The Emma Diaries

When I 'graduated' from 9th grade, my Mom put together a scrapbook of pictures of me with funny captions -- which I'm pretty sure you've seen.

That inspired me, when you were very young, to do something similar. So, over the years, I've tried to take time, every so often, to write down special memories, and add a picture or two. Life being what it is, I didn't write as often or as well as I might have wished -- but I've treasured every opportunity that I did take.

Emma, this is my gift to you, today. A small sampling of scenes of your life, as seen through the eyes of your very happy, very proud, father. Flip through it at random, read it when you wish. Go back to it when you have hard times, and then remember how much you have already survived, passed through, thrived because of, and learned from.

It is (of course!) available on-line at emmadiary.thedance.net. (I haven't linked anything to it, so Google 'knows it not'. ) There are plenty of interesting links from it, and I may add more stories & links as appropriate. Share it if you wish, or keep it private: it is all yours.

Paradoxically enough, the more you grow up, the more difficult it is to write these diary entries. They're less the memories of the 'doting father', and more about becoming equals -- i.e., who you are becoming, not who you have been.

That being said... I was still tickled by your graduation party. I know you had (decidedly!) mixed feelings about the party as a concept, and as a party-with-Katherine.

But click on the picture of the 'Encore' game. Look at it closely. Zoom in. You didn't just "make the best of it". You held them together, you made it a fun evening for everyone -- no-one wanted to leave. This is what you do. This is who you are.

A Sonnet for Emma, upon the (early) celebration of her adulthood, and her joy of the Bard of Avon.

Fresh from APUSH, it was great to explore Independence Hall with you. You knew the stories backwards and forwards, and I was sombered by (but appreciative of) the displays about Washington's slaves at Mt. Vernon (which to you was already old news).

And allow me my nerdly pride here... but my SCA background came to life as I chatted (in quasi-period English) with a reenactor who was carding wool and spinning... to discover (from her) the re-enactment dinner and private tour of Independence Hall that we both enjoyed so much! (Link to pictures.)

Followed by a late-night drive up through New Jersey (some of the less pleasant parts, alas), staying in the only place we could find, off old NJ Route-1, a "Motel No-Tell" which felt distinctly weird.

The next morning we reluctantly passed by NYC in the distance, realizing there wasn't enough time (I really wanted to take you to the top of the Empire State building, as my Dad had taken me)... and the long haul along the coast and then up to Interstate 90E, spending the night just outside Wellesley. We got lost finding the hotel, and had a bit of a fight about it, so I went out to run and let us both cool off. I drove around for a while and found some decent pizza to bring home for both of us... and then we both cried some. (OK, me especially.)

Finally, on to Boston. Not surprisingly, we got lost a couple of times, but once I swallowed my pride, you found our way back again. And, girl, you did a damn fine job of driving over those nasty bridges and twisty roads along the Charles River... I kept alternating between stark terror and astonishing pride as you made your way to BU.

Once there, you threw yourself into it with your full energy... unloading, carting, meeting new people in high energy and excitement. When we got to your room, after greeting your new roommate, the first thing you did was hang up some lights around your bookcase... a true techie!

And then... a pause, as we looked at each other. Part of me didn't want to leave -- I wanted to watch over you, but more to watch you, to see you launch into this exciting adventure. It looked like you had mixed feelings, too -- but I knew it was time (and I also didn't want to be the 'embarrassing old Dad' who blubbers in front of everyone before leaving :-) )

So we said our goodbyes, quickly, and I did my best to leave on a high note. Don't get me wrong: I'm tremendously excited for, and proud of, you in this adventure. And I also see the shadow of the day you leave us for college. I felt that strange intermix of sad and yet high adventure: that sense of 'immanence' that reminds me of, say, Our Town (only happier!).

Even then, it took me a while to leave: I stopped in that cafe on the first floor, and ate (appropriately enough!) a Boston Creme doughnut. Walked around a bit and took a few pictures, then maybe after half an hour sent a salute in your general direction, and got in the car and drove off.

(I promptly got lost, without your guidance, although it was also an intentionally 'exploratory' lost. After an hour I gave up and turned on my GPS app, and found my way out of the city, and thence on to Albany NY, where I spent the night with my old friends Andy & Anne Schickedanz, the couple that came all the way to Ann Arbor for your baptism and welcoming day. But that's another story.)

It's been quite the several weeks. The run-up to tech week for "Rock of Ages" was really stressful for you. I think you were out 3 days one week, torn between not wanting to do school work, pain at disappointing your teachers, and (I'm sure) much more that I only partly comprehended. I know you spent hours crying on the shoulders of Mysti and some of your friends: while it was painful, I am so grateful that they were there for you.

And I am grateful that you let me be one of those shoulders at times, to cry about just how hard it was to feel all of, and live through, all of this. Oh, sometimes it was hard: early on, when you seemed angry with yourself and the world, sometimes you were snippy with me. At least once I called you on it, and you retreated into silence. Yet within a day or two you apologized, and reached out, and within a few more days you could cry on me... and I was glad of it.

I remember in particular the night before you took the actual AP exam for APUSH. At your request, we went driving while you studied... I took us down to Milan, and drove by the community center where Mom and I got married. Then we wandered through backroads up to Saline. (And I stopped at the DQ there for ice cream.)

In the end, I think we spent about 2 and a half hours driving and studying. I could see you slowly regaining your confidence as you skimmed and recited your history, moments of "I remember that!", reconnecting with what you previously learned. By the next morning, when I drove you to EMU, I could see that you, while nervous, had found some balance again.

And, while all of this took a lot of my time... I still wouldn't trade it for the world. I imagine your future path looks murky and uncertain to you. But I can see you blazing your way, shining like a shooting star in the dark. (OK, poetic imagery, so sue me! :-) ) But for me, at this time in my life when the years seem to pass so quickly, I know it won't be very long before you set off for college, or for some theatre job. So in this time while you're still with us at home, to know that I can still help hold you up, when your wings temporarily fail you... it is a treasure. (It was also kind of fun, actually. Like a mini-road trip. Knowing that it was going to be a longer-than-usual drive actually freed me to feel more that way.)

But, you know -- I love it. Oh, sometimes it gets to be a bit much -- but I don't regret a moment of it, of seeing you excited by, enjoying, even emulating ... his life story. What a perfect time for this to show up in your life!

But the best part for me, the best memory I have -- is singing parts of it together in the car, during our long practice drives. I know sometimes you're embarrassed by me and mom, and that is a perfectly normal, even expected, part of being a teenager. (As you'll probably know some day -- to quote Hamilton, "just you wait!")

But it means a lot to me that you can still enjoy singing 'Hamilton' with me, in our special times, driving endlessly around town. It is exciting -- some mornings I play and sing the opening number on my drive to work, to 'pump me up' to start the day.

You've been good at so many things that you've done in your life, so far. Writing. Math. Acting. Research. Law.

You've had a fabulous first year in high school (despite, or perhaps also partly because of, pushing yourself too hard/too far at times). Where every day was punctuated, and partly motivated, by getting your hands dirty, making the nuts and bolts of theatre magic happen.

But now you've gone beyond the 'safety' of Pioneer, and taken your craft into the outside world. I know PTD was a mixed experience -- some folks just saw the cute teenager, and wanted to make sure to 'help' you (and perhaps justify their own insecurities). But others did see you for who you are, and gave you the space to 'learn the next thing', to see what you could do.

And -- as you know -- they loved you! I've never had an adult actor thank me for what I brought to the show -- that being, you. (Mrs. Roswell / Janet, fully in character as herself, wanted to bring you home with her for a couple of days!)

But, perhaps more seriously (and beyond my pride in you), I think this means a lot. I think this is the happiest I've seen you, during the summer, in many years. You loved what you were doing and learning, you thrived in working with adults (with their strengths, and their limits), even through the boring parts.

Those are all the signs of someone who has found their work. Oh, you may surprise us all (again)... but I think you have truly found yours.

(And I get to crow, just a bit -- I helped make this part happen. I called and emailed around to find a place that could use you... and I'm so glad I did. I feel like the wizard Ged near the end of The Farthest Shore, where he looks at his sleeping protege Lebannen, and says

This year was your "Annus Mirabilis", your 'miracle year'. You have come so far this year, and set the stage (pun intended, of course!) for tremendous growth, tremendous fun, tremendous hard work... and tremendous friends and community.

By contrast, one of my greatest joys is that I can tell you how proud I am of you: sincerely, but (I hope) without too much gushing. And that you can hear it, in the same spirit.

I was so struck by something you said last night. That you "didn't like who you were" at the start of the year. That you felt alone, and that you had a very hard time handling, being with, that feeling. That you didn't know who you were.

And now, you know. You know you're not alone, even if at times you are physically alone. That you're not alone, even if some of the people that you have come to know and love, are now moving on to their next adventure. You know some really important parts (my paraphrasing, forgive me) of who you are:

It's hard to believe that you are just finishing your first semester at Pioneer. You have come so far! That first week seems like an age ago. Considering everything that you've been through, maybe that's appropriate.

How does it feel to be 15? Is it any different? You seem different, some how. You seem... a little more sure of yourself. Unhappy to be (to quote Wicked) "playing by the rules / Of someone else's game", yes... but more certain that you want to play your own game, and that you have a clearer idea of what that might be.

I've been really struck, lately, at how... well, mature you can be sometimes. (I realize that can sound like a mixed message, but I mean it as a compliment.) The other night, when we were all talking at dinner about experiences with other people's families... and Mom mentioned how much she enjoyed being with other families as a kid, since her dad was so down... you found a way to express how it was kind of a downer to hear about her Dad. But you did it in a way that wasn't a put-down, a way that respected your experience, but still allowed her to have her experience.

