Rhiannon Illustrated


Unpacking my office, I came across the illustrated version of the story I related to you back on August 24. Note that the plot is more or less the same, but the environment is a bit different. Like any good myth, it can be told in many, many ways.

Rhiannon. Cute in syndication.

Andrew (Papa)

A Rhiannon Story

When I am away from Rhiannon for any length of time, I like to think back on how I put her to bed. I started drawing little pen-and-ink cartoons of her when she turned three (the illustration above is from this evening), with her big noggin and her sprouts of hair gathered by "pretties" that make her ponytails stick straight out. I have photo documentation of this which I'll post sometime soon.

These cartoons are inspired by stories that I tell her at bedtime. When she's all tucked in, had her drink of water, and is ready for a visit from Morpheus, she usually asks, "Dad, can I have a Rhiannon story?"

"Sure," I say, and then scramble like mad to think of something that she'll enjoy seeing as she is always the protagonist, and is occasionally of the Quality. So she relaxes then, her eyes wide with anticipation, because sometimes she thinks the stories are really, REALLY good, and then I've dug myself a pretty deep hole to try and top what I told her on a previous night. So I stall a bit, which is actually great fun for her, always starting the story in the same way, but mixing up the words.

"Once a time upon..."

Giggles. "No, dad, it's 'once upon a time!'"

"Oh. Erm. Well. OK. Once upon a time, there was a girl named Bob."

"NO!" More giggles. "Her name was Rhiannon!"

"Oh! OK. Once upon a time, there was a girl named Rhiannon..."

Rhiannon smiles because I am telling it right this time, but she also knows there's more to the game...

"...who had bright, blue hair and long, yellow eyes."

BIG laughs. "NOOOO!!! She has long, blonde hair and bright, blue eyes!"

I smack myself in the forehead. "Gah! OK. OK. Sorry."

I speed up the tale.

"OnceuponatimetherewasagirlnamedRhiannon and she had long, yellow hair, and bright, blue eyes. And one day..."

(this is where she settles down because what's coming next is completely new to both of us.... The following story was the second one I ever told her.)

"...and one day she was blowing bubbles outside with her friends."

Rhiannon smiles at this. She adores blowing bubbles, outdoors, indoors, in the bath.... Anyway...

"She was having such a good time when all of a sudden..."

Rhiannon's eyes get bigger.

"...when all of a sudden she blew a bubble and Kitty was inside! Kitty flew up and up and up in her bubble."

Giggles. "What else, dad?"

"So Rhiannon blew another bubble and Daisy was inside!"

More giggles. Daisy was the neighbor's beagle. "What else, dad?"

"Rhiannon kept blowing these big, big bubbles, and Anthony was inside (remember Anthony, dear reader?), and Angelina, and Briana, and Pete, and Brandi, and..."

Rhiannon has totally lost it at this point, with all of the neighbor kids (collectively called "The Petes") and their pets flying high above the street.

I continue. "And then Rhiannon blows ANOTHER big bubble and then SHE's inside it, and up and up and up she goes into the sky."

Rhiannon stops laughing for a minute. "How does she get down?"

"Well, when the bubbles got too high to float, they started popping, and all the animals and kids started to fall, but fairies came and caught them and helped them to land safely."

"Oh! And Rhiannon, too?"

"Yes, they helped Rhiannon, too."

Relief. "That was a good one, dad."

"Thank you, Rhiannon."

"You're welcome. Good night."

Kisses, and a big, big hug.

"Tell me another one tomorrow, dad."

"Okay." Erk. What will I think of next?

Rhiannon. Bubbly. And cute.

Andrew (Papa)

Rhiannon Calling


Rhiannon has a cell phone (although I have been trying hard to get her to call it a "mobile" -- pronounced "moe-baeeeil" as they say in the United Kingdom and other civilized places). It's not a real phone. It's plastic, light-blue and purple, with a picture of Ariel on it (from Disney's The Little Mermaid). Just the thought of Ariel using a phone under water makes me wonder about the physics of how that might work, and I keep failing to come up with an answer other than, "it wouldn't". So instead, I will suspend my disbelief (and yours) and continue.

