Sons & Mothers

 

Not only are my kids moving out, but those who are on their own, are now considering moving away. I waited for years to get them the hell out of my house, but I am having mixed feelings about their relocating to different cities.

My wife informed me that my eldest son and his new wife are moving to Hamilton, on June 1. While it is not that far away, a mere 45 minutes down the QEW, I have reservations about this decision.

“Are you kidding me?”, I asked her.

“No.”, she answered. “They’re going to Hamilton. Houses are much cheaper there.”

“Well of course they are”, I advised. “Its freakin’ Hamilton.” This was very disturbing to me. “Hamilton?”, I asked again, hoping that I had misunderstood. Just hearing myself say it, sent shivers down my spine.

I called my son. “What the hell are you doing moving to Hamilton?”, I demanded an explanation.

“Ya.”, he said, “We just can’t afford to live here anymore. Its killing us. We have to find somewhere that’s more affordable.”

“There’s nothing in Hamilton.”, I inform him.

“I have friends there.”, he said. “There’s a bunch of stuff to do, if you live downtown. So we’re going to see some places this weekend that are right downtown. Near the clubs, and stuff.”

“And don’t forget the drug dealers, crack addicts, prostitutes, homeless, and runaways”, I told him.

“We’ll be alright.”, he told me.

“Hamilton?”, I questioned again. “Its like Canada’s version Buffalo & Pittsburgh, only worse!”

And now, my other son is planning on moving to Belleville. That’s right, Belleville, Ontario. population 50,000. Situated in the beautiful middle of nowhere, halfway between Where The Hell Is That?, & Can You Even Get There By Car?. “Houses are really cheap in Belleville.”, he advises me.

“I’m sure.”, I agree. “They’re even cheaper in Iroquois Falls, but I wouldn’t recommend that you live there either.”

He informs me that his live in girlfriend is having a difficult time securing a position as a teacher, and has applied to The Hastings & Prince Edward District School Board. I ask him where he plans on working, and he begins his ADHD laden dissertation.

“Well”, he said, “I could find work cooking in a golf club, but I don’t want to turn 50 years old and still be on my feet all day, cooking. I’m going to get a job at a gym, and take a training course to become a personal trainer. The course is short, so I can start working on building up a clientele right away.”

“How many gyms are there in a town of 50,000 people?”, I ask.

“I don’t know.”, he tells me.

“How many personal trainers are there in Belleville?”, I continue to probe.

“I don’t know.”, he responds.

“Well”, I said, “Sounds like you’ve thought this through.”

“I don’t know why I even tell you things.”, he states.

“Because I’m the only one who tells you what you need to hear. There’s no reason for you to move to Belleville to buy a house. You don’t need a house. And you certainly don’t need to follow Cruella Deville around the province while she looks for a job. Let her go to Belleville. Tell her to send you a postcard. Go visit on weekends. I don’t give a shit. But I think its time you took your balls back from her, and made a decision that works for you.”

My wife had been standing in the doorway, listening in, as usual, to my conversation with the boy. “I think that you’re being a little hard on him.”, she said as she walked into the room.

“You told me to talk to him.”, I reminded her.

“Yes, I did.”, she replied, “but I didn’t want you to yell at him.”

“I wasn’t yelling.”, I corrected her.

“I heard you.”, she said as she rubbed the boys back.

“You realize that he’s 32 years old, right?”, I asked.

“Yes.”, she replied. “What does that have to do with anything? What do you want to do?”, she asks him.

“Go to Belleville.”, he tells her.

“Listen to your mother.”, she begins. “That girl doesn’t know what’s best for you. If you move to Belleville you’ll be too far away. We’ll never see you.You need to stay here. If you need help, we can help you out.”

“Do you understand what your mother is telling you?”, I asked the boy.

“Ya.”, he said, somewhat dejectedly.

“Well.”, I tell him. “My advice is to go and pack. I’ll drive you to Belleville myself.”

