How much they understand is surprising sometimes.
Now, you must understand that Daddy teases Tahlia a great deal. Well, Daddy actually teases everyone a great deal, probably more than he should. Someday, Daddy will age past sixteen and actually start acting like an adult. At that time, he most likely will also enter a coffin; hopefully, therefore, this transition will not be for a long time.
But he does tease a lot. More often than not, as Daddy states something with his deadpan face, Mommy intercedes to say, "Tahlia, Daddy is teasing you."
We've never really explained teasing. So many times when Tahlia comes in contact with a new phrase or situation, she wants it explained. She, being two, doesn't come out and ask, she just keeps asking us to retell a story, or keeps asking us why until we figure out how to correctly answer her question. Even though we haven't explained teasing, she has come to figure it out. Most likely because of the number of times Mommy has said the above mentioned statement.
An example might be during breakfast. She may have asked for pancakes and, so, Daddy made pancakes. After one serving, Tahlia might ask for one more pancake, and Daddy might tell her that he has eaten all of the pancakes forever and there never will be any pancakes ever again.
Ok, I have to stop for a second. I just read what I wrote. Yes, I'll admit, this is the type of thing that I might say to her. Yes, taken out of context, as I believe my telling you in this writing is out of context, it does sound a little harsh. Maybe harsh isn't the right word. Maybe mean or cruel . . . ferocious, savage . . . vicious. But you have to understand, it is all int good fun. I mean, she understands. Doesn't she understand? She doesn't understand, does she?
Ok, but the point is I've taught her what teasing is.
So, I've viciously attached my child's psyche by making her believe there is a blight on pancake mix and Armageddon is just around the corner. I've crippled her spirit by having her believe that no longer will there be yummy breakfast meals, but, from this moment on, we most likely will only eat cardboard.
She doesn't cry, mind you, she just looks at me with, what I would like to think is a budding sense of humor. Others might call it horror. And, so, Mommy intervenes, "Tahlia, Daddy is only teasing. Here is another pancake." Thus, making the world a safe place for all breakfast foods and the possibility of all breakfast foods again.
But today, Daddy is at work, and Mommy is at home. They are eating lunch, and there are the loud noises coming from outside that denote a construction site. The loud booms of two ton tailgates colliding with the hard steel of the massive truck beds resound throughout the neighborhood and the house. They are punctuated with the sudden zip of the engines roar as large machinery move about.
Tahlia cocks her head to listen. Wonder is evident on her face. "Mommy, what is that?"
Mommy listens for a second and then replies, "It's trucks and scoopers. It's a construction site."
Tahlia cocks her head the other way to peer up into Mommy's face. Then, a smile steals across her face. She knows her sounds and that isn't the sound of trucks and scoopers. "Mommy, you teasing me; that is thunder." And her smile widens.
Maybe it is time to explain teasing.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Failure to understand
She's quietly sitting on the floor in the darkened room. Mommy almost has Asher to sleep for his nap. This is the critical time. Any noise could wake him. This is the time that Mommy prays that the UPS man doesn't come to the door, or a neighbor who needs a beer, after all, who comes for sugar anymore. This is the time when Mommy needs Tahlia to stay sitting quietly on the floor.
Out of the corner of her eye, Mommy catches the movement of a small girl beginning to sit up.
Before it progresses to some type of sound that will most likely be an attempt at a quiet voice but ring out like four dogs barking on the playground, Mommy tries to intervene.
Through complicated signs and subtle whispers Mommy communicates to Tahlia. "I'm almost done. I'm going to put Asher in his crib." The words are accurate. Drawn out so that the listener will be able to understand, but punctuated enough to show intensity. It is the type of whisper you hear when one character on a movie is attempting to have another character understand that there is a deadly snake slithering up his pants. "There . . . is . . . a . . . snake . . . on . . . your . . . leg." In addition, you must envision the pointing and head jerking to demonstrate the direction and location of the moving baby.
Tahlia, in all honesty, whispers back, "Mommy, what are you talking about?" There is no ploy of not understanding, only genuine confusion.
Silence is critical, and, therefore, Mommy tries again. The head jerk occurs. The point to the crib. The whispering about Asher in bed.
And, even though it is as clear as the hand gestures of the third base coach to a player on another team, Tahlia in her best whisper, repeats, "Mommy, what are you talking about?"
