At 5:30 I left the office. I picked C up from after school care at 6 and headed home. First I helped her clean her room, which requires encouragement and oversight. Then I made her dinner, and fed her while I was varathaning a table down in the garage. I helped her with her Japanese homework, then piled her into a car. We got gas, listened to Moana and headed cross town, where I paid for a craigslist couch to replace the one she has finally destroyed. Since Uhaul is closed at night, I tied it to the top of a 96 Celica and drove 30 minutes back cross town.

Since C is 6 and I am not superman, I had to leave the couch on top of the car in the garage. Then I got C up, fed her again, helped her with her egg drop project, brushed teeth, into bed, one Pokemon story and finally could take care of me. By which I mean eat and get to bed to do it again tomorrow.


Bed time

Last night, C got home near her bedtime. In rare breaking of the bedtime routine, we watched some of the Disney (somewhat off color classic) Dumbo on the couch. C used me as a pillow.

She went straight to bed with the movie serving as her story. She was a little wound, and requested a massage. Specifically “With my hand and also with my panda”.

So, of course, I delivered. I loosed her shoulders with my fingers, then rubbed her down with stuffed red panda. Because I am a pushover and its the best.


Where are the boys? Not in this picture. Because it’s dancing. Dancing is for girls.

$#@- you summer camp.


Sunday mornings

This morning, C woke up and wanted to listen to music. For some reason, while I detest pop music, I have no problem enabling my daughter’s love of it. I guess that’s parenting.

So there we are working through the Katy Perry cannon. And you know what? Its awful, but, BUT, I guess I can get behind it as Katy Perry – and please appreciate I have no idea what I am talking about here – seems to be one of the few women acts whose self described values don’t wholly orbit around finding relationships with men. Not that there is anything wrong with that, but I recoil from thinking my daughter’s aspirations need to be limited to being accepted by a man.

So there we are. Listening to Katy Perry. And its 9 am and we have pancakes on. And C is telling me that she also like Shakira, and, against all odds, I am excited about this.

Stray cats

Last week I had to run into the office on the weekend. I had C, so I asked if she would like to join me. She was happy to do it…but only if she was dressed as a cat and would walk on a leash.

This happened. I had to scratch her head occasionally.

God I love being a dad.


When Cecilia gets nightmares, I sleep on her floor. She says her nightmare are about ants. Sometimes spiders. They don’t happen often, but she yells for me, and I get my pillow and sleep next to her tiny bed. It makes me feel good that this helps her. That is makes her feel safe to have me there. I sleep pretty well despite the hardwood floor.

When she gets sick, I sleep in her bed. I think its the congestion that scares her – makes her feel like she is suffocating. Before she was 4, she would sleep face down on my chest, legs dangling down my body, when she was sick. Now she’s pretty big, so I sleep next to her. This us usually a night or two, until she’s out of the acute phase of the illness. There is more snot in parenting than is advertised.


So, its getting bad. Yet I am powerless to stop this. My 6 year old is taking an interest in music, and despite my lengthy campaigns to saturate her growing tastes with The Beatles, Stones, Talking Heads, David Bowie (early), hell, even Edith Piaf, youth’s relentless tendency toward awful has won out.

There we are on a 45 minute drive out to Walnut Creek. I make the mistake of plugging my phone into the dashboard. Its too late. She senses weakness. “Daddy, can we listen to music”. Seems harmless. “Sure sweetie, good idea”. “Dad, can we listen my my music”. Oh, that seems adorable. She is developing her own tastes. And I, an encouraging parent, want to see that rewarded. “Of course love”. “Can you put on ‘I’m Glad you Came'”.

Are you *$&(ing kidding me? I mean, where does she find this *&%^? I spent the last decade of my life avoiding any club that would even OWN, much less play this pap.

But I am a Dad.

“Sure sweetheart”

It gets worse. I mean, of course because there is nothing a 6 year old loves more than bad boy band music than repetition, we listen to it 5 times. I know I am going insane because I am starting to like it.

But then, she tells me she wants to save the next listen for Nana’s house. What? God yes, let’s!

” But Daddy, can you put on ‘PonPonPon’. I ran a search. This is a thing. Now, this is more than a thing. HOW THE *$#&^ DOES MY DAUGHTER EVEN KNOW WHAT J POP IS!?

Oh, good Christ. So I am typing this from the basement with a loaded 9mm and a bottle of scotch and shaking hands trying to cleanse this out of my memory.

I love you sweetheart. Even enough to listen to: