Tia, Mago Elf Liam, Nem-nem Niamh, Lil' Bug, and I. (kid names are aliases)
//“I love you baby,” I whispered to Nem, my cheek next to hers, while she was sound asleep at midnight. She stirred in a struggle to emerge from sleep, and didn’t manage to wake up, but said in her sleep despite sleep retaking her: “I . . . love you . . . too . . .”
That’s what she’ll fight through a barrier to say. This is that sweetest fruit of the tree of life.
//I learned long ago that the following happened much earlier this school year:
Apparently, Nem-nem can voluntarily appear to be genuinely very sad, and cry real tears. She’s also unaware this is a gift that many very highly paid actors lack. Somehow at school other kids have learned about this gift.
One recess, a boy in her class who is delightfully forthright and self-assured, perhaps even brazen, and who openly avows his crush on Nem–he was with her one recess, and either he asked or Nem volunteered to display this acting skill (I think Nem doesn’t even know to call it acting, either). So Nem voluntarily wept, with real tears.
Boy: Right now you are so cute I would do anything for you.
Nem, brightly: Then buy me a puppy!
//*knock knock.*
Nem: Who is it?
Me: Dada.
What?
Mago says he’s sorry, and if I hurt your feelings, I’m sorry too, and I want to give you a hug.
Long pause.
Nem: Hug my toes.
Me: What?
Nem: I’m putting them under the door.
Me, (unable to restrain laughter) : What?!
Nem: I’m trying to.
Me: I can’t see or reach them at all.
Still not there . . . my fingers, then. I’ll put them under the door.
Three of her fingers appear palm-up under the door. I reach down and press my fingers on them, laughing.
//Nem: What’s something that you’re obsessed with?
Me: Obsessed? Uh . . . I dunno. The BATTLESTAR GALACTICA tv show, maybe. When I watch one episode, I can watch 30 in a row without eating or drinking or sleeping.
Nem: Okay, what about art?
Me: Mmm . . . I guess so.
Nem: Okay, so say: “I love art!”
Me: “I love art!”
Nem: (feigned mean snarl) Then why don’t you marry it?!
She laughed and laughed as if it were hilarious.
What’s hilarious is that she thinks it’s hilarious, and laboriously set it up.
//This cute fella captured our hearts–after he was bound to die by spraying 🙁
Nem cooed at this image. I captured it by moving the spider to the driveway. With the last of his strength he turned toward the sunset, which gave me better light, and since he wasn’t moving, I could set the camera to the nearest manual focus and nudge it as near as possible (angled via tripod mount) to get his eyes in focus.
//
That work was done 2014-03-27.
Done in the wonderful free program Krita FOSS digital painting program, with some custom splatter Krita brush presets by David Revoy I found and modified (I may eventually post my modified ones). As I searched for those brushes, I found another impressive Cazu Brush Collection, which includes drip (Jackson Pollock-style) paint!
//Oh this poor neglected blog. And still so many posts at social media I mean to copy here 🙁
But these utterances I feel quite compelled to write down.
Nem, before saying goodnight (with my replies, and the conversation), sadly and very tenderly, almost in tears:
“Dada?”
“Yes?”
“When my tooth comes out, I won’t be able to make the temple with my tongue anymore.”
“Well, you can make it other ways.”
“No, I put my tongue down like this, and that’s the bottom of the building, and the gap in my teeth is that tall, what do you call it?”
“Steeple.”
“So I won’t be able to make that anymore.”
“You know the conference center has a lot of wide steeples. It’s a huge building in Salt Lake where people go to listen to conference.”
“But I won’t be able to make the temple anymore.”
I’ve never known any soul so very sweet and tender. When she hears tragic stories about people, she simply feels their experiences as her own; she is devastated. I have tasted the fruit of the Tree of Life. This little one leads me on to the tree. The fruit is sweet.
Tangent: so much hilarity in videos playing imagination and goofing off with Nem are due here. ASAP…
//
Created by Nem in the wonderful ArtRage program.
//
//I’ve neglected to repay thanks for a certain miracle, so I’m glad that the following, which so easily writes itself, reminds me that I ought to.
Every evening that she can, Nem* exchanges Eskimo and butterfly kisses with me, followed by a (rather funny) thing she calls “Smooshy Eyes,” which is to stare intently into my eyes as she smashes her nose against mine and tilts her head back and forth (and I believe she’s said her Grandma Betsy invented this, though I really wonder), and then lastly, she kisses her hands, extends them toward my heart, exhales as she flutters her fingers, and says “Twinkle Heart! Good night, I love you, sweet every color dreams, I love you!–” etc.
On several occasions as she has done this, she’s added explanations such as: “The twinkles go into your heart, and remind you to love me.”
Me, to Tia, this morning: [Something blah blah frustrated probably unnecessarily unpleasant query something, some other maybe unduly unpleasant query something.]
Nem: (mildly stern) Daddy, stop fighting. Remember: (clearly enunciated) ‘Twinkle Heart.’
I laugh.
Nem: (as in: ‘what’s funny?’) What?
Me: Okay, Nem.
I laugh more.
Nem: What?
Me: That was very good of you, Nem.
Nem: (mildly stern) Twinkle Heart.
I laugh more.
Duly and perfectly instructed, little one.
—
*So nicknamed, and my daughter for whom I wept for joy when I was surprised to learn that Tia would give birth to her, a girl, a little girl sent to me!–and so soon (or at this writing), Nem is six years old!
//Nem shows me little stringy and lumpy bits of dried glue, which, except that they are white, look like grotesque boogers.
Nem: Daddy, look what I found under the glue!
Me: In your nose?
Nem: No, under the glue!
Tia: He’s making a joke, Nem.
Me: Because they look like dried boogers.
Nem: No, I found these under the glue!
Me: I know, I joked that you found them in your nose, because they look like dried boogers.
Nem: Oh.
She offers a little courtesy laugh.
Tia smiles at me.
I laugh.
Nem: Daddy, look what I found in my nose!
She holds up the glue-boogers. I laugh more.
Nem: Daddy, Daddy, look what I found in my nose! Daddy, Daddy!
She keeps repeating things like this. I laugh harder until I’m in hysterics and crying. She tries to tickle me.
Nem: Daddy, look what I found in my nose! . . .
//Every night, Nem-nem (now 5) wants a hug as she goes to bed, and she then methodically, meticulously gives me an Eskimo kiss, and kisses and butterfly kisses on my chin, cheeks, nose, and forehead.
She’ll then always insist that I sing a lullaby, which almost invariably is “[Nem-nem’s] Lullaby,” which is my adoption of Highland Cathedral, as described here (broken links/media at that page as I write this).
She’s taken to correcting Mother, that she should call me Alexander, not Alex, and she can spell that name out.
Speechless.
//A conversation between Nem (now 5) and me, earlier this week:
Nem: “Do you remember your Teacher?”
Me: “No, I went to Kingdergarten for a few days, and decided not to go. And I had school at home.”
“Who was your Teacher?”
“My Mother.”
“Do you remember your Mother?”
“Yes.”
“Then you *do* remember your Teacher!”