* It’s still the week of the Daddy here at 6512 feet, because themes are helpful when you’re racing against the clock of bolting cilantro forests and administering lessons to little people on discerning when the pea pods are ripe.
You can read why I’m thankful for Dan here.
And see lots of photos of Dan in action here.
Dan actually said yesterday, “how’re you going to keep saying nice things about me all week?” This was after he instructed me to show his whole face in the picture of Col sleeping in his arms. (Perhaps he doesn’t understand artsy photos).
So for a new twist, here’s what bugs me about Dan:
1) Leaves kitchen cabinet doors open.
2) Doesn’t understand artsy photos.
Okay, for reals, as Rose has taken to saying. As in, “Coley, ducky needs to go to the hospital because she gets surgery. For reals.”
Dan is one of those people who rise early and cheerfully, his mind brimming with positive thoughts.
“I’ve got a great place to take you guys.” He says over Sunday breakfast. I’m still making out with my coffee, the kids are building indoor fort XVIXII, and surely it’s a crime to be discussing anything requiring packing the steamer trunk of snacks and kids’ sundries so early on a Sunday morning.
But Dan’s been known to say, after being home with the kids for two hours, “I’ve been home all day, I’m ready to get out and do something!” And I know how he feels, because two hours at home can pass in this surreal, art film-ish way, where I feel like I’m reading a script while falling asleep underwater: “we only draw on paper,” I parse with absolutely no feeling, while kids Matisse the table with ink.
Thanks to Daddy-gumption, an hour later, snacks are packed, kids are perched in backpacks, and Dan’s pointing up at pumpkin-hued cliffs. “Up there! You guys are going to love it. Just a few quick switchbacks.”
Left to my own devices, I’d haul the kids to a park, sounding the alarm to the Mama-child tribes to meet us there so the kids can air it out with their kind while the Mamas gather under the shade of a cottonwood, keeping an eye out for falling bodies.
(I actually remember coaching Dan on taking Col to the park when he was a toddler. “See, Col runs and climbs and slides and we just hang out. You don’t really have to do anything).
Dan is a do-er, an artist, a craftsman. He has the sort of patience and detailed-orientedness that is needed to turn out painstakingly beautiful work. Whereas I am cutter-of-corners. My friend Melanie recently coached me on sewing some prayer flags we painted at a baby shower. The prayer flags were all rumpled from sitting in a bag for months and Melanie noted they needed ironing before being sewed up. Not owning an iron, I asked if I could just flatten them out under the weight of my very large dictionary. Melanie gave me the kind, pitying look you would extend to a 3-legged dog trying to catch a frisbee.
I am proud of Dan’s crafty work and would love to share some photos with you. (however, by now I’m sure Dan would have appreciated a week of conjugal relations rather than all these damn words. Next year, honey).
Okay. I’m finally done. Thank you for squinting at my pictures and for indulging me once again. For reals.