Of course, I was initially anxious that the two of you were going to start irritating each other. But Mom was able to hear it that way, too. And while it was a little awkward, it worked.

I've been seeing other instances of that. Moments where you were able to express yourself, but not in opposition to someone or something else, even when the situation was could have gotten stressful. I am impressed -- and I think this is you finding your power, finding that you can hold your power, just in yourself, without having to either push on -- or away from -- someone else's experience.

I believe that you will continue to grow in that way, and that you will become enormously powerful as a result. (Meaning, your power will be very effective, not that you're going to take over the world! :-) ) But -- my secret pride and joy -- I got to see you doing this first. I got to see you start that sea-change, to see you finding your power. You've navigated, partly by smarts and partly by dumb (smart?) luck, through the multi-car-pile-up of the first stretch of teenagerdom/high-school. And now I see you looking up above the 'wreckage', taking stock of the situation, and starting to chart your own course.

In the meantime, even though sometimes (especially in the winter that finally arrived this year with a vengeance) it's a pain to go out driving at night... I have to admit, as I did last night -- that I love our talks in the car. I have my opinions, but I try to be very careful to make it clear that that's what they are -- and I deeply love that you will tell me yours, ask questions, debate them with me (albeit gently). I know I've said this to you before -- but I think most Dads would envy me these conversations!

I have been very moved by watching (helping!) you get through this week. Your excitement, fear, grief, worries, internal existential debates... you've experienced, and moved through, them all. Multiple "lets-go-driving" nights, some filled with tears (at the loss of the old, which is so much in-your-face as you try to assimilate the new), some filled with strategizing-how-to-get-the-teachers-attention... and last night, even a walk in the rain as you teach me Latin ("ama te", "fic me"[?]) and talk about your possible-new-friends Sam and Nina.

But you are doing it, gal! You are hanging on: grieving when you need to grieve, crying when you need to cry. But you're also seeing that each day, you add another nugget, roll up that snowball a little further -- each day adds a cumulative bit of fun, friendship, possibilities. Last night you said that missing your old friends was more of a "dull ache" -- present in the back of your mind, but now not overwhelming.

And the teachers are starting to know you already. You adore Mr. Finch (and what a compliment to say that his sense of humor is kinda like mine, only not so weird :-) ), and he clearly already has an idea who you are. I think Mr. Ashley already has a sense of you, and I predict he will push you to new heights of amazing writing.

It's hard, hard, work. But some of it is also what you've been hungering for. I can imagine some of the 'split' you are feeling: between the comfort (and loss!) of what was old and familiar and easy, versus the crashing-down-like-huge-ocean-waves of the new that is both hard (up at 6:30 in the morning?! Lots of homework?) and yet is giving you more of the challenge that you want and need, that you didn't get in the last 2 years at AALC.

And, of course... I'm proud that you are moving through it, proud that you are aware of yourself, and how you think about yourself, as you move through it. And tickled pink that you are soaking up Latin faster than anyone in your class. :-)

MHD Finals are over, and much to your surprise(?), you're going to Nationals again (and it's pretty clear you took 1st place).

You spent some time after school, down at the creek with Gavin and Jeremiah and another friend, and you had that tired-but-happy look.

We spent some time together in "my" new room, and you explained "found poetry" to me... so we both did some!

It's been... a challenging couple of months. I love you to pieces... but we've struggled a lot with getting you to put away dishes & clothes & towels, staying up 'way too late on Tumblr and fan-fiction (and I'm almost afraid to wonder what else), hanging out in our room, scattering food and crumbs, sleeping with Mom when you were scared or tired or needy... in other words, pretty much all those classic things teenagers do.

I'm proud of all that you've done; and I'm proud, overall, of the way that Mom and I have raised you, the choices we've offered you, the encouragement that we've given you. But we haven't done that great a job on setting limits for you... and sometimes I wonder if I try to treat you as a friend, as an equal... more than is right for me to ask of you.

Whatever the psychology behind it, I think I've finally grappled with my own fears, and started much more consistently enforcing those limits. Dish pick-up at 6pm. Internet goes off at 10pm (but you now have an iPod for music, paid mostly with your own money and gift cards that you traded in). Towels get picked up daily (although that one is still a challenge.) Our room is our room, and we (gently/firmly, I hope) chase you out.

The results go up and down... but overall you seem happier than ever. Or, perhaps we're all happier, and so the under-the-surface struggles and frustrations get laid down more often, leaving us all more room to simply enjoy each other.

I know I really enjoyed tonight. The cooking (mostly you, with a tiny bit help from me on the noodles), being served, sharing stories (mine about the lousy teacher I had in SOLR training today, reminiscent of Ms. Andrews), then talking about slavery while watching the movie (just how did slave owners manage to keep justifying their actions, something that baffles both of us), sharing the 'found poetry' exercise... it felt like the most "normal", relaxed time you and I have had together in many months.

I had hoped to sit and write while at Terpsichore, but (oddly enough) with my back problems, I either ended up talking earnestly with some other men, or working on the computer (just to keep my mind off my physical pain). Then by the time the pain got better, I wanted to dance!

I've thought many times about what it would be like when my Dad died. One of my concerns was you -- how to both protect you from it, and yet not shield you from it. (Crazy, huh?)

I still find it hard, even to this day, to recall just how amazingly present you were. You didn't seem afraid; you weren't in great pain. You were there, with all of us.

Especially so with my sister! I don't know if you realized it, but that was an incredible gift to me. My sister and I... don't always get along. But she took such joy in you, in your similarities... and in the both of you teasing me, together. My "little sister" and my daughter, momentarily one. In a hard time, you helped make a bridge between me and Polly, a bridge that will always be there going forward.

You also gave me a great gift in my last moments with my Dad. Just before I left, I think it was the night of the 9th, I told him I would see him tomorrow... then I paused, realizing that might not be true, and that I shouldn't "chicken out". And I finally told him that I loved him. That I loved our times together at Wildwood, times building the train set together. As I was leaving, you and Mom (I think) called me back to tell me the words he mumbled that I couldn't hear:

Maybe the way you were present seems normal and natural to you. If so, that's fabulous. I still am amazed by it, honored by it. You were with me when I went to get my Dad's last drink (the tiny Jim Beam bottle). I remember on the way over, you asked if I thought he was going to die tonight. I didn't think so, and I was hoping to give him a tiny sip of the bourbon.

Instead, that was the night when just you and I sat with him, heard him ask "where are we?", heard him repeat "Hurry up. Hurry up." Emma, I feel like I'm repeating myself, 'cause I don't really know how to say this. You were with me all the way, you were like a grown-up, a close treasured friend. Young and old, ageless. Thank you, thank you, so much.

About a week later, as we were trimming the tree, you found the jukebox ornament he gave you, many years ago. Then I finally saw your tears, your sadness, your loss. I imagine(?) there aren't a lot of really good memories of him for you. But I could see that was one of them -- from that time in Gladwin when he saw your enjoyment, and could freely join you in it, and pass on that gift that had happy memories tied to it.

I hope I don't sound all psychological and stuff -- but I was glad to see you cry, to see you let out whatever loss was there for you. And I was glad to be there for you, as you have in your own way been there for me.

(And yes, I'm crying now. And I love you. And I'm proud of you. And... thankful.)

But, really, the secret is... this was Mom's success story. She's come a long way since being laid-off in April, and she came up with the idea of a surprise party for you seemingly out of nowhere. Despite all the hassles and struggles you guys had over the end of the summer, she still wanted to do this for you. (This is not about guilting you or anything -- this is 'color me impressed'.)

Afterwards you told us (still bouncing up and down) how this was your "happiest night ever" -- we even invited all the right people (and none of the 'wrong' people!). How it's normally you who plans things for other people, and how shocked you were to have someone plan something for you. How amazing it was that your friends managed to keep it secret... although in thinking back you could see a few dropped clues.

It was fun planning this... but it was also a cozy kind of fun just watching you and your friends be teenagers, as (perhaps) odd as that sounds. Bumping into different groups in the dark corn maze, hearing the screams and laughter as you all raced around.

Then afterwards, eating and laughing at the bonfire. You'd wander off in small groups, then wander back, then wander off in different small groups... we made you play games (charades, 'irrelevancy') together for a while, just to keep you all together for a bit... and then let you go again.

First: you are (still) a wonderful, creative, caring, smart, responsible young woman.

Second: this is the time they warned me about. The time when you jump on the rollercoaster of teen-ager-dom. When you are having the best of times:

It's hard on you. I really do have a clue about that (even though you may not think so sometimes).

It's hard on me, too. It's hard to love you so much, and yet be angry with you too -- and since I'll beat up anyone who treats you poorly, sometimes I end up beating up... myself. Or at least it feels that way. Oddly, I often feel a weighing-down anxiety, which has sometimes been my personal demon -- but never before with you.

I know that you are growing up, that you are separating, that a lot of this angst has to happen, as you move out into your own world. I hate that it has to hurt you; I wish it didn't have to hurt any of us.

In the meantime, I will hang on, and be as rock-solid for you as I can be. While the 'therapist-in-you' (that your friends know so well) grows up enough to be there for you, too.

"I thought it would make me feel more grown up, but I feel like I'm wearing a diaper!"

