May 12: Road Trip, New Poem, Remote Blogging

I'm going on a road trip with my family this weekend.  My daughter has a dance competition in Howell, Michigan, which, as far as I can tell, is a little way from Ann Arbor.  It's going to be around an eight hour drive with a ten-year-old girl and a two-and-a-half-year-old boy.  It's going to be a really long weekend.  My sister is coming to watch my son while we take our daughter to the dance competition.  However, my son likes to run.  He's like a charged ion.  He doesn't sit still.  This trip is going to be quite a test for him.

What I'm going to try to do for blogging is take a laptop with me.  I would bet the hotel will have WiFi access.  Therefore, the next time you hear from me, I will probably be in Howell, Michigan.  That's my plan, anyway.  If it doesn't work out, you may not hear from me until Sunday or Monday.  Keep checking the site, though.  I'm sure I'll be able to blog tomorrow.

I have a brand new poem for today.  I wrote a poem for Mother's Day this past weekend.  I guess you could call this one a Father's Day poem, even though Father's Day isn't for another month.  I'm just planning ahead, in case I get asked to read another poem at church for that occasion.

Tonight, I have to take my daughter to ballet class, go grocery shopping, and pack my clothes for the trip.  I have way too many things to try to remember.  It kind of sucks.  I like travelling, but I hate the details of travel.  I always plan and plan, and I always forget something important.  In fact, I just went downstairs to pick up a prescription that almost slipped my mind.  I will be a happy camper when I'm safely camped back at home on Sunday night.

Saint Marty on a pilgrimage to Howell, Michigan.  God help us.

Rules of Fatherhood

When I first heard my daughter's heart
Ten years ago in the doctor's office,
I had no clue how to care for a girl,
Those unwritten rules new fathers
Must learn over time.  Make your girl
Sit frog-legged in the bathtub
To allow warm water to flow
Into areas of her body where skin
Turns raw, pink or red as grapefruit,
In the privacy of diaper or panty.
When she turns three or four,
Teach her to wipe front-to-back,
Not back-to-front, to avoid kidney,
Bladder infections.  Comb her hair
As soon as she's done bathing.
Slide the teeth through and through,
To remove all tangles, then braid.
Start simple, one ponytail at the back
Of her head.  Work to French braids,
Beautiful as sweet, curled loaves
In bakeries at Christmas.  Never
Utter the name of the boy she likes
When she's five or seven or ten.
Just watch them play together.
Notice how he always insists
She climb the steps of the slide
Before him, his neck craned upward,
Cheeks flushed, as she goes higher and higher.
Invite said boy to her tenth birthday
Party, watch him squirm when you sit
Beside him and say, "What are your
Plans for the future, son?"
Even though you don't believe
In guns, buy one to hold
In your lap when she goes
On her first date.  When he arrives,
Stare at him, the way a lion stares
At a wounded water buffalo.
All these rules I've learned
Since that day the doctor waved
Her wand over my wife, pulled
From the top hat of my wife's belly
That sound:  crickets singing
On a summer night, Love me, love me, love me.

My daughter, with attitude