There can be no anger. She is trying so hard to understand what Mommy is saying. Maybe, since Mommy was able to successfully place Asher in bed, she does understand on some level what Mommy needs.
They both leave quietly, and Asher sleeps on.
Out of the corner of her eye, Mommy catches the movement of a small girl beginning to sit up.
Before it progresses to some type of sound that will most likely be an attempt at a quiet voice but ring out like four dogs barking on the playground, Mommy tries to intervene.
Through complicated signs and subtle whispers Mommy communicates to Tahlia. "I'm almost done. I'm going to put Asher in his crib." The words are accurate. Drawn out so that the listener will be able to understand, but punctuated enough to show intensity. It is the type of whisper you hear when one character on a movie is attempting to have another character understand that there is a deadly snake slithering up his pants. "There . . . is . . . a . . . snake . . . on . . . your . . . leg." In addition, you must envision the pointing and head jerking to demonstrate the direction and location of the moving baby.
Tahlia, in all honesty, whispers back, "Mommy, what are you talking about?" There is no ploy of not understanding, only genuine confusion.
Silence is critical, and, therefore, Mommy tries again. The head jerk occurs. The point to the crib. The whispering about Asher in bed.
And, even though it is as clear as the hand gestures of the third base coach to a player on another team, Tahlia in her best whisper, repeats, "Mommy, what are you talking about?"
There can be no anger. She is trying so hard to understand what Mommy is saying. Maybe, since Mommy was able to successfully place Asher in bed, she does understand on some level what Mommy needs.
They both leave quietly, and Asher sleeps on.
Talking Crabs
Too many times, situations occur while Mommy is attempting to put Asher down. I think I could repeatedly start entries with, while Mommy was attempting to put Asher down. It would become repetitive and dull, and, honestly, who would want to read it.
A few days ago, while Mommy was attempting to put Asher down, Tahlia, as she often does, burst into Asher's darkened, quiet, noise-maker-sound-filled room with all of her two-year-oldness bursting from the seems because she needed to talk to Mommy.
Tahlia knows that while Mommy puts Asher down, her choices of activities are broad. She can play with her Fisher Price 1970's house, her Fisher Price 1970's castle, read her books, or play quietly in her room. She knows that she is not supposed to burst into Asher's room and make any noise at all.
When Mommy sees her there, and hears her request, Mommy lets her know, in the harshest whisper that she can muster, that Tahlia must return to her room and play quietly. She lets her know that she can't talk right now.
Tahlia doesn't seem dejected as she leaves; in fact, she seems resolved. The reason she is resolved is because she's found a loop hole. Mommy won't talk to Tahlia right now, but maybe she will talk to someone, or something else. She returns moments later, seeming to have forgotten the dictates of Asher's put down time. She seems to have forgotten her castle, house and books, but has remembered a little, plastic, red, bath crab that she now has in hand.
Mommy reiterates in a whisper, "Tahlia, I can't talk. Go back to your room."
Suddenly there is a little plastic, almost cartoon like crab held out at arms length, "Mommy, the crab wants to talk to you."
I'm glad Mommy had to deal with this. This is one of those situations where, if I was dealing with it, I would have started laughing ferociously. Mommy though, after having the experience of helping to take care of her brother and sister, and having stayed at home with Tahlia for her entire life, doesn't miss a beat.
"I don't want to talk to the crab."
And, to everyone's surprise, this doesn't seem to be a shock to Tahlia as she turns and leaves the room.
A few days ago, while Mommy was attempting to put Asher down, Tahlia, as she often does, burst into Asher's darkened, quiet, noise-maker-sound-filled room with all of her two-year-oldness bursting from the seems because she needed to talk to Mommy.
Tahlia knows that while Mommy puts Asher down, her choices of activities are broad. She can play with her Fisher Price 1970's house, her Fisher Price 1970's castle, read her books, or play quietly in her room. She knows that she is not supposed to burst into Asher's room and make any noise at all.
When Mommy sees her there, and hears her request, Mommy lets her know, in the harshest whisper that she can muster, that Tahlia must return to her room and play quietly. She lets her know that she can't talk right now.
Tahlia doesn't seem dejected as she leaves; in fact, she seems resolved. The reason she is resolved is because she's found a loop hole. Mommy won't talk to Tahlia right now, but maybe she will talk to someone, or something else. She returns moments later, seeming to have forgotten the dictates of Asher's put down time. She seems to have forgotten her castle, house and books, but has remembered a little, plastic, red, bath crab that she now has in hand.