I'm glad you could talk to me about your experience, your pain, your annoyance... you accused(?) me at several points of being "half a girl", I was so sensitive (or safe to talk to?). I countered with "I'm a Sensitive New Age Guy". I'm sorry Mom wasn't here for you right away... but I'm also glad I could be here for you, and that I could be helpful to you. (Hey, at least I didn't bake you a tampon cake.)

Something a little different this time -- I've saved the AnnArbor.com article about NHD. Click on image to see the entire article.

You survived a deep, deep, disappointment last year... you stuck with your passion for your original ideas about the Innocence Project... came back to it after being discouraged by others... and, in the end, you made it your own.

All your own. You found your fire, girl. You found your 'ignition' point: in a topic that (at first) I was afraid would be too scary, too 'adult'. You kept going, through the ups (like our Court visit), the downs (struggles with Ms. Kuhn), the fears and avoidance (and TV!) when the going got tough.

I'm so proud of what you did, but prouder of how you discovered who you are -- someone who found the topic, the curiousity, the search and thirst for justice, especially justice too-long denied, and kept at it, over and over. Someone who, struggling to sleep the night before, loudly claiming "I'm gonna die!", still none-the-less pushed through the fear, and put on a performance that wow-ed the judges (and got you a $100 check to boot!).

Yes, your sentimental old Dad cried after your name was announced. Cried happy tears, yes, but also tears for the girl (who like some determined heroine in a novel) 'suffered the slings and arrows', and yet came back to triumph a year later. Cried to see myself in you -- whether you become a lawyer, a teacher, heck, a circus performer -- to see you really catch fire about something, in a way that feels so familiar, so much like the 13-year-old that I was so long ago, whose world changed when he 'accidentally' picked up his first computer book.

Cried in relief, in the sudden, alchemical moment, when we changed, all at once, from anticipation, fear, a year of waiting and working, to -- suddenly -- "... the finalist is Emma Roth!" -- and that moment of yes, yes, this dream really did come true.

This is the stuff of which a passionate, purposeful, life is made. And you've got it.

There were many, many, other little moments along the way. The drive up to Saginaw Valley, when you and mom, in your (plural) stress, acted out like a pair of two-year-olds (Mom slurping her cereal at you!) that I had to separate. And yet you were both able to talk about it a bit (it helped that I drove the car to a quiet spot and insisted we talk!). Or the dinner later that night, where Mom and I acted out the judges asking questions, and I watched you roll with it, dive into it, excited, something to do with that nervous energy. Or your compassion and concern for Cecelia on Saturday, in the midst of your joy -- and who should know, better than you, how it felt? And how it feels to have a friend who cares.

You go, girl. And now, have fun at Nationals. Find your true peers, be the icing on the cake, and own this year's experience as truly yours.

So it's the day before Mom's last service (and sermon) at FPCY. Of course, she's still finishing her sermon. So I offered (OK, we offered) to go out for the day and let her work in peace and quiet.

We spent about 4 hours at the church, first cutting and mounting the cable channel in the nursery, then threading the extension cord through it, so that the kids could have a CD player. And then a nice lunch at the Sidetrack, some research on wigs at Fantasy Attic, and then some more work packing up Mom's office. We had a really good conversation about "why are we doing this anyway, when they're laying Mom off?".

Then a trip to Steak & Shake, and we still had some time on our hands. So I said "How about that driving lesson?" At first you were concerned (scared?) about driving where people might be near, but we finally settled on the large (and completely empty, as it turned out) parking lot next to the EMU stadium.

I think you must have spent at least an hour behind the wheel -- it was so exciting to watch your face as you cautiously (at first!) began to manuever around. At one point you turned to me and exclaimed "this is so empowering!", and I attempted to nod wisely, all the while grinning from ear to ear (inside, so to speak).

We had a bit of a bump when you were backing up, and I was afraid you were going to hit a lamp-post -- I yelled "STOP" and you freaked out a bit. But we kept talking about it, and you "got back on the horse". I wasn't quite sure if you were mad at me for yelling, or if (as you said later) it was more about losing your confidence. Regardless, the point is you kept at it, which is what it takes -- everyone makes mistakes learning to drive.

Later on (I think it was after practicing trying to "straddle" pot-holes, of which there were plenty), you looked at me and said (to the best of my recollection) "My respect for you and Mom is really going up -- you guys do this all the time and make it look easy, and it's really hard!"

The day after I got back from England, you had a snow day. (Poor mom!) So I took another day off work, and at your bold suggestion, we drove over to the Washtenaw County Courthouse, which is also home to the circuit court (more serious crimes). We talked to the records clerk about finding cases that involved forensic DNA, but didn't have much luck.

On a whim, I said "hey, let's go upstairs and at least see one of the empty courtrooms." Turns out all of the empty courtrooms were locked, but we persevered, and ended up talking to the bailiff, who said "well, there's a court in session, but they're just waiting for the jury to deliver their verdict -- would you like to go talk to the judge?"

Sure enough, judge Archie C. Brown was delighted to talk with you about forensic DNA for about 20 minutes, and then invited us to stay and hear the jury deliver their verdict. On a murder trial, of all things. We were both a bit spooked, but you were also so excited to be this close to a real trial in a real courtroom, so we stayed.

On the way home, you were just about bouncing up and down on your seat -- you couldn't wait to tell your friends and Ms. Kuhn what you had done! It may have been pure, dumb luck -- but only because you made the choice, and we kept at it once we were there.

It's been a rough New Year -- Mom's healing foot, my day-after-our-trip emergency run to St. Joe's ER (where they put 4 liters in me!), and now your flu/cold/whatever. Sat thru Monday you ran a fever of 100.1 to 100.8, and only went back to school Wed afternoon for your play rehearsal.

Monday thru Wednesday Mom was off at a spiritual-direction related conference, so it was pretty much "just you and me, kid". It was no great fun for you: a lot of TV, and a lot of tea. (Ok, and a lot of homemade banana milkshakes, made by yours truly.) I'd dash between getting some work done from home, washing dishes, taking care of you, the cats, etc. etc.

But in-between, there was always a lot of room for hugs. And it meant a great deal to me that you kept asking for them. I remember saying, at one point (when your fever was on the higher end) that I wished I could take your illness from you, onto myself. You looked at me, first like I was crazy, and then your face softened, and you said something like "Oh, Daddy, don't do that", with such love in your eyes. And then you got all logical (and I laughed) and you said "and besides, then who would drive to get stuff?".

(Remembering that on the bitter cold night before, I had gone out to buy you Little Caesar's crazy bread!)

That night we played Talisman again, for the first time in a long while, and (once again) you clobbered me with your Prophetess. (We've since decided to retire that character for one-on-one play. It's just too darn powerful.) Not only did you win, but you took essentially all of the actual Talisman cards -- hence the pile on the right!

A lovely little irony -- Friday night, before you really started showing symptoms -- all three of us, together, watched the movie of "The DaVinci Code". With it's emphasis on the hidden "divine feminine". Interesting choice, hmm?

Today I dropped you off for a volleyball game (2nd against the Firebolts, sigh), and then scooted over to McDonald's to get a quick lunch. Except Murphy had a little surprise in store for me... when Mom's car wouldn't start.

Eventually I was able to jump-start it, and got it home. And then turned around and bought a new battery, which you helped me install. I think you were a little bored at that point, but for whatever reason, you leaped at the chance to learn how to change a tire.

To save time (and it was getting dark by the time we were done), I had you swap my "extra" tire (taken from my old "Blue Lantern" 98 Windstar which I just -- finally -- gotten rid of) in place, so we wouldn't have to then turn around and change it back. (I think we were both glad of that!)

But it was a real treat for me. Not just proud -- although plenty of that. But also satisfied... that I'm doing my "Dadly Duty", to teach you everything that I can, to share my engineering self with you, and to see you just soak up it like a sponge, and enjoy your own competence. It just doesn't get much better than that.

We didn't really plan for Hallow'een this year -- which in retrospect was a surprise, since it's always been a very special holiday (I'm sure you can hear me, repeating the story of how Mom and I started dating, Hallow'een 1996.) I think because I got my theatre "Jones" in "A Bard By Any Other Name", I didn't focus much on a costume this year. And... well, this was really your first year "on your own" for Hallow'een. A happy and sad occasion for us.

But you had been talking, on and off, about "acting" for the Brandywine Cemetery this year -- and at pretty much the last possible moment, decided to go over and talk to Robert and Susan about it. (From what Mom told me later, apparently you waited outside their door for quite a while before talking to them.)

But what a success! One of our pool neighbors, Michelle, who teaches theatre in Ypsi and lives next door to Robert & Susan, told me later "Your daughter was spectacular -- she loomed behind me, and never broke character once!". I loved the way you slowly lurched around, totally in character -- and yet managed to be kind to the younger kids. That is so you!

I came to pick you up afterwards, and hung around for a bit during the "afterglow", when folks were sitting around eating and drinking hot cocoa and telling their stories. I could see you drinking it all in, perhaps a tiny bit hesitant, but still glowing in being part of this more "grown-up" theatre. You looked (and deserve to be) proud of yourself, girl!

Tonight you and I went out for a spell -- partly to give Mom a break -- and hung out at Barnes & Noble's, looked at books, had a snack, etc. While we were there, you chanced upon a book about the SAT. I think SAT scores had come up recently when we were watching a Buffy episode, so we opened it up and took a look.

It very quickly became a hoot, as you puzzled out the multiple-choice vocabulary section, and we laughed about how ludicrous some of the choices were. Of course, once you got going, you wanted to do all of them, so we took the book down to the cafe and ate and drank and hooted, all the while a few curious other patrons gave us odd glances.