Rhiannon's phone is a flip-phone. She opens it and the top half is a mirror (she loves this feature), and the bottom half has a touchpad. When you open the phone, it rings, making you look like some kind of cell phone (sorry -- mobile) savant who always anticipates incoming calls. The touchpad does have separate buttons for each number (unlike her first mobile which she lost at school along with her fake iPod and fake 21yo i.d.).

On many occasions, she will abruptly stop talking to a grown-up or friend, say, "I have to take this," open the phone, let it ring, and then carry on a conversation. At times, these can be quite detailed as she pauses to let her phantom friend reply, empathize, and then it's back to Rhiannon to conclude the call with, "let's play sometime". Then back to the original conversation.

The other day she was on the couch with her Ariel phone open, mashing buttons hell-bent-for-leather.

"Rhiannon, what are you doing?" I asked.

"Texting, dad."

Rhiannon. Cute by the numbers.

Andrew (Papa)

Short-Shirted



Today when I spoke to Rhiannon she asked me a question:

"Dad? Do you have Miss Mark's phone number?"

Well, that was a loaded question. What would mommy think if dad had the phone number of a 22-year-old, college-fresh, enthusiastic teacher? (I digress.) But I remembered that we had been given a sheet last week with contact info on it for Rhiannon's school.

"Yep -- I think mom has the number. Why?"

"I should call her one morning before school starts."

Hmm. "Why's that, Rhiannon?"

"I need to see if it's short-shirt day."

"What day?"

"Short-shirt day. When all the girls where short shirts and have to wear a hoobie bra underneath." (Rhiannon has always called brassieres "hoobie bras").

OK. I'll play along. "Well, maybe we could call the hoobie bra hotline, Rhiannon."

"What's a 'hotline'?"

"That's a number you call when you need information on something."

"Oh. Maybe you have Miss Ellen's number instead."

Rhiannon. Not short on cuteness.

Beatlemania!

Move over, princesses! Here come...The Beatles! Liverpool's favorite sons are now in heavy rotation on Rhiannon's MP3 player (yes, she has one; doesn't every four-year-old?). Her favorite Beatles album? Help! Her favorite Beatles song? "Help!" Her favorite Beatles movie? Help! That being said, she know all of the words to "I am the Walrus", "Savoy Truffle", "Let it Be", and dozens of other tunes. Her favorite Beatle? Ringo (although, like her mother, she has a soft spot for Paul).

I'd like to take credit for introducing her to the Fab Four by sneaking Sergeant Pepper's into her CD player one night when she was two, which informed her taste in strawberries, but I think that Beatlemania is in her DNA courtesy of the Philipp side of the family. Me, I'm a Beach Boys fan and think Pet Sounds captures the zeitgeist of American culture and the zenith of pop music composition in North America much like Sgt. Pepper's did for Europe (and frankly the rest of the planet). But enough about me.

This morning Rhiannon wanted to sit with me to play computer games which she knows she can get to via Google.

"Dad, let's Google," she says.

"OK. What shall we Google?"

"Beatles games."

"OK. Let's have a look."

So we type in "Beatles online games" and come up with a couple. The first one we went to was actually a Flash animation featuring "Come Together". It's quite good. During the video, all of the Beatles make pixelated appearances. She knew who Paul was right away:

"There's Paul, dad! He's the one not wearing any shoes!"

She doesn't notice the bedroom eyes. She goes straight for the iconography like a good little art historian. This astonishes me. I know it shouldn't, but how many other four-year-olds pick up on this? So we watch the video and sing along until it ends and Rhiannon wants to know what's next.

While this video was quite cool, her favorite Beatles game is text-based, and you can play it by clicking here.