Mommy reiterates in a whisper, "Tahlia, I can't talk. Go back to your room."
Suddenly there is a little plastic, almost cartoon like crab held out at arms length, "Mommy, the crab wants to talk to you."
I'm glad Mommy had to deal with this. This is one of those situations where, if I was dealing with it, I would have started laughing ferociously. Mommy though, after having the experience of helping to take care of her brother and sister, and having stayed at home with Tahlia for her entire life, doesn't miss a beat.
"I don't want to talk to the crab."
And, to everyone's surprise, this doesn't seem to be a shock to Tahlia as she turns and leaves the room.
Napping
We want the kids to nap, but, maybe more than that, we want to nap. It has been a long four months. After having a child who quickly, 10 weeks, learned the art of sleeping through the night, to have one who continues to wake up two to four, and sometimes more, times a night, we are having a difficult time, to say the least. Mommy has the worst of it since she breast feeds him and that means that she has to wake up more than Daddy. In addition, Mommy wants to make sure that Daddy is rested for his internship, and, therefore, often will not wake him so that he can gain those precious hours of snooze.
The night after Asher didn't sleep at all was particularly difficult. I know. How is it possible that Asher didn't sleep at all, you ask. But he didn't. He would cry, on and off, for about five minutes, then stop, then start crying again, all through the night. Not enough to go in, but not enough to allow Mommy to sleep. Ok, ok. So, if there is a crying baby in the next room, apparently Daddy continues to sleep. Makes you wonder what would occur with Daddy if there was a fire, or a bear in the room.
But this isn't about Daddy. It's about Mommy.
Daddy was at the internship. Mommy had just put Asher down for a nap and had a few invaluable moments with Tahlia. Those moments that have washed away with the wave of a second child. Those moments that are unforgettable. Those moments that are like a dream. Well, at this moment, they actually were a dream because, while lying on the floor playing with the Fisher Price Alphabet Zoo animals, Mommy fell asleep.
She doesn't remember the dream, but she does remember waking up with Tahlia's cheek pressed snug against hers while Tahlia said, "I love you, Mommy."
The great story, of course, would be if Tahlia was repeating this phrase. There is no proof of this. In the retelling, I pressed Mommy to admit that Tahlia repeatedly said, I love you, Mommy, as Mommy dozed. Unfortunately, there is no evidence. There was no rolling camera. There was no supervision and therefore, no proof. But, in my head, I like the image and therefore will keep it of Tahlia repeating the phrase over and over as her Mommy, her caregiver sleeps contentedly on the floor.
"Oh, Tahlia, "Mommy quickly stated. "I'm sorry," she said as she began to sit up.
But, Tahlia, stopped her. I like to think that Tahlia understood the seriousness of the situation. I like to think that Tahlia realized that if Mommy fell asleep, it must have been because of the depravity this woman was feeling. But, most likely, it was because Tahlia felt as though it was a game and wanted to continue it.
"No, no Mommy." Tahlia said earnestly. "Mommy take a nap. Tahlia read her a book," and then pushed Mommy back towards the floor.
"Oh, you want Mommy to take a nap?" She asked, as she laid back down on the floor.
Tahlia, feeling pleased with herself, marched over to the book shelf to find a book.
We wonder, if Asher hadn't woke, if Daddy would have returned from his job to find Mommy sleeping on the floor with a vigilant daughter watching over her Mommy, who just needed a nap. Or, if they would have been curled together, because, after all, everyone needs a nap.
The night after Asher didn't sleep at all was particularly difficult. I know. How is it possible that Asher didn't sleep at all, you ask. But he didn't. He would cry, on and off, for about five minutes, then stop, then start crying again, all through the night. Not enough to go in, but not enough to allow Mommy to sleep. Ok, ok. So, if there is a crying baby in the next room, apparently Daddy continues to sleep. Makes you wonder what would occur with Daddy if there was a fire, or a bear in the room.
But this isn't about Daddy. It's about Mommy.
Daddy was at the internship. Mommy had just put Asher down for a nap and had a few invaluable moments with Tahlia. Those moments that have washed away with the wave of a second child. Those moments that are unforgettable. Those moments that are like a dream. Well, at this moment, they actually were a dream because, while lying on the floor playing with the Fisher Price Alphabet Zoo animals, Mommy fell asleep.
