Footsy

I once found a note written by my dad. Or at least I thought it was until I realized the piece of paper was almost six hundred miles away from him. So, who wrote it? After a little investigative work, I discovered that my then-teenaged brother Todd had been the author, but the resemblance of the penmanship to my dad’s was remarkable. Is it possible that something odd like penmanship could be genetic? I understand eye color, height and skin tone, but writing? If that event had not occurred, I would still be firmly in the that’s-not-possible camp, but I’m a believer now. It has taken my husband a little longer to get on board with the idea, however. He had to have a conversion experience as well, I guess. And it came in the form of a little girl with foot issues. Not so much the feet themselves, but stuff on the feet themselves. After years of Nick watching me freak out when I try to work in the kitchen but can’t because crumbs or other debris are on the bottoms of my feet (and thinking I was crazy), he gets to see the same pattern repeating itself in Scarlett. She cannot handle kitchen-yuck on her feet for even a second. Which made me think about how unsuited she would probably be to living on a farm like the animals in Margaret Wise Brown’s Big Red Barn. She might not be a farm girl, but she’s definitely my girl.

http://www.amazon.com/Big-Barn-Margaret-Wise-Brown/dp/0694006246

http://books.google.com/books

E-I-E-I-O

In my first year of college at Cal State Los Angeles, some kitchen mishap made our dorm apartment reek. As we opened the windows to get rid of the stench, I sputtered something about the smell being worse than a skunk. One of my roommates, a born and bred Angeleno, gasped back that she wouldn’t know because she had never smelled a skunk. Even having been metropolitan-born myself, I could not believe such a thing. Never smelled a skunk? Ever? To what do you compare all bad smells (other than Long Beach)? And then it got more bizarre: she’d never seen a cow either. My mind still reels all these years later. This young woman had reached pre-med student adulthood but had never been to a petting zoo, for heaven’s sake? How is this possible? My kids have been very fortunate that they have always had a local working farm and pumpkin patch to visit where they experience the animals, from newborn to retired, up close and personal. The farm shut down as a public entity this year, but I have twenty years worth of petting, feeding, and hay riding pictures as proof that I at least tried to broaden their suburban horizons. Annie North Bedford’s The Jolly Barnyard shows an idyllic picture of farm animals brainstorming what contributions they can make to the farmer’s birthday celebration. Maybe there’s some rich Southern California doctor that would pay for them to take their show on the road to the inner city.

http://www.amazon.com/Jolly-Barnyard-Little-Golden-Book/dp/0375828427

http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/585620.Annie_North_Bedford

Rise and Shine!

My eldest daughter, a girl after my own soul when it comes to a love of the written word, had me all to herself for five years. It was just the two of us and I felt the tremendous responsibility of parenting and protecting this little person all on my own. I tried valiantly (and, I realize now, futilely) to shield her from feeling left out of the two-parent world. I changed the lyrics of songs and banished all daddy-and- kids books from her rather impressive little library--except one. When someone, I don’t recall who after twenty eventful years, gave my sweet little baby a book about the work day of a farmer and his young daughter, I wanted to politely tuck it away as soon as possible and pretend it got lost somewhere along the way. Sure, it was a simple, beautiful book with rich illustrations, but it didn’t pass the no-daddy test, so it had to go. I didn’t count on one thing: the kid loved the book at first sight. Even at six months old she wanted me to read it multiple times a day. She could make the sounds of all the animals before she could say most words. She didn’t see what her world was missing, only an engaging story. So, Farm Morning by David McPhail not only stayed in our family collection, it has remained a treasured favorite.

http://www.amazon.com/Farm-Morning-David-McPhail/dp/0833573977

http://www.harcourtbooks.com/authorinterviews/bookinterview_mcphail.asp

Daddy's Girl

I took her into the bedroom with the books she had never read before. She softly walked over to the bookshelf and glanced back at me, as if for reassurance. I responded with a smile and sent her the psychic message to choose a story for us to share. Like Indiana Jones choosing the grail, she chose wisely--a book marred by age and wear amidst shining pretty things.
When I first sat down with her and looked at the book’s title, Farm Morning, I felt that I was in for another round of “the cow says moo.” I was instead surprised by lush art and a touching story that reminded me very much of my life with Scarlett. I wake with her and I set with her, in between she kicks my wife in the stomach and face all night in our family bed. Whenever I am blessed with time with my daughter, I wish that more people were able to have the opportunity I do. I am lucky, my life is fairly easy and I have learned to be grateful for it. Scarlett brings me back to reality as she is done with the book after two pages and squirms to get away, but I hold tight and create a lovely childhood memory.
The book was about a father’s relationship with his girl, but it was also about finding meaning and beauty in our trivial activities. Every act, every dish cleaned, every sock picked up, every hour worked, every diaper changed can be an act of submission to God. I would like to do this happily, like the duo in Farm Morning.