Later that evening, when we were alone, my wife reminded me that I have 3 daughters who, one day, may decide to move away.

“Its okay.”, I tell her. “I may finally have a chance to use a bathroom around here.”

“You an joke about it all you want,’, she stated, “but it will drive you crazy.”

“That’s okay.”, I said, “I’ve had an enormous amount of practice living with you. I’m pretty sure I’ll get through it.”

“Keep it up”, she advised me, “and you might not make it through the night.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Ghost Of The Mouse In My House

 

It was hard to believe, but it was true. Or so they said. As weird as it seemed, there was a mouse in my house, appearing sporadically, and moving through walls and doors as if they weren’t there. Its mere presence had my wife and daughters standing on beds and table tops, to avoid its malevolent mischief making. “The mouse is back.”, my wife informed me.”

“That’s impossible.”, I advised her. “We have 3 different kinds of traps, poison all over the house, and we haven’t seen a mouse in a couple of months.”

“Well then,”, one of my daughters stated, “then we have the ghost of a mouse.”

“Really?, I asked, somewhat amazed at this turn of paranormal events. “A ghost mouse?”

“It’s haunting us.”, my daughter added.

“I see.”, I said, dreading what I knew was soon to come.

“I want you to get rid of it.”, my wife ordered. “I want it out of here. For good.” I thought about this for a long time, considering all possibilities, and rejecting only the insane.

“We should have a seance.”, I advised.

“A seance?”, one of my daughters asked quite surprisingly.

“Yes.”, I told them all, “a seance. You know, we sit around the table in the dark, hold hands, and try to contact the spirit to find out what it wants so it can cross over to the other side.”

They grew disturbingly quiet, and then began whispering among themselves, occasionally looking over at me with disapproving eyes.

“Are you making fun of us?”, my youngest daughter asked.

“Oh, no.”, I told her. I would never do something like that. We only have so many choices. We can have a seance, or an exorcism. And since the mouse is dead, I don’t think he needs any exorcise do you?”

“It’s not funny!”, my wife shouted from atop the bed. “Get the damned thing out of this house.”he gave me the Moroccan look, the one that she always gives to show me that she is going to put a curse on me. I have told her for years that I am immune. It is my superpower.

“Okay.”, I said. “Everybody out of my room. I need to change into my mouse catching gear.” What I wouldn’t have given to have had a deer stalker hat, a red cape, and blue tights to change into. I could be Exterminator Man.

“Where should we go?”, one of the girls asked.

“Go stand on your own bed.”, I said, and they left, tip toeing as they walked, checking the hallways, and the corners for its presence. I put on some old sweats, and began my crusade. I checked bedrooms, pulled everything out of closets, moved furniture, and looked under beds, but I saw no trace of this revenant rodent.

“I’ll look again tomorrow.”, I told them.

“How can I sleep tonight,” a daughter asked, “when there’s a ghost mouse roaming around the house?”

“If you’d like, you can stay awake all night, and if you see him, call me.”, I answered.

I went into my room. “Does a mouse really need to haunt someone?”, I asked my wife.

“Why not?”, came her response.

“Well”, I postulated, “When he’s alive, he’s haunting you. I don’t understand why he would need to continue that after death.”

“Maybe he has some unfinished business.”, she replied.

“What unfinished business could they possibly have? Did he not eat half a piece of cheese?”

“I don’t know.”, she answered. “I do know I want that damn thing out of here, tomorrow!”

Sometime in the middle of the night, I went to the bathroom. As I opened the door, and turned on the light, there he was, the little brown bastard. He ran out of the bathroom, down the hallway, and into one of my daughter’s rooms. I grabbed a broom from the kitchen, and we met on the battlefield. He was hiding in the closet, and I began to move boxes, and bins out. I saw him! Hiding behind a box of mementos, his beady little eyes peering out at me, and I, in my boxers, holding my broom. The lines were drawn. The little rodent was not getting out of this room alive. He made a run for it, and I swung my mighty broom, making contact, and knocking him over. I held him down with my broom, and that was it. It was over. He was terminated, no longer terrifying my family with his malevolent mouse mischief.