She doesn't remember the dream, but she does remember waking up with Tahlia's cheek pressed snug against hers while Tahlia said, "I love you, Mommy."
The great story, of course, would be if Tahlia was repeating this phrase. There is no proof of this. In the retelling, I pressed Mommy to admit that Tahlia repeatedly said, I love you, Mommy, as Mommy dozed. Unfortunately, there is no evidence. There was no rolling camera. There was no supervision and therefore, no proof. But, in my head, I like the image and therefore will keep it of Tahlia repeating the phrase over and over as her Mommy, her caregiver sleeps contentedly on the floor.
"Oh, Tahlia, "Mommy quickly stated. "I'm sorry," she said as she began to sit up.
But, Tahlia, stopped her. I like to think that Tahlia understood the seriousness of the situation. I like to think that Tahlia realized that if Mommy fell asleep, it must have been because of the depravity this woman was feeling. But, most likely, it was because Tahlia felt as though it was a game and wanted to continue it.
"No, no Mommy." Tahlia said earnestly. "Mommy take a nap. Tahlia read her a book," and then pushed Mommy back towards the floor.
"Oh, you want Mommy to take a nap?" She asked, as she laid back down on the floor.
Tahlia, feeling pleased with herself, marched over to the book shelf to find a book.
We wonder, if Asher hadn't woke, if Daddy would have returned from his job to find Mommy sleeping on the floor with a vigilant daughter watching over her Mommy, who just needed a nap. Or, if they would have been curled together, because, after all, everyone needs a nap.
Fingers
She wants to know how old people are.
"Who is two?" She asks at dinner, holding two fingers high in the air. "Daddy, who is two?"
We used to just start naming off people who were two. "Esme's two; Basil's two; Alden's two; etc."
Then, she'd change the game.
"Is Asher two?" She'd say with a smile on her face.
"No, Tahlia," We'd correct with mock dismay, often, our hands on our foreheads as we shook our heads, "Asher's zero." We'd show her how to make a fist.
"Is Rachel two?" Again, the smile.
Again, our dismay, "Oh Tahlia," we'd state, "Rachel's one." We'd hold up one finger.
Now, the game is more complex.
She's learned how to show how old Daddy is (hold up three fingers on this hand, five fingers on that hand), and how old Mommy is (hold up three fingers on that hand, and two fingers on this hand). When pressed this past weekend about how old Grandma is, she said three. Opa and Grampa are thirty five just like Daddy. Nona, Nanny, Aunt Christine, Aunt Becky, Aunt Devra and Aunt Paola are all thirty two, just like Mommy. Suki is ten (all fingers held up). She knows who is two, one, five, and four. She works, continually, to force her little fingers to show this many fingers.
So now, the game . . .
"Who is two?"
"Ah. . . I think Asher is two."
"No, Daddy." Exasperation. "Asher's zero." She holds up a fist.
"Oh. I think Miriam is two."
"No, Daddy! Miriam is five." All five fingers held high.
"Right. Right. I think that Sam is two."
"No, no, no Daddy. Sam is three." The thumb carefully finds the pinky so that the index, ring and "longman" stand proud.
"Oh. I think that Daddy is two."
"No, Daddy this old." She holds up three fingers on her right hand and five fingers on her left hand.
This game started months ago, and has slowly developed into one of those things. How old. How old. Funny to think that as she ages, no longer will the fascination be with how old people are, but how young.
"Who is two?" She asks at dinner, holding two fingers high in the air. "Daddy, who is two?"
We used to just start naming off people who were two. "Esme's two; Basil's two; Alden's two; etc."
Then, she'd change the game.
"Is Asher two?" She'd say with a smile on her face.
"No, Tahlia," We'd correct with mock dismay, often, our hands on our foreheads as we shook our heads, "Asher's zero." We'd show her how to make a fist.
"Is Rachel two?" Again, the smile.
Again, our dismay, "Oh Tahlia," we'd state, "Rachel's one." We'd hold up one finger.
Now, the game is more complex.
She's learned how to show how old Daddy is (hold up three fingers on this hand, five fingers on that hand), and how old Mommy is (hold up three fingers on that hand, and two fingers on this hand). When pressed this past weekend about how old Grandma is, she said three. Opa and Grampa are thirty five just like Daddy. Nona, Nanny, Aunt Christine, Aunt Becky, Aunt Devra and Aunt Paola are all thirty two, just like Mommy. Suki is ten (all fingers held up). She knows who is two, one, five, and four. She works, continually, to force her little fingers to show this many fingers.
