Apple Brown Rhiannon


Rhiannon called me the other night when I was visiting in Illinois:

Dad: Hello?
Rhiannon: What's your favorite apple product?
Dad: ...
Rhiannon: WHAT'S YOUR FAVORITE APPLE PRODUCT!
Dad: Um, apple pie.
Rhiannon: Okay.

What was that about? The last thing I expected was to be put on trial for my choice of apple treats, but there it was. Was the Door County apple cartel behind this? Rival Washingtonians?

Apparently neither. Rhiannon's school had Apple Week last week, and students (and their families) were required to bring in examples of all of the different products made with apples. This included scary apple-core dolls and food like applesauce, um, apple pie, er, apples (red), ah, apples (not red). Rhiannon had to bring in apple butter (which I believe is collected from stud apples found on select trees). And then the class had some kind of apple orgy in which every kid tried every apple product.

Dad: Rhiannon, what's YOUR favorite apple product?
Rhiannon: Apple pie.

This is a blatant untruth. She eschews pie. She does eat applesauce (when under pressure), but mostly likes miniature Pink Lady apples, or apples covered in caramel. When she was two-and-a-half, she ate an entire apple, seeds, stem, and all, while riding along in the back seat to the store. Nothing was left excepting the sticky evidence around that terrible maw.

"Rhiannon? Where's the apple?"
"All gone."
"All of it?"
"Yes."

I wonder if, when Rhiannon turns 21, her opinion of apple products will change. One wonders also who the parent was who brought in Applebarrel Schnapps for the teachers that day, and what happened to the bottle.

Rhiannon. Ciderhouse Cute.

Andrew (Papa)

Treat or treat!


Today is September 27. This means it's only 33 days until Halloween. And to Rhiannon, that means that it's time to get cracking re: costumes and candy. This afternoon's activity was practice trick-or-treating. Rhiannon explained the rules:

"Dad?"

"Yes, Rhiannon."

She hands me a plastic, orange, pumpkin-shaped basket that could hold one gallon of candy at a time. On good years, we have filled it up three or more times. Since today is for practice, we will not bring the extra grocery sacks into which the overflow is poured.

"Dad, you take this pumpkin and knock on the door."

"Do I get a costume?"

Rhiannon thinks a moment. "Yes."

Uh-oh.

She comes back with pink, fluffy bunny ears that are mounted on a headband. Although I look fetching in them, the headband is small, and the ends dig into my skull. It feels like I am being attacked by an Easter-shaped crab.

Rhiannon retreats to her room and shuts the door. I approach and knock.

"Who is it?"

"Rhiannon, usually the house with the candy on Halloween opens the door when someone knocks because it's probably a kid coming to ask for candy."

"Oh."

Rhiannon opens the door.

"Trick or treat!"

Rhiannon laughs. "Don't you look special."

She says "special" as in "special kids take the short bus to school."

Rhiannon puts some candy in the pumpkin. I thank her, and she shuts the door.

"Do it again, dad!"

Here we go. We repeat the scenario about ten times before I beg her to give me the rest of the candy, and she obliges, which makes me think I should have begged about six times ago.

Now it is time to switch. Rhiannon puts my bunny ears on her head and also dons pink fairy wings. She leaves her room, and I close the door after her.

She knocks.

"Who is it?"

"Dad! Open the door!"

I comply. Rhiannon walks right in, heading straight for the candy bowl.

"Rhiannon, you shouldn't go into a stranger's house."

"You're not a stranger, dad."

Good point.

"What do you say?"

"Trick or treat!"

I give up some lewt and she vanishes. We repeat this another few times.

"Now it's time to eat it!"

Uh-oh. This practice candy is left over from LAST Halloween. So of course we sit down and get through a few pieces. It's pretty bad. But then, the houses in town aren't giving away Lindt balls. Unless we go to Scottsdale.

Rhiannon is satisfied for now, and we switch to coloring for the balance of the afternoon. We'll practice again tomorrow, and I wonder if Rhiannon will make me wear her blond Cinderella wig. Again. I'm getting to kind of like it.

Rhiannon. Cute sweet.

