Occasionally, in all the uncertainty and chaos, God deigns to throw me a bone.

Every night when I settle Moiya down for the night, after we’ve read our “baddy-books”, I pick her toys up off the floor and put all the books back on the shelf. And every morning when I go to waken Moiya I find her sleeping in her bed surrounded by books. Sometimes she’s even sleeping on them. Not toys. Her toys are always right where I left them.

She gets out of bed in the night to carry books to her bed.

Now that we are a two-household family, I catch myself with a whole new host of insecurities. The other day I was holding the line with Moiya about something (we are now into the Terrible Threes, where NO is our favorite word and everything is a battle to do exactly what we damned well please) and I suddenly saw myself as the "not-fun parent". Moiya tries this stuff on from time to time: Yesterday I got a "I no live with you! I live with Mommy." when I refused her permission to do something. And that is to be expected. I'd like to say that expecting it lessens the impact, but as I've been unable to convince myself of that, I doubt that I have any chance of convincing you.

I can usually blow it off. In fact, the last time she wailed "I want my Mommy." I picked up the phone and ofered to "call Mommy to come get you so she can see what a pain-in-the-arse you are." But sometimes I get to thinking (my great fault) how it must seem to my wee girl. Daddy is always fussing, making her clean up, do this, stop doing that. Mommy is patient and fun. Mommy has friends. Mommy takes Moiya to McDonalds and to cook outs and parks. Daddy metes out punishment and takes her to the grocery.

It's all rubbish, of course, more the product of my insecurity than any reality. It's certainly nothing Jacq has done. To our credit we talk every day and compare notes in an effort to stay consistent in what we expect of Moiya (and to fill each other in on her latest scams so she can't play us off one another). So I know for a fact that Jacq hears the same things and has the same fears. And knowing that helps a little. But it doesn't make it go away, for there is no cure. Just gotta be a grown-up and accept that sometimes my kid isn;t going to like me much. And I'm going to have to get ok with that.

I came across some old children’s books of Jacq’s while I was clearing debris in advance of the move, so I gave them to Moiya. They were the same Little Golden Book series I had as a child, and were mostly Christmas themed. Some I just couldn't stomach (The Littlest Christmas Elf) and quietly hid. While others were just straight illustrations of Christmas songs. And in spite of the fact that whenever I hum to myself and sing quietly in the car Moiya protests with a loud "DADDY! (S)TOP THAT!" Moiya will now occassionally point to a book and ask "Daddy, dat got songs innit?" And if the answer is yes, then a song there must be before bed. Any other time is still verboten. But before bed seems ok. So I sing nursery rhymns. I sing Rudolph (the book really has a story, but I've found I can get by with just singing the song as I turn the pages and she's none the wiser) And, improbably, I have to sing the entire "Twelve Days of Christmas" every night before putting my daughter to bed. Moiya especially likes the "Five Gold Rings" part and sometimes hums a kind of tuneless version with occassional words thrown in.

She sings a lot now. We make up songs for our buddies at night after Daddy has tucked us in bed. And we sing a lot to Daddy too as we drive. Sometimes I can make out the words and sometimes not. (It took me awhile for instance to figure out that the repeated chorus "And the happy reindeer glows" was, in fact, the Rudolph song). But it's a sweet, clear, dear little voice and it lifts my spirits to hear her. "You like dat song, Daddy?" she'll ask. And of course, God love her, I do. I really, really do.

We entered a new realm of make-believe this past week. Till now, all of our games revolved around imitating or practicing adult actions. So we spend rather a lot of time caring for our babies (or “Buddies” as Moiya calls them). We burp them, we wipe their bottoms and change their diapers (a lot), and we tuck them in. Sometimes we “make soup” for Daddy. We type on the computer. When Daddy shaves, he has to make room for Moiya to stand at the mirror on her little stool and give her some lather to put on her cheeks. (One day Moiya was standing her entire face covered by a washrag, and when I asked why she replied “I shaving”.. and I suddenly knew what I look like when I soften my beard with a hot, wet towel).

As I’ve described before, even hand-washing – which is a joint activity owing to Moiya being unable to reach the tap – gets rehearsed. Every day when we get home, she informs me that my hands are “yucky”. Usually it’s because “dey got buggies on ‘em” Sometimes the buggies have pooped on them as well. It depends. Either way, my hands are yucky and I have to stand at the bathroom sink and help Moiya fill plastic cups of water so she can pour them over my soapy hands. Over and over and over.

But last week was something different. We have these silly tussle games: Daddy plays the big giant and Moiya runs over and knocks him down and “captures” him. Or recently, since I used to nibble on Moiya’s head, hands and feet, we’ve played a game where she “eats my nose” and I have to peer into her mouth, exclaim in dismay that my nose is in there and try to recover it. We were taking a break from this latter game when Moiya chanced upon an old audio cassette of Dr. Who that I had found whilst cleaning my closet in preparation for the move. Moiya pointed and asked “Dat Dr. Who?” I was a little taken aback as, since she can’t read, I have no idea how she knew what it was. I assume that she recognized the logo.. but then I don’t have anything sitting out with the Who logo on it, so I’m still at a loss.

And while I was puzzling over that, Moiya hopped up on the bed, grinned at me, and then cocked her head sharply to one side. “Listen!” She said. “Listen! What dat?” She looked at me with her eyes wide. “Doctor Who comin’! He comin’, Daddy!”

And so the game was on. We would listen for Doctor Who, and Moiya continued to assure me that Dr. Who was on his way while we hid under a blanket so he wouldn’t see us. I kept trying to explain that the Doctor is a “good guy”, to no avail. This was her game, not mine.  Finally Moiya whispered “He here!” and threw her arms around my head. “I protec’ you, Daddy!”  When I asked what Dr. Who was doing in our house, Moiya thought about it for a minute and pronounced “He goin’ potty”

There was a pause and she added “He got a big butt.”

Well that just cracked me up. I laughed till the tears came and Moiya laughed with me. Then for the next half hour, we’d jump up, run to the bathroom and peer in through the door. “Yep!” Moiya would say. “He still there!” And we’d run back to the bedroom and dive under the blanket. Over and over. The dog was so confused. The first few times she ran with us to see what the excitement was, but eventually she walked off with a doggie sigh of disgust at our weirdness.

And I was just entranced to see this little glimpse into the working of my child’s mind.. her first purely imaginative game.  It was a lovely day. Even if I did have buggy poop on my hands

So I sat on a stool and let her do my hair. "You gotta nice hair" Moiya told me as she whacked it solidly with a brush. We  then started to spray my hair with the detangler I use on Moiya's hair (amazing stuff), which I didn't mind her doing at first, as she couldn't work out which way to point the nozzle and so very little actually made it to my head. But then she suddenly got better, and before I knew it I looked like PeeWee Herman and smelled like a French whore. So I got Moiya a little spray bottle filled with water that she uses now to wash Daddy's hair.

