Thursday, January 7, 2010
No More Makebelieve
As is common, I'm sure, among children whose parents both wear glasses, my darling little angel-monkey loves to put on her parents' glasses, or Mr. Potato Head's glasses, or anything that looks like it might be glasses, and pretend they are hers.
As of yesterday, she no longer needs to pretend.
Several weeks ago, we had her evaluated for preschool placement, and one of the tests they did was a very rudimentary vision exam. Whereas she did fine when using both eyes and when using only her left eye, her right eye was extremely weak. Weak enough that the examiner couldn't say exactly what Cordy's vision in that eye was, so she simply put down 20/80 and advised us to see an optometrist.
Tammy and I happen to have a very good optometrist who also examines children, so we scheduled an appointment with him. Two weeks ago I took my princess to see him. He confirmed that her left eye was strong and needed scarcely any correction, if any at all. However, he could not determine anything better than 20/200 in her right-eye.
Based on refraction and other tests he was able to do on his end, he had a good idea of what prescription she needed, but because she was tired and angry from the dilation drops he'd given her earlier, she wasn't in the mood to cooperate with the actual "look at the picture and tell us what you see" exam any more.
Yesterday, we picked up the new glasses, and she seems to like them. Wore them all day yesterday without a complaint (until just before bed - she came to me and said, "Gasses off now?" To which I replied, "Of course, but we have to brush our teeth and put on pajamas, now").
She wasn't happy about that. But she agreed, eventually, and she also agreed to wear the glasses again today.
Another thing: She is supposed to wear an eye patch over her strong eye for 2 hours each day, to help force her weak eye to work, and strengthen. She has a cute pink eye-patch for that. I'll try to get a picture of it and post it later.
Anyway, that's what's up for now.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Christmas 2009 - The Year of the White-Boards
Some of you spent Christmas with us. Some of you received text messages or phone calls. Some of you thought I forgot all about you. But I didn't. I promise.
When I was a kid, Christmas was always a very simple event (at least to my recollection):
- Christmas Eve: Open one present, always somehow managed to be pajamas. Go to bed.
- Christmas Eve: Try to stay awake and listen for Santa Claus
- Christmas Eve: Have parents tell you over and over if you don't stop talking to your brother, you won't fall asleep and Santa won't come
- Christmas Eve: Fall asleep.
- Christmas Morning: Wake up and wonder if Santa had come, yet.
- Christmas Morning: Continue waiting and wondering.
- Christmas Morning: Stop wondering about Santa and start wondering if parents are ever going to wake up.
- Christmas Morning: Start wondering if parents are dead.
- Christmas Morning: Hear sounds of life coming from somewhere in the house, hope it is mom and dad.
- Christmas Morning: It is mom and dad!
- Christmas Morning: Collect stockings.
- Christmas Morning: Open presents (one at a time, each person gets a turn).
- Christmas Morning: Dad cooks breakfast.
- Christmas Day: Play with new toys, read new books, enjoy life.
- Christmas Day: Continue playing, maybe fight with brothers about whose toy belongs to whom.
- Christmas Night: Go to bed and start planning for next Christmas.
I found out Christmas Eve that I was going to have to cook a turkey (yay!), and the turkey was still frozen at my mom's place (ugh!). But it was a Butterball, so I didn't need to worry about having to prep it in order to keep it juicy (yay!). So I went to my mom's got the turkey, came home, and began the rush-thaw of a 16 lb turkey.
Based on everything I could find on the internet, it was going to take 8 hours to thaw it in cold water. So I put the bird in my largest picnic cooler, covered it in cold water, and set my alarm for 5:30 (it was about 10:00, so the turkey would be ready to cook by 6). We didn't need to be to the in-laws until 10, and the gobbler was going to take about 4 hours to cook. So we'd be a little late for breakfast, but not too much.
Got to bed by 1:00. 5:30 rolled around and my alarm didn't go off. Fortunately (sort of), I woke up at about 5:50 and checked the time. Jumped out of bed and finished prepping my bird and dropped him in the oven. Or her. Thought about going back to bed. Gave up on that idea. Watched some shows on Hulu.com that I'd missed.
Eventually, it was time to get up.



