New Song

Rhiannon was singing a new song the other day while mom was on the phone with her sister. Sung to the tune of, "I'm Making this up as I Go Along", the lyrics are:

This dolly's

very, very, very, very,

very, very, very, very,

very, very, very, very,

very, very, very, very,

very, very, very, very,

very, very, very, very

dead.

(repeat)

We worry.

Rhiannon. Deadly cute.

"N" is NOT an "O"

Rhiannon and I did crafts tonight which means that she had supervised playtime with markers, stamp pads, stamps, stickers, and paper. Special night making cards for the mothers in our lives. I got her started by writing those sentimental words, "Happy Mothers' Day" (I assume it's plural possessive) and "Love, Rhiannon".

Rhiannon can spell her name aloud. I taught her a jingle, but in order to make it fit the staff, I had to use a musical convention. So the song goes:

R-H-I-A N-N O-N N-N O-N spells Rhiannon

So Rhiannon takes her finger, finds her name on the card, and points to each letter, singing the notes. When she gets to the end of her name, she's befuddled and then gets really mad.

"Rhiannon, that's how you really spell your name."

"No it's not. It's 'n-n-o-n'".

"Well, that's the song, but it's right here."

"NO! 'N' is NOT an 'O'".

Schwoops.

Rhiannon Spellbindingly cute.

Andrew (Papa)

Jack-in-the-pulpit

Today we met friends at Petrifying Springs County Park (yes, the springs really are petrifying, turning wood to stone over the past millions of years). Tradition holds that we take a short nature walk down one of the paths bordering a stream at which point, Michael (friend of Rhiannon who has an addiction to Spiderman which just might have been cured with the release of the eponymous movie, take 3) chooses a fishing spot. The four children commence to squat in the mud, fishing poles (sticks of various sizes) in hand, waiting for the fish to bite. Or not. I did teach Michael the joys of "bomb-fishing" in which he would chuck a chunk of wood (his "dynamite") into the rushing water to generate dozens of fish corpses. This seemed like a great idea to everyone, so we pretty much fished the place out and skedaddled prior to the appearance of roving rangers.

On our walk, I happened to spy several jacks-in-the-pulpit, new and green, and called Rhiannon over to see. The other children followed, and I showed them "jack" standing there, light-green, shaded by the top-leaf, standing in water. The next ten minutes was a mad scramble to find Jack wherever he was in the forest, exposing him to the sun, and then on to the next, Rhiannon, for one, leading the charge, effecting a holocaust of violets and buttercups in the pursuit of floral novelty. Apologies to those who followed in our unmistakable footprints.

Rhiannon. Biocute.

Andrew (Papa)

Snakes and Arrows





Rhiannon is an old soul. Instead of nodding off to shoe-gazing neo-psychedelia, she has discovered the arguable pleasures of prog rock (progressive rock to all the Cool Kids out there on the Interweb). And I'm not talking the newbiefied low-fi high-concept sounds of Coheed and Cambria or the BrianWilsonized emotive brain trust of Animal Collective. Rhiannon takes it straight, no chaser, with Canada's most famous export, Rush.


This power trio has been putting out records since the invention of vinyl and their latest release (May 1 on Anthem), Snakes and Arrows, is a solid contribution to the canon of straight-ahead, by-the numbers math-rock using secret formulae first cooked in the crucible of the Heavy '70s informed additionally by Newton's alchemical notebooks discovered earlier in the century, probably by drummer-cum-philosopher Neil Peart.


Anyway, to make a short story long, Rhiannon digs it as a welcome alternative to mom's penchant for Stevie Nicks and '70s corporate rock, smooth enough to becalm Captain Morgan's pleasure boat. Last night, after dishes, Rhiannon and I sat on the kitchen floor for our own private listening party. When the so-many-time-changes-I-think-we-must-be-in-a-doctor-who-episode intrumental track came on ("The Main Monkey Business"), Rhiannon started head-banging. Not because she wanted the song to stop, but because she really liked the 9/7 time signature and minor chord progressions and diminished fifths. Or something. She really grooved on it. And that, my friends, warmed my heart like so many burning Eagles albums.


Rhiannon. Progressively cute.


Andrew (Papa)