Unfortunately, the first time I filled it I wasn't smart enough to use warm water and so found myself sitting on the bathroom floor, huddled under a bath towel, having my head drenched with a torrent of icy water whilst Moiya regaled me with the underwear choices of Mommy's long-standing boyfriend, Larry. Like all beauticians, Moiya likes to keep up a running commentary while she works. So I get lots of interesting tidbits about things both real and imaginary. (I was unaware, for instance that we needed to clean the froggy poop out of the hall... I was unaware that we even had a hall.. But these are the little bits of gossip one goes to the beauty parlor to learn, yeah?

So all in all, Daddy doesn’t let Moiya do his hair every day. But the Innisfree Spa Facials are another matter. I usually put lotion on Moiya when I get her into her jammies. And given her child-need to practice what she sees, it was only a matter of time before she wanted to put lotion on me as well. So if she’s been good I squeeze some out into my hand and sit whilst she dabs it onto my face and rubs it in. I hope this stuff is good for the skin, as I’ve now absorbed about a gallon and a half and smell like lavender all the time.

Actually, except on the rare occasion when she tries to rub it into my eyes, it's started to feel kinda nice…

I took this picture during the last snowfall at Innisfree, knowing that I would see no more of them. The flakes where huge, fat and wet and heavy, falling in utter silence.

Silence except for Moiya, who came out on the deck with me and who was far more interested in the fact that she had found her ball – now quite sun bleached – than in the beauty of the falling snow. And so I had to turn away from my sad thoughts and we played kick-ball there in the deck, laughing and whooping in the snow and wet until the cold began to bite.

And so it goes.

Now spring has come to Innisfree, and the woods are in full bud. I can’t afford YardGuy any longer, so taking advantage of Moiya being with Nana and Pops for the weekend I fired up the tractor (amazingly, it still ran after sitting idle for so long) and mowed the yard. Getting out and getting close to it again allowed me to renew the familiarity that I’d lost during this last long, ugly, and brutal year. And it seemed that every cover brought something to make me smile. In one of the far nooks, there was an entire little field of tiny violets. There is birdsong everywhere, along with the tatting of the woodpeckers. Small, bright eyes regard me from seemingly every brush and shrub. The wild daffodils in the woods are already spent and the wild roses are beginning to bloom.

This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

Some things do not appear to be returning. My bed of astilbe shows no signs of life. But then the bleeding heart that I planted around the little birdbath in my beloved “shady corner” and which expired almost immediately thereafter, has reappeared and seems to be going strong. I’ve restored the gazebo and plants to the deck, along with the hummingbird feeder in hopes that those tiny bejeweled wonders will make a second appearance.

At the uglier end of the scale, I found that we didn’t pay any property taxes for the whole of last year. My first indication of this was the notice from the county treasurer that said if I didn’t come up with some cash pronto they were going to chuck Moiya and I out on the street and seize our home to sell at auction. So I paid that note – and there came another – and another. And now the taxes are due for this year. Fortunately, thanks to my wonderful and generous family, I was able to come up with the cash in time. This time. But the trip to the postbox continues to an exercise in dread and dismay. It’s been three months now, and each and every time I hope that I’ve encountered and dealt with the last of the financial skeletons hiding in our closets, out pops one more grinning boney bastard that has to be dealt with. And I just wonder in my less optimistic moments when the long nightmare is finally going to end.

On the other hand, trying to calm down after the latest tax terror, I took a walk out back into the garden and decided to try to feed the fish. I haven’t checked in awhile, ever since I went round one bright, cold afternoon with Moiya and spotted a webbed foot sticking out of the debris at the bottom of the pond. I went back later with the long BBQ tongs and pulled out one of the frogs that had called the pond home and which had apparently not made it through the long periods of snow and ice.

A very big dead frog. A very, very big, heavy and quite bloated dead frog. I got him about halfway to the woods before he slipped out of the tongs and landed with a squelchy “plop” in the grass.

I decided that that was a good resting place for him and beast a hasty retreat. And I had not been back to the pond since then. And at that time, there were only three fish still in evidence. I assumed the rest had expired and slipped under the ooze, one more bit of ugliness waiting for my discovery.

But this day the silt in the water had settled and I threw a little food on the surface and waited. The fish have forgotten me and are skittish again at my approach and so I waited. And the same three fish eventually poked theur noses out and began to feed. And then, just as I was turning away to trudge back up the hill to the house.. here came another. And another. And before I knew it, all the fish were back! Against all odds they had suvived the winter there in their dark, silent world under the ice and now were back.

And I found myself quite ridiculously happy, knowing that.

[Addendum: 4/14/2007
Re skeletons in the financial closet: Well.. I was waiting for the other shoe to drop and sure enough…. Just found out that, owing to a slight miscalculation, we owe nearly $9000 in income taxes. Due immediately.

I guess the nightmare just isn’t going to ever end. I have NO idea how we’re going to manage this.. after the refinance the  house has no equity and this will kill the small savings I was hoping to use to get Moiya and I settled somewhere else. Poor Moiya.. her parents are such utter losers.]

First #1
We were such a big girl yesterday (with the occasional tantrum). We’re working on letting someone know when we have to use the potty. We don’t do it regularly, but we do it, which is the important thing right now. Getting stickers helps (what is it about kids and stickers? Does anybody know?). We didn’t poop when we went to the potty after first getting up, and Daddy explained that if we pooped our pants later we were going to get a time out. I asked if she understood and Moiya said yes (but then she also says yes if I ask her if she ate the cat). I told her to promise me that she would tell me. This is not a concept that Moiya really grasps, but promises are important to me. Whenever I promise her something (we’ll make cookies/have a bubble bath/ go to the library tomorrow) I always remind her that Daddy always keeps his promises.

So later in the day, Moiya said she had to go to the potty. I walked her downstairs and waited while she took off her overalls and her pull ups and settled herself on the toilet. She looked at me and said “I go yuck, Daddy.” And then, “I keep mah promise.”

She got extra stickers. And a big hug.

First #2
Moiya is not a snuggler. She likes to crawl and jump on me and tussle and give and get hugs. But she doesn't snuggle. But lately when I put her down for her Sunday afternoon nap, I throw a blanket on the floor with a couple of pillows and we settle down for a nap together. She won't always go for it. But increasingly she's snuggled against my chest in a little ball and gone to sleep.

I used to say that there was nothing more wonderful than naps. But I now have to ammend that.

I put my beloved home on the market today. It was time to face facts and get on with what had to be done.

I have loved this place above anywhere else I have been on this earth.  For ten years it has been my strength, my solace, and my refuge. But the cold fact must be faced:  even if I had the money to meet my expenses here, I cannot physically manage this old house and it’s large grounds any longer. The only reason we made any headway against the forces of entropy these past two years was by paying people to do the work (with money that I now know we did not have).

