Shotgun Daddy

Four

Our children were never terrible at two.  The plan, apparently passed secretly from Alison to Henry to Kate, seemed to be to lull the parents into a false sense of security before taking control of the family.  They tricked us into thinking that they were the perfect children, or (when we were feeling a bit confident) that we were the perfect parents.  

And then it would happen.  Sometime on the evening of their third birthday, each child was visited by a demon that would inhabit his or her soul for the next twelve months, wrecking havoc upon our previously tranquil family.  Both Alison and Henry recovered in time for their fourth birthdays, but Kate -- ever the overachiever -- is pushing the envelope.  She'll turn five in just seven weeks.  Some of her friends might have a clown or a reptile wrangler as entertainment at their birthday parties, but we're giving serious thought to hiring an exorcist and passing out vials of holy water as party favors.

Just this evening, for example, she argued for ten or fifteen minutes about whether or not she would eat her taco, then begged me to make her another shell when she finally finished and noticed that Henry had eaten the last one.  At bath time she scolded me for getting her ouchie wet, then curled up into a ball and dissolved into tears when I asked her to put her pajamas on.  Once she was finally in bed, she hollered down the hall for me to bring her a tissue (I refused), catch a mosquito (I relented), retrieve one of Henry's books (I refused), and search for a spider (I failed).  Henry and Alison had been asleep for twenty minutes by the time Kate finally closed her mouth and shut her eyes.

The other side of Kate's coin, though, is sweet, loving, and absolutely adorable.  (Clearly this is an evolutionary trick designed to prevent us from donating our children to charity.)  She's old enough to begin decoding some of life's mysteries, as when she recently explained that she feels big when she's at preschool but small when she goes with Mama to pick up Henry and Alison at their elementary school, but young enough that she still sees the magic.  

Just yesterday she raced into the house to tell me about her latest discovery.  "Daddy, Daddy, the golden poppies are growing!"  Here eyes were as big as sunflowers and the excitement in her voice stopped the earth from spinning.  She knows they're my favorite flowers, and they've become hers as well.  "But they haven't opened up yet, Daddy..."  And she was back out the door as quickly as she had come.

When she came in for dinner she revealed that she had been singing to the newly sprouted poppies.  

"I was signing to them so that they would open up."  

"What were you singing?"

"Twinkle, twinkle, little star.  But they didn't open."  She was disappointed, but not sad.  She knew they would bloom eventually.

And that's the moment that gets me through the tantrums and the arguing and the tears.  If it's true that we learn more from our children than they'll ever learn from us, then this is what I've learned from Kate.  Just like the poppies, she will bloom.  Eventually, she will bloom.

Strawberry Fields Forever

 The only cure for the depression that rises with the final few days of a long vacation is a fun outing for the entire family.  For us, it was a trip to Tanaka Farms in Irvine to pick strawberries with our good friends.  If you live in the area, you owe it to yourself and your children to plan a trip this spring.

Here's how it works.  You pay thirteen bucks a person for a guided tour of the farm -- complete with samples of each different crop along the way -- and a basket to fill with strawberries at the end.  The farm is completely organic, and the vegetables taste nothing like what you're used to.  The onions are sweet and biting, the carrots explode with flavor, and even the spinach tastes good.  Henry was in heaven, and even Alison and Kate were brave enough to try everything.

The best, though, is saved for last.  You haven't really had strawberries until you've plucked them directly from the plant and popped them straight into your mouth, still warm from the afternoon sun.  I walked up and down the rows, first helping Henry and then Kate as they searched for the largest and juiciest strawberries.  Alison did just fine on her own.

We brought home five boxes of strawberries which Leslie magically transformed into seventeen jars of jelly by Friday evening, spinach which I paired with balsamic vinegar for a nice salad on Saturday night, and a bag full of green onions and carrots which I sautéed for Sunday's dinner.  It was a great trip, and a great way to spend one of our last days of freedom.

Mixed, Part II

Last Sunday we drove into Little Tokyo to visit the Japanese American National Museum and view the museum's newest exhibit, a collection of photographs based on Kip Fulbeck's new photo book, Mixed. (Here's what I wrote last week about the book.)

We knew that only a small number of the photos in the book would be included in the museum show, but I had been exchanging emails with Kip's assistant, and she had casually mentioned that she thought we would be excited with the exhibit.  We took this to mean that Alison's photo had made the cut, so we arranged a trip to the museum with Alison's grandmother; her great aunt; and her aunt, uncle, and cousin visiting from Colorado.  Along with our own five-person family, we formed nine-person entourage for Alison as we walked into the museum.

And here's where things got crazy.  Alison's photograph was not technically in the exhibit; it was at the entrance of the show, the first face that visitors see as they walk in.  Alison stood in front of her larger-than-life photograph, smiling proudly -- but she wasn't nearly as proud as I was.