I disposed of the remains, made coffee, and waited for the haunted to awake. I was sitting at the table, drinking coffee when they got up. I had my broom of power at my side, and nothing else, except for my boxers of bravery.

“What are you doing?”, my wife asked.

“Drinking coffee.”, I replied.

“Why are you holding the broom?”, she clarified, “and why are you walking around half undressed?”

“I came, I saw, and I conquered.”, I told her.

“What are you talking about?”, my wife asked.

“It was horrible.”, I explained. “I woke up and saw the ghost mouse.”

“Really?”, she asked, filled with the wonder of a 10 year old child.

“Really.”, I continued. “He was just sitting there in the bathroom, staring at me. He was dressed in a kilt, and playing little wee bag pipes.That’s all he wanted. It seems he was a Scottish mouse, named Angus, who left this realm, happy to be playing his pipes again. I don’t think he’ll bother you again.”

“Really?”, she asked, although I was sure she didn’t believe me.

“I drove him out with the broom of power. Its over. He’s gone.”

“Broom of power?”, she questioned.

As we walked out of the kitchen, she turned to me. “You know”, she said. “Since you’ve got that broom of power handy, how about sweeping the kitchen floor.”

“I don’t know.”, I told her. “Its extremely powerful.”

“I know.”, she said. “Just be careful, and you’ll be okay.”

The Rites Of Spring

 

Ah, spring. The time of year when trees blossom, and flowers bloom. The days when the air smells like a barnyard, and the dogs go missing, to be found days later sitting on the front porch, smoking cigarettes. My family has always been excited by the announcement that spring is upon us. There is much reflection on what is to expect according to the revelation of Wiarton Willie, the rodent weather wizard. There is an equal amount of joie de vivre, when day light savings time is initiated, and the days get longer. No one in my house dares to complain about the loss of 1 hour of sleep.The highlight of this festive time of year, is the much anticipated 1st Robin sighting. What it does to the heart, and soul. How the sight of this bird is so embedded in the family’s collective psyche.

About 2 weeks ago, my daughter squealed with delight, as she came home announcing that she had just seen a robin, perched in a tree outside of our home.

“It seems a little early for a robin.”, my wife said.

“Not necessarily.”, I interjected. “What kind of robin was it?”

“What do you mean, what kind of Robin was it?”, my daughter asked. “The kind with the red stomach.”

“Well”, I asked, “was it a Canadian robin?”

“A Canadian robin?”, my wife repeated, as skeptical as ever.

I informed them both that there were many birds that no longer went south for the winter. Unlike years ago, I informed her, some of the birds stay here, and now, its mostly the people, the senior citizens who migrate south. I went on to explain that these birds, had adapted, and could withstand the harsh Canadian winters. If it was a Canadian robin that was sighted, well, then it doesn’t really count.

“Why do I not want to believe you?”, my daughter asked.

“Because you’re a skeptic.”, I answered, “just like your mother.”

I pointed out that there are geese, and then there are Canada Geese. There are Arizona cardinals, and St. Louis cardinals. There are orioles, and then there are Baltimore Orioles, as well as Baltimore Ravens. Why then is it so hard to believe that there are Canadian robins?

“How do you tell if it is a Canadian robin?”, my wife asked, suspiciously.

“It would be wearing hockey equipment.”, I answered. “But only because its hockey season.”

My daughter stormed off to her room, cursing under her breath as she walked away. “Why do you always have to torment the kids?”, my wife asked.

“I don’t have to.”, I replied, “I choose to. Its like asking why do you have to irritate me? I know you don’t have to, but you like to, right?” My wife tried very hard not to smile. “I know you do.”, I continued. “As bizarre as it is, you like to watch me get irritated.”

“Oh, I do!”, she stated emphatically. “Its so funny to watch you get frustrated, and not know what to say.”