Innisfree deserves more at this point in her long life than I can give. And Moiya deserves a Daddy who hasn’t been run so ragged that he forgets how to be a good Daddy. And as my friend Liz reminded me, home is wherever Moiya and I can be together.

Rationalizing away the hurt? You betcha. I just hope I can make a little bit of money to get Moiya and I into little home somewhere else and get Innisfree into the hands of someone who won’t bulldozer her and the woods and put up an apartment block or strip mall.

To hell with this. I’m bruised and bitter and tired and I’m going to bed.

Okay. Navbar is (mostly) fixed. Will try to clean up the rest of the site and improve navigation over time. Left a smidge of December in order to improve the sense of continuity from 2006 to 2007

Behaviors with children are so quicksilver. I just want to be able to remember these:

Saturday Moiya started to dress herself and got her shirt pulled partway on – just enough to peek through the neck hole – whereupon she decided that she was done.

For the next hour or so, my child ran screaming through the house, naked except for a diaper and a shirt on her head. Daddy was bemused, the dog was terrified, and Moiya seemed to be thoroughly enjoying herself.

That’s what Saturdays are for, after all.

I made dinner last night with one of my jars of canned tomatoes. And it occurred to me as I opened it what a time capsule it was. I could still smell the lovely scent of the garden and the aroma of the freshly picked tomatoes as strongly as the day I picked them and put them up into jars. And I recalled that those tomatoes were the ones I planted the summer I spent running back and forth from Lanesville, Indiana to Lawrenceburg, Kentucky to see my dear wife and newborn little girl.

And I pondered once again on how very strange life is.

Last week (or maybe the week before.. things have begun to get a bit melty in my head these days  like a crayon left on a hot sidewalk) I went upstairs at 5:30 a.m. to get Moiya ready to go. Some mornings she has to come to “Daddy work” so Jacq can pick her up and that means getting up early. So I was not at my sharp best. I walked into the nursery and found my daughter sound asleep in her bed – fully dressed, right down to her shoes and socks. And for a few minutes I stood in the dim light thinking “Oh my Lord!  I am the WORST DADDY IN THE WORLD! I forgot to put my baby in her jammies last night and I’m just a… um.. Hey… Wait a minute. No I didn’t. I remember putting her jammies on her ‘cause she tried to kick me in the head.”

I looked down at Moiya, who was now awake and watching me.
“Baby,” I said, “Did you get dressed last night?”
Moiya grinned “Yep!”
I looked over at the dirty clothes hamper and sure enough. It was empty. At some point in the wee hours, for Lord knows what reason, my kid had climbed out of her bed, stripped off her jammies, and redressed herself with items from the dirty clothes hamper.

I shrugged. “Okay. Let’s go.”

What really ticks me off is that her color sense was better than mine.

I don't think I've mentioned it before, as it has become such a fixture in our home that I don't really see it any longer. Like the familiar creaks and groans of a house when it heats or cools in the night, my senses register it while my mind simply refuses the notice.

I am of course referring to Moiya's House, a bright pink monstrosity that lived for a time in her room but which has now taken up more or less permanent residence in the library.

Moiya has to have a sleeping bag for nap time at daycare. They don't make little kid play sleeping bags all to well, and since Mamaw demands that they be laundered every week, the first one I bought eventually lost first all its stitching, and later all its stuffing. When I went to Target for a replacement they were no longer displaying the summer products, and so my choices were limited. I have severe problems with Barbie (as in "over my dead body") which limited my options still  further. So I was left with a bright pink camouflage sleeping bag (yeah, you read that right.. Pink camouflage. Every day is an education) which came with it's very own pink cammo tent as well.
 
So.. Daddy being a firm believer that tents are one of the best parts of being a kid, I put the thing together and discovered that, in spite of the color, it's pretty cool. It's got a door and screens and little zippered windows. Some days Moiya just decides she want to play in "her house" and so she'll drag James and whatever babies are currently in favor, crayons, coloring books, baby bed, and 40 thousand other things inside. But then it is always required that "Daddy play my house" . And Daddy has a hard time folding up that small. But I do, and we have a great time. I've hung one of her electronic dolls that plays tunes from the center of the tent, so "we have songs" as Moiya says. And we sit and color. Or sometimes Moiya tucks me in and tells me to go to sleep. And the best part is, if she zippers the little window shut, Wicker can't see in, and it drives the poor dog mad :)
 
And there's been a slight change to the bedtime ritual. We still have to get our jammies on (with much howling) and get Bear's jammies on (which we can make last for years). And we still have to get book and blankets and settle in the rocking chair for a read and a rock. We no longer sit upright, but have adopted a more casual, reclined pose sitting across Daddy’s lap with our feet hanging over the side of the rocker. 

In the past, Simon would come running as soon as it was time for reading (I don’t know how she knows) and would sit on the footstool to purr and get her head occasionally rubbed.  But now the footstool has been moved to provide Moiya a way to climb in and out of bed.  So Simon took over the little rocking chair that sits next to the big rocking chair. Usually she just sits there and either nuzzles the back of Moiya’s head (which provokes giggles) and continuously whacks Moiya’s head with her paw in a bid for attention (“Simon! TOP DAT!”). But I guess to her little kitty brain, from that vantage point my lap just looked too inviting. So for a few nights I found myself sitting in the rocker with a (hefty) two-year-old,  about a dozen books, a few stuffed animals, a blanket (James the bear gets cold) and a fat, purring cat all balanced precariously on my lap.

Which makes turning the pages a bit of a challenge.

Snow can wait, I forgot my mittens
Wipe my nose, get my new boots on
I get a little warm in my heart when I think of winter
I put my hand in my fathers glove

I run off where the drifts get deeper
Sleeping beauty trips me with a frown
I hear a voice “You must learn to stand up for yourself
Cause I can't always be around”

He says "When you gonna make up your mind?
When you gonna love you as much as I do?"
"When you gonna make up your mind?
Cause things are gonna change so fast.."

"Winter"
~Tori Amos ~

I run this song through my head a lot. I'm not sure I have a clue as to its meaning, but as with all good poetry, the original meaning is not nearly so important as what it means to the reader. And it speaks to me.

There's a line, spoken in memory by the singer's father "I always wanted you to be  proud." To which she responds "I always wanted that myself." And as a Daddy, I want that more than anything. From the day Moiya was born I've tried to give her a sense of self, a sense of identity, a sense of pride. Because I know what society does to the self-images of children in general and little girls in particular. And I am therefore haunted by the fear that, as Pogo said "We have met the enemy, and he is us." For I never foresaw the possibility that the biggest threat to my child's self-esteem would be me.  

