'Six years,' she said

Tonight on the ride home from Thanksgiving, all girlies were asleep except Melía. (This is as traditional as today's turkey.)

Winding up the mountain, we were talking about how different kids spend different amounts of time in Kindergarten, depending on how ready their parents and teachers think kids are for 1st grade. "Some kids do one year of Kindergarten and some do two, Melía. How many years do you want to be in Kindergarten?" I said.

Part of me wants to normalize redoing Kinder if necessary. The twins are on the young side, after all. Another part of me says this to lay down the gauntlet and see them go for their studies as ardently as they go for playing dress-up.

"But bwown-ups choose that."

"That's right," I told her. "Good remembering. " I had made a point of saying that this decision is not up to the 5-year-old. "But if it were your choice, how many years would you want to be in Kindergarten?"

"Do you know how many years I would want to be in Kindergarten?" she asked, making sure I still understood the question.

"How many, Melía?" I asked. I'd have put my money on "one." What kid isn't eager to be as grown up as possible as early as possible?

"Six years!" she said, exuberant. ("Tens of thousands of dollars' worth!" my Daddy-ears heard, despondent.)

But sticker shock aside, here's giving thanks for one great Kindergarten and for at least one girl who's not in a frantic hurry to grow up.

At least not today.

'I will remember it again later,' she said

“While you’re sleeping, don’t forget how much I love you, Melía,” I told her.

(She hears this many nights, along with other valuable admonitions, such as, “Don’t eat yellow snow, Melía.” Some things just bear repeating.)

“I will not forget, Daddy.”

“Oh, good.”

“But if I do forget, that’s OK. Because I will remember it again later.”

This rings in my heart like an eschatological prophecy of a time of trouble. She won’t forget, she assures me. But growing daughters and flawed fathers being who we are, it won’t be long before she will.

What will get in the way of the love? I wonder. Curfew? Homework? Careless words? Wardrobe? Other men? All of the above?

But my little prophetess assures me that the time of trouble will outlast neither my love nor her knowledge of it.

Lord, when she does forget, please remind me that it’s OK. We do that. We lose sight of what we've been standing on. Things loom larger than people for a minute. Ego pounds impatiently at the front door, and Love slips out the back.

But it is OK. Later, she will remember again.

'What does love mean?" she asked

Melía tells us she loves us a lot. Scores of times each day.

And at least as often, we tell her that we love her.

We quite enjoy it, although it might get kind of nauseating after awhile if you were here listening.

"I-love-you-so-much-you-are-so-cute, pweety pie," she'll say to me, rapid-fire. Kisses--wet, wonderful and splattered all over my face--come with the deal.

"I love you so much, my mini-Melía. You are my wonderful, sweet, beautiful princess daughter."

"I love you so much, Bo-Bo." (Bo-Bo? Don't ask me.)

This kind of dance goes on throughout the day, from the first hello in the morning, to the final good-night in the evening. (And on to the five or six loving good-nights she manages after that, before we stop responding.)

But one day, in the midst of one of these syrupy sweet conversations, she asked,

"Daddy, what does 'love' mean?"

I know now that I answered way too quickly, considering that this may be the most important question in the universe. The fact that I don't even remember my answer shows how profanely hasty I was to field this holy inquiry.

But I must have said something like, "Love is sharing, and being nice and good to people, helping them, even when they are not nice to us." (Accurate, but so blasé. I should have spent days pondering it, like I'm still doing with the "When will God rest again?" question.)

What I do remember is her response: "Oh, that's fun!"

I buy that.

Is love easy? Rarely.

But when we manage to pull it off, is it fun? Absolutely, my mini-Melía.

'I love you more than you do,' she said

Melia is incredibly lovey dubby these days. She regresses into paroxysms of delight when I get home from anywhere. Before bed lately, she has been telling me, "I love you more than you do, Daddy."

I knew this was a good thing the first time I heard it, whatever she meant by it. At first I guessed she was saying that her love for me was greater than my love for myself.

True enough, I thought. Maybe her intuitive little heart had sensed my bent for self-loathing and wanted to tell me she saw a more lovable soul here than I saw in myself.

But only a few nights ago did I figure out what she was really trying to articulate.

"I love you more than you love me," Melia said.

I laughed and argued back, "You are very sweet, but I don't think so, because I love you soooo much!"

"I know, but I love you MORE than you love me." She was sticking to her guns.

And it cracked me up. "I don't know, my Melia...."

"Don't laugh, Daddy. I'm serious."

This only made me more giggly, but she was adamant now. "Don't laugh at me, Daddy! I'm serious!"

Finally, I shut up and let her love me.

'Pretend you are God,' she said

Melía had logged a lot of hours in church programs by Saturday evening, and for a girl who loves to interact so much that she won't even watch movies, she'd been extremely good about it.