“Oh, I know what to say.”, I told her. “I’m just not stupid enough to say it.”

It was so much easier when my kids were young. They believed everything. None of them ever doubted any of the stories I told them. “You can’t tell them that kind of stuff anymore.”, my wife said. They’re too old for that. Try talking to them about important things.”

I thought about what was important to my kids. Wifi was certainly important, and shoes, shoes were a very important issue for my daughters. I had no desire to talk to my kids about the internet, or footwear, or, in the case of my sons, gaming systems. “I’m not sure there’s anything that I can talk to them about, that they’re interested in.”, I said.

“Well,”, my wife responded, “then just don’t talk at all.”

“I’m sorry.”, I advised her. “That’s really not an option.”

“Do you remember what you told one of them years ago, and the trouble it caused?”, I was asked.

Many, many years ago, when my middle daughter was in elementary school, grade 1 or 2, I had informed her that my family was from another planet, far far away. At school one day, they were asked to talk about their families, and where they were from. My daughter spoke up, and reported that her mother’s family was from Spain, and Morocco, while her father’s family was from another planet, that she couldn’t remember the name of. Well, there was a big tadoo at the school, and my wife and I had to attend to discuss my daughter making up stories, and disrupting the class. My wife was embarrassed, but she embarrasses easily. I informed the school administration that unless they could prove my daughter had been untruthful, we really had nothing to discuss. I was asked by the Principal to confirm that my family did indeed come from another planet. I merely replied that I could not answer a question like that as it could jeopardise the entire mission. We left the meeting no worse for wear, and my daughter received no consequence for the revelation of her family history.

“I remember.”, I told my wife. “And I still think that I should have shot them with my laser.”

“Go talk to your daughter,”, she advised me, shaking her head in disbelief.

I went for a walk with my daughter, to Riverdale Farm,  and Sugar Beach. It was, after all spring, and the smell of manure permeated the air.

“Did you bring your camera?”, I asked her. “You’ll never know when you just might see a Toronto Blue Jay.”

 

 

The Return Of The Mouse In My House

 

“He’s back.”, my wife informed me as soon as I walked in the door.

“Oh, hell.”, I said. “Which one of the boys have moved home?”

“NO, not one of the boys!”, she shouted, bordering on hysteria. “The mouse. The damned mouse is back.”

There was a time when I was greeted on my return from work with a hug, and a kiss. ” I doubt it’s the same mouse.”, I told her.

Oh, it’s the same one.”, she exclaimed. “I recognize the look in his eyes.”

I didn’t doubt, not for a moment, that my wife had seen a mouse. I had some reservations that she could tell one mouse from the next, by the look in its eyes. She has a gift for the paranormal, all things ghostly, and weirdly, but retinal recognition of rodent’s was not something I would be willing to believe she had mastered. I told her I would buy some traps to get rid of the rodent, but she only balked at the suggestion. I offered to call a pest control specialist, but that too did not bode well, and she rejected the use of poison, as she was afraid that she would find the mouse, laying on the floor, dead.

“What is it that you want?”, I asked. “Should I try to capture and rehabilitate it?”

“If you could.”, she said in all seriousness. “catch it and release it in the wild.  That would be best.”

“You understand, this mouse is not wild.”, I told her. “There are no field mice scampering  through the forests.”

She a bit disconcerted, but it was made clear that there is no mouse sanctuary. This was a city mouse.After much deliberation, we agreed that I would dispose of the mouse in any way I saw fit, but would never, ever, reveal what I had done to this rodent.

“Can’t we keep it as a pet?”, my daughter asked. “I’ll keep it in my room.” I looked at my wife, the explosion was imminent.

“There will be no mice, and no snakes, and no spiders or lizards in my house.”, she exclaimed.

“Have you seen a snake in here?”, I asked.

“Not yet.”, my wife replied, “but I’m sure that’s coming next.”