 I adored my father so wanted to be like him. And he was a good Dad.. a great Dad. But I also lived in dread of his anger (and as he often came home to find his tools rusting and ruined in the grass where I had forgotten them, he got miffed rather a lot). Sadly I did not get his brilliance and his practical sense. I just got his short fuse and his volume (okay, okay.. and his nose). And with all the strain and despair currently bearing down on me, some days ... well, let's say I'm not quite Atticus Finch. And it has dawned on me, that for all that I tell my daughter constantly how much I love her, how smart she is.. for all that I tell her what a wonderful helper she is and how proud I am of her.. I can turn around minutes later and undo the whole damned thing with a cross word. I SHOULD always respond to Moiya's two-year-old insanity with calm and rock-steadiness. And when I do, she usually responds. But sometimes I don't.
 
Sometimes I just turn around and scream at the child. And if she understands and remembers every little aside her Daddy says (and she does), what damage do I do when I blurt out "Moiya, you are making me insane!" or "Moiya, for the love of God will you please SHUT UP for five minutes so I can THINK."? Where does that go inside her? And what does it do once it gets there?

Sometimes, during the "long, dark teatimes of the soul", I think I'm the greatest threat my daughter's self-image faces. At such times I wonder if I didn't do her a disservice when I agreed to adopt her. And the only thing in my defense is that, when Daddy has said hurtful things, he gets down with Moiya face to face and makes sure she knows that it was  wrong. I don't tell her that what she did was right.. just that the way I reacted and what I said to her was wrong. And God love her, she usually forgives me. Sometimes when I'm blustering about like an angry Chihuahua, she'll tell me "Eaaasy, Daddy." or just observes (with a hint of accusation) "Daddy loud.” Sometimes she seems to understand and just walks over and gives me a pat and a hug.

But sometimes I can see in her eyes that I've hurt her feelings. And that's the look that haunts my nights.

Sorry for so long a silence.. the following entries are in no particular order and haphazardly written from notes scribbled now and then, which is really the best I’ve been able to manage. Life is hard, my spirits are very, very low, and I’ve not had internet access from home for over three weeks now. But  we are getting by. Saturday we spent the morning at the little library in Corydon, which has a lovely area for children with blocks and books and stuffed bears and hand puppets.. just lovely. Moiya has been bugging me for a week to go to “biddy house” .  though sometimes it is “baddy house”. I’m not sure how “library” morphed into either one. But she loves getting her “baddy books” and so Daddy loves going with her.

New traditions being made.

2/13/2007
The Innisfree family is one less tonight, as Jacquelyn has taken little Duncan away to live with her.  It’s absolutely her right and to pretend otherwise would just be selfishness on my part. Duncan has always been her cat, and Jacq could use a fuzzy friend just now. It’s just that during t he past year as Jacq increasingly withdrew from family life, Duncan adopted me. For the past year, each night that I’ve sat down to write in this journal, Duncan has sat on the edge of the bed, just behind my left shoulder, and patted my back for attention. And since I’ve been alone.. especially since the awful cold during the furnace failure.. I’ve been keeping the dog in with me. And after the dog has settled next to me and I crack open a book and begin to read, Duncan always comes walking up my chest and butts the book with her head till I pet her. Last week all the critters (save Hettie, who doesn't have the option) were up on the bed, and Duncan took it in turns to groom both Wicker and Simon. Occasionally Wicker would nibble on Duncan’s head like she did when Duncan was tiny.

I have to keep a child-gate over the bedroom doorway to make sure Wicker doesn’t up and pee all over the house in the night. And tonight I set it a few inches high as I always do so that Duncan can come and go. And after I did it, I suddenly realized that I don’t have to anymore. And like a big idiot I sat on the edge of the bed and wept.

Stupid damned cat. I don’t even like cats.

“Like the pine trees lining the winding road,
I have a name, I have a name.
Like a singing bird and the croaking toad,
I have a name. I have a name.
And I carry it with me and I sing it loud.
If it gets me nowhere, I’ll go there proud”
~Jim Croce~

There’s been a subtle enrichment of Moiya’s use of language lately. We’re adding personal pronouns for one thing. I was shocked one day as I was accomplishing some task when Moiya said “Me help you”  It has been “me help” and even “me help Daddy" prior to this. But not “Me help you”.  When we’re playing catch (or she just gets lazy and drops something, the usual “Daddy gedit” is now occasionally “you gedit, Daddy.”  And even in playing blocks, which usually were primarily an excuse for Daddy to assemble something that Moiya could knock over, there’s been an enriching of concept. The other day Moiya stacked a series of block up on one unit that had wheels, then announced “Me make choo-choo” whereupon she proceeded to play for awhile with this toy of her own construction (Oddly, lots of things have both old and new names: baby-bus/choo-choo, Goggy/puppy, kitty/meow)

And Moiya has begun using specific names for the beings around her at this point. The first intimation of this capacity was when she first pointed to Simon (aka “Meow”) and asked “What he name?” I told her, and she practiced it a few times – she is an excellent mimic – testing the sound of it. Simon and Duncan are now referred to by name, and “meow” has been relegated to a common name for all cats (though she does know and use “kitty”). Wicker is still “doggy” for unknown reasons. One day she say petting one of the cats and ventured “Simon a good guy.”

And she has begun  naming her stuffed animals after babies at daycare. Thus Bear is now “James” (and woe betide anyone who refers to him simply as “Bear”. I tried to explain one day that James was still a bear, even if his name wasn’t bear, which provoked howls of outrage). The being formerly known as “soft bear” (I think these are all Indian names) is now “Issac”. Occasionally Moiya appears to mull all this over, saying of Bear “he James.. he not Issac. He James.” She will then nod with renewed conviction and move along. James is also a “good guy”

So I was not too surprised one day when, right after breakfast, Moiya pointed at me and said “what name?” I told her that my name was Michael, that Mommy was Jacquelyn, and that she was named Moiya. Moiya appeared to lose interest. But sometime later after we had been making the words “MOM”, “DAD”, and “CAT” at her little easel (and at Moiya’s insistence I also had to show her how to make “COW”), she again pointed to me and said “What you name?” I again explained each of our names.

Upon which Moiya drew herself up, and pointing said “I EAGAN!”

Daddy stammered for a bit and finally managed “What did you say, baby?”

“I EAGAN” came again.

Moiya was a little taken aback when Daddy swept her up in a huge hug.