Andrew (Papa)

An Elephant Sat on Rhiannon...


Rhiannon and I went to the zoo today to give mom some quiet time to prepare for Monday's classes. As it was about 106F, we took a lot of breaks, sitting in the shade, drinking cold beverages.

On one such stop, we started singing the infectious song-that-never-ends by kids' music pariah, Raffi: "Willoughby Wallaby".

Now, when we first started, this wasn't too cute. I guess it was average cute. But not really cute. Rhiannon was singing about her friends:

Willoughby Wallaby wee.
An elephant sat on me.
Willoughby Wallaby woo.
And elephant sat on you.
Willoughby Wallaby wynn.
An elephant sat on Kwynn.
Willoughby Wallaby wariel.
An elephant sat on Ariel.

and so on...

BUT...

Rhiannon starts to mix it up:

Willoughby wallaby wayni.
An elephant sat on Jayni.
Willoughby wallaby wammy.
An elephant sat on grammy.

and then...

Willoughby wallaby woop.
An elephant sat on poop.
Willoughby wallaby wenosha.
An elephant sat on Kenosha.
Willoughby wallaby weets.
An elephant sat on the Petes.
Willoughby wallaby wessica wimpson
An elephant sat on Jessica Simpson.

The song keeps going and going and going and going, and the longer this elephant-induced apocalypse lasts, the funnier it gets, simply because it never ends. In my mind, I pretend we are controlling an elephant with voodoo-like ease, commanding it to sit wherever and on whomever we choose, and soon all of Rhiannon's friends are crushed, her teachers, classmates, towns, the entire state of Arizona, family, distant relatives, presidential candidates, evil academics, the Beatles. Oh, the humanity.

And then, the song is over as quickly as it was begun. We are off to see the meerkats, but first, the wallabys.

Rhiannon. Willoughby wallaby w00t. Rhiannon sure is cute.

Andrew (Papa)

Model Material


Rhiannon has always been comfortable in front of the camera. I have been photographing her since the time when she was half out of her mother, and probably have about 2,000 pictures of my favorite subject. Rhiannon is a card, and she's pretty, and has personality to burn, so I've always thought about having her model for print advertising, or doing commercials, or maybe a TV show or movie. I had a dream a few years ago where she won the Oscar for Best Actress, and who knows -- maybe one day that dream will become a reality. I'm happy with her just being a kid, or just being another astrophysicist or psychobiologist, but the opportunity to interview at a talent agency presented itself, so we decided to try it out.

One of Jayni's students is a model who is managed by One Source Talent, a known agency with offices in eight major markets. They place "talent" in fashion shows, videos, TV shows, independent and major motion pictures, and have channels like NBC, Fox, Disney, and HBO regularly calling in for casting. One of the big mysteries of how to break in to acting/modeling was where to start, so Jayni's student pointed us to the website and also gave us the scoop on what to expect, how the interviews work, and jobs.

First, though, I talked to Rhiannon:

"Hey, Rhiannon!"

Rhiannon looks a little perturbed at being interrupted from doing princess magnet dress-up.

"What." It is not a question.

"Would you ever want to be on TV on a commercial or something, or in a movie or a magazine."

"Sure." She goes back to playing.

"Okay. I'll see if we can meet with somebody to find out how to do that."

"Okay."

So I go online and click the "Apply Now" link. I fill out basic information and then attach the above photo. Twelve hours later I get a phone call. It's the agency.

"Would Rhiannon be able to make a 1:00 interview on Saturday?"

"Tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"Sure."

"Great. Please have her wear form-fitting clothing for measurements, and try to arrive fiteen minutes early. Do NOT be late. And no flip-flops or gymshoes. You'll be meeting with Dmitri. This is not an open call. You must provide this invitation number to get in."

She gives me the number. I hang up and go find Rhiannon.

"Guess what?"

"What?" She is sunnier this time, and is reading books. I mean, I think she is really reading them.

"The TV people thought you were really pretty in that picture, so they'd like to see you. They'll ask you a couple of questions. Do you still want to try it out?"

"Sure." Back to her books.