“Well”, I said, “if its any consolation, they are much easier to catch. They move very slowly.” It was no consolation.

The following morning, on my way to the kitchen to make coffee, I saw the little bastard on my kitchen floor, twitching his whiskers. He didn’t look like much of a threat. based on my wife’s reaction, I was anticipating a much bigger mouse. As I got closer, it ran off, scurrying under the oven, and vanishing into thin air. I said nothing to my wife. I left for work, leaving her alone with a desperado mouse, hiding out in our kitchen.

Several hours later, I received a call informing me that Mr.Tarkanian, had come over to catch the mouse, as it ran past her in the kitchen this morning. He was unsuccessful, but in his exuberance, had smashed one of my classic posters that had been on the wall in the living room. “What was he doing in the living room if the mouse was in the kitchen?”, I asked her.

“Well, the mouse ran out from behind the oven, across the kitchen floor. Mr. Tarkanian tried to get it with the broom, but the mouse was too fast, and ran out of the kitchen and into the living room.  And the rest, well, he just has very bad hand eye coordination. “. she explained. “Sorry.”

“Did he catch the mouse, at least?”, I asked.

“No.”, I was advised, “he got away. And just so you know, I’m not making dinner tonight.  I’m not putting one foot in the kitchen until that mouse is gone.”

On the way home I stopped at the hardware store and picked up some traps. “Don’t you think you should have got poison too?”, one of my daughters asked.

“I’m trying to catch a mouse.”, I told her, “I only need to kill it once.”

“You’re going to kill it?”, she asked.

“No.”, I told her, “I’m merely going to hold it hostage, and wait for his family to bring the ransom of cheese. Then I’ll let him go.”

“Not funny.”, she advised me. I never realized  before that my family had no sense of humor. None. I was certain that it was, indeed, funny.

The next morning I checked the traps. Nothing. For 3 days I baited and left them for the pest. For 3 days he eluded me. “I told you he was a smart mouse.”, my wife reminded me.

He was a smart mouse, alright. Shockingly elusive. “Well, what are you going to do now?”, my wife asked

“I don’t know”, I told her.

The next afternoon, she called me. “We got the mouse,”, she told me. I wasn’t sure what she meant, I mean we had had the mouse for about 5 days now.

“What?”, I asked.

My wife told me how my son had come over, and saw the mouse running across the kitchen floor. He jumped up and threw a book at the rodent, and as luck would have it, hit the mouse and stunned it long enough for my son to trap it in a box. He was going to take it over to the park behind the school, but the mouse died. It was tragic.

“Just out of curiosity, what book did he use?”, I asked.

“The Southern Cooking cook book.”, she said. “You know, the big one.”

After careful consideration, and a thoughtful pause, I let her know that I would not be home for dinner.

There’s A Mouse In My House

They told me there was a mouse. They told me this was not an ordinary mouse. It was a mouse of which nightmares are made. They told me there was a mouse in my house.  And this mouse in my house held my wife and daughters hostage for the better part of a day.

slowpokeThere was panic in her voice when she called to inform me about the mouse. Apparently, she saw it, out of the corner of her eye, run across the room. It was hiding somewhere and , from her vantage point, high atop the bed, she had lost track of it. There was a free range mouse in my house. She said it was a big mouse. A big, brown mouse. “What am I supposed to do?”, she asked.

“You have to find it and catch it.”, I said.

” I don’t want to find it.”, she replied.

“Well, I’m not sure if it will come to you, but you can wait and see.”, I advise.

“You should have stayed home from work today.”

“Well, I didn’t. Go next door and ask the neighbor’s sons to come over and catch the mouse.”, I told her.

When the phone rang 30 minutes later, she was hysterical. ” The boys weren’t home, so the father came. He started banging on the furniture, and the mouse ran out from under the bookcase, and now we can’t find it. It’s in here somewhere, and we don’t know where it went.”

“Where are you now?”, I asked.

“On the bed.”

“Where are the girls?”

“On the bed.”

