Sacrifices We Make for Our Children

My 8 years old brought home a corrected homework assignment from school yesterday that had a hand written note on it from the teacher simply stating, "I wish Dhara would participate more in class".

I could have gone all hippy over the note and had a long talk about participating with my daughter. I could have made excuses for her in a return note to the teacher. I could also have gone all Nazi-like in a return note that stated, clearly Dhara's work is just fine and perhaps the teacher should be concentrating more on the students and proper homework assignments.

But I didn't think any of these approaches was beneficial to my daughter. So, as per my usual mode of teacher to parent communication, I sent a return note that both appeased the teacher and generated a great deal of sympathy for my daughter. It at least got the instructor off her case.

I replied, "Yeah, she hasn't been the same since the exorcism."

I haven't heard back from the teacher, but I'm guessing Dhara is getting extra care, coming from a challenging situation at home or is being left alone out of outright fear. Either way, no more notes frm the teacher. Now that's good parenting!

Picture Day at School

Dhara, aged 8, walks into the kitchen this morning dressed in a sun dress and presented two pairs of shoes to me. Instinct is to say, "What?" But I'm like experienced man. It's picture day and she wants me to help her to decide which pair to wear.

Instinct says, "They don't photograph your feet dear, wear whatever is warmest or more comfortable." But I've been here many times before.

I tell her, "Both the white and gold look great with that outfit. But the gold sets off the gold in your brown eyes like a sunset on some distant exotic planet."

She smiles broadly as she turns with a slight dip and skips off to her bedroom to finish dressing. She returns several minutes later, completely content ......... wearing the white shoes.


  

Standoff

Emma, aged 20, was sitting with her back to me at the dining room table facing the french doors opposite her that led to a small backyard deck. She was quietly tapping away at her laptop when a rather large squirrel, or as Emma would later describe, a grizzly sized squirrel landed on the deck rail just feet away from the open door. Everything was mostly quiet except for a gasp from Emma as she instantly and simultaneously crouched down a bit and grasped the table top, it’s mere wood construction creaking under the strain of terror. The squirrel assumed a similar pose and tightly clutched his wooden perch as well. 

Very little was said, but from my vantage point, it was clear what was being thought:

Emma: “Oh my God he’s huge”, she thought quietly so as not to alarm the squirrel.

Squirrel: “Holy crap, it’s one of those big hairless ape-like things”

Emma: “It’s looking right at me! I think it’s gonna attack or something! They carry rabies, don't they?!”

Squirrel: “It’s looking right at me. Jesus, Don’t they like eat squirrels?”

Emma: “If I move slowly, maybe I can slam the door closed before it comes in for me.”

Squirrel: “Her legs are like 30 times as long as mine. No way I can turn and run. If I can just make the roof line. But the roof is towards the ape thing!”

Back in the unimagined real world, Emma, makes a slow move toward the door.

Emma:  “Oh God it came toward me. It’ so mean looking!” and freezes.

Squirrel: “Oh God, it moved toward me as I moved. What the hell!”

Emma: “I think I can make it if I dash to the door.”

Squirrel: “OK it looks somewhat intelligent. I’ll just use the international sign of friendship to mollify it and move on. Here we go.” 

back in real world,the squirrel raises its bushy tail straight and high, slightly twitching it.

Emma: “Oh my GOD! It’s threatening me, it’s gonna attack” 

Emma takes a cautious step forward.

Squirrel: “Oh my God! Oh My God! It moves towards me every time I move. I gotta make that roof. OK a moment’s courage and I’m on the roof!”

Again and again, careful slow advances from each until when in range, each made a dash for their respective targets. Emma slammed and locked the door, 'cause apparently she fears squirrels can unlock doors from the outside.  The squirrel leaped to the roof and scrambled over as if princess would claw her way up the roof with those nails. 

Door successfully slammed, rabies free Emma went back to her laptop. The squirrel went his way, all his nuts intact. Meanwhile, I crawled up behind Emma and grabbed her ankle under the chair while screeching like a wounded squirrel. 

We live in Connecticut. You get your entertainment when and where you can.

Later that night, Emma recants the story of the rabid grizzly-sized squirrel that nearly killed her as the squirrel, no doubt, at the squirrel club, breathlessly detailed how he, surrounded by seven huge hairless ape-like things was nearly eaten had it not been for his quick wits and olympian speed.

If I Won the Lottery!

My wife asked me what I'd do if I won the lottery. Well, if I won the lottery, I says to her, the first thing I'd do is call a wig shop to see if they have those colonial era powdered wigs 'cause I always wanted to wear one of them, but I was afraid of how people would treat me. But if I had a few million bucks, I think I could pretty much get away with anything. So, I'd also go to the local gym and hire me about eight female body builders, the kind with ripped abs and fake boobs, to carry me to work on one of those carriages people carried back in the day wearing tiny little gold lame bikinis... the girls would be wearing the bikinis, not me. I thin k wig is enough flare. And then I'd have 'em surround me as we walked around the place two or three times so everyone could see me in my wig and with the babes and then into the bosses office where I'd quit. But I'd do it in French and end with some rude nasally noises like french people do and then leave. And I'd have a navy blue tux with tails on too. And I'd probably also have a mediaeval band accompany me that would throw off their peasant clothes when we got outside and turn into a high tech Bollywood band. And everyone would go "WOW! Who knew the flute payer was a hot Indian actress man!" But I wouldn't kiss her, 'cause look at the crap that Richard Gear had to go through after kissing that Indian gal that day. So I'd probably bring along some non-Indian babes too with the band. You know for kissing.

Then on the way home I'd hit the Mercedes dealer and Soooo get the under-coating and extended warranty and sports package and Bose sound system. And in the back, seat stretched out on a couple of the laps of the body builder, while one peeled me a grape and another drove the car, I'd wonder, "Now that Michael Jackson is dead, what ever happened to John Merritt's remains?"

Then that night I'd throw a huge party and invite all the right people and some lawyers too. But when the lawyers got there, I'd have the bouncer, probably more of those hot body builder babes, stop them and tell them they're so not on the list and you're gonna have to leave sir or madam and make a huge scene. And I would so laugh and have people raise me unto their shoulders like I actually did something and I'd hit the disco ball, that I bought right after the powdered wig, with a bat and it would break like a pineada and iphones would rain down on everyone with one year free unlimited service including text and web. And they would text everybody from their new phones to tell 'em what a rad party they're at and how cool I am.

So then I asked Daya what she'd do. But she just sat there reading her book like she didn't hear me and it was real quiet for awhile and then we went to bed.