But midway through the evening, she was cradled in my arms and ready to make conversation.

"Are you God?" she whispered.

"No, silly Melía. I am not God."

"You are like God. Did you make yourself?"

"No, God and my mommy and daddy made me." (So far when I 've said this, no one has asked, "How." Mercifully.)

She decided to have some more fun with this, saying, "You are God!"

"Silly sweet Melía, I am not God."

"Pretend you are God," she conceded.

I started to kiss her all over the cheeks and hair, saying, "I love you, Melía. I love you, Melía."

"No, pretend to be God," she said again.

"I am." I went back to my face-kissing.

"No, you're not," she giggled.

"Yes, I am. This is what God is doing right now. He's loving you."

It kind of blows my mind to consider that every child makes that request of her parent. Every baby looks to his father and mother to play that impossible role. "Pretend to be God," their hearts cry out.

I think I got it right in that moment, for once. It's harder of course, to play the part of God with fidelity when the girls are screaming and fighting and whining and hair-splitting.

Is it harder for God to play Himself at the times when we're doing the same? Or is mercy-triumphing-over-judgment the only role He knows?

God, give me grace to portray You with some semblance of accuracy. May Melía know by my example that whatever else You may be doing, above all else You're loving her.

'A kid today,' she said

Eleven days ago, my brother became a daddy. Lovely baby Jenna burst in on the world a few weeks early with so little labor that her mommy forgot to get her epidural. (Isn't that what happened, Kim?)

We got to see her when she was only hours old, and the three girls who used to be the "babies" of the family were STOKED.

There's something about that perfect tinyness that captures their imagination. After we'd adored my niece as long as new Mommy could take it, we made the reluctant retreat down the elevator and past the gift shop toward the chilling car.

Melía asked, "But baby Jenna is not going to be a kid today? Is she?"

"No, Melía. Not today."

It's going to go too fast, my newly daddified little brother. But thank God, not THAT fast.

Quote of the day: I love

The other night, sitting around the little Tinkerbell dinner table, seated on her tiny Tinkerbell chair, my mini-Melía was singing. The song was simple--almost too simple to write about.

"I love Brielle! I love Ashlyn! I love Mommy! I love Daddy!"

But if that's not worth writing about, what is?

Quote of the day: I want you to

Tuesday nights, I come home late. Melía knows this, and waits up for me. Every Tuesday.

This Tuesday, the moment I closed the front door, I heard her suck in her breath all the way down the hall. It's the same noise her mommy makes when something destructively messy is about to happen. Or when she's really excited.

I stepped into the hallway, tentative, knowing what I'd see, but pretending not to know. She was out of her bed--grounds for a time-out after she's been put down--and squatting in the hallway outside her door, wide-eyed and beaming like I'd just come home from Iraq or something.

I stalked her, trying in vain to open my eyes as wide and blue as hers, singing, "I'm gonna catch you, you better run. I'm gonna catch you, here I come" (as made famous on Noggin by Laurie Berkner).

Normally Melía RUNS from this. She loves to run, especially from Daddy. Most fun for both of us is the instant when I catch her, scoop her tiny frame up in my arms, and kiss her tummy.

But tonight, she just said,

"That's OK."

I stalked closer in mock menace, wondering when the regular game would take hold. "I'm gonna catch you, you better run. I'm gonna catch you, here I come!" I sang, upping the intensity of my threat.

"That's OK," she said again, motionless. "Because I want you to."

Of course, my arms melted around her. I kissed her cheeks, her hair, and the bare forehead that now shines below her self-styled bangs. I put her back in her bed, and before I could say bedtime prayers, she told me once more. "It was OK that you catched me. Because I wanted you to."

Here's to daddyhood and daughters--to the chase, to the flight and to the times when more than anything else, she just wants to be caught.

Quote of the day - I love Satan

Melía was going through the motions of bedding down last night--a prelude to her hour of requests, potty breaks, talking to self and to knocked-out twin sister, playing and patiently enduring the silence before sleep sneaks in and takes her away.

With no visible provocation, she announced:

"I love God and Satan."

I was disarmed, not sure what to say. I'm not sure now what I did say. Maybe I said, "You do?"

"Yeah," she said, pleased with herself. "I love Satan!" She giggled, aware of the scandal of these words, but sticking to her guns.

Knowing Melía's heart, I sensed this declaration--dark as it may have sounded from other lips--was worth celebrating. "That's good, Melía. Do you think God loves Satan too?"

"Yes!" said Melía.

"No, He doesn't," Ashlyn protested.

"Really? I think He does love Satan. Because Satan is His child, and even though he does bad things, God loves him anyway, just like He loves us when we do bad things," I said.

"Yeah!" said Melía.