Today, we left the house at noon for our 1:00 appointment. Rhiannon, freshly bathed, dressed in culottes, pink sandals, and a Mexican blue-and-white flowered shirt, is quietly singing in the back. I think it's "Wonderwall" again.

The 101 is of course closed, and all traffic is diverted onto city streets. I call the agency from the car to say we are running on-time, not early. No sympathy. "OK, but don't be late." Great.

We finally arrive at the Scottsdale Corporate Executive Building, get to the lobby entrance, and find that the door is locked. It's 1:00, 104 outside, and we can't get in. Then we notice other people on the other side of the building walking in. So we go around, climb the stairs, and get to the office. Apparently lots of people had trouble getting here today. Dmitri even had trouble getting here on time today. We are all relieved.

We fill out a form for Rhiannon that says she's OK with having her picture taken, with maybe getting on TV, and that she is not working for a rival agency. We swear this, and then settle in with about twenty other people to watch The Devil Wears Prada. Ick. But Rhiannon is smitten with Anne Hathaway whom she just saw in Ella, Enchanted. So she is okay with the video.

In a moment, it's time to get measured, which consists of us telling the girl that Rhiannon is 37.6 pounds and is 42" tall, that she is just growing into a size 10 shoe, and wears size 6 (for kids). The tape doesn't even come out. Rhiannon's picture is taken -- she stands where she is told and gives a genuine smile. We return to the seating area to watch Anne Hathaway get abused.

In a moment, the receptionist comes in and turns off the movie. She introduces us to the talent agent whose name is -- I am not kidding here -- Dmitri Metropolis (Metropoulos?). He is about 5'10, tanned, muscled, and about 35, with perfect black hair, Diesel jeans, expensive, black shoes, and a black t-shirt. Modest gold chains. He speaks for about fifteen minutes on how hard this is going to be, that the exit is behind us, that his (and our) time is valuable, and who his clients are. He loves his talent, though.

After this, we wait a few minutes, and then the receptionist comes out and calls three names. Rhiannon is at the top of the list. The three of us walk into Dmitri's office of glass and not much else. We sit down and Rhiannon is asked to remain standing.

D: Hi! What's your name?
R: Rhiannon.
D: How old are you?
R holds up five fingers.
D: Wow! What's your favorite color?
R: Gold.
D: Gold color, or gold things?
R: Things.
D: Do you like jewelry?
R nods.
D: What's your favorite movie?
R: Sleeping Beauty.
D: Aurora is sure pretty in that movie.
R: Yeah.
D: Do you have any pets?
R: Yes. I have two kitties. One is black and one is orange. Tony is the boy orange cat and Clio is the girl black cat.
D: Do you like one more than the other?
R: I like them both.
D: You're really cute. Would you ever want to be on TV?
R's eyes get big. She nods vigorously.
D: On a scale of one to ten, with ten being the highest, what would you say?
R thinks a moment. "Ten".
D: 20?
R laughs. "20!"
D: Okay. He laughs, too.

Dmitri hands us a sheet of paper. "I want her to come back for a second interview with me and another person. She's really cute, so have her dressed like this next time. Bring 5-10 recent pictures."

And that's it. Rhiannon leaves happy, and we have an appointment for 6:00 in the evening on Tuesday to see if she might get a job on a show or in a commercial. We'll see.

Rhiannon hums in the back of the car. "They're going to put me in the moooovieeees..."

Rhiannon. Officially cute.

Andrew (Papa)

Comment dit-on 'Gelato'?


Rhiannon had her five-year check-up at her new pediatrician's today. Mom was at school for classes and an evening archaeological society event, so it fell to me to take Rhiannon to the doctor, and then dinner out, and ice cream. Rhiannon is smart. And as she knew that the treats were forthcoming, she began questioning me in the car.

"Am I going to get a shot?"

Drat. She was going to get THREE.

"Maybe. We'll see what the doctor says." Yeah. Pass the blame to the physician. Dad is then blameless. Genius! Of course, this will engender a mistrust of medical staff and a predisposition not to go to the physician as they will be associated with pain, but hey! My conscience is clear!

"Will it hurt?"