So now, the game . . .
"Who is two?"
"Ah. . . I think Asher is two."
"No, Daddy." Exasperation. "Asher's zero." She holds up a fist.
"Oh. I think Miriam is two."
"No, Daddy! Miriam is five." All five fingers held high.
"Right. Right. I think that Sam is two."
"No, no, no Daddy. Sam is three." The thumb carefully finds the pinky so that the index, ring and "longman" stand proud.
"Oh. I think that Daddy is two."
"No, Daddy this old." She holds up three fingers on her right hand and five fingers on her left hand.
This game started months ago, and has slowly developed into one of those things. How old. How old. Funny to think that as she ages, no longer will the fascination be with how old people are, but how young.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Spritz
I'm trying not to laugh. I'm trying to focus on doing laundry. I'm not successful at either.
A few moments ago, I took out the SHOUT bottle so that I could prepare the children's laundry. Facing Asher's poop stains and Tahlia's food stains is not small task. I girded myself and found a comfortable position on the floor. Tahlia, of course, wanted to help.
I quickly find her spray bottle, one that we bought for her so that she could practice washing windows, an activity we hope to enlist her in in the future. The spray bottle is simply filled with water.
I have all of the laundry sorted and start spraying. Tahlia startles me when I see that she can actually, by holding the back of the spray bottle with one hand and the handle with the other, squeeze the bottle on her own, thus producing a stream of water. Unfortunately for her, the nozzle is facing her, and she is squirted in the face. She smiles. I take the bottle and spritz the air several times. Most lands on her, and she squeals and dashes from the kitchen. When she builds enough courage, she comes back for a second round. The floor is slippery now with water so I spread towels out to aid traction. More spritzing occurs, to both parties, and we are now each a little damp.
The laundry, I realize, is not doing itself. I tell Tahlia she's on her own and pick up the SHOUT. I finish one shirt, and then, no more.
She is holding the bottle with the nozzle purposefully towards her face. She sprays it, deliberately at herself and gasps, sucks air in through her nose. Repeats the process. After several times, she puts the bottle down and goes over to lie down on one of the towels. I watch on as she dries her face on the toweled floor. I'm sad for a moment as
a. Mommy was unable to see it.
b. I didn't have the alacrity to find the video recorder to capture this moment on tape.
Fortune is with me. She returns and picks up the bottle. This time the first spray is immense, and she gasps loudly. I call to Mommy, and, although Mommy is currently on the phone, she comes over to see the spectacle. Tahlia continues to spray. While Mommy attempts to hide her guffawing, Tahlia goes to dry off. I scramble for the video recorder and am rewarded by finding it in close proximity.
I don't say a word. I pretend she is a lion, and I am a documentary maker on the Serengeti. I start rolling film.
For approximately ten minutes I film in silence while Tahlia entertains herself by either spraying herself or me. While she dries off her face on the floor. While she sings a song about Brianna.
These are the moments parents always want to capture. Moments of found joy.
A few moments ago, I took out the SHOUT bottle so that I could prepare the children's laundry. Facing Asher's poop stains and Tahlia's food stains is not small task. I girded myself and found a comfortable position on the floor. Tahlia, of course, wanted to help.
I quickly find her spray bottle, one that we bought for her so that she could practice washing windows, an activity we hope to enlist her in in the future. The spray bottle is simply filled with water.
I have all of the laundry sorted and start spraying. Tahlia startles me when I see that she can actually, by holding the back of the spray bottle with one hand and the handle with the other, squeeze the bottle on her own, thus producing a stream of water. Unfortunately for her, the nozzle is facing her, and she is squirted in the face. She smiles. I take the bottle and spritz the air several times. Most lands on her, and she squeals and dashes from the kitchen. When she builds enough courage, she comes back for a second round. The floor is slippery now with water so I spread towels out to aid traction. More spritzing occurs, to both parties, and we are now each a little damp.
The laundry, I realize, is not doing itself. I tell Tahlia she's on her own and pick up the SHOUT. I finish one shirt, and then, no more.
She is holding the bottle with the nozzle purposefully towards her face. She sprays it, deliberately at herself and gasps, sucks air in through her nose. Repeats the process. After several times, she puts the bottle down and goes over to lie down on one of the towels. I watch on as she dries her face on the toweled floor. I'm sad for a moment as
a. Mommy was unable to see it.
b. I didn't have the alacrity to find the video recorder to capture this moment on tape.