"Everyone is His child," said Ashlyn.

Amen and amen to living in a universe run by Love big enough to encircle the old friend-turned-enemy who crucified Him.

And amen to living in a house with little hearts big enough to get it.

(Click photo at top or PLAY arrow at left to see a short clip of Melía speaking for herself on the topic of God's unconditional love.)

Quote of the day - I cannot tell you

I wish I could remember how this conversation began. What Melía said captured me so much that I forgot what led to it. Or maybe I didn't really start listening soon enough.

Despite these fresh efforts to tune in to my children and meditate on their words, my listening still kicks in too little and too late.

We'd just pulled into the gym, this time with all three girls and car seats crammed into the back of the Accord. As always, none of the girls was in a rush to jump out.

For a change, neither was I.

Melía had asked me some kind of "Know what?" question, and I was having fun answering this rhetorical by guessing what she was going to say. I threw out a couple bits of random silliness and a couple serious attempts at intuiting what she was getting at.

I was having fun at my own game.

But that was enough, she decided, and told me so:

"No, Daddy. If you are telling me I cannot tell you."

Her reprimand reminded me to do what I already know to do. "Seek first to understand, then to be understood," as I teach my students, in the language of Stephen Covey's Habit 5. Stop operating on what you think people are going to say, and let them say it.

Shut up and listen.

Thanks for the reminder, Melía Grace. I'll try to do that--and sooner next time.

---

"...O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand; to be loved as to love."
(From the Prayer of Saint Francis of Assisi)

Conversation of the day - Everybody loves God

Home late after a meeting today, the twins were jumping, crawling, hugging and kung-fu fighting all over me on the couch.

It was unmitigated delight.

Meanwhile, Brielle sat front and center before the TV, watching yet another screening of The Story of Jesus for Children. It fascinates me how absorbing this story is for her.

Right in the middle of the wrestling match on the sofa, with Jesus feeding the five thousand via DVD, Melía looked at me and said:

"I love God a lot."

"I'm so glad to hear you say that, Melía," I gushed, caught off guard by the move from hand-to-hand combat to praise. "God loves to hear it too!"

"And you love God a lot too, Daddy."

"That's right, my Melía." I was glad--relieved, actually--that she noticed. Sometimes I wonder if this reality shines through the fog of my anger, haste and general preoccupation with things mundane.

"Everyone loves God," Ashlyn chimed in.

I could not leave that alone. "Actually, Ashie, not everyone loves God."

"Why?" she asked.

"Some people don't know God and some people don't like God," I told her.

"Only bad people don't love God," said Ashlyn.

"All people are mix of bad and good, Ashlyn. It's just that...."

The tickling, elbowing and head-banging resumed before the discussion went any further. Maybe it was for the best. I often err on the side of too much information.

But even that much had begun what I know is next for my girls. The difference between facts and beliefs, knowledge and faith. The coming to terms with how often black and white end up being gray. And more troubling, the reality of hypocrisy.

It's going to be an exciting ride.

Maybe, if we'd just stick to Melía's opening statement, "I love God a lot," none of the rest would get under our skin so much.

Maybe.

Quote of the day - Was it good?

For Christmas, the girls got The Story of Jesus for Children DVD. It is excellent, narrating the Christ story from a few children's viewpoints. Tonight it was on in the van on the way home from the gym.

We were going through the passion.

The girls watched wide-eyed, tight-lipped. The twins had questions, which Brielle tried to hush so she could hear the movie. I gave her the Daddy version of "Suffer the little sisters and forbid them not--questions about this shocking story are a very good thing, Miss Brielle."

Melía asked this one:

"Daddy, was it good that Jesus died?"

How would you answer that one?

Nothing about the scene on the tiny LCD screen was appealing or good. The sounds surrounding us were horrifying.

Yet nightly we praise Brielle when she includes, "Thank you for dying on the cross" in her bedtime prayer. It's called "Good Friday," isn't it?

But could I honestly answer that the corrupt trial, torture and execution of a perfect man was "good"? It brought me back to the gore and grimness of holy communion this weekend. "What kind of a sick religion is Daddy teaching me?" my daughters must be asking.

How far should I go to help it make sense? How much mystery should I let ferment in their minds? How many of my answers should I lay on them, and how many should I help them work out on their own? How much of what I'd like to tell her is just more than she can handle right now?

How much do I myself actually know about this? Grappling with Melía's question, I'm thinking I often overestimate how much I know.

And realizing that is definitely good.

Quote of the day - What did you learn?

Tuesday nights a buddy or two and I hang out at a coffee shop to catch up, read a few verses from Matthew and pray for each other. Sometimes I get home in time to hug and kiss daughters before they crash. Melía is always one of these non-sleeping beauties awake to greet me after Bible study.