The first time we went through, she was the most like John. This made her giggle. I played and was most like Paul (even though my fave is George).

"I can't wait to see what Beatle I am tomorrow, dad," she says.

"Me neither, kiddo."

Rhiannon. Platinum cute.

Tutti Ta Hula



Rhiannon's got a brand new dance. She learned it in school where, as the astute reader may have discerned, they do not teach fractions. Instead they teach this: "Tutti Ta".

The lyrics to this song are:

Ah tutti ta ah tutti ta ah tutti ta taaaaah
Ah tutti ta ah tutti ta ah tutti ta taaaaah
Thumbs out!

[repeat chorus]

Now, after each chorus, something else gets added to the mix. The last verse is as follows:

Thumbs out!
Elbows back!
Feet apart!
Knees together!
Bottoms up!
Tongue out!
Eyes closed!
Turn around!

It's like the chant is part of a Dionysiac mystery cult, something straight out of A Secret History, but in this class nobody dies, goes nuts, and it's well, actually kind of fun. Donna Tartt could have learned something from this song and would have maybe switched to something not involving writing of any kind. Listen to the song too much and one develops cavities in the brain.

Anyway, Rhiannon performed this song and dance this evening. Wearing pink flip-flops, skort, pink shirt screenprinted with "Pinkie's Surf Shop", a grass skirt and a bikini top composed of nylon cord and two, white plastic shells. I kid you not. "Tutti Ta" Hawaiian style. Somehow she'll turn this into rocket science or brain surgery or both (which would be really odd if you think about it for too long).

But watching her there, hamming it up, singing the song, shaking her bon-bon, the rustle of the grass skirt keeping time, I could see her there, almost, at the Kennedy Center Honors to perform that old childhood chestnut, "Tutti Ta", for the president of the United States.

Rhiannon. Tutti Cutey.

Where the Boys Are


Rhiannon, aged "four and seventeen quarters" (her reckoning), is Trouble, "Trouble with a capital 'T'", as Grandaddy sings in "Lost on Yer Merry Way".

Exhibit A:

We had a pre-birthday dinner with Rhiannon at one of her three favorite restaurants, Red Robin (the other two being Chili's and the Palms -- kidding about that last one, but she does dig on Chuck E. Cheese) at which she eschews chopped cow in favor of cheese pizza. Taking a break from her prima piatti to sip on peach nectar spiked with "white Pepsi" (Sprite), she engaged us in polite conversation:

"Jaden took his shirt off in the bathroom at school today." (giggles)

"Why was that, Rhiannon?"

"Emma asked him to."

"I see."

"And then I kissed him."

Forks down. "You kissed him? With his shirt off? In the boy's bathroom?"

Rhiannon giggles again. "No. We all have the same bathroom."

"But you kissed him." Reality is sinking in. "And he had no shirt on."

"Yeah." Giggles again. "He's my new boyfriend."

Papa (me) puts his hand to his head. Readers of this blog might recall that Rhiannon was (and is) still married to Anthony, her toddlerhood sweetheart boy-next-door. They got married at Chuck E. Cheese in Kenosha. He gave her an enormous plastic diamond ring, and she gave him bling to wear around his neck, a plastic gold chain with "$" suspended from it. They danced and played games and ate pizza. I am happy to say they were apart on their wedding night. I know kids today are way more advanced with that stuff than I was (and still am), but holy crow.

"Anthony's a wife-beater," Rhiannon used to say (I am not making this up). "I like Jaden now."

Who knows? Hunter might be next. Or maybe Haley. It is the 21st century after all....

Rhiannon. Tartly cute.