Since then, the scene has been repeated several times. The last time she inquired after my name, she gave it a moment’s thought, then countered with “You Michael Eagan.” And again “I Eagan”

But as yet, nobody has been able to induce her to say “Moiya”

Other language usages charm, puzzle, and amuse. Having seen sock puppets on Blues Clues, Moiya will occasionally look down at her stocking feet and say brightly “hellooo puppets!” And she is still fascinated with her and everybody else’s body. She still likes to peek down the back of my pants and thinks belly buttons are the funniest thing on earth. One day she insisted that she wanted to see Mommy’s “button”. As Mommy wasn’t around and Moiya was starting to put up a pretty good stink about it, in desperation, I reached into my pants pocket and pulled out my hand, thumb and forefinger making a small “o” and proclaimed it to be “mommy’s button”. This proved such a hit that I am still, months later, on occasion required to produce “Mommy button” for inspection. And last week she pointed to bears belly and identified his “button” for me.. and then pointed to his chest and said “Look Daddy.. NOPLES”

Who knew Bear.. erm.. James.. had noples under all that fur?

We have a big girl bed now. Daddy got the nursery as baby-proof as it was going to get after the last attempted escape and so it was deemed time. Getting the rails off the bed was not a happy thing.. there was much grunting and cussing. And I took the opportunity, with the bed upended, to try to fix the slide out drawer we haven’t been able to use for a year because Moiya stood in it and bent the tracks. Beat those back more of less into shape with a mallet and turned the thing over.. to have the side railing come off in my hand where the glue had come loose (does baby saliva melt wood glue?). Got all the little fidlly slats glued and banged back into place, and everything cleaned up/put back. Put sheets on, got a quilt and tucked it in with cuddly blankets. A right little princess bed it was.

And Moiya won’t sleep in it.

She likes to sit in it with me and read. And she likes me to lay in it. Simon thinks its grand and takes naps in it every day.
Moiya however sleeps on the floor. So I put down a sleeping bag for her to burrow into.

And she sleeps on top of it. Weird kid

[addendum 2/10/2007: finally figured out t hat Moiya was afraid of falling out of the bed. Couldn’t get the gate to lower enough for her to climb in and out unobstructed, so I stripped the hardware off and set it all the was down to the floor and bound it to the bed frame with duct tape (use number 1 million and 12). It keeps Moiya feeling secure, but with her stepstool she can climb in and out at will. Unfortunately, last night I caught her using the same stepstool to climb right over the child gate and down the stairs, so this morning her bedroom door acquired a lock. Perhaps this will also cut down on the number of things she currently chucks out her door into the library during out nightly “I no wanna go to bed” tantrums]

“When you can’t walk, you crawl.
And when you can't crawl, you find someone to carry you”.

More wisdom from the short-lived show “Firefly”

Thanks to those friends who’ve been there and been encouraging, albeit at a distance. For Mom, Aunt M, cousins Marci, Cheryl, and Betty. For Kelly, Amy, Liz, Lisa H, Lisa L, and Ellen. For Chuck and Maryellen, for Rod and for Mayna and Anna.

Please don’t stop.

It’s been a helluva week in Lake Woebgone. First the phones went out. I didn’t know they were out, of course.. I just wondered why none of the people I had left messages with about crucial matter were calling me back. Got that fixed and the internet connection went. It was fine. Then I called Hughesnet customer support and enquired about paying by check rather than by credit card.

The next day I had no internet connection.

Understand.. I don’t have money for long distance. I don’t get broadcast TV. I don’t have cable. The web is my single luxury.. and my connection to the world and to sanity. Especially these days when I’m not teaching much and prep at home. On weekends it is the only adult contact I have in a sea of Moiya. So when it went out, I was on the phone sharpish.

To make a long story short, I spent about hour on the phone with a charming Indian lady who barely spoke English (and who tried to convince me  that her name was “Sharon”) playing with the various setting on my computer. She kept insisting that I must have changed something recently and I kept insisting that they only thing that had changed was that I had spoken with her damned sales department and that somebody there had pushed the wrong button. Eventually she got tired of asking “how’s the weather there?” (apparently Hughesnett employees are trained to ask about the weather whenever they have to wait on the equipment. During the course of the evening I was asked 6 times) and passed me off for another hour to a brusque American woman who had me punch in about 40 different frequencies to no avail. I told her that it was a billing failure, but she didn’t listen either. She did note with interest that the account had the wrong name and wrong serial number on it. I postulated that this might indicate a problem in billing but I didn’t get an answer. Brusque Lady in turn passed me to a gent who went through all the same procedures as she and Sharon had before finally concluding that somebody in billing must have screwed up and that I’d need to call them in the morning. This was three hours later.

Moiya, God love her, for once did not try to “mess with Daddy” and was good as gold in her high chair and later playing in her room while Daddy chased his wild goose. I don’t know why, but I hugged her and thanked her and let her stay up late that night.

The next day, billing said it wasn’t them and I needed to talk to tech. Spent another hour with them before being told that they’d need to send somebody out. But that job is subcontracted to a national service company, so I needed to call them. And they in turn subcontract to a local service company. Who I also ended up talking to. One week later, two guys came out, took my equipment (since billing had all the record screwed up, apparently it was easier to bring me equipment that matched what the records indicated than to change the records. That was a week ago. I’m still waiting.

Then the furnace died, just as the snows hit.

Moiya and I returned from our grocery shopping late on a Sunday afternoon to find the house silent and frigid. From time to time the impeller motor on the old furnace gives out and has to be replaced. It had been making noises, and Jacq and I had talked about getting a new furnace. But after she left and I discovered that our money was gone, it was all a moot point and I was  just praying that it would last out one more winter.

But it didn’t.  And with the snows moving in, the temperature was falling fast and hard. The nursery is the warmest room in the house, as the hot air rises to it from below. So I bundled Moiya up and begged her to please, PLEASE stay in either her bed or the sleeping bag I set out for her. With the gate off her crib, I couldn’t put the space heater in the nursery, so I set it just on the other side of the child gate, pointing in. I don’t like space heaters running where I can’t see them as the idea of a fire in the nursery terrifies me. But there really was no choice. Moiya unfortunately was having none of this “lie down under the blanket” rubbish and threw off the blankets to begin her usual screaming as I turned to go downstairs. After two failed attempts to resettle her I gave it up and went back downstairs to build a fire to heat the lower part of the house, which by now was about 50 degrees. I had bought firewood a few days before (hoping desperately to save on propane) so that was good. But the oak logs, while they burned steadily, never seem to produce any heat to speak of. I managed to raise the temperature a few degrees, but that was all.

After an hour, Moiya settled down, and I crept back upstairs to check on the space heater and found to my alarm that the electrical cord was hot. I reduced the setting and tried to creep back downstairs, when Simon chose that moment to just over the gate and onto Moiya, who at once looked up, saw me leaving, and started screaming all over again.

It was a fun night.

I ended up moving the rabbit’s cage into my bedroom, and putting up a spare child gate to keep the dog in as well (they both usually sleep in other parts of the house), packed on about three pairs of warm-up clothes, and retired under the blankets with the dog next to me and two cats on top of me. And so we spent the night.