"Daddy!" she squealed when through her cracked door she saw me walk down the hall.

I plopped on her bed, squeezed her tight, kissed her hair, and said, "I love you so much, Melía."

She asked:

"Daddy, what did you learn about Jesus tonight?"

"What?" I asked, incredulous.

"That's what Mommy told me, that you were learning on Jesus."

I only got a short ways into my response about the greatest commandments in Matthew 23, how the first was to love God with all my heart and soul and strength, and the second is to love my neighbor as myself.

But sitting there looking into those big blue eyes staring out from under those self-cut bangs, I think I felt--if but for a second--how good that twofold command can feel to live out.

Quote of the day - Not cool

I was just helping Melía dismount safely from her somersault over my knee. I wasn't sure exactly what she was up to, but our little gymnast is often wiggling around our laps and legs and shoulders, and I thought I'd help her land without breaking her neck this time. It seemed the prudent thing to do.

She squinched up her brow and let me know what she thought.

"Daddy, I was doing someping coo'. And then you did someping with me and it was not coo' anymore."

I'm sure this was the first of many such utterances from Melía, although she will probably learn to distill the sentiment into something more elegant. I could hear her saying, "I love you. And please butt out."

"Lame, Daddy," would work.

When words just don't do her feelings justice, the ever popular "Whatever!" finger symbol may serve.

My question for myself is this: How often do my prudent parental designs disrupt the genuine coolness of what my kid is up to? In the dance between childlike playfulness and fatherly purpose, how wont am I to step on the toes of the kids whom God sent to teach me as much as I them?

And turning it vertical, how often is God up to something really cool when I grab hold of things and help them land in a way that's more safe and sane--and lame? In a way that ensures my comfort--secure within the bell curve--but a way that calls for no faith, no risk, no grace?

Dear Melía

This week I'm writing to my girls. Yesterday, I wrote a letter to Ashlyn, our youngest (by 5 minutes). Today it's Melía's turn....


Dear Melía,

You are sweetness in a powerfully tiny package. Your cries of "Hold me, hold me, hold me!" are gifts, even when we already have both hands full. In our less grateful moments Mommy and I mislabel it "clingy," but when we're thinking straight we eat up your cuddliness. I hope you never stop asking us to hold you--even when you are no longer tiny enough that your 24-month-size pants sag on your 26-pound frame.

You are my sharing and caring girl. When you get access to a treat, you make sure that there are two more for Ashlyn and Brielle. You delight in feeding us bites of your food; just don't foget to eat some yourself, little one. This weekend you were on Kleenex duty for Ashlyn, both fetching clean ones and disposing of dirties. You put up a fight when one of your sisters is trying to take a toy by force, but immediately share it when they ask nicely. You even shared the womb, enduring quietly while your zealous twin breakdanced on your head.

You are all about family togetherness. When the car starts and one of the family is not aboard, you protest vigorously, "No! Wait per Mommy!" "Where is Ashlew?" "Where is Bwielle?" "No! Wait per Daddy!" When it's time to go and Ashlyn is lagging behind playing or destroying valuable objects, we ask her (in that distinctively scary tone) if she wants to come with us or stay. You hear the thinly veiled threat to leave her behind, grab her hand and nearly drag her where she needs to be, crying, "Tome on, Ashlew."

You have no time for television. Instead, you are about doing things involving people, organizing things into bags (by a system known only to you), staying busy. You value relationships, and you have already recognized the degree to which TV can starve them. Even eating lacks that personal connection you savor, unless you can talk us into spoon feeding you. And going to sleep is such a bore for a night-owl socialite like you, especially when you can sleep in till 9 on good days.

Despite your meager food intake (excepting anything sweet), you have managed to grow a giant head of hair that is blond, curly mirth. It streams blithely down onto your face, though never enough to hide the impossible blue of your eyes, several sizes larger than your little mug might suggest. And though you are my "mini-Melía," you stand up for yourself enough to allay any fears we may have had of you being a pushover.

You are just now getting mastery of words, and we like the way you take your time growing up. It is a relief to see one of our babies who still reminds us at times of a baby--although if we slip and call you one you ferociously remind us, "I'm not a baby; I'm a bid dirl." And you're right; your potty-training prowess backs up the claim. You love to anticipate turning four. Who knows how many times you've asked, "What tind birday party I doing to have? A Belle party or a Minnie Mouse party?" Whichever answer we give, you say, "Oh," smile in your winning, bigger-than-possible-for-a-face-that-size way, and ask the question again about another ten times.

Your auntie sees a nurse in you, given your empathetic interest in people's owies. Maybe so. But I think your tender, merciful heart will thrive on any pursuit in which you are loving people the way your Heavenly Father intended we all be loved.

I just pray He helps you sense something near how much we love you, little Melía Grace.