At one point, we talked about when to take the SAT's, and how I had taken them 6 months early. (I think I scored 730 verbal, and 780 math.) You asked what I thought you would score... and when I replied "somewhere between 500 and 600", you looked a little confused and disappointed, and said, hesitantly, "that's not very good, is it?". I leaned forward and said... "I mean if you took it now...!", and your face got all big and your eyes opened wide -- and then in an instant you started giggling (proudly).

Of course, I joined in... and once we all got our breath back, I asked you, seriously, "how do you figure out what the big words mean?". Your face got very still for a moment, and your eyes got very wide and innocent-looking... and you said, in a sing-song 2nd-grader voice, "I look at the pictures, Dada!" -- and I just about fell out of my chair, laughing.

MHD 2012 is over, and we're all home. You're watching a lot of Midsomer Murders, and I can't blame you one bit. The last few days have been physically and emotionally exhausting for you, I'm sure.

This morning we went and bought a second good "Ultimate" frisbee and played a while at Montibeller park around the corner on Ellsworth from Target, in the beautiful sunshine. Even then you were still tired, so we walked along the creek and dropped dandelions in, watching them flow down the (tiny!) "rapids".

I know it will take you a while to pass the grief of not making it to National finals with Asia and Cecelia... but in my eyes this was a triumph for you -- 3rd place, just behind two 8th-graders, at least one of whom has been to Nationals before? That is freaking amazing. We're proud of you, Abby's proud of you, your friends are proud of you.

This has been a tough year for all of us in other ways, too. Entering into your teen years, I imagine that you experience new kinds of stress and mixed feelings. And sometimes you take them out on us (and sometimes we reciprocate in kind). According to everything we read and hear, this is totally normal for you -- our job is to set limits, and respectful boundaries (both ways!). I in particular am playing the "bad cop" more and more. I finally learned that when I do that, it frees Mom to be the "good cop". And so when you're frustrated or hurting, you in turn are more able to get the support and solace you need from her -- which is utterly appropriate and good. (Even to reaching for "moley".)

It's hard and sometimes lonely for me -- but utterly necessary. I apologize in retrospect if I was ever too "hard" (or more likely, if I snapped a few times when my own feelings got too strong to hold within). But I suspect that someday you'll understand this all -- and have your own chance to "pay it forward" to your children.

But for now, let me say again that which my parents hardly ever said: I am so proud of you. Of all the connections you made, between ecology and politics and science and even paper mache' and how to research and... You did a lot of hard work, far more than I did at your age. You stuck with it, thru the exhausting but also deep fun of the all day / all night workathons with Abby. Sometimes you avoided and procrastinated, but even then you learned important lessons.

I love how your mind works. I love how you put your heart into that work. Your heart will take a few more bumps along the way as a result -- but it will be bigger and stronger than those who did not stretch out and take the risks!

early April 2011 - Kayaking

Dearest Emma:

A lovely day, just you and I, on the Huron river, putting in at Island Park (near the gazebo where Asia had her Greek gods/godesses party), and running the river all the way to Gallup Park. Surprisingly warm for early April, the river running a bit high and muddy. But a great day to be out with the promise of Spring coming.

My favorite moments:

Showing you how to "ride" behind a big rock in the river, just upstream of where the path thru the Arb meets the river. We took turns ducking into the back-eddy behind the rock, then tipping the bow out into the stream and feeling the river whip our kayaks around and downstream.
Paddling our way up the extremely shallow connecting pond (northern part of the google map), until we were just sliding over the mud. (Naturally, you were able to go further, since you and your kayak were so much lighter!) You teased me unmercifully about how much further you could go, and I laughed, and laughed. We saw two strange birds, perched on small rocks in the midst of this strange water-over-mud puddle we paddled thru (across?)... rather like herons, yet different. It was as if they were watching over this giant puddle, with some deep intent that we could not quite grasp.

I love doing this sort of stuff with you. Your delight in each new thing, mastering each new thing, echoes my own memories of each first new experience, and makes it fresh again. And I get to share that with you, just being with you while we live the new day.

13 Mar 2011 - Sun - "The King's Speech"

Dearest Emma:

I've had the pleasure of introducing you to so many things... but I never thought I would be so happy about "introducing" you to 4-letter words! Tonight I took you and Anah to "The King's Speech", and I am just so tickled at the paradoxical juncture of your deep understanding of the compassion and courage of Lionel and "Bertie"... and your and Annah's giggling, explosive repetitions of the King's swearing as he finds his voice.

(We stopped to get gas on the way home, and also because I knew you two needed some swearing/decompression time -- but I think we all surprised a few other customers at the gas station!)

Seriously, I loved it that you were so caught up in the film, that you really "got" it... it is a tremendous joy for me to watch you grow into seeing the world through your empathic eyes.

And the film has become a by-word for me, personally: "WWLD" is a reminder for me. "What would Lionel Do?" He was tremendously compassionate, and yet also very, very, firm about his convictions and his boundaries. Just the model I need in my own striving to be both compassionate and definite (and no, I'm not even thinking so much of you as my dealings with the rest of the world).

And he was a great dad, who played Shakespeare games with his sons. Sound familiar?

23 Jan 2011 - Sun - "At The Drop of A Hat"

Dearest Emma:

Today I finished digitizing my old tape of Flanders & Swann, and I played a few tunes for you after dinner. Somewhere in the middle of their hilarious rendition of the Mozart Horn Concerto, you and I started dancing -- synchronized setting steps at first, then a sort of "swing", and eventually a polka! (The Mozart Horn Polka?!)

And then, of course, their original Hippopotamus Song, where we indulged in great swoops and theatrical waves and bows... while Mom cracked up and took videos of us.

And then (because I knew you were tired, after a long evening of sledding with Cecelia and Mom), we closed with "In The Bath":

I can see the one salvation of the poor old human race,
     (In the bath, In the bath)
Let the nations of the world all meet together, face to face,
     (In the bath, In the bath)

With room for Ike and Kruschev, and all those other chaps
MacMillan, Mike, and Monty, then we'll have some peace perhaps
Provided Swann and Flanders get the end without the taps,
     In the bath, in the bath!

2 Jan 2011 - Sun - Tears After Terpsichore

Dearest Emma:

We had a great time at Terpsichore this year!

Mom finished off her last year as Registrar, and in letting go, her creative juices started flowing again. Out-of-the-blue she wrote a lovely sad/sweet poem about Dot and her extended family.
Since the English dance teacher couldn't make it (due to tons of snow in the north-east), I took over teaching English and had a wonderful time... and really enjoyed the giving, in a way, more than the getting. (I think you even danced to my calling of "Duke of Kent's Waltz" on New Year's Eve!) And I had a blast leading my Geek Male Chorus in "White Collar Holler"!
And you... you did everything, and more! You wowed everyone with your Fool in the Mummer's play, you juggled clubs when others were juggling scarves, you danced, you sang, you did more classes and extra classes than Mom and I combined... and you even seemed to do OK with the on-again-off-again relationships with Sarah and the other 12-wanna-be-13's.
I'm so incredibly proud of you -- and not just for the cool things you were doing and learning, but because you made it your own -- if the 12/13's weren't there, then you had the best damn time that you could, all for you, and not for or because of anyone else. That's living!

Then tonight as we were settling in, and the "we're back here at home again" shock started wearing in... you cried, and I held you and listened to you and talked to you. You cried for the gain and the loss of this great community... you even, laughing through your own tears, cried at missing the people that annoyed you, even the waitress who took away your dinner before you were done.

I tried to listen, to not talk too much... we did talk about what a great gift this is, and how many people don't even get this much. How it's like the words in the Bob Franke song "The Silence of Parting":

For to leave here in friendship, it cannot be wrong
For the silence of parting, is just a rest in our song.

And even in my own tears shared with you, I burned with a fierce joy. You know this magic now, you really know, on your first threshold of adulthood, the mingled joy and grief of this dance, this music, these people. This will be with you all of your life. The dance really does go on, from my generation to yours. I love you so much!

12 Nov 2010 - Sat - Psychiatric Abilities

Dearest Emma:

So there we were... at least 2 hours in to a head-to-head Lord of the Rings trivia match... neck-and-neck... and I was frustrated and delighted that you were keeping just slightly ahead of me.

And then the Universe decided to play with my mind. I drew this question:

What was the name of the makeup artist who did Sean Astin's prosthetic Hobbit feet?

You drew your eyebrows together as if to say "Oh, come-on!", shrugged your shoulders with a "what the heck" look and said

(and I said "Yes?")...

and I fell over. (Because, of course, it was correct. Well, OK, I think it was "Foote", but who's counting?) A moment later, you followed suit, both of us laughing.

Then, a few cards later, I read:

What did the nine actors who played the members of the Fellowship of the Ring, all get to seal their camaraderie?

You thought for a little while, then ventured...

(Yes...)

(Yes...!)

And I think I just threw my arms up into the air, as if to protest to the Gaming Gods, and we both started laughing hysterically. You started sputtering about "It's my psych... psychi... psychiatric abilities!"

And I completely lost it, and we both collapsed, laughing ourselves silly.

22 Oct 2010 - Sat - A Joyful Grownup

Dearest Emma:

We were out shopping... I think getting some things for Hallow'een. We had stopped at Rider's Hobby shop to look at some things, including the Klingon bird-of-prey model you desparately wanted (and which I came back for later, to hide away for Christmas).

And we were talking about nothing in particular in the car, I think right in the parking lot near Riders. Something about grownups and kids, and how sometimes kids were more responsible than grownups.