"Maybe. It's like a little pinch. When I used to get shots, my mom used to tell me to say 'ouch! peaches!'"

Laughter. "Okay, dad."

We arrived, did the paperwork. A boy of about six came in with his dad.

"Hi!" Rhiannon said. Was this a new kissy boy?

Blank stare.

Rhiannon immediately turns to the father. "Does he talk?"

"Well, he talks a lot when there are not a lot of people around."

Here it comes. "There are four people. Four is not a lot of people."

"Ummm."

The nurse calls Rhiannon in. Thank goodness.

We sit in the waiting room and read books together. The nurse comes in and weighs and measures Rhiannon, takes her blood pressure. Rhiannon is a stringbean with a strong heart. 42" and 37.6 pounds. Her best friend Nicola in Wisconsin is five and weighs over 50. But the nurse is not concerned.

"She is just where she needs to be," she says.

She lets Rhiannon listen to her own heartbeat through the stethoscope.

"What does that sound like?"

"buh-buh buh-buh buh-buh buh-buh" in perfect time. The nurse is impressed. When she takes the blood pressure, she asks if Rhiannon feels okay in the cuff.

"It feels kinda good."

Rhiannon also gets a hearing test, which she passes. Now she has no excuse in pretending not to hear us when dinner is ready.

So far, no shots. Little does Rhiannon know that I have already sold her out, back at the front desk, turning in the paper from her school that says she needs her injections today. I feel like an informer, and the kicker is that I will have to hold her while she takes her medicine.

After the nurse leaves, a physician's assistant comes in and starts asking Rhiannon lots of questions. Because five-year-olds don't lie to authority figures like doctors, Rhiannon tells the bald truth. Thank goodness she has been taken care of.

PA: Rhiannon, can you tell me what you do in the car to stay safe?
R: Tell dad to leave the beer at home. [this is a JOKE]. She actually says "buckle".
PA: Do you sit in a booster seat in the car?
R: Yes.
PA: Do you eat lots of fruits and vegetables?
R: Yes. Sometimes I eat candy. [the cat is out of the bag now]
PA: That's OK. Everything in moderation. Can I see your teeth? [now she is looking for proof]

Rhiannon opens and smiles. Her teeth are perfect. And her ears and eyes. Her organs. And her "bits" which the doctor examines quickly after my permission.

"Rhiannon, you are a perfectly healthy girl."

"I know." As if she needed a doctor to tell her this.

The PA seems to be genuinely amused. And now the bad news.

"Rhiannon, we need to give you three shots today."

Instead of looking at me, saying "J'accuse!", Rhiannon takes this in stride, as if she was expecting bad news, prepared herself for it, and was not disappointed when it came.

"Okay," she says, and the PA leaves the room to fetch the nurse.

Rhiannon and I read more books. The nurse arrives with a tray.

"Okay, Rhiannon. I am going to give you three shots, but then I will give you two prizes."

I expect Rhiannon to ask for one prize per shot, but she does not. Rhiannon is rock-solid and clear-eyed. She smiles a little.

"Sit on your dad's lap and give him a big hug."

It's as if she's about to say good by as I am put on the train to Siberia. Rubbing alcohol is applied. Rhiannon turns her head from the needles to face the shuttered window. The first injection is done. Rhiannon didn't even flinch. Then the second. No reaction. She gets the third in the other arm, and still Rhiannon is motionless and calm.

"That's it?" she asks. She sounds incredulous.

"Yes. Would you like your prizes?"

"Okay." The nurse gives her a pink, beaded bracelet and a sugarfree lollipop.

"Thank you. My arm is bleeding," Rhiannon says calmly.

The nurse applies three Tasmanian Devil band-aids on her arms. Rhiannon looks disappointed that they are neither pink nor of princesses, that they are in fact boy band-aids, but she doesn't say anything. It's as if she had become fifty during this hour.

We walk to the car. It is five o'clock. Time to take her to dinner as part of her reward for being so good.

"I was brave, dad."

"Yes, Rhiannon. You were very brave."

"It didn't hurt at all."

"No. I guess it didn't. I am very proud of you. Where would you like to eat dinner? We can go anyplace you want."

