Dad's expressions

My dad, Grampa, has a lot of expressions. These are the types of expressions all parents have that, at a certain age, all children start repeating. I think some of the expressions that our parents used are genetically coded into our DNA and no matter how hard we attempt not to use them, it is beyond our locus of control to stop. For example:

"Hey Dad? Do you know where Danny is?"
"Nope. Not my day to watch him."

Yes. This is something my dad would say. This is one of the expressions that has a time delay in my brain, and, therefore, I am able to stop it before I actually say it. Unfortunately, the shadow of the saying always flashes through my mind, and, so, I am always haunted by it.

One of the expressions that often slips through the filter is the following. Since I am a teacher, I am often asked what day it is.

"Hey Mr. M.? What's today?"
"It's Tuesday, all day." All day is drawn out as if there needs to be extra emphasis attached to it.

I try to stop myself. I try not to let those two syllables slip past those two teeth at the forefront of my mouth which are all a small child with a lisp wants for Christmas. I try. More often than not, I fail. But sometimes, and I savour them, my tongue sticks like a gymnast's landing off of the vault, and silence follows "Tuesday."

It isn't that these phrases are annoying. My dad is who he is and these expressions make up part of him. But, that doesn't mean they are me. And because of this, I sometimes want to sign up for gene therapy.

Tonight, we are sitting down for dinner. Dinner is pizza. It is Friday, and somewhere in our parenting mentality, pizza has been OKed for Fridays. Tahlia used to not eat pizza, but recently, she sucks it down much like the popsicles that she so enjoys.

Usually, she eats the pizza with gusto, but, for some reason, most likely because she is exhausted from going to the pool today, eating is a painstaking task. She is through four fifths of one piece, but is losing momentum. We asked her if she is all done, and due to her subtle nod, we switch to blueberries. She needs to poop and fruit usually does the trick.

After eating five or six blueberries, she looks at me and says the magic words.

"I want a popsicle." You have to read it in a sing song manner. Popsicle is all three syllables: "Pop - sic - le." The best way I can describe it is to imagine you are skipping and saying it. "I. . . want a Pop - sic - le." Probably three strides to complete the whole phrase. The "a" is in a higher range than the rest of the phrase.

I look at Mommy with the, "Has she eaten enough?" look. She nods with the, "Asher is starting to go crazy and I'm not sure if he wants to eat or go and play in the other room but I have been with these kids for the whole day and I really would rather not make another decision so if you could just handle this and not rely on me to make every single decision in the house I'd really appreciate it and while you're at it could you please get me a piece of chocolate?" look. My receptors are on the fritz, so I wave at Tahlia's plate and one of my Dad's expressions slips out.

"Make this disappear."

For those of you who don't understand, "Make this disapear," is the equivalent of saying "Eat the rest of your food. There are starving people somewhere and, quite possibly more importantly, we paid good money for this." It does not mean to drop some on the floor so that the dog eats it. It doesn't mean to have some kind soul who is at the dinner table eat the rest of your food, and it definitely, by my father's standards, doesn't mean what Tahlia deduced.

She looked at me for a moment, and by moment I mean "one Mississippi," and picked up her napkin and covered her plate. Then she picked up the entire plate, placed it beside her place-mat, and, with the "I didn't do anything wrong" look said,

"I'm all done."

Maybe it is that I don't have the je ne sais quoi that my father has when it comes to delivering his lines. Maybe it is that I wasn't clear and should have reexplained. Maybe it is, and this is the one I'm going to stick with, that when you're beat, your beat, and even if it is by a two year old, you have to "know when to hold them, know when to fold them." Ok. So my dad didn't say that.