Sierra « Black Marks on Wood Pulp / by Corey Vilhauer

Category: Sierra

The trials and tribulations of shopping with a four-year-old

August 3rd, 2011

With $50 in random birthday gifts, we took a four-year-old to Target.

“Shopping spree.” “Anything you want.”

She picked a too-small princess dress. “Anything but that.” She picked the princess wand. “Okay. Put it in the cart.” She picked the Dora microphone. “Oh, God. No. Please.” Then, she picked the Strawberry Shortcake set, which was perfect because that’s what we were leading her toward the entire time.

The Dora microphone was the point of contention. Our goal: get it out of the cart. She wanted Toy Story, but she got distracted and wanted the Tangled book with the fake brush that made noisy magical sounds, and then she wanted the princess book with the crown.

We made a deal: she’d get the Tangled book if she put the Dora microphone back. It’s a book, at least, and this was an upgrade. We then tried to upgrade the Tangled book to something else. Anything else. Remember Toy Story? What about the new Ladybug Girl book? How about this new Mo Willems book?

The cart held one princess wand, one Strawberry Shortcake set, one noisy Tangled book that had thankfully replaced the noisy Dora microphone. It was 15 minutes past bedtime, but we had begun to gain ground with the anti-noisy-Tangled campaign.

And then she had to go to the bathroom.

Distracted, she didn’t see me put the Tangled book back. I added Ladybug Girl (as a gift from us). We headed to the front.

After the bathroom, she checked the cart. Strawberry Shortcake – check. Princess wand – check.

Tangled book?

Preschooler meltdown.

I had underestimated her. I paid and went to the car, while mom and four-year-old went to grab the Tangled book.

In the parking lot, as they walked to the car, her bag was decidedly unbook-like. She opened up the bag and showed me her new pair of tennis shoes.

And no Tangled book.

Sometimes, things work out for the best.

Comments: 1

Issues Considered: Family, Sierra

On missing your kids

April 22nd, 2011

I spent two days – and, ultimately, three nights – in Minneapolis at a seminar this week. Sierra and Isaac missed me. Missed me for real. To the point that they were asking where I was. To the point that, for the first time I can remember, they were concerned I was never coming home.

My first night back, I had scheduled a content strategy meet-up. I wasn’t home until just before bedtime. Sierra wanted to know if I was coming home.

“Is Daddy coming home?’”

For three days I wasn’t there. It was only natural to be concerned that I wasn’t coming home on the fourth.

This morning, I left early, as I often do on Fridays, to take care of things at work. Sierra woke up and wanted to see me. Had a fit when she realized she didn’t say “goodbye” to me.

“We’re not a family anymore,” she said.

Four days. And we’re not a family anymore.

I was going to write a blog post about how much her “DADDDDDIIIIEEE!!!” means to me, how awful I feel when I let her down – when I’m not there, even for a night, even when we all know I’m going to be back soon – and how it breaks my heart every night I have to try to sleep in a hotel alone, without telling her what my favorite part of the day was, without getting to hear what she learned at school, without feeling like she and Isaac own my life and that I’ve become that sappy dad that can’t handle being away from his kids for even a day or two.

I didn’t write that post.

Good thing I didn’t. Because Merlin Mann did. And holy shit, you guys. He WROTE the shit out of it.

From 43 Folders, “Cranking”:

Many mornings over the past six months or so, at almost exactly 6:00 AM Pacific Time, I was not in my regular bed. I was not even at home. I was sitting in another building, typing bullshit that I hoped would please my book editor. Who, by the way, is awesome.

And, if I noticed what time it was, I’d always wonder whether my daughter had run into our bedroom yet.

I’d wonder whether she had seen my side of the bed empty again. And, when I thought about my empty spot on the bed and how disappointed she’d be to scream “DAD-dy! DAD-dy! DAD-dy!” then see I’m not even there, I’d die a little.

I’d die a little, because as I thought about her, I’d think about my Dad. And as I thought about my Dad, I’d start thinking about hospital beds with cranks–then on to dents, and covered dishes, and rooms full of sobbing outdoorsy guys, and so on.

But, by then it might be 6:10 am Pacific Time. And I didn’t have time to think about my family. Not now, right? No, I had to keep working. I had to stay in that other building and keep typing bullshit that I hoped would please my editor. Who is awesome.

So, I’d type and type. I’d crank and crank. I’d try and try. I’d want very much to go home, make hot milk, and watch Toy Story 2. So much, I’d want this.

I dabbed at my eyes with my sleeve. I sat back and knew I had to say something. I realized it wouldn’t be enough. Because another person already hit it on the head. On. The. Head.

Excuse me. Gotta go hug my daughter, again.

Baby’s first signature

March 28th, 2011

The “S” is backwards, like a cheap stereotype, and only the “R”s are lowercase, but every time Sierra writes her name it’s as if hope for the written word has been awakened again.

No hyperbole. Watching a child learn to write is as powerful as you can get.

Because, you see, I thought I’d spent the last seven years learning how to write. No. Not right. Instead, I spent the last seven years how to write better or how to write for the internet or how to write copy and scripts.

