January 13: Long Day, Quick Post, Quick "Web" Dip

It has been a very long day.  The start of the semester at the university.  First day of teaching.  I took my daughter to the pediatrician this morning for an ingrown toenail.  That might not sound like such a big deal, but, when you do ballet en pointe, an ingrown toenail is quite a problem.  Then I put together a few handouts for the poetry workshop I'm teaching for the community schools on Monday nights for the next six weeks.  This evening, I delivered one of my last Christmas presents to a friend from the university.  I attended the open house at my daughter's dance studio.  And I taught the poetry workshop.

I think the workshop went alright.  There were a few more participants than I was expecting.  I had five people on my roster this morning.  Tonight, there were eight poets in the room, including me.  Unfortunately, one person (a kind, older gentleman) seemed to get offended very early by the first poem I read to them.  It was a poem by the poet Thomas Lux, and it contains the word "goddamn."  I even prefaced my reading with a warning about the profanity.  However, after I read the poem, this gentleman packed up his belongings and left.

All night long, I've thought and thought about what happened.  My wife, when I told her the story, said, "If he can't take that word, he doesn't belong in a poetry workshop."  I don't think I did anything wrong.  It's not like I read them Sharon Olds' "The Pope's Penis."  It was, basically, a psalm of thanks full of genuine beauty.

Guess I'm going to have to let this one go.  I could fret and meditate on it all night long and still be no closer to any kind of resolution.

So, let me ask Wilbur and crew this question:

Did I offend a nice grandfather at my poetry workshop this evening with the word "goddamn"?

And the little pig says:

Fern nodded.  "I had the best time I have ever had anywhere or any time in all of my whole life."

Hmmm.  I don't think the nice grandfather left because he was having too much fun.  I'm not really buying that response.


And Saint Marty doesn't think it's over yet.  That would be too goddamn easy.

Yup, I offended Mr. Fredricksen

December 2: Almost Teenage Daughter, Feeling Old, Magic 8-Ball

In three days' time, I will be the father of a teenager.  My daughter will officially turn 13 on December 5.  In a way, I've been the father of a teenager for over a year.  I've been victim to my daughter's mood swings, eye rolling, sighs, and secrecy since she turned twelve.  I'm getting used to my little girl not being my little girl any more.

The impending official date of teenhood makes me feel quite old.  I know parents say this all the time, but it really does seem like last year when we brought her home from the hospital on that cold, snowy December day.  I don't know where all the time has gone.

I found myself last night standing by her bed in the middle of the night, the way I used to stand by her crib.  I watched her sleep, listened to her deep breaths.  I reached down and pulled the covers up on her.  I thought about how I used to read to her at night.  When she was four going on five, I read her Charlotte's Web.  Each night, we spent one chapter with Wilbur and gang.  She loved that book.  I loved reading her that book.

Now, at night, she sits on the couch and watches videos on her iPod.  When I suggest that she pick up a book, she gives me a pained expression, as if I've just offered her a plate of sauerkraut.  My little girl is in that teenager somewhere, but she seems a little lost to me at the moment.  There are moments when my little princess breaks through, like sunlight through a thundercloud.  Moments when we share a joke, walk hand-in-hand for a few feet, sing a song together on the radio.  But those moments are scarce.

My question this Magic 8-Ball Monday is simple:

Have I been a good father to my little girl?

And Holden's answer is:

"She's a dancer," I said.  "Ballet and all.  She used to practice about two hours every day, right in the middle of the hottest weather and all..."

Holden might be talking about Jane, but he might as well be describing about my daughter, too.  Ever since she was little, my daughter's dreamed of being a ballerina.  Last year, she got en pointe for the first time.  When I bought her first pointe shoes last fall, she held them like a doll in the car.  She slept with them on her feet the first few nights.  She was a ballerina.  Her dream.  She'd done it.

I guess I'll take that as a "yes" to my question.

Saint Marty hasn't screwed up fatherhood too much.

Dreams do come true...