Dream disappointment

As I got Mary Clare ready for school yesterday morning, she and I chatted about her night. Did she sleep well, did the polar bear pajamas keep her warm, etc. 

I then asked her if she dreamed of her daddy's face. Immediately, her face fell. Crestfallen, she replied, "No." So I gave her a big hug, told her it was okay and reminded her that she would get to see her daddy's face in person that night. "I know," she replied, still clearly troubled that Chip wasn't in her dreams. I honestly felt bad for even bringing up the matter. 

Poor girl. She really, really, wanted to dream of her daddy's face. 

She dreams of dad

Occasionally, Chip has to work later in to the evening, or do a few nights out of town for meetings and whatnot. When this happens, the kids and I are in the habit of calling him on our way to and from their school. It usually works pretty well. We can catch him before his first meeting or evening event, there is no phone to fight over and he can hear all three of us on the Bluetooth. Because who wouldn't want that?

Last night, as we made our way home, Mary Clare asked if she could call her daddy. After the usual round of greetings, Chip asked her about her day, and before he could get another question out of his mouth, she quite matter-of-factly said, "Daddy, maybe tonight I will dream of your face."

It was really, really hard not to laugh. Especially since I had to repeat it to him twice, and play it straight so he wouldn't laugh himself. Because she was really serious. And hopeful. She was clearly thinking, "Hey, if I can't see you, then maybe—just maybe—I will dream of your face. And that will get me through until tomorrow night."

Damn, but that girl loves her dad. I used to take it personally. Okay, I still take it personally. But now I can at least sympathize with my mom. It's tough playing second fiddle to a girl and a great dad. But I wouldn't trade it for the world.

Annoyed, amused and oblivious

Yesterday afternoon, as we were driving back from my parents' house, Charlie made the mistake of making a noise. One noise. Seriously, the sweet boy had been quiet as a mouse for a solid 45 minutes. So quiet, in fact, that twice I asked Mary Clare to peek over and check on her brother. And his breathing.

A split second after emitting a cheerful little chirp, Mary Clare laid in to him.

Mary Clare: Stop it, Chawlie! You're annoring me! That is annoring when you make that noise!"


Me: Mary Clare, use kind words. Charlie was just talking to us.

Mary Clare: Well, it is annoring! I don't like it when Chawlie is annoring! It is annoring to me!

I kind of wish Charlie had piped up again, because I loved hearing Mary Clare go on about how annoring it all was, but Charlie, oblivious to the chaos he had caused, was kicked back and enjoying the scenery. Ah, the joys of still being in a rear-facing car seat.

So, what do I love more? That Mary Clare is building her vocabulary, or that she is butchering said vocabulary words for all she's worth? I'm not going to lie. I have to go with the latter.

He's in good company

Tonight, as Chip replaced the batteries in one of the kids' toys, Mary Clare danced around the room, singing, "My daddy is fixing my toy! My daddy is fixing my toy!"

After waltzing back to Chip, she declared, "Daddy, you are so good at fixing toys. You're just like Doc McStuffins."

Her room is bumpin'

Overheard this morning, Mary Clare to Charlie:

"Come on, Charlie. Let's go see what's going on in my room."