And then you stopped, and very thoughtfully, said something like "... but you're different than a lot of grownups. You still have fun with life, you don't take every single thing so seriously." And you were clearly thinking deeply about that, and what that could mean.

Oh, you know me so well. Remember this one!

20 Oct 2010 - Wed - Lord of the Rings

Dearest Emma:

A Elbereth! Gilthoniel!
Silivren penna miriel
o menel aglar elenath!

Tonight you were reading these words to me from your bed, with a great big grin on your face (even as you stumbled a little over the elvish). "Tell me more about the Lord of the Rings" has been your constant going-to-bed refrain this last week or so, especially since we watched "The Fellowship of the Ring" this weekend (and with a tip of the hat to Ms. Kreiner for reading "The Hobbit" in school).

I am so incredibly happy to be sharing LoTR with you. It's been over a year since I first tried reading bits of it to you, but of course the very slow buildup of book 1 has been no match for Harry Potter or Percy Jackson.

But now... now that you've snuck your own way from Tom Bombadil to the Council of Elrond, now I think you're hooked. BwaHahahah!

And welcome to the great club of Middle-earth, to the root and spring of all great fantasy novels. Tolkein was there first, and made all the rest of it possible for us, the Potters and the Jacksons and the EarthSeas and the Young Wizards and all.

I am grateful to him, greatful for you and our shared love of the whole realm of fantasy... and also for my long-ago friend Andy 'Fred' Robinson, who gave me my Red Book of the Westmarch 30 years ago, foreseeing that I would read it to you.

16 May 2010 - Sunday - Elly's Baptism -- Sleep & Trust

Dearest Emma:

Last summer you had a very hard time at Girl Scout camp, being away from us for a whole week, and not being able to contact us. For the first month or two back at school, you seemed to be feeling a lot of "separation anxiety" -- it was hard to make it through each day w/o panicking, or needing a lunch-time visit from Mom.

That's what led us to try working with the therapist Kathy. That didn't work out too well, as you will recall(!). But Kathy did help Mom and I figure out how to encourage you while slowly stepping away from the tight grip you needed for those first few months after camp.

In particular, in this last year we've been helping you get to sleep more on your own. Sometimes we've worried that somehow we made you "dependent" on us, because of the many years we lay down with you, sang you to sleep, told stories, and so on.

But now that you are more capable of getting to sleep by yourself... now I am more able, again, to savor the utterly sweet trust you have in us, as you fall asleep nestled against my arm, or my chest, or even my head. I've never been very good at falling asleep while touching someone. Sometimes it's as if I have to be aware of what the other person is doing, and that keeps me awake. Even today I find it very hard to fall asleep if Mom hasn't come to bed yet.

I can think of one time in my life when I fell asleep while leaning on my Dad... we were taking the train home from New York City, from the 1965 World's Fair, back to Trenton. It was very late, and we had walked all over the Fair all day. I was exhausted, and my Dad and I had had a very good day, a very Father-and-Son day, and for once I could utterly relax against him, and he could just be there for me, without words.

But in these night hours, you trust me implicitly, and find surety in my very presence. What a gift you give me, to make me utterly trustable! My heart is warmed, and my spirit enlarged.

22 April 2010 - Thursday - Gale Research

Dearest Emma:

Today was National Take Our Daughters And Sons To Work day! And so we drove together to Gale this morning. I confess I was a little apprehensive about how this would work out -- would you be bored, would I be able to get any work done, etc. But I remember my Dad taking me to work, probably half-a-dozen times, and I loved it then. So, how could I not take you?

Of course, it turned out great, if not exactly in ways that I might have expected! You quickly found the prepared presentations rather boring -- and it looked like the average age was somewhat younger. On the other hand, you really enjoyed our open, "Agile" team space:

I was able to show you just a tiny bit of "TDD" (test driven development) in the Java computer language -- you even wrote a tiny test of your own.
You spent considerably longer (<grin/>) playing web games on our huge, paired monitors. I think you felt a little jealous of the "fun" I get to have working on these stations... ignoring the fact, of course, that mostly I really am working!
But best of all, my colleagues decided that what you really needed was their assistance in learning how to use all of the Nerf guns that populate our lab! You got quite good at targeting the back of my head... to this day, my friends there tease me about my being the only person who used "swear words" while you were present. (I think I said "Damn!" at one point when I got a Nerf bullet in the back of my ear.) This is particularly ironic, since most of them swear a good deal (on most days) when the computers don't do what they want.

And so you say you want to come back again, soon...!

30 December 2009 - Wednesday - Terpsichore

Dearest Emma:

This year at Terpsichore marks, for me, the real beginning of your "girl gang" -- you and Sarah and Katherine and (?) and (?). The first few days, I hardly ever saw you during the day... and sometimes when I did, suddenly it seemed like your parents were totally uncool and embarrassing.

I know this is "just a stage", and I'm absolutely delighted to see you really own your time here -- you've come a long way, girl! I am very proud of how much you are taking on, and how much you are becoming part of the community. Helping Renee with the auction, and taking the bidding and the calculating of your bids very seriously. Taking part in a mummer's play, learning to juggle, dancing with (and sometimes guiding!) those older and younger than you, in your very empathic way.

(And, to be honest, to see how much you are following in my footsteps, yet in a totally independent-of-me way.) And it was nice for Mom and I to have more time just together with each other.

But it was (briefly) annoying that suddenly Barb and I were persona-non-grata. Only to be resolved back to normal when we were alone, not "in public". So I know everything is all right, this is just the fore-taste of the teen years everyone tells me about. (Someday we'll see, of course, if they are right!)

15 November 2009 - Sunday - Twisted Tales of Terror

Dearest Emma:

"Twisted Tales of Terror" has been a very big deal. You've got as many or more lines as anyone in the show, and Mr. Rob is trusting you and your ability and your dedication, big time.

I've frankly been somewhat worried... it's been hard for you to focus on learning your lines, even with (the asked-for-from-you) "nagging". I have to keep remembering that you're nine, that this is a huge deal for your age, no matter how bright you are.

Of course, I have to keep making sure I don't project my own feelings onto you, and just stay with my concerns for your feelings. (Not always easy for any parent! But Barb and I try hard to discern the difference.)

Still, by Saturday night, you had performed the classic theatre "it's a Mystery!" miracle, and pulled it all together -- you were on-time and on-cue in each scene, and even did a little instant improv (remember the "invisible" missing werewolf?). Your entrance from the coffin was wonderfully spooky, and you grabbed the audience with your dark, serious, warning about the true version of the stories. Which made the transition to the lovey-dovey, hand-slapping couple of Luna and Igor, all the funnier.

Well done, my dear! (But next time, have pity on a parent's worrying heart, and learn your lines a little earlier...)

1 November 2009 - Sunday - Next Generation Dreams

Dearest Emma:

You've been watching a lot of Star Trek: Next Generation lately, and it's been fun talking about the ideas and morality tales behind the stories. (Who am I kidding -- we've been watching a lot!) "Star Trek commentary" has become your favorite help-you-to-fall-asleep pastime, as I muse on how ST:TNG relates to the Hippocratic Oath, Stephen Hawking, wars, cultural assumptions -- whatever I can think of that I can talk about in a soothing (droning?) tone.

Some of the recent holodeck episodes somehow got us talking about dreams -- you know, "am I a man dreaming I am a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming I am a man?" kind of stuff.

Tonight we had a fascinating (pardon the Spock reference!) conversation, as you were getting ready for bed, about dreams. "Why do we dream?" you asked, and we took turns making up theories. I think your favorite theory (of the ones you invented) had something to do with the brain wanting to make up its own story, something that the person wanted to do -- a kind of "being a dramatist in your sleep".

I was so taken with the conversation -- a kind of mental ping-pong as we went back and forth with our theories. We delighted in each others' theories, and then would try and take one "next step" more and go (boldly!) one better. I felt so "alive" with you, excited to see your mind spiralling up and outwards, that it didn't matter that you were a kid, you are just as capable of coming up with good theories as anyone.

And that's the way it should be.

24 January 2009 - Saturday - Orion

Dearest Emma:

You've been getting interested in your Brownie "Try-Its" lately, and today we spent a lot of the afternoon and evening on some of the science try-its. ("Oh, don't throw me into the briar patch, Br'er Rabbit!") Seriously, it doesn't get much better than that for me -- doing any kind of science with you is a joy. I get to relive my youth, and to see that wonderful "Aha!" moment, in and through your eyes.

So today, we got to:

Fill a small bottle with vinegar, a balloon with baking soda, fit the mouth of the balloon over the top of the bottle -- and then lift the balloon so its contents spill into the bottle.
Move iron filings (actually, crude thread-like snippets of a brillo pad) around in a plastic container, by using a magnet. (In fact, I used a really strong magnet that I saved from the old child-proof cabinet door locks!)
Draw with a black magic marker on a piece of coffee filter paper, then dip the filter in water and watch the black mark "bleed" into its constituent red and blues. I still have one of these, cut in the shape of a butterfly.
Cut out pieces of red, green, blue, and yellow balloons, and tape them over flashlights. (Of course, we had to make a trip to the Dollar Store, to get supplies!) Then we hid in your closet, where it was dark, and experimented with shining multiple colors onto a white pillow.

But the best part came later in the evening. I had drawn out some constellations on paper -- the big dipper and Orion -- and then we went outside into the cold, mostly clear night. While I was still getting my bearings, you looked up to the southeast, and suddenly let out a cry: "I see it! I see Orion!"

You've been reading about a lot of Greek myths lately, and I could just hear it all come together in your voice -- in that instant, the constellations were real, it wasn't just blobs of stars in the sky anymore.