But Sierra is learning how to write. Full stop. End of story. She is not learning style or function, but the basic steps of writing. Not first steps, but first phonics. Not first word, but first signature.

I have written a lot of things in my life. Some of it has been okay and some of it has been decent and some of it might even have been good if you ask the right people but none of it compares to the power of each letter Sierra pushes out of her pencil.

Every. Letter. S. I. E. R – twice. A.

The potential and promise of every letter, each more important and amazing than anything I’ll ever hope to write.

The day we didn’t show up for the movie

February 23rd, 2011

It wasn’t that we didn’t show up for the movie. That wasn’t too big of a deal – after all, Sierra went with her preschool class. Her friends were there. Her teachers. We were incidental, invited on the side but not integral to the event.

To be honest, Sierra didn’t even know we had told her teacher we’d be there. Which means Sierra never had a chance to know we had forgotten about the movie altogether. A movie we had signed up to participate in over a month ago. A movie neither of us remembered to put on our calendar.

So we never showed up. But, it wasn’t that we didn’t show up for the movie.

It was that all of the OTHER parents DID. And Sierra wished we’d have as well.

She had fun. She enjoyed the movie. She couldn’t stop talking about getting to sit by her friend. But she also reminded us that she was sad we weren’t there.

Kerrie took her to lunch. I rushed over to sit with them. I apologized. I couldn’t believe it. I’d become one of those parents who forget their kids.

“Are you okay, Sierra?”

She’s okay. She had forgotten about it around the time her pizza arrived.

Me? I’m still trying.

Comments: 2

Issues Considered: Sierra

Tonight’s poop conversation

November 8th, 2010

SIERRA: “Daddy, my poop looks funny.”
ME: “What, Sierra?”
SIERRA: “Daddy, my poop looks like an ice cream cone.”
SIERRA: (laughs)
ME: “Sierra…”
SIERRA: “Daddy, we won’t eat it.”
ME: “Right.”
SIERRA: “Because we won’t eat poop.”
ME: “Right.”
SIERRA: “Because poop is yucky.”
ME: “…”
SIERRA: “Because poop has germs.”
ME: “…”
SIERRA: (very seriously) “Daddy, that poop is NOT an ice cream cone.”
ME: “…”

This is a very common discussion around our house now. SO adorable.

A quick thought on patience

October 1st, 2010

There are times when I lie on the floor and grit my teeth as the kids crawl all over me, their knees and fingernails digging into my back, their laughing so uncontrollable that I get drool in my eye. And there are times when I read and read and read books until I can’t stand it anymore, until I’d just as soon smack little Ladybug Girl for being so precocious and hide Knuffle Bunny in the garbage forever.

And then, I’ll walk onto the next room, or I’ll crawl into bed, and Kerrie will be there, and she’ll say, “You’re a good Daddy.”

And I’ll stop and realize how lucky I am. How lucky any of us are.

Because there are times when they ask of the world for me. But there’s never a time when I wouldn’t give it to them.

How’s THAT for sappy? I think I need another brewery tour.

Comments: 2

Issues Considered: Family, Isaac, On..., Sierra

On living up to expectations

September 16th, 2010

It was for Sierra, this show – this Nickelodeon Storytime Live, this theatre performance of preschool-oriented cartoons, this “so-close-to-Disney-on-Ice-I-was-nearly-scared” experience.

It was her birthday present, after all. It was something she’d love – characters she talked about, DVDs she watched, songs she sang. And it was a chance to turn an early leave from work into a full-out Daddy/Daughter Date Night.

Which means it wasn’t really JUST for Sierra. It was for me, too.

Still, that doesn’t exactly qualify the excitement or anxiety I had. I spent the hours before the show wondering if she’d like it, the weight of expectation mixing in my gut, butterflies – seriously, you guys, BUTTERFLIES – as to whether my three-year-old daughter would totally love what was essentially a two hour long Nick Jr. commercial.

Sierra’s eyes sparkled through the first hour, soaking in the experience. And – boom – I finally got it. I realized that, indeed, this was an experience, one she would never again get: the feeling of encountering something new for the first time, in this case the grand stage and the power of live performance.

To us adults, this was just some actress dressed up like Dora. But to Sierra, this was something more. This was her first concert. Her first time to the theatre, watching a play; a glimpse at real acting. This was, discounting a random hug from Clifford the Big Red Dog a few years back, her first encounter with celebrity; her first brush with fame.

I went in feeling nervous. Not because I hoped she’d have fun, I discovered, but because I subconsciously hoped her first experience was similar to how I imagined my first: steeped in raw energy, the potential of the performance straining against what – up to that point – had been a one-dimensional fandom.

I guess it passed the test. She sang. She jumped up and down and clapped. She told me her favorite parts (Princess Dora) and even rooted for the bad guys. Most of all, she gave rapt attention, not missing a single word, loving every minute of the performance all the way up until Dora walked off into the sunset, at which point – in typical toddler fashion – she shifted gears.

“Can we go to Pizza Ranch now?”

You bet, little girl. Let’s wait until these goosebumps go down, first.

Comments: 1

Issues Considered: On..., Sierra, Television