And everything she thinks blows her tiny mind.
Last week, watching Dutch tackle the airless blue world of the pool every evening, I kept thinking of the Loudon Wainwright song "Daughter," the lyrics of which include the line "That's my daughter in the water, who'd have ever thought her?" The song is definitely a dad song ("every thing she owns I bought her, I lost every time I fought her") and in fine Loudon Wainwright style is at least partly based only on finding words that rhyme, but it's kind of sneakily, cheesily profound (also in fine Loudon Wainwright style).
I've obviously been thinking a lot about parenting, and I'm pretty sure that the most powerful thing about it for me is that my life is tied irrevocably to this person for the rest of my life, and for the beginning of hers. This stranger, really - a little girl in a pink swimsuit ("Mama, my favorite color is pink! And my favorite letter is S! No, my favorite letter is a pink S!"), gamely pushing her face underwater and immediately popping up sputtering and blinking, frantically wiping the water off her squinched-up face. A kid with long arms and legs and oh my god these huge feet! A kid with an opinion on Every Single Thing, and a powerful sense of her own dignity. A kid who talks in her sleep, and make no sense at all. A kid with an unknown adulthood ahead of her. She isn't mine; she never was, not from the first alien glimmer on the ultrasound. She's her own self. I am lucky to have the job of hanging around to witness the painful and joyous moments of her work to find her own place in the world. I am called on to administer bandaids, answer questions ("Mama, don't scientists know everything?"), provide fodder for future therapy sessions, makes smoothies, and explain that it's not okay to comment on strangers' fart smells on the bus. Important stuff, but not essential to who she is. It's the essential stuff that makes parenting so gripping, so difficult, and sometimes so delightful.
Anyway, here's an example of the limits of parenting to explain who children are, in greater scatological depth than you probably want to read. You're forewarned.
The scene: Dutch and I are walking home from the bus stop after swim lessons. Dutch complains of a belly-ache, and I suggest that she may need to poop.
Dutch: Why?
Me: Because I'm a detective, and I have put together three pieces of evidence. One, you have a belly-ache. Two, you often complain of belly-ache and then feel better after pooping. Three, you've been farting. That all adds up to my convincing argument that you may need to poop.
Dutch: You're not a detective.
Me: Oh? What makes you say that?
Dutch: One, because you're not a detective. Two, because you're not a detective. Three... ARF!
Me: (silent due to my inability to talk while wriggling in the steely grasp of her logic.)
I've obviously been thinking a lot about parenting, and I'm pretty sure that the most powerful thing about it for me is that my life is tied irrevocably to this person for the rest of my life, and for the beginning of hers. This stranger, really - a little girl in a pink swimsuit ("Mama, my favorite color is pink! And my favorite letter is S! No, my favorite letter is a pink S!"), gamely pushing her face underwater and immediately popping up sputtering and blinking, frantically wiping the water off her squinched-up face. A kid with long arms and legs and oh my god these huge feet! A kid with an opinion on Every Single Thing, and a powerful sense of her own dignity. A kid who talks in her sleep, and make no sense at all. A kid with an unknown adulthood ahead of her. She isn't mine; she never was, not from the first alien glimmer on the ultrasound. She's her own self. I am lucky to have the job of hanging around to witness the painful and joyous moments of her work to find her own place in the world. I am called on to administer bandaids, answer questions ("Mama, don't scientists know everything?"), provide fodder for future therapy sessions, makes smoothies, and explain that it's not okay to comment on strangers' fart smells on the bus. Important stuff, but not essential to who she is. It's the essential stuff that makes parenting so gripping, so difficult, and sometimes so delightful.
Anyway, here's an example of the limits of parenting to explain who children are, in greater scatological depth than you probably want to read. You're forewarned.
The scene: Dutch and I are walking home from the bus stop after swim lessons. Dutch complains of a belly-ache, and I suggest that she may need to poop.
Dutch: Why?
Me: Because I'm a detective, and I have put together three pieces of evidence. One, you have a belly-ache. Two, you often complain of belly-ache and then feel better after pooping. Three, you've been farting. That all adds up to my convincing argument that you may need to poop.
Dutch: You're not a detective.
Me: Oh? What makes you say that?
Dutch: One, because you're not a detective. Two, because you're not a detective. Three... ARF!
Me: (silent due to my inability to talk while wriggling in the steely grasp of her logic.)
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