her everything wasn’t, that I don’t shy away from inconvenient, uncomfortable, or unsettling truths. I hope she remembers those moments of candor when the truth doesn’t hurt.

Although folks say I’m too skinny these days, there’s a big but in the room.

I realize there’s still a need for comfort; that there’s a way to discuss disappointment in a way which doesn’t flatten wide swaths of hope. I suppose I’m like a lot of parents when I say I wish I was better at it.

Maybe this is one of those times I should let myself off the hook. Words can’t solve every problem, sooth every ill. Many lessons are learned best through experience, and she’ll see things are much better, even if they don’t live up to her original expectations.

The good news is she’ll get to see this weekend, along with the rest of us.

Rocket camp

Lift OffBeth is enrolled in “college for kids,” a summer program run by a local college. She spends the mornings in a full immersion spanish class.

Sounds like a blast right?

No, that doesn’t come until the afternoon.

Rocket camp.

The teacher even refers to himself as “Captain.”

O.K., I think that’s a little weird, but he seems like a nice guy, and he’s a really enthusiastic teacher.

This evening we went to our first big launch event. All of the kids and their families were invited to see the rockets they’d built (so far) reach for the heavens. It was an hour or so before sunset and it had been cloudy/raining all day so it was nice and cool – a perfect evening to be outside (for summer anyway).

I don’t think Beth could have been any happier. It was a great night to be a father… seeing my kid having such a good time… such a contrast to this last school year. I wish I could bottle this moment, when everything seems right in the world. Just a sip every now and again could do me a world of good.

Leaving church

I reached a new low two weeks ago. My patience wore through and no amount of sympathy or understanding was going to save me.

We were sitting in church and Beth’s verbal ticks were firing on all cylinders. They were loud enough that I had trouble hearing the lessons being read, so I tried asking Beth to lower her voice. We think she has some conscious control over the behavior because she seems to be able to moderate her volume in other settings. So when she didn’t quiet down I told her she was going to have to sit outside if she kept it up. We sat in the back so something like this wouldn’t draw too much attention or embarrass her (or myself, perhaps creating a self fulfilling prophesy).

Well, she didn’t quiet down so I asked her to go out to the narthex until the sermon was over.

She said no.

“Come again, oh child of mine?”

That’s when I just about lost it, but I bit my tongue. When the sermon ended I told her we were leaving. When we got home, Beth sat quietly outside on the front porch, giving myself a time-out more than anyone.

And that’s when I started to question myself. It happens a lot when I resort to punishing the kids, but in Beth’s case I’m especially anxious about confusing symptoms with disobedience. I don’t want to punish her for being sick. I want to reward good behavior more often than punishing for bad. I want to be a good parent. I want to be bigger than her illness. I don’t want to be that angry parent we’ve all seen somewhere – flying off the handle any time their child strays from the narrow path they’ve laid out for them. I want her path to be wide, with as many forks as possible.

Today we’re skipping church. I just don’t have the energy.

Catholics don’t have a monopoly on guilt. I should know.