These days: a dry, hacking cough that I can’t seem to shake.
I’m sure I’ve mentioned this before, but Sparkle gets to go to doggie-daycare once per week. Sometimes it makes me feel lazy that we contract out that little smidgen of her care and exercise, but given the contrast between the coldness of our winters and the shortness of her fur, that feeling is quickly outweighed by the knowledge that it’s about the only way she gets anything resembling more than five minutes of exercise during the winter months.
Then she crashes when she comes home. Play hard. Sleep harder.
I can’t sleep. Do I have to count sheep or something?
#100happydays #dailyhappy (9/100) …an evening shopping trip netted some new pillows for the bed. #newPillowDay
“Daddy.” She whispers sharply into my ear, simultaneously nudging my shoulder and jostling the pillow. “I’m hungry.”
I’m (mostly) still sleeping, but the persistence in her voice tells me that this is not the first time she has asked. It’s shortly after six on a Saturday morning, the only day of the week when stealing a few extra winks is even remotely possible. Except it never is. “Go get a snack.” I deflect, hoping she’ll scurry towards the kitchen and find herself some dry cereal or something.
“Daddy.” She repeats. “I want pancakes. It’s Saturday.”
For three years, with only the rarest of exceptions, Saturday morning is pancake day. We get up. I make coffee. We assemble the ingredients while the cast iron pan warms on the stove. And by the time seven-thirty rolls around it is time to wake up mom and call her down for breakfast.
But it is 6:12,at least according to the glowing green numbers displayed on the alarm clock beside my bed. It is not 7:30. “Go back to bed.” I insist in the best dad-voice I can muster less than a minute after being woken from a rather peaceful slumber.
“I’m hungry.” She repeats.
“Then go make the batter yourself and call me when you are ready to cook them.” I suggest with only the faintest glimmer of a hope that my ploy for a few extra Zs will work.
But… footsteps, no reply, and for an imperceptibly short moment I drift back into the semi-consciousness of a desperate sleep-in.
When the muffled clangs and clatters filtering through the floor finally rouse me once again, I stumble downstairs to three sights: a somewhat messy kitchen, a nearly-ready-to-cook bowl of pancake batter, and a grinning six-year-old.
fostering independence, rule 006
opportunities are cooking everywhere: so sometimes just stay in bed
What’s a mixing bowl worth? Or a carton of spilled milk? She’d seen me mix the ingredients for pancakes so often that the recipe was grilled into her memory. The final batter was a bit runny, but in the end nothing broke. Very little spilled. And the beaming pride that bubbled even more than the hot flapjacks on the grill was worth the mess.
I could have been there to fully supervise and perhaps there may have been one or two fewer bits of eggshell in the batter, but there is learning to be had in taking risks. Just sometimes those risks involve sitting still and letting your daughter take over the tradition, even when breakfast is on the line.
While many folks will tell you that you can’t really honestly convert your training miles based on road conditions –that a klick is a klick is a klick no matter what’s under your feets– after twenty seven klicks on the sloppy trails yesterday morning, I beg to differ. Yeah, many of the walks had been shoveled or plowed, but this merely meant that conditions ranged from anything including (a) that thinly glazed lightly pebbled ice that is nearly invisible on a seemingly clean sidewalk, (b) the not-quite-even trail through a foot of snow created by a hundred previous pedestrians that seems like a path but really isn’t, (c) those I’m crossing the street for a few steps at an intersection and navigating between ruts, slick, sludge, or puddles while watching for oblivious drivers, or (d) the we plowed the roads after we plowed the sidewalks and the roads won mess of uneven dirty clumps with no other route around kinda snow. I fell asleep on the couch waaaaay too early for it to have been anything but a tough run.
Once more it is June. Again. And again I embark upon that epic effort of daily blogging, take three, wherein I call upon myself for a kind of rambling focus, picking from a list of daily topics, and with neither planning nor advance writing, strive to pepper this blog with the free-thought, free-writing wonder that is another one of Those 30 Posts in June. Today, that post just happens to be:
June 15th // Something You Are Craving
I started writing this while riding in the car on the way home from a couple days spent in Calgary, pecking out the words on my phone as Karin drives through the sporadic rain.
We’ve been driving. We’ve been eating.We’ve been socializing. And we’ve been driving some more.
Yesterday I spent an hour and a half in rush hour traffic in Calgary. Oh… the pain.
Then I spent a couple long hours being present, talkative and sociable with my wife’s various bosses at a banquet. I won’t claim it wasn’t fun. It was a great evening. It’s just that the introvert in me doesn’t thrive in situations like that.
Today, more driving and more food. Stopping to pick up critters. Eating out. Eating out more. And still not much sleep. And tomorrow? An epic twenty-six kilometer run.
So, yeah, I’m craving sleep.
This is another post from my ‘Daddy Daze‘ series, an anecdotal exploration of my odd little adventures in parenting in bite-sized chunks (for your reading enjoyment) and because the last thing this world needs is yet another doting parent blog.
It’s Daylight Savings day. The clocks got set an hour backwards sometime in the middle of the night, but the girl’s internal clock will take a few days longer. Not only that, but my poor wife got trapped in some sort of server recovery issue and at almost seven in the morning has not yet been to bed. So, I’m thinking it is going to be a bit of an odd-duck sort of day.
Claire and I are sitting in our pajamas in bed, my back has a kink in it something awful, and I’m contemplating skipping my training run to just make the girls a batch of pancakes and call it a write-off.
Of course, where on such a morning back in the nineteen eighties, my folks would have directed us towards some weekend cartoons on the television, and then promptly rolled over for another couple hours of shut-eye, here in 2012 I direct Claire to go find the iPad and amuse herself with that. Normally such an offering would garner me at least an extra hour’s worth of sleep, but the overnight chaos of our house found her instead cuddled up beside me in bed and begging for tech support from her drowsy dad on a some dress-up app that was crashing.
Claire loves Minecraft. For whatever reason “The Chopping Game” is our little father-daughter gaming retreat, and on the desktop-slash-server version I’d run on a normal basis we spend spans of time listening to music while she directs the construction of interesting buildings or miscellany.
But, obsessed as I am, at various points in history I’ve also sprung some coin on the iOS version as well as the Android mobile version. She’s got the iOS version figured out in the monster-free, unlimited-sandbox-mode, Creative Play. And, the mobile version being what it is, it’s a simple couple of clicks for us to network the iPad and my Galaxy Note together into a co-operative game.
That’s right: she’s on the iPad, I’m on my phone, and at shortly after six in the morning we were basking in the glow of our touch screens and playing a daddy-daughter game of Minecraft while still hunkered down under the cozy covers.
I grabbed some screens of our little creations. The girl has it pretty much figured out, and so — I would humbly argue — it’s pretty much just us playing digital Legos with bricks of dirt, glass and cobblestone. Easier on both the feet and pocketbook, too.
If you click through the photos you’ll see we built some pretty cool stuff. But now, I’m thinking those pancakes are sounding really good, too.