Monday, December 21, 2009
Booger Art 101
Yesterday, as I was reading Cordelia a story before her her nap, she started picking at the wall. At first I thought there was a scuff or other blemish on the wall and I turned to tell her not to pick at it. But what I saw wasn't a nick or scratch. It was an encrusted booger. I was certain.
I asked her outright, "Is that a booger?"
She informed me that, "Yes. It's boogy."
Needless-to-say (yet I'll say it anyway) I put a stop to the picking even more definitively than I would have if it had just been wall-picking. I informed her in as stern-but-loving a voice as I could muster, that she was not to put her boogers on the wall anymore. It is gross and she needs to use a tissue if she has boogers in her nose.
She said "Okay, sheesh."
When I started cleaning it off the wall, I discovered several more pieces of art; fortunately, it seems the discovery was made before it could get too out of hand. I'm going to have to keep a close eye on the wall, and start having her clean it up if it continues.
I did make an observation, however. Gross as it may be, I have to point out that boogers set up like concrete. I wonder just how much influence boogers had on the invention of krazy-glue.
You may note that I did not post any pictures of Cordelia's Booger Art. It's not an attempt at preserving any kind of copyright to her art. It's mostly because it was really gross. And it's doubtful I'll be taking any pictures of future projects, either. Unless there's a coolness factor that outweighs the gross factor.
<*fingers crossed*>
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Last Christmas by Wham!
Ok, so I'm not a composer, myself, so I cannot judge the quality of the composition, or the music, etc. blah, blah. What I am, however, is a listener. A consumer, if you will. Therefore, I believe I am qualified to judge the quality of the song based on my opinions, my tastes, and - frankly - the crappiness of the song.
Second line: "... the very next day you gave it away..."
Friday, December 11, 2009
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
With Regard to Ir-
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
"You Let Cordy Play in the Lion's Cage..."
“… and she got hurt. I’m very upset with you.”
I can’t blame her. What was I thinking, letting my almost-three-year-old play in a lion cage? I must be a terrible father.
And yet, I have to probe a little deeper. Since this happened in a dream, I have to ask why she dreamed about me being a terrible father. Does she think I’m a terrible father? Or was this just a simple case of random synapses firing in her stressed brainpan?
“I was in jail so I wasn’t with you when it happened. I don’t know exactly how she got hurt.”
Well, think I, at least she’s dreaming that she’s a less-than-perfect parent, too.
***
This brings me to what I was originally going to post about the other day, and ended up sidetracked:
When I come home at night - or if I’m home and Tammy comes home with Cordelia - and the first thing I hear as the door opens is “Daddy? Daaaaddy…” it wraps my heart in a warm towel. Fresh-from-the-drier warm.
She laughs at my stupidest jokes. My silliest faces. My goofiest attempts at being entertaining. Stuff that would make another adult roll their eyes, or just walk away in irritation make my little girl laugh and giggle. Sometimes it is the greatest feeling in the world, knowing that even though I’m no comedian, my daughter thinks I am. Sometimes, however, I get neurotic about it and wonder if I’m giving her a bad example, instructing her on how to be funny, but doing it in a way that will get her shunned from the society of other children, her peers as she grows up.
And then I shrug it off. I can only be who I am, and if that ruins her, so be it. At least she’ll know that her daddy loved her and spent enough time with her to destroy her socially. It sure beats the alternative. Besides, if the only laughs I’m ever going to get come from my daughter, age 2, then I had better take advantage of it while I can.
When she’s in trouble, even if I’m the one who is mad at her (especially if I’m the one) she puts on her sad face and opens her arms and asks for a hug. Of course, I never deny her any hugs – I need them, too. The hugs are important, I think, even when she’s in trouble, so she knows she’s still loved and she has simply done something that was inappropriate or unacceptable (example: She likes to get a mouthful of water/juice/milk/etc. and spit it on the floor in fun and interesting patterns. I certainly don’t want to stifle her creativity, but the laminate floor isn’t water-proof, easy or cheap to replace, and frankly, the behavior is kind of gross).
But I’m her daddy, and she picks me over Tammy 80% of the time. It makes me feel good, and sad at the same time. Tammy is a good mom and deserves more than 20%. I suppose in time she’ll get more. Girls seem to gravitate towards moms as they get older and realize that dads are just dumb boys like all the rest.