We stayed out 'way longer than I expected. We found the Big Dipper, standing on it's side, low in the northwest, and briefly found Polaris, following the pointer stars in the Dipper. I think we found Casseiopia, or at least part of her. Then before we went back inside, we found that our eyes had adjusted enough to see Orion's dagger, a soft patch of white, hanging low, half-way between his belt and his feet.

And I promised you, some summer, to show you the Milky Way. I last saw it clearly at Buffalo Gap, a dance camp in West Virginia, late one night with Mom before we were married. I can't wait to show it to you.

17 January 2009 - Saturday - Time and Responsibility

Dearest Emma:

This entry is a little more serious, about both me, and you. This year at Terpsichore, I finally "got it" that I spend too much of my days concentrating on the "next thing that I have to do", whether it be for work, or for the home, the family, our finances, etc.

There's always too much to do, and by the time you read this, I suspect you'll know that feeling. But Mom tells me that, unlike some Dads, I take care to spend a lot of time with you. You are precious to me, and your voyage of discovery is doubly precious to me. (I still have the certificate you made for me for "World's Greatest Pretender".)

So I'm working very hard at trying to get myself off the always-turning wheel of the next thing to do, and enjoy myself more, and my time with you more. That may sound paradoxical (working hard on not working so hard!), but is very true, and takes moment-by-moment work.

This diary is one of the ways that I see it. I don't write nearly enough entries here. And I when I do write, I tend to "batch up" a bunch of memories, and write multiple entries all at once.

And sometimes I cry when I do it. I cry for all of the times that I've missed; I cry for the preciousness of these times that I have with you, for your still-a-child's-eye-view of the world, coupled with your incredible smarts.

But, meanwhile, as to the "Responsibility" part of this entry -- my one fear for you, for myself, for our family -- is that sometimes it feels like you take our house, sometimes even our bodies, for granted. That cleaning up after yourself is... well, not a responsibility. For you, or maybe not for anyone.

Oh, your love and your generosity (especially lately) are real and powerful. But I worry, have we been so responsive to you that we are not doing you a favor, that we are harming you? By not requiring you to be more responsible? Strong words, perhaps. And inconsistent with how we see you in the rest of the world, where you are very responsible, and very empathic.

Mom and I are working on this, are finding ways to structure our "family responsibilities", and to remind you to pick things up (even though it's sometimes easier to do it ourselves, but I have to remind myself not to). Wherever you're at now, I suspect you're already beyond this. But it's hard work for me sometimes, to remember that I have multiple roles: your Dad, your teacher, your limit-setter... and your friend.

21 October 2008 - Tuesday(?) - "Line!"

Dearest Emma:

I have been so incredibly proud of you throughout the rehearsals of "East of the Sun, West of the Moon". Not because you are doing well (you are!)... but because you "get it". When you are rehearsing or performing, you take it seriously. You are doing it. Some kids goof off, or say their lines without thinking about what their character is feeling. (Like Lara who laughs or smiles when delivering a really sad line!) You are being your character, I think you get it that the most fun part of doing theatre is really doing it.

(It's also funny, in a cosmic sort of way, that you are playing the over-achieving sister, the one with the most empathy and care for what the others are going through. Did Mr. Rob cast perfectly, or what?)

The only hard part for me is letting you be a kid, letting you not take it too seriously. Letting you learn it yourself, even if (say) I thought you weren't spending enough time learning your lines. All while offering (I hope) just the lightest touch of guidance.

Tonight was the first night "off-book". On the way over to rehearsal, I nonchalantly told you what I learned to do when rehearsing and a forgot a line. Don't smile, don't laugh, don't apologize -- just freeze and say "Line".

So of course, when Mr. Rob gave his instructions tonight, he asked if anyone knew what to do when they forgot a line. Your hand went up -- and I think he was impressed that a "newbie" had an answer. So he picked you, and you very straightforwardly explained precisely what to do.

You looked happy, in a serious sort of way, that you got to show that you knew what you were doing. And I couldn't have been happier or prouder.

29 August 2008 - Friday - Our trip to Cedar Point

Dearest Emma:

Cedar point trip. Friendly's. Singing in the car, Keeper of Hali Tower.

?? July 2008 - Final Swim Meet

Dearest Emma:

Results for the 8-9 year-old girls swim meet:

Freestyle -- 1st place, Emma Roth (out of 120?)
??? -- 4th(?) place, Emma Roth
??? -- 5th(?) place, Emma Roth

You go, girl! I missed the free-style, but got to see the others. I just laughed and laughed at the way the Universe works -- in high school I got my "letters" on the Math and Chess teams, and my daughter is piling up swim meet championships (while still being far ahead in math, compared to where I was at the same age)!

The best part is I don't care so much that you win -- I care that you are enjoying this and doing your best. And I hope that this experience is giving you that -- the excitement of the win, but the sense that this is the frosting on the cake, not the cake.

My favorite part: after the meet, you and I walked back to my car, and you told me how nervous you had felt before the meet. Ever the encouraging Dad, I offered that perhaps in the future you could remember this, and not have to be so nervous. Ever the logical thinker, you pointed out that you were afraid that if you weren't nervous, you might not do as well, so it was probably better to be nervous.

What could I say? I laughed and admitted you might be right.

But you know the real point: don't take on anyone else's expectations. If you've gotta be nervous, be nervous because you hope to win. What anyone else wants isn't worth a single electron.

30 March 2008 - Sunday - A Winter Poem

Dearest Emma:

We're at Collingwood Church today, and there's still some snow on the ground -- the remains of our longest winter in years. You and I are up in Mom's office, your stomache was bothering you all the way on the drive down -- perhaps because I'm leaving this afternoon to go on my week-long work retreat in DC.

But after you were feeling better, you visited a page at pbskids.org that invited you to write a poem... and so you did:

Winter makes me glad
When I'm lonely and sad
I use my imagination
To make my own winter station.

My friends think I'm crazy
And I am oh-so lazy

My own place
My own little space
I go there after school
And think of a frozen pool.

I do like to swim
But I don't really win
And that's my little poem.

19 March 2008 - Wednesday - Reader's Theatre

Dearest Emma:

On our "date night" tonight, we went to the downtown branch of the Ypsi library, for our first "Reader's Theatre" program. Junie B. Jones career day.

12 February 2008 - Tuesday - Long Division

Dearest Emma:

My daugher the mathematician -- wow! Today you started doing some long division problems. In 2nd grade, you're with Ms. Powell's 3rd grade math group, and you're doing area problems (triangles, trapezoids, parallelograms). (You told me you liked the way "parallelogram" feels in your mouth.) With decimals, even. For one of the trapezoid problems, you had to multiply a decimal by 1/2, and you were insistent that long division was the right way to do that.

So we sat down at Wendy's during dinner (on an exceptionally snowy day), and did area problems and long division for an hour and a half! Just dividing by 2 so far, but a great start.

I am so incredibly proud of you, excited that this is fun for you, and so very grateful that I get to share this with you. I reminded you that I learned long division in 4th grade, and that it was the single hardest (most frustrating) math lesson I ever learned. We share the intense frustration (perfectionism?) of not being able to get a problem right, and looking back at myself, I'm trying to be patient, helpful, cheerful, and encouraging, the way my mom was 'way back then with me.

10 February 2008 - Sunday - Grey Silk's clothes

Dearest Emma:

What with the very cold and snowy winter we've been having, you recently decided to make some clothing for your beloved Grey Silk! Completely on your own, hand-stitched, out of scraps of fabric. Today you told me that he needs gloves, too, and that you're going to work on that.

At one point, I pulled his hat down over one eye, and we both cracked up, laughing about "ARRRR--Ruff! The Pirate Grey Silk!"

19 November 2006 - Sunday - Counting Prayers

Dearest Emma:

Last night, as you were falling asleep in your bed with Barb, you said:

Emma: Mommy, how many days in a year?
Barb: 365.
Emma: How many in two years?
Barb: (thinks a moment) 730
Emma: No, that's not right. Nevermind.
Barb: No, tell me?
Emma: In Godspell, a woman prayed two times a week, for a year. How many prayers would that be?
Barb: Oh, 52 weeks in a year, times 2, that would be 104 times.
Emma: Oh, thank you mommy! (falls asleep)

14 June 2006 - Wednesday - Bike Riding

Dearest Emma:

This is your last summer at the EMU Children's Institute, as it only goes up through kindergarten. In the last few weeks, you've been riding a very-low two-wheeler at EMU -- low enough that you can just drop your feet to the ground any time you want. That apparently gave you enough confidence that today you started riding your own two-wheeler at home!

No training wheels -- and no big falls or skinned knees, either! Within days, you were riding all the way around the entire block... and suddenly Mom and I had to decide if we wanted to follow you the entire way, or realize that you were ready to make The Big Trip all by yourself. Wow.

30 August 2005 - Tuesday - Something new?

Dearest Emma:

This morning while still in bed, you said, very thoughtfully (and almost word-for-word):

Hmm, how to say this... some days I feel like I want to see new movies. And drink new drinks. And eat new foods that I haven't eaten before. And make new friends. And go to new places.

And tomorrow you start your first day of kindergarten at the Ann Arbor Learning Community(!). You've seemed sad, on and off, the last couple of days (since about the last week at EMU in the Green room). And yet you've handled your feelings very well -- playing "sad" pretend games (like when Bruce Wayne decided to leave the Justice League and went to talk to Wonder Woman), stomping around in your room when you felt mad, and so on. You're amazing.

Oh yes. And when I listened attentively, you also asked:

"Did you have your shower?" (No.)
"Do your stretches?" (No.)
"But you seem so awake!