Papa (Andrew)

Pikawatchamacallit

Today Rhiannon found a brand new sticker book in the parking lot. She loves sticker books. She loves to peel each sticker out one-by-one, decorating the cover art with the tiny adhesive things, making sticker-pictures on blank, white paper (what we used to call "typing paper" back in the day), of princesses, weddings, and, more recently, of corpse brides. Nothing quite says "sticker fun" like a reanimated jilted lover left at the altar and later left for dead. But wait, I am mixing metaphors, media, and genres here. Back to the business at hand.

The sticker book that Rhiannon recovered was for Pokemon, or, more specifically, for Pikachu, one of Japan's subtle responses to the U.S. market in retaliation for Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Except this time, it's my kid's head that's getting irradiated via the tube courtesy of the most viral marketing tool ever devised. Pikachu looks like this (for the one reader who does in fact live in a cave and likes it that way):

So tonight Rhiannon gets out her new sticker book and looks at the cover. She then looks at me. Back at the cover. Back at me.

"Dad?" she asks.

"Yep."

"I don't know what this is. It's half-cat...half-squirrel...and half every other animal I can think of. Cheetah cheeks. WTF?"

Okay, okay, I added the "wtf" business, but she did say all the rest. And truthfully, Rhiannon, I haven't a clue what that Pikachu is either. But I do know that you could stand to work on your fractions. What are they teaching you in kindergarten anyway?

Rhiannon. Cute like Yogi Berra.

Andrew (Papa)

Star Wars! Star Wars?

Rhiannon has discovered Star Wars. Not episodes 1-3. Please. No, we have shown her the real deal, starting with Episode IV: A New Hope, all the way through Jedi. She quotes from the movies: "I'm someone who cares for you, someone who loves you" (from when Princess Leia releases Han Solo from his carbonite block). So, as a dad who grew up with these flicks on the big screen courtesy of MY dad having the foresight to see that Star Wars was flippin' cool and that HIS five-year-old kid was going to the show, and we saw it three times in a row, I wholly encourage Rhiannon's exploration of the Dark Side (and yes, even Ewoks).

So...that being said...Rhiannon has no Star Wars action figures (I gave all of mine to my brother), we now play Star Wars with -- forgive me Lucasfilm, Ltd. and Kenner Toys -- Barbie dolls and dolls from the Hannah Montana show. You might be surprised to learn that Jabba the Hut, the meanest intergalactic MoFo evah, is represented by Rhiannon with her Oliver doll from Hannah Montana. Yep, this guy is the B.A.M.F. of the universe:


So Barbie is Princess Leia, but blonde. Another Barbie is Chewbacca, also blonde. A Ken plays Han Solo. Another one is Luke Skywalker. And sometimes they play out the plots in the films. But mostly, they have Star Wars...er...weddings. Sigh.

Rhiannon. Intergalactically cute.

Andrew (Papa)

Rehab!




Rhiannon's musical tastes are changing. Instead of the usual suspects of Laurie Berkner, Dan Zanes, and Raffi, she is now into the Beatles, Deathcab for Cutie, and, erm, Amy Winehouse. Specifically Winehouse's ubiquitous, eponymous single, "Rehab". Rhiannon lives for this song to come on the radio. She begs for us to play it in the apartment. And she sings back-up to Winehouse, too, delivering the "No, no, no" in her deepest voice.

Now, you may correctly wonder what a nearly-five-year-old listening to "Rehab" might take away from a song about fighting addiction. Well, the answer would be, "quite a lot." For those of you who know Jayni and me (Papa), you know that we are not afraid of the tipple. There is usually beer in the fridge and at least one bottle of red, white, and "other", plus a selection of Scotch and other goodies for mixing. Earlier in the week, Rhiannon came home from school to see that the bottles were all atop the cabinets so that even a tall person would need a step-stool to reach them.

Rhiannon looked at her mom and said, "that's good that you can't reach the bottles anymore, mom."

"Why is that?"

"Because if you drink wine you have to go to rehab! Like Amy WINEhouse. You can't drink wine anymore! Ever!"

Will we send Rhiannon to Cute-Rehab? No, no, no.