By morning, the temperature was up to a sunny 52 degrees in the bedroom. The nursery was 58 and Moiya, as usual, was sleeping uncovered on the floor. I scooped her up and dressed both of us as quickly and warmly as I could, ignoring her howls of protest, got her into the car, scraped the windows hurriedly and sped over to Mamaw’s to get Moiya into safety and heat and me into work (as it was now 6:30 and I was late)

Mamaw chose this particular morning to announce that she would henceforth be opening at 7 and I was not to arrive earlier any longer. (That pretty much spells the eventual end of Mamaw, as I have to be a work by 7 in a city 40 minutes drive distant). But as I had no furnace in the middle of winter, I had bigger fish to deal with than Mamaw and I told her as much.

To make an end of this, the repair people first tried to send a salesman out to coax me into buying a new furnace. I pointed out that my taking out a loan I could not pay in order to buy a furnace to go in a house I’m about to lose because I can’t pay the damned loan on it wasn’t really an especially bright idea. And so when that didn’t work, they groused about having to check their suppliers for old parts. After a day or so of me living buried under dog and cats, they called back and  offered to replace my failed motor (which is slightly larger than your closed fist) for $530. And so today, Thursday, we finally have heat.

Moiya has been staying with her Mommy, whose house has proper heat. And Innisfree has been as silent as death. It’s been good for Moiya, and it’s been good for Jacq. But Daddy, maybe not so much.

Oh yeah.. then the pipes burst in the kitchen...

Killer Eagan
I’m a hard man, and all who know me, fear me. Not.
I spent the summer stopping my daughter from stomping on “buggies” and really believe the line from Coleridge “he prayeth best who loveth best all things, both great and small”

That being said, I’ve cut a swath through the rodent population this fall and winter.  It started with the squirrels on my bird feeders. I’ve got a small hole cut in the bathroom window screen where, when I spot the little thieves, I can creep in, take aim, and pop them with my Dad’s old BB gun. Judging by the way they fly up into the air when the pellet hits their butts and the cussing I get from high in the trees afterwards, it must sting like hell.

One day I was walking past the window overlooking the deck and saw a huge, fat old guy who had been tearing hell out of the birdfeeders for weeks, just sitting of the deck and gorging. So I crept into the bathroom and poked Dad’s BB gun out my “gun port” and whacked a few shots into t he deck next to him, which he pretty much ignored. A short time later he was ransacking the feeders again, so I went to pop him in the butt. But just as I started to aim, he turned around and saw me and I snapped off a quick shot “from the hip” without aiming before he could jump away.  And apparently he opened his mouth to fuss at that moment and, with my poor aim, the BB went in his mouth and out the back of his head. I didn’t know this at the time, of course.  But after I pop the squirrels I always go out to check that they aren’t wounded.. and I was astounded to see this giant tree rat spread-eagled dead on my lawn.

Weird feeling.. wasn’t sure whether to be proud or ashamed. Later I found that I was just disgusted when, after a few days of waiting for the local scavengers to carry the carcass off I ended up having to do it myself. Time had ripened him a bit, and the fat beggar was bigger than my cats. With the aid of a shovel I sent his nasty self sailing off into the woods and, as luck would have it, hit a rabbit (who must have wondered what the hell was up when a quarter ton of dead squirrel came tumbling out of the sky onto his head).

So.. now I was blooded.

And that’s when the mouse invasion began. We always have mice. I’m currently clearing out a disused closet and the mouse droppings hitting the hardwood floors as I clear the shelves sounds like rain. And they’ve always been especially bad (naturally) in the pantry.
I will not use snap traps anymore. They’re great when they deliver a clean kill, but the often only maim. And sticky traps seem like a great idea till you then have to dispatch the captives. (Won’t be doing that again anytime soon). I had my fill of poison when I worked at YPAS. The dying mice end up *everywhere*, and  I have a dog, two cats and a baby. Don’t want the latter picking up a dead mouse and I don’t want the former eating a poisoned one. So I’d been using these little plastic catch and release things. I catch them pretty easily… maybe one every few weeks in season. And if they are still in good enough shape, I’ll drive them out to the far reaches and release them.

Things had been quiet, but then the invasion hit. I opened the pantry one day to start dinner for Moiya and it looked as though the assembled hordes of Genghis Khan had hit it.. bags ripped open, boxes fouled, contents strewn everywhere and mixed with thousands of droppings. It looked more like sewer rats had been set loose than mice. I obviously had something more serious than the few stragglers I could catch and release. This was war.

Apparently I got the stupid ones first. Two mice wedged into the same little plastic box and then flipped it over so that one mouse ended up sitting on the other mouse’s head. By the time I found them the lower mouse had expired and the top mouse was in poor shape. I felt bad leaving him and cast about for a quick means of dispatch, but other that drowning (nasty) nothing came to mind. I thought “If only it weren’t so unseasonable warm, I could put him on the porch and the cold would do the job pretty fast.”

So I put him in the freezer.

I know.. ewwww. But it worked. In fact it did the job so that I dispatched the next few the same way.  It seemed quite humane, really.  They went in looking quizzical but unalarmed, and a short while later I disposed of them with the same expression still on their frosty faces.

But then the store stopped carrying the traps. The nearest equivalent had air holes, which the mice used as a starting point to chew their way out of the traps. Things were at a temporary impasse. Then I found… La Chambre de la Mort de Souris. 

WalMart has got this $17 mousetrap, powered by 3 AA batteries that supposedly lures them in and then zaps them before they know what hit them. I figured I really couldn’t afford the $17.. but what the hell. The battery charge was supposed to be good for 50 mice. And even for what the snap traps cost, I figured that 50 mice and the thing would pay for itself if it worked. And work it did. A little peanut butter and I had the whole colony gone in a week. At one point I was having to empty the trap twice a day. Now MY cats can go back to sleeping 24/7. And the feral cats on the grounds are starting to put on a little weight. And I no longer have to keep my groceries in a plastic bag hung from a nail on the outside of the pantry door.

Draino did nothing. Pulling out he trap and flushing it had no effect (Moiya helped with that task and seemed to enjoy watching Daddy swear while flushing rotted nasties down the bathtub drain). And my plumber’s snake couldn’t manage to drill more than a few feet down the pipe. I figured that the accumulation congealed animal fats had finally blocked off the waste pipe and decided I’d need a spot nearer the heart of the clog from which to work. Sadly, the idiots who laid the pipe ran it a good 25-30 feet across the underside of the house without installing a single clean-out plug. SO I decided to cut into the pipe and install a tee through which I could use my snake to scour out the gunk in the pipes.

And so I made a cut.