“And the neighbor?”

“He went home. He said he can’t catch a mouse that he can’t find.”

“Ok.”, I told her. ” I will be home as soon as I can.”

It took about 15 minutes for her to call back. She had seen a second mouse, a small, grey mouse, perched on a ledge behind the sofa. She went next door and got Mr. Tarkanian again, He found it, and he whacked it. Ding dong the mouse is dead. Which old mouse? The small, grey mouse.

“Well, that’s good.”, I said. “The problem is solved.”

“There is still the big, brown one. It’s hiding in here. It knows we are trying to find it. This is one smart mouse.”

“Have you looked for it?”

“Are you kidding?”, She shreiked, “I’m not getting off this bed until it’s out of here.”

“You know, it’s more afraid of you, than you are of it.”, I said.

“I doubt it.”, she stated.

When I got home, my daughters had gone out, and one of them was not sure she was ever coming back. “Well, that was easy.”, I told my wife. “We should have got a mouse in here a long time ago.”

“She’s been traumatised”, I was informed. “Mr. Tarkanian caught the little one, and beat it’s head in with a metal rod. There was blood all over the floor. Right in front of her!”

“Ya, if only it was possible to capture and rehabilitate them.  Any idea where this mouse could be? Where did you last see it?”

I followed her lead, and wandered around poking at things, looking under beds, furniture, and behind appliances. We checked closets, and the laundry hampers. No mouse. “It’s in here.”, my wife explained. ‘Its in here, hiding, watching us, just waiting for me to get up and start movingimages-3 around, just so it can freak me out again.”

“Uh huh.”, I said, trying  hard not to sound sarcastic. ” That’s one mighty mouse. Maybe he’s just here to save the day.”

“You’re an asshole”, she said. Clearly my attempts at not being sarcastic had failed.

“Well”, I advised, “we can either call an exterminator, or go the hardware store and take care of this ourselves.”

“I want it gone now.”, she replied.

So, off we went to the local Hardware Store. Apparently there is no humane way to get rid of mice. You have sticky traps,clap traps, and mousetrapgame2poison. I had asked my wife about her possibly doing to the mouse what she had done to the Beta fish. “Can’t you just beat the thing to death?” She declined.

We purchased the poison, and following the clerk’s instructions, strategically placed cubes of poison all around the house. It seems, the rodent(s) will eat it, and within hours, they will die. The downside is, we are likely to find dead mice around the place, which have to be picked up, and disposed of.

“I’m not doing that!”, my wife asserted.

I never thought, not even for a moment that she would. It will be my job to locate and dispose of any and all mice we find. I have undertaker_1476945become the rodent search and recovery professional.

In the meantime, my wife remains frantic. Only a corpse will relieve her anguish. She says there is still a mouse. She has never seen it leave. She says this is not an ordinary mouse. It is a mouse that lies in wait, stalking, waiting and then frightening her. She says there is still a mouse in my house. And I now search the closets, the furniture, and  behind the appliances, looking for the dead mouse that is terrorizing my family.

 

 

 

The Disappearance of Lily Belle

 

“She’s gone, daddy! She’s gone!”, My daughter shouted hysterically, as she ran into the backyard.

“Who’s gone?, I asked, taking her by the hand.

“Lily Belle, daddy!. Lily Belle is gone”.

dollMy heart sank. My wife turned ghostly white, her eyes filled with despair. “Find her daddy. Find her.” And so began one of the most trying events my family has had to endure.

We searched everywhere. Under beds, and in closets. In laundry hampers, and trash cans. We checked the garage, and the basement. Lily Belle was indeed gone. “Maybe you should go look outside.”, my wife said. “Check the neighbors. And the park.”

“Really?”, I asked.

“We have to find her.”

I walked from house to house, checking front and back yards. I walked to the park, and she was not searchthere either. “I couldn’t find her.”, I told my wife.

“We have to do something.”, she said.

She was right. We had to do something. “Like what?”, I asked.

