Words
One year of crying and the words creep up inside,
Creep into your mind yeah.
So much to say, so much to say, so much to say, so much to say…
Dave Matthews

A conversation with my daughter on the way to “school”* the other day:

“What doing Daddy?”

“Driving you to school,” I answer, looking in the rearview mirror at her.

Thirty seconds later.

“What doing Daddy?”

“I’m driving you to school.”

She points to my jacket hanging on the hook in the back seat.

“Daddy wear it inside?”

“Daddy did wear it inside to church last week didn’t he?” I answer, knowing she’s thinking about the last time she saw me in the jacket.

“Yes,” she answers with a confident nod of her head. “And then go to Sonny’s”

It’s her favorite. After church we usually go to eat somewhere. My daughter is surrounded by her cousins, big girls and boys all, as they eat and we visit.

Thirty seconds later.

“What doing Daddy?”

“I’m driving you to school. And after lunch Daddy will come get you and--”

“Then go home,” she finishes.

“That’s right.”

She’s such a homebody. Garrison Keillor was right when he said children are all little conservatives. They like the comfort of routine.

“Bob Diddle?” She wants me to play the CD with Bob Dylan doing Subterranean Homesick Blues. That CD is in my wife’s car. I sing a few bars, “Johnny’s in the basement mixing up the medicine. I’m on the pavement, thinkin’ ‘bout the government.”

She eats some Cheerios, munching thoughtfully. She is no doubt going through her mind the busy day ahead, what color Playdough to use, whether she’ll play with Noah or Beckett or Lucy at the playground, what songs they’ll sing at circle time. Time passes.

“What doing Daddy?”
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*The booglet goes to Montessori twice a week now. She gets to do her “work” and mingle with the other little germ factories. On Wednesday there’s pizza. It’s all good.