Fifteen minutes after cutting into the pipe I was staggering back out of the cellar into the back yard, standing in the freezing rain and trying to get air. I’ve hauled dead, rotten animals. I’ve cleaned sewage. Last week I stuck my head into a two-year-old diaper pail and scrubbed it. Hell’s bells.. I’ve washed clothes for dancers . But I never smelled anything as foul as what came out of that pipe. And the best part was that the spinning blade I used to cut into the pipe was spinning such that it directed the stream of the squelchy stuff straight into my face and hair.

To make a long and grisly story short, even with the tee in place, the blockage was so tight, so old, and so dense, that nothing could cut through it. And as I worked, it became obvious that, to my horror, if the blockage didn’t run  the entire 25 foot length of the pipe it came damned close. A few calls revealed that I could rent an industrial borer that could scour out he inside of the pipe (depositing the content into the cellar). Or for slightly less, I could get 25 new feet of PVC. Easy call, that.

So one day, after Jacq and Moiya had left for the weekend, I went to work.  Eschewing finesse in favor of speed, I took a chainsaw to the bloody thing, roughly hacking out lengths of pipe as quickly as I could, spewing plastic and foulness and rot all over the cellar and me  -  and pausing only now and then throw up (bad idea to retch while wearing a mask). And then just as quickly I spliced the new pipe in, tested for leaks, and got the hell out.

If I live to be a hundred
And never see the seven wonders
That'll be alright
If I don't make it to the big leagues
If I never win a Grammy
I'm gonna be just fine
Cause I know exactly who I am

I am Rosemary's granddaughter
The spitting image of my father
And when the day is done my momma's still my biggest fan
Sometimes I'm clueless and I'm clumsy
But I've got friends that love me
And they know just where I stand
It's all a part of me
And that's who I am
Who I Am
by Jessica Andrews

Here’s a glimpse of an ongoing project. I'm in the process of scanning, repairing, and archiving all the family photographs I can get my grubby mitts on.  I started it just after Moiya was born with everything in my immediate possession and have now started raiding the collections of my mother and mother-in-law.  The original idea was just to preserve.  But I was quite taken with the way Jacq's folks have covered whole walls with memory and history and set out to do something of the same in our family room.  Moiya likes looking at the pictures whilst she eats dinner. And I love that she is growing up with a sense of where she came from. It will take years - but I adore restoring these old family photos (though we took a hit when the DVD I was recording to went bad. Start-over time) and they suit Innisfree.  And above all, Moiya needs the sense of belonging, now more than ever. So do I, come to think on it.

And I’ve been working through the resources of Ancestry.com, combining info from their databases with info from the Dyer and Larner clans of my own family. I’ve gotten the Larners back to the 1700’s and Jacquelyn’s family back even further. Pretty cool. And I’m starting to pull the threads of Dad’s family together, finally. Mom’s folks are a close and comfortable presence in my life. But with Dad’s family there’s just been no info save the apocryphal stories he left me on audio tapes before he died (which I’m ever so slowly transcribing). But finally things are starting to come together and I’ve been able to verify some of the family lore and correct a great deal that had gotten garbled. I’ve looked into the face of Alois Guminger -- whose antique beer steins grace the brick mantle behind my wood stove – and I’ve found the trail of the mysterious Bridget Eagan, matriarch of our little branch of the Clann MacAodighain. And last week I encountered, via email, a distant cousin on the Eagan side who is sharing her researches with me.

Anyway.. in addition to the wall of photos, I’m building Moiya an interactive family tree of all the data and pictures I’ve found thus far. It is still very, very rough, but I’ll be posting a link to it here as soon as bits of it are ready to upload.

To suffer woes which Hope thinks infinite;
To forgive wrongs darker than death or night;
To defy Power, which seems omnipotent;
To love, and bear; to hope till Hope creates
From its own wreck the thing it contemplates;
Neither to change, nor falter, nor repent;
This, like thy glory, Titan, is to be
Good, great and joyous, beautiful and free;
This is alone Life, Joy, Empire, and Victory.

Percy Bysshe Shelley - Prometheus Unbound

I love this quote. Every time I've been kicked to the curb I'm reminded of it. Far, far better than the silly "Invictus" I admired in my youth ( "my head is bloody but unbowed, etc ") . Youth is all noble defiance. Youth admires bluster and the "good fight". But as Lao Tsu says, the twig that does not bend, breaks. If your head is bloody and unbowed, you either aren't paying attention, or the worst is still to come. Time and repeated abuse have taught me that you survive trauma - any kind of trauma - by spending time very bowed indeed.. and bloody... and licking your wounds. Then after awhile you get back up, dust yourself down and absorb that pain, taking it deep into yourself and making something of it. And in that, Shelly got it right on the mark. "To love, and bear; to hope till Hope creates/ From its own wreck the thing it contemplates". And the process of making something out of this mess is currently under way. It helps to have Moiya alongside. She just doesn't leave me time to go all fetal and thumb-suckey. As one of the Doctors (the 7th, I think) said "I need somebody to be brave for." And I have that.

A Death in the Family
Life goes on, no matter how wrong it sometimes seems for it to do so after the unimaginable has occurred. I was at the YMCA closing out our family membership after having been online all morning doing much the same with other accounts, and I was struck by how much it felt like the minute processes one must go through after a death in the family. Lots of endings to be made.. lots of loose ends to be tied up and things to be put away from a life that no longer is.

But there is always a bright side as long as I'm still NDY (lately when people have been asking how I am, my stock answer has become "Not Dead Yet". No wonder I get invited to all the best parties). The bright side last weekend was a small thing: I went and got a library card for Moiya and I at the little Corydon public library. Since I can no longer just walk into Barnes and Noble now and purchase books for her any old time I want, it seemed like the thing to do. And seeing the shelves of toddler board books and the thought of spending a Saturday afternoon perusing them with my little girl cheered me greatly.

It's the little things that make the difference.

To Grandmother's House
Moiya and I went on Sabbatical for 4 days in St. Louis to visit my Mom. It was good to get away from everything for a time. And it was good to travel with my daughter (well.. except for the trip down, where at one point I described my beloved child as "Satan's hemorrhoid ").

No really.. just "Doll"

But after that, things got better.

No hassling with a hotel this time; Moiya bunked in Mom's room and I crashed on the living room floor. Mom and Moiya took lots of walks around the halls of Garden Villas, looking for "O-men" and as people still had their Christmas decorations out, they found quite a few. Moiya was in her element, saying "hi!" to everyone she met and administering lots of hugs.Mom gave her a baby doll for Christmas with eyes that open and close and Moiya was completely enchanted. Forget robotic horses (see earlier post).. she fussed over that doll night and day. Everyone she encountered throughout the entire facility was presented with Moiya's "baby" to admire and to hug. And of course everyone responded with "Ooh! What a pretty baby! Does she have a name?" And Moiya would nod solemnly and reply "Doll"

That's my girl.

Nonny Butt

Heh... I Grab Nonny Butt!