Fortune is with me. She returns and picks up the bottle. This time the first spray is immense, and she gasps loudly. I call to Mommy, and, although Mommy is currently on the phone, she comes over to see the spectacle. Tahlia continues to spray. While Mommy attempts to hide her guffawing, Tahlia goes to dry off. I scramble for the video recorder and am rewarded by finding it in close proximity.
I don't say a word. I pretend she is a lion, and I am a documentary maker on the Serengeti. I start rolling film.
For approximately ten minutes I film in silence while Tahlia entertains herself by either spraying herself or me. While she dries off her face on the floor. While she sings a song about Brianna.
These are the moments parents always want to capture. Moments of found joy.
Shaving
Along with big, medium and small kisses, there are rough kisses and soft kisses. Rough kisses are due to Daddy not shaving. Often times, after a day or two of not shaving, if I attempt to give more than two kisses I am greeted with a small hand harshly pushing my face away and the statement: "No Daddy, too rough!" These words aren't malicious. They are factual. My kisses are too rough.
When she was younger and unable to protest, the only way that we would realize that I was too rough was because of the raspberry colored patches on her cheeks or belly. Those days are over for her, although just beginning for Asher.
Now, regularly, Tahlia will let me know that I need to shave.
"Daddy, you're too rough. You need to shave."
Often times, I attempt to be cognizant of this and only give small kisses. Just the other day when she was in the car, I gave her a very little kiss on her forehead. She then asked for a medium kiss, and I let her know that I couldn't.
"Why Daddy?"
"I'm too rough."
"Daddy needs to shave."
On the very next day, while she was still asleep, I began readying myself for the administrative internship I am currently doing. I woke early and shaved. After my shower, I heard that Tahlia was awake, so I went in to see her. Still in bed, she was very sleepy. I went over to give her a kiss and was met with protest; not surprising since I was so rough the night before
"No, no, no," I pleaded. "Let me give you one kiss."
She conceded and then said, "Daddy shaved. You're soft like fruit."
Not only was a taken aback by her use of a simile, but also by how accurate her description was. I'm not bragging here about my shaving talent, for, anyone who knows me knows that the need for me to shave is like the need for a person to put effort into playing fetch with a lab. A Walt Whitman look alike I am not. One day I hope to have a beard, but for now, if I attempted one, I would have a patchwork of hair springing from various areas on the lower portion of my face. Therefore, whenever I shave, my skin is surprisingly smooth. In addition to this, Tahlia recently has discovered nectarines, which have smooth and silky feeling.
I can take being compared to a nectarine. I don't think I'd be as happy if she'd used a metaphor and said, "Daddy, you're a fruit."
When she was younger and unable to protest, the only way that we would realize that I was too rough was because of the raspberry colored patches on her cheeks or belly. Those days are over for her, although just beginning for Asher.
Now, regularly, Tahlia will let me know that I need to shave.
"Daddy, you're too rough. You need to shave."
Often times, I attempt to be cognizant of this and only give small kisses. Just the other day when she was in the car, I gave her a very little kiss on her forehead. She then asked for a medium kiss, and I let her know that I couldn't.
"Why Daddy?"
"I'm too rough."
"Daddy needs to shave."
On the very next day, while she was still asleep, I began readying myself for the administrative internship I am currently doing. I woke early and shaved. After my shower, I heard that Tahlia was awake, so I went in to see her. Still in bed, she was very sleepy. I went over to give her a kiss and was met with protest; not surprising since I was so rough the night before
"No, no, no," I pleaded. "Let me give you one kiss."
She conceded and then said, "Daddy shaved. You're soft like fruit."
Not only was a taken aback by her use of a simile, but also by how accurate her description was. I'm not bragging here about my shaving talent, for, anyone who knows me knows that the need for me to shave is like the need for a person to put effort into playing fetch with a lab. A Walt Whitman look alike I am not. One day I hope to have a beard, but for now, if I attempted one, I would have a patchwork of hair springing from various areas on the lower portion of my face. Therefore, whenever I shave, my skin is surprisingly smooth. In addition to this, Tahlia recently has discovered nectarines, which have smooth and silky feeling.
I can take being compared to a nectarine. I don't think I'd be as happy if she'd used a metaphor and said, "Daddy, you're a fruit."
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