Right Dress, Wrong Kid

So last weekend 2 of the 4 girls had their semi-annual dance recital.  This time around was different then past events in that I was able to sign up for a Daddy/Daughter number with each of them.  We've been rehearsing for the last several weeks and Friday night I had my performance with Arianna and her group, followed on Saturday morning with Lorelei and the 4 and under group.


Both dances went very well and tugged at my heartstrings exactly as I knew they would, with only one slight hiccup taking place.


For Saturdays number with the little ones, all the dads lined up back stage a few numbers before we were scheduled to go on.  The volunteers then brought out each little girl (already dressed in her formal gown back stage) and paired them with the appropriate dad.  Time went by and each dad had been linked with their appropriate kid, except for me. I  was still childless.  Add to that concern, there was one child who appeared to be equally fatherless; and this was creating panic.


There seemed to be more concern over the missing dad then over my missing kid, until I brought up one point: the little girl was wearing my daughters dress.  I knew this because each kid had brought their own clothes for this routine, so nothing was matching or similar.  And further, my mother in law had purchased said dress from a boutique, so it was almost guaranteed that no one had the same dress as Lorelei had brought.


The volunteers asked the little girl if she was doing the father/daughter dance; she answered "no".  They asked why she had the dress on; she answered "it was sparkly".


Turns out four-year-old's are no different then large mouth bass; they see something sparkly, they just go for it.

The rush was on to find my child, get her put into her dress and rush her to the stage before the number started (seeing as we were the first pair in the line to enter stage left).  Fortunately we made it, just in time: me, the dress and the correct kid.

https://www.facebook.com/kyle.r.kopp/videos/10157155027816006/

Don't Call It A Comeback / The Journey To Womanhood is Terrifying

So yeah, it's been nearly three years since I wrote a post.  Three.  Years.  I'm certain that none of my followers are still following, 'cause that would be weird if they were still checking in after that long.  But, if by some chance some are, that baby we were last talking about just turned 4.  🤯  I should apologize for everything you missed; honestly at the time I felt there wasn't much you would.  See, after taking four babies through the "baby stages" I felt my stories were beginning to repeat themselves.  You can only read so many "baby took their first steps" stories before you want to puke, and I figured 3 was pretty close to that magic number so I wouldn't continue pushing it at 4.   So I let this little blog fade away.

Truthfully, I don't even know if "blogs" are a thing anymore.  Maybe writing it again is akin to starting a Sanskrit debate team.  Perhaps I should focus on an Instagram page or start a podcast or something; but I'm a writer so I suppose I'm stuck with this format.

So why start again at all?  What's the end purpose?  Hold your horses; I'm getting to it.  The past few days the Fam and I were on a short vacation and at one point we were gathered around pre-dinner and the girls got a hold of a phone and began searching Google.  Their goal was to discover if their parents were at all Google worthy, i.e. famous (this is how we're judged now), and they were searching our names to see what might come up.  They quickly found their way to the remnants of this blog, hidden away in dustbin of cyberspace and they began reading.  They began reading and laughing, laughing and asking more questions, absorbing the stories of their infancy.  They did the exact thing I had hoped they would do when I originally started writing them down.  Granted, probably 15 to 20 years earlier then I'd anticipated, but they reminded me of long forgotten moments and they joined in on the joy of those stories along with us.  It's as though they captured a clearer image of themselves through our eyes during those long ago days.  And when they asked why I stopped writing them down, why the new stories weren't logged. ... I had no good answer to give them.  After all I never wrote them for you; I wrote them for us, for me, for them.

So I'm back, and here's today's story - the journey to womanhood is terrifying.

On this little vacation, we were forced to share some very tight quarters, beds and even something we've never had to deal with since potty training became a thing of yore: a single bathroom.  Normally no more of an issue then apologizing for a lingering smell or someone taking too long and someone else not having the ability to hold it any longer, this particular scenario became slightly more complicated given Gina was, how shall I say, at that particular moment of the month.

Cut to last night, everyone has prepped for bed, we're saying our good-nights, then Arianna decides she needs to use the toilet one more time.  She scurries off, there's a beat in time, then she screams "Oh my god, Daddy, what did you do?!!!!!!"

Gina and I look each other inquisitively.  For the record, I had yet to use the facilities for the evening.

I yell back, "what do you mean?"

She responds, "It looks like you broke your butt in here."

At this point Gina's eyes widen after realizing that she may not have completely vacated the toilet bowl after changing a tampon, and neither of us has any idea how to move the conversation forward from here.

By now a crowd has gathered.  I'm being blamed for many things, among them swallowing and now passing a chicken bone, murdering a banana, and of course the previously mentioned and most popular among the masses, "breaking my butt off."

Because neither of us are ready to begin the conversation in detail on mensuration with 9, 7 and 4 year olds, and because Gina was not chomping at the bit to claim herself the causation of the scene, it seems the popular theory has now been accepted as fact that this is something that Daddy can do and may again do in the future.  So prepare yourselves.

And with that, I welcome you back.