The funniest picture that I took on our visit I dare not show if I ever expect my Mom to speak to me again. Moiya and I play this game (we play lots of games) where, as soon as I get up from a chair or sofa, Moiya rushes over and clambers up into my spot, yelling "I take Daddy seat! I take Daddy seat!!" Daddy then is supposed to feign dismay, which is apparently hugely funny if you are two. And if I really want to go for the big laugh, I pretend to sit on Moiya while complaining that my chair has "gone all lumpy". Usually Moiya keeps asking "Daddy sit a me AGIN!" over and over until finally my legs give out.

A few weeks back, Moiya added a new element when, as I squatted on her lap, she suddenly pulled back the waistband of my pants, and with a whoop, shoved her hand down my..erm.. crack. This was apparently, to judge by the hysterics that followed, literally the funniest thing in the entire history of the world. I explained that Daddy's insurance didn't cover anything LIKE enough therapy to help him cope, but to no avail. I now have to watch my back constantly.

I mentioned this to Mom, and warned her that Moiya might also suddenly demand to "see Nonny butt", but I don't think it really connected. Until she was playing the same game with Moiya and, as the camera was going, Moiya pulled the waistband of her pants back and shoved her hand down. The look on Mom's face is just priceless.

That's my girl.

Anyway, it was a good visit. Good for all of us. All the way home, Moiya kept saying "Daddy? Want to go back to Nonny house." So I think she had a good time. And I couldn't argue with the sentiment.

Just Weird
Last remaining two items involve Moiya's continuing reluctance to settle down for the night.
Firstly: Moiya has always liked to sleep on her stuffed animals. I've never gotten to tuck her in at night, as she likes to spread her "bankets" on top of her "babies" and snuggle into them. At least until this past week, when we staged a scene out of "The Great Escape" using the stuffed animals to build a ramp to the top crib rail in order to make a break for freedom. Steve McQueen would have been so proud. Unfortunately Moiya's escape plan (her brain just never stops going) failed to account for the long drop on the other side of the rail. So there was an almighty THUMP, followed by tears and kisses. I don't think we'll be trying that again too soon. That being said, Jacq and I agree that it's time to convert the crib into a toddler bed - though Daddy needs to do a LOT more "childproofing" first... More drawer/door latches, stronger outlet covers.. I've bolted the bookcase to the wall and even bolted her Pooh Bear lamp to the top of the bookcase.

The second event I literally have no explanation for. Mom gave Moiya a high chair for her doll which I assembled while we were in St. Louis. No plastic toy, this thing is made of wood and particle board held together with big allen screws and it weighs a ton. The picture below tells the tale. When I tucked Moiya in for the night, the chair was standing on the floor to the left of her crib. The next morning it was standing upright as show, IN her crib.

How I Left It That Night	How I Found It Next Morning

And yes, I understand how she got it there, but the sheer, bloody-minded determination and the upper body strength required when you're two feet tall to reach down and haul this thing up, hand over hand till it cleared the top of the rail just boggled my little mind.

That's my girl :)

Never been a fan of "It's a Wonderful Life" . Way too schmaltzy for me (though I do like Jimmy Stuart). But this Christmas I find myself in the boots of George Bailey.

"Dear Father, I'm not a praying man, but if you're up there and you can hear me, show me the way. I'm at the end of my rope. Show me the way, oh God."

My In-Laws (who are dear people who have always treated me with great kindness) invited me over for Christmas. But I'm just not ready for that. I've had Moiya non-stop for rather a long while. And frankly, I have not yet gotten to grieve. When there is a death in the family, one expects to be able to grieve for loss. So Jacq and Moiya went to visit Nana and Pops without Daddy this year. Daddy did some cleaning, some cooking, will write this, and then will take a nap (the ULTIMATE Christmas prezzie).

I don't really like Christmas either.. ex-wife #1 and then ex-wife#2 saw to that. But I was determined that Moiya's Christmas would be good and happy.. not an orgy of self-indulgence.. saw enough of that in other people's families (I still remember with shock, little Max becoming almost apoplectic with frenzy on Christmas morning)... just a happy time. So even though I knew the axe was falling, I've been decorating the house these past few weeks.. and baking (no, I don't bake.. but I try). And Jacq and I made sure we were both here on Christmas morning .

We got up early and let Moiya open her presents. This is the first year she's been interested... but as Daddy only put the prezzies under the tree last night and we've never pushed the whole "Santa" thing... (not really against it, but not for it either.. if she pickes it up at daycare, fine. But I'm not going to push it. Right now Santa is a nobody.. but Snowmen rule!) she was just a sweet little kid in interesting times and amongst pretty wrappings (Daddy does a mean prezzy)... not a rapacious wild-ass monster-child. Moiya still has only a few, simple toys (some idiot at Mamaw's gave her an obscene kiddy make-up kit.. which is currently sitting in the trunk of my car waiting to be made an offering to the wee-folk who live in the woods) and has never been flooded with "things", (I could fit all her toys in a backpack) and so at present is still not a particularly covetous child.

I was so proud of her a few weeks back in WalMart: she noticed a flyer in our cart and asked for it. After I handed it to her, she asked what it was and I told her it was an ad. She thought about it for awhile and then proclaimed "Dat bad. Daddy.. dat yucky" and dropped it. And when her Thomas the Tank Engine video (aka "Baby Bus") hits a stretch of 12 commercials at the end (advertisers to children really, REALLY need to all burn in hell), if I'm out of the room, Moiya will call me back with "Omercials, Daddy! Omercials!!"

Heh. I have not lived in vain. Oh, I know it can't last (Moiya has already told me she sees "omercials" at Mamaw's.. but if it can only last till she has a solid self-image then I am a happy man.

Back to Christmas.. we got books from Aunt Merlean (God bless her.. she cannot afford it and her sweetness and generosity to my baby humbles me) and a cook set from Aunt Marci (well chosen... Daddy ate LOTS of "soup" this morning). From Mummy and Daddy we got a "Baby Bus" (which plays tunes and puffs cool steam), and a Dress-Me-Up Elmo (Elmo was coming, and this at least reinforces the current training goal), and an easel from Crayola which lets her draw on a white board, serves as a desk, and has magnetic letters and numbers. I didn't figure she's like it much... just wanted something to have on hand to try to push her letters. I so want to introduce her to reading.

Imagine my joy as the desk became the favorite activity of Christmas morning. Of course it was labor intensive ("Want to PLAY, Daddy!!!" actually means "Want you to PLAY with ME, Daddy!!") But hell... what is better about Christmas than playing with your kids???

OK.. gonna go lie down now. Critters are fed and there's a fire laid in the wood stove. Mr. Depression is stalking, and I mean to be asleep when he comes calling.

Merry Christmas to all.

And not to be a downer... if you have a spare prayer, us George Baily's would really appreciate it.