P.S. And your favorite song, that we played in the car on the way to kindergarten the first few days... was John McCutcheon's recording of The Great Storm is Over. You said it made you feel brave. How brave you are, indeed.

7 July 2005 - Thursday - A Little Help from Stella

Dearest Emma:

Since Mom started working at Grandale Presbyterian Church recently, you and I have returned to a sort of "date night" again. Tonight we went straight from the Children's Institute to Putterz (they changed the name this summer from Putt-Putt), and played the new "bouncing ball" gambling-ish game that you like so much.

This time you weren't doing so well, so I took a turn or two, hoping to boost the number of tickets you got. I wasn't doing so well either, so at one point I looked Heavenwards and said with a smile, "Stella, a little help here!".

Two turns later, you asked me to try and hit the 100 point cup -- it's small and raised up, so it's very hard to hit. But I tried anyway... and the ball bounced off of it, jumped around once or twice, and then settled with a little wiggle onto the JackPot cup. For 341 tickets!

We both looked amazed at each other for a moment... and then we started laughing. You told the whole story to Mom the next morning, still full of your excitement about telling each detail about it. So maybe Stella was listening after all...

30 December 2004 - Thursday - Our Thunderstorm at Terpsichore

Dearest Emma:

We've spent most of this week here at "Terpsichore's Holiday", your first "dance camp", at a hotel in Maryland. It's been an experiment, some good, some not-so-good. At 4 years (and 364 days!), you're the second youngest person here, and I know that's been hard for you.

But one of the pieces that you have enjoyed is the Family/Talent time right after dinner, and tonight we got to have a starring role. We led the "Thunderstorm game", where each of us -- you, me, and Mom -- led a third of the crowd in rubbing our hands together, snapping our fingers, slapping our hands on our thighs, and stomping our feet on the floor. By varying the noises, we made it sound like a thunderstorm approached, poured rain, and then departed.

And then Mom made the little bird peeps, in the silence of the departed storm.

20 October 2004 - Wednesday - Burnt Offerings

Dearest Emma:

Last Friday night, you suggested we have a fire -- and you and I quickly started the fire that had been laid in the fireplace last February. I've just been getting over a long, bad, cold, and Barb was right in the middle of one, and out for a little while. So we had a nice little one-on-one time at home, not playing any dramas, just playing with the fire.

After we burned up a couple of paper airplanes, you started feeding the fire with graham crackers and old cookies. Barb came home, and we had a cozy warm time together in front of the fire, with the rest of the lights off.

Out of the blue, you said that when we feed the fire, the smoke from the crackers and cookies goes up to Heaven, and feeds God there. And that this makes him happy.

Barb's and my jaw practically bounced off the floor -- and she was so happy -- her daughter, the minister. Making "burnt offerings", no less.

8 September 2004 - Wednesday - Camping Out

Dearest Emma:

We finally did it! I'd talked about camping out with you several times this summer -- and now that summer is officially over (we just had the closing-the-pool party on Monday) I made it happen.

Tuesday after dinner we put the tent out in the backyard. You helped me choose the spot, and even hammer down a couple of the spikes. And you helped load it up with popcorn and comic books, of course.

I was wondering how we were going to figure out when to do what (and just how busy we would have to be until it was time for bed), but you solved that one on your own -- by basically inviting the neighborhood over. So while I was gathering flashlights, bedding, and so forth, you and Zachy and Miah and Jonas were sitting in the tent, eating popcorn and Gnutella and pretzels (oh were Jonas' hands a mess!) and reading comic books, just having your own "camping" party -- a blast! I think your "rating" in those very boyish-boys eyes went way up -- camping out doors with your Dad, no less!

Once it got dark and the boys were gone, we trooped back out to tent and got settled (with Mom taking pictures), and we read a Justice League comic ("Hawkgirl Unleashed") together (twice) -- taking turns summarizing what was happening on each page. Then a comfort book, "Just Daddy and me", some singing -- and by 10pm you were sound asleep.

I watched you for a while, and thought about all the future camping & exploring we might do, all the campfires in our future. It's such a joy to have these special times, that take me out of the day-to-day trying to keep up with everything, where I had no choices but to sit and watch you, and love it. And then I fell asleep, too.

Wise move, because you woke at 5:45 and saw the moon (and the moonbeams in the misty night), and we never got back to sleep after that! But very sweet nonetheless. At one point you felt a little scared, so we moved your pad right next to mine. Eventually we tried sharing the same sleeping bag -- cuddly if short-lived. But fun.

1 September 2004 - Wednesday - Justice League, Carmel

Dearest Emma:

The funniest thing happened the other day -- you and I were home alone, and you had been playing with Carmel's new (first) purple collar. All of a sudden, you ran out back, and decided that it was time to put the collar on him (we hadn't actually tried it yet).

I was putting some dishes away, and watched you through the kitchen window. At first I thought "hmm, I'd better tell her not to do that", for fear that he might scratch you. Then I decided that it would probably be OK -- he's always been very gentle with you, and he'd undoubtably just run away, and you would learn something.

So imagine my surprise when you came back in, and Carmel bounded along -- with his collar on! He's been wearing it very happily ever since -- so, I guess you showed me!

Meanwhile... we've been having just a wonderful time playing "Justice League". Sometime in the last month or two, our play has shifted from Scooby-Doo to superheroes -- I'm not quite sure what happened, but mostly I'm delighted, as I've loved superheroes since I was 5. I've even told you (many times, at your request!) the Superman story that I remember my Mom reading me when I was 5 -- the three white blob-robots that steal Superman's powers, one by one, each turning a different color as they do.

Of course, most of the time you're Wonder Woman and I'm Superman... although I also get to play Green Lantern, Flash, and a host of other characters. And just in the last few days, you've taken to typing their initials on the computer -- "WW JJ BR S F H GL" -- and you're just so terribly pleased with yourself.

Oh, sometimes I get tired -- when it's the 5th time for the day, I may have had enough. (I even described it to you as like "having too many sweets in one day".) But I love to see your developing sense of drama -- and more than once, we've both come up with the same "gimmick" (the plot twist that hangs on someone's superpowers or vulnerabilities) at the same time! You go, (super) girl!

18 August 2004 - Wednesday - Pirate Jokes

Dearest Emma:

We all spent 4 days in Mississippi recently, attending your cousin Linda's wedding. It was pretty exhausting for all of us -- you complained a lot about "too much grown-ups talking!". But you were a trouper, nonetheless, and really did your best to enjoy the things there were to enjoy. (You had a great time, for example, learning how to use a digital camera from cousin Katie! And this was also your first airplane flight that you'll probably remember, and you and I talked a lot about how the clouds looked from the air.)

But the thing that still makes me smile the most was a conversation about jokes we had, as we were driving our rental car back to the airport. You'd gotten pretty giggly about knock-knock jokes, and I was making up some new pirate jokes. Then suddenly you asked "Where does a pirate get his vegetables?" and answered with "from the gaRRRRRden!". Your first made-up joke! We were just so impressed, and you glowed all the way to the airport.

28 July 2004 - Wednesday - Traverse City Memories

Dearest Emma:

Last week we were on (our third! annual) vacation in Traverse City, our first time in the "Lakeshore Resort" cottage on the bay. Much nicer and easier, all in all, than vacationing in an RV!

Some of it was difficult -- all three of us together, most of the time, all of our routines gone to pot. But some of it was wonderful... watching you at the helm of the sailing catamaran "Nauti-Cat" (yes, they really let you and the other kids steer for a bit). Screaming together as we went down the blue tube of the water slide at Pirates Cove. (I swear you somehow managed to get two tones out of your screams, inside the tube -- one high pitched scream, and a second overtone!)

But my favorite moment was the one evening on the beach where you and I dug rivers, dams, and lakes. There was a "lake" of sorts, where the higher waves had left a pool of water behind the main beach line. I dug a deep, long trench to let that water flow into the bay, and then you and I spent hours digging new "rivers" off of that, then making big "bathtub" lakes that you could play in, stomp in, build mountains in. All the while I tried to keep the water flowing in, and the bay waves out.

Being on vacation, I missed making things, whether out of software or sand... and just making these trenches, dams, and so on was soothing to me. And then doubly-delightful to see you enjoy it too, to let us play as engineers together. I hope we'll continue to share that, it is such a deep piece of me, and a tear-in-the-eye joy to feel you share it with me.

14 July 2004 - Wednesday - Putt-Putt, Carnival, Swimming, Kayaking, Grieving

Dearest Emma:

Barb and I have just started a tradition of my "Wednesday nights off", when I get to think and write and play or whatever, just for myself. So here are some special memories from the last few weeks.

Putt-Putt
You and I have gone to Putt-Putt a couple of times, recently, for our "date night", and you've surprised me several times! For one, you've been clobbering me at air hockey! (OK, I don't defend my goal very much -- but even when I try to beat you, otherwise, you still win!) And you love the roller coaster simulator... I can only take one ride before it starts making me queasy, you hang in there, with a fierce grin that makes me shake my head in wonder. Oh, for the day when we can share a real roller coaster!

Then one night you took a fancy to one of the "gambling" machines. Your token goes down a long slide onto a horizontal, rotating disk, that already has lots of tokens around the edges. When your token bumps another token off the edge, you get 7 tickets. If your token lands in a special hole in the disc, you get the jackpot -- and that night you ended up with 143 tickets! I told you that Grandma Stella must have been watching you and smiling down on us. She loved to take the senior casino trips, and there are many stories about her big winnings... and when she told them, then she would just grin back at us, fiercely, in silence, as if daring us somehow.