“I don’t know.”, was the response. “But I can’t go through this again.”  Lily Belle had gone missing before. Her disappearance then had created a night of hysterical screaming from my daughter. Lily Belle was part of the family.  When my eldest daughter was in a children’s hospital, she found her in a bin, and kept her  during her long hospital stay. When she was finally discharged, she took her home. When my youngest daughter was born, Lily Belle was passed on to her, and now, they had become inseparable. So here we were, in the midst of a search and rescue mission for a torn and tattered, wadding stuffed, pile of cotton.

“I think we just put an end to it tonight.”, I suggested. That seemed to be the most logical thing to do. If the disappearance was permanent, this would never happen again. “I say Lily Belle never comes back.”

My wife looked terrified, as she held my daughter, covering her ears, as if to shield her from the terrifyingly evil plot my mind was hatching. Truth be told, I had hatched no plot. As I explained to kidnapmy wife, we had 3 choices. “First, Lily Belle ran away, never to be heard from again. This would be devastating to my little girl, as she would inevitably blame herself, and feel that Lily Belle never loved her. Second, Lily Belle was kidnapped. Heartbreaking, but a ransom note could be found that discloses just how much Lily Belle loved and missed my daughter. Most kidnap victims never return. Even if the ransom is paid”.

“And third?”, my wife asked.

“Third”, I continued, “aliens.”

“What?”, my wife asked in that tone I have heard so many, many other times.

alien“Aliens.”, I repeated. “She came from another planet to help sick children feel better. And now she had to go back and take care of a very sick alien child. We could write a goodbye letter.”

“That’s all you have?”, my wife asked.

“That, and the truth.”, I said. “We lost the friggin’ doll.”

“Let’s just keep looking, and hope she turns up.”, my wife said.

Over the next 2 days, we continued our search, and came up with nothing, although I was almost certain that I had seen 3 toed footprints in the backyard. We emptied drawers and suitcases. We climbed trees and went up on the roof to look. At the end of the second day, I issued an executive order to call off the search.

“It’s enough.”, I told my wife. “Lily Belle is gone. And she wont be coming back. I will talk to Step tomorrow when I get home.”

“What are you going to tell her?”, my wife asked.

“I have no idea. Although I am quite excited about the alien story.”, I said.

On the drive home the next day, I kept trying to rehearse what I would indeed tell my daughter. Nothing seemed to come out right. I didn’t want to hurt her, but I couldn’t seem to find any words that would not create pain or anguish in her.

When I got home, I called her outside. We sat on the top of the picnic table. “I want to talk to you about Lily Belle.”, I told her.

“Its okay, daddy.”, she said, “Mommy told me what happened, and I know you didn’t mean to do it.” She turned and gave me a hug.

accident“Well, I’m glad you understand that, Steph.”

“Mommy says that you don’t drive real good anymore, because your eyes are bad, and you wont go and get glasses. I know you didn’t mean to run Lily Belle over.”

“No, I didn’t”.

“But daddy”, she said, with her mother’s tone of disapproval. “You really need to get glasses so you can see what you’re doing.”

“Ok, Steph. And thank you for understanding.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Memory #1

My daughters, who have always made me proud, while being somewhat neurotic, were wonderful babies. I think the happiest times I spent with them was when they were infants and toddlers. They are all wonderfully gifted, and each possesses a love for music and the creative arts.

I suspect that I had a large part in instilling this in them. Every night, at bedtime, I would sing to each one of them, a song that they particularly favoured.

My eldest daughter loved ‘Sarah The Whale’, particularly the Sharon, Lois, & Bram version (I could not find a link to that version)…so this is what she got…

My middle daughter, well, she was more into pop, and preferred the Beatles. ‘Til There Was You’ was one of her favorites.

My youngest daughter was crazy about this song:

Such fond memories. I am still listening to these songs, and always enjoy singing ‘Sarah, The Whale” to them now, despite their refusal to listen.