I got a little scared that somehow, at this age, you'll like gambing "too much"... but the next time we went, you put a couple of tokens in the same machine and then moved on to something else.

Carnival
The annual Jaycees' carnival was in town two weeks ago, out on the Pioneer High School parking lot, and that's where we spent one long fun date night. You are so ready for it now; I remember two years ago, at 2 1/2, you were initially scared just to ride the little cars that go around in a circle. And I think that somewhere inside, you remember that, 'cause it was the first ride you wanted to go on.

I had promised that this time you could have cotton candy, and so we did -- we got to share one bag, and taste-tested the different colors to see if we could tell them apart (you could, I couldn't). You even threw darts at balloons and won a prize -- an enormous pink-and-white "wig" that just about covers your entire head. (The barker promised that you could keep shooting until you won.) And we had a great time going down the long slide together -- with my extra mass, we always beat everyone else to the end.

But my favorite memories are from the end of the evening, around 10pm. You took 5 "last ride"s on the little kiddie "alligator" roller coaster, and I could so see my (young) self in your face, in your eyes. On one of the very last rides, you sat all the way in front, with 6 other kids in the seats behind you. Throughout the whole ride, you alternated staring forward into the night with that extremely fierce, triumphant grin on your face, and looking back to make sure that you were still 'leading the pack' of the other six kids.

And then, on the ride home, we watched the (very) full, very yellow moon rising over the trees, and we talked about Balto and the wolves. And, together, we howled at the moon like wolves -- complete with erie harmonies. Priceless. Priceless.

Swimming and Kayaking
Less than a week later, all of a sudden -- you were swimming! Last year we got you a pink swimsuit that had slots for up to 6 inflatable tubes about the size of my fist. This year 2 were missing, and you were swimming just fine with 4. Then 3. And then one day you decided to jump in with none! And, in shock and delight, there you were, dog-paddling for all you were worth, grinning from ear to ear. You won't really let us "teach" you -- you insist on figuring it out yourself. Of course. You go, girl!

And so it suddenly dawned on me (I think Barb saw it coming) that it might now be safe to take you in a kayak. Coincidentally, this past Sunday was the Huron River festival at Gallop Park, with free boating -- so you and I shared a two-place kayak for the first time. I don't know what your attention span will be for "real" kayaking -- but Sunday you were off like a born explorer, wanting to head for the end of the lake at full steam. And then when we did come back, you wanted your own paddle, and for all of 5 minutes experimented with a small canoe paddle. But you were proud, I could see it. Someday, someday... Lewis and Clark, look out.

Grieving Marlene
I don't know if we'll ever be able to really explain this... but when we grew up, we never were really taught how to feel or express our feelings. That will probably seem strange to you; in a way I hope it does.

But two nights ago, you were up late crying, weeping, talking and talking and talking about missing Marlene, one of your "Blue Room" teachers at EMU's preschool. You are so expressive... you held your hands together and wailed "we were like this", and then held them far apart and said "but now it's like this". Barb had tears in her own eyes, for you, and for herself, I suspect. But she was so proud of you, and was doing her best to echo your sadness back for you, to show you that your feelings are important, are acknowledged, are worthy.

You know, early on at EMU, you would often say that you hated Marlene, that she wasn't nice to you. But as time went on, you started to like her more and more. Then when early summer came, and the number of kids shrank, I saw you get closer and closer to Marlene. I think she's just a little more physical, a little more affectionate, than the other teachers. And when you felt lonely, when other kids weren't there, she was there for you, and I think you felt that.

Oh, keep treasuring that, Emma. The people that see you and reach out to you.

?? June 2004 - Protecting Mama

Dearest Emma:

I don't recall the exact day this happened, but a truly wonderful moment came out of a grumpy summer day between Barb and I.

We were all three out in the backyard doing something, I don't recall what. I went in and came back out, mad at Barb about something she had (or hadn't) done, and I snapped at her. Then I walked out through the garage to the front yard to go sulk by myself for a little while.

Imagine my surprise, a few moments later, when you came stomping out to me, put your hands on your hips (yes!), and informed me in no uncertain terms that I had better "be nice to Mommy" and apologize to her. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry or scream, or all three. But, well, that's what I did -- go back to Barb and tell her what had transpired, and apologized to her (for speaking the way I did, not for being mad).

This may seem so obvious to you -- of course you would do that. But what a treasure you are! And how grounded you are, in your confidence in your self, and in the knowledge that I would listen to you.

Later I wept, wept, for the joy in you, and in the sorrow that I could never have done that when I was growing up. You are amazing, and we, I guess, must be doing something right.

10 May 2004 - Monday - Thunderstorms

Dearest Emma:

We've been having a lot of "summery" weather lately, including some thunderstorms. Sometimes when it's warm at bedtime, Barb has taken to rocking you (in that little tiny wooden rocking chair we got from Ev) on the front porch and singing.

Tonight the two of you were rocking, watching a lovely thunderstorm make lots of light and noise just to the north and east of us. You were so cozy, cuddled up in a big pink blanket, and Barb was just loving that time with you. Even with the lightning and thunder, you started drifting off. First it was "Mommy, tell me when it happens so I can open my eyes." Then it was "Mommy, wake me up when the lightning comes".

And a little while after that I carried you and your blanket upstairs to your room, your long legs hanging over my arms, and set you down on your bed. You curled up your legs just a little, but otherwise you were sound asleep.

9 May 2004 - Sunday - Mother's Day

Dearest Emma:

Today was Mother's Day, and you were my secret partner! On Saturday we bought special "Hodgson's Mill Buckwheat pancake mix", and a huge purple (your choice of color, of course) potted mum at Krogers, and hid the flowers in my car overnight. Then on Sunday morning, when you called for Mom, I came in and reminded you of our secret plan to make breakfast for Barb. I think we were both excited -- this was the first time we'd tried anything like thus. I don't think I've ever seen you get dressed so fast.

Then we zipped downstairs about 7:15 and started making the pancakes. We kept negotiating who would do what: you held the measuring cup, I poured the mix. You cracked the eggs, I dumped them in. We both stirred, and you poured the batter onto the hot pan from a tiny measuring cup. You insisted on "baby" (small) pancakes (I kept trying to get you to make them larger, but you insisted! <g>)

I carried the tray up, and you brought the Sunday paper. Hard to believe, but Barb was still in bed! (OK, it wasn't a complete secret from her.) You were so pleased and proud and excited, you started bouncing on our bed -- but then realized that you were hungry too, so you sat down next to Barb and started eating her pancakes!

?? July 2003 -- Traverse City

Dearest Emma:

We're spending this week in a huge RV at a campground in Traverse City, on our vacation. (Remember Pirate Cove? I literally could not tear you away from the place -- and the first day we went in our regular clothes, and came out soaking wet!)

Another day when we were a little bored, I took out my laptop, and we started playing games with the sound recorder. We all got a little giggly, and here's what we sounded like:

2 January 2002 (Wednesday, before going to bed)

Dearest Emma:

This morning was very confusing; you woke up at 4am, and were up for quite a while with Barb - then the two of you fell asleep together in my office! I came in after showering and saw you there, and didn't want to wake you - so I went downstairs wearing your nice warm blue blanket and had breakfast.

Later when you did wake up, we played walking around your new (Christmas) doll house, carrying your (birthday) balloons. And then something very special happened - for no reason that I know of, you pointed to the window and said "Moon!".

It just so happens that around 4am I was in the bathroom, and I could see the moon through the fuzzy glass, and thought about what phase it was in and how I could see it at that hour. So it was nicely spooky to hear you suddenly think of the Moon. We searched for it through several windows, and then found it in the kitchen window - and now you pointed excitedly at it and said "Moon!" again. I was so happy, I love the moon so much, and it seems that you do, too.

This was also Dana's last day with you. We all had dinner (chinese, at home) together, and had a very nice talk with Dana about how wonderful she has been for you. You sat in each of our laps in turn, reading your books. It was so lovely to see you so comfortable with all three of us, like one big family. Barb was very sad to see Dana go, and sometimes when she cried or was about to cry you would touch her face, just below her eyes, with your finger. You are a very empathetic girl, which I think makes Barb cry (with gladness) even more.

But we're going to have Dana over for dinner occasionally, and also ask her to babysit for you every so often. And we have the photos of you and her that you like so much, and you even call one of your ("loving family") dolls "Dana". I think she'll always be in your heart, and I know she loves you.

2 March 2001 (Friday of Barb's Deacon's retreat)

Dearest Emma:

This is the first entry in what I hope will be a long, long, diary about you. When you were born, there were so many things I wanted to remember and write down for you (and for me)... that it was just overwhelming. I was never able to take all the time I imagined I would need to write down what that night was like.

But recently I realized that if I kept believing that, I would never write down anything about you. And that wouldn't be fair to you. So I'm going to try and write down lots of little things, a day at a time. That way I won't get overwhelmed. I hope to keep this up this way, so that some day you'll have a long book, to help you know and remember the things that only your mom and I saw. I feel like the special keeper of the memories of the things you've done, but may not remember for yourself. Those secret, special things about you that only your mom and I will ever know. This is my gift to you.

The weather lately has been cool, but warm enough to melt most of the snow. (We had a lot of snow and cold weather this winter, so we really couldn't play or even walk much with you outside.) When I got home from work, it seemed warmer than it had in many months - so I decided to try and take you for a real walk outside. I told you "Let's go for a walk outside, a real walk outside" - so you went and got your frontpack that we've walked in many times before.