I am hoping for a place with big food, ambience. She's been to those. She's liked them.

"OLD MCDONALD'S!"

Crap. A promise is a promise, so off we go. We eat. The toy she gets is a Madame Alexander miniature Wicked Witch of the West from The Wizard of Oz.

"Dad! I don't have this one!" Which is a miracle. As she has the rest of the collection.

So we eat and laugh and then she plays in the indoor playground with another boy a little younger than she is. They become fast friends. I let her play for almost an hour, waiting for her to tell me when she wants to go. With playtime, it's best to let the children go until they drop, go out on their own terms.

She comes to me a bit tired, but happy. Her band-aids are missing. She is ready for Part Two of the post-doctor treat.

"Can we get gelato now?"

How many five-year-olds do you know who knows a) what gelato is and b) how it differs from ice cream? I'm talking American kids, not those European kids who know 20 different kinds of cheeses by the time they are three and already have a sizeable wine collection of bottles they have already drunk by age six. I can count the number of kids on no hands.

So we go to Dulce Luna which is less than a mile from our apartment. Dulce Luna is an Italian-owned gelateria that serves twenty kinds of real gelato as well as assorted Italian coffee drinks, and reminds me of one of the places I used to go to in Vescovado di Murlo, minus the Communists.

Rhiannon orders up two scoops of Oreo gelato, and I forego the sweets (a first for me), and instead opt for a grande cappucino (12oz.) with NO sugar (the first time I have tried it this way), but lots of chocolate on top. Rhiannon is amazed at the size of the white mug and is delighted by the foam on top. She eats her gelato, and I sip my cuppa, and we chat. She is a delightful companion and a fun date.

We finish and it is dark outside. We drive home, feed the cats, and become domestic. She writes. I wash. And the day ends sweetly.

Rhiannon. La mia ragazza sveglia.

Andrew (Papa)

Girls Club


Regular readers of this blog know that Rhiannon is in Girls Club. Her cheer is:

"Gooooooooooooo Girls Club!"

Tonight, after we got home from a wonderful evening out (post to follow), I washed the dishes while she settled in with pen and paper.

"Dad? How do you spell 'girls'?"

"How do you think? What's it start with?"

"'G'."

"Right. Then what?"

"'U'."

Rhiannon is struggling with English vowels because they can all sound alike. Well, a lot of them can sound alike.

"Close. It's an 'i'."

"Okay."

And so, with some coaching from the resident orthographer, she writes up the 13 Rules of Girls Club. Rhiannon has always been the boss of something, or of someone. And now, with this Magna Carta, she can be the boss of both something and lots of someones. Well, at least four someones.

For those of you who cannot read five-year-old, I have transcribed her rules here, annotating as needed:

1 No lies
2 No putdowns
3 No nonos
4 No kittys [sic]
5 No bucs [sic -- unless she hates Tampa Bay]
6 No boys
7 No pretties
8 No books [I fret for the girls in the reading club]
9 No ink [apparently tattooed kindergartners are frowned upon]
10 No animals [sorry, Delta House]
11 No carrots [?]
12 No running
13 No [she has seen too many Capital One commericals -- damn you, David Spade!]

Hell hath no fury like Rhiannon. No. No. No.

Rhiannon. Officiously Cute.

Andrew (Papa)

Rhiannon Starts with "P"


Rhiannon brought her homework out this afternoon. I wish it was always this good. She begs to do her homework. I mean...she BEGS for it.

"PLEASE can I do my homework, dad?"

"Uh...no?"

"Dad! It's in my folder on the counter. There's coloring."

"Okay."

So we get the sheet of homework out. Today is all about "p". There are three rows each with a capital "P" and a lowercase "p" to trace, which she does instantly, Hannah Montana pencil clutched in a death-grip. She knows how to hold a pencil correctly, but she prefers the fist method.

"Otherwise it's all scribbly," Rhiannon says when I correct her. This is a child who has said "otherwise" since she was three. This is because she is a master negotiator and she has learned alternatives from her parents. "Eat your corn, otherwise there will be no Hannah Montana."

The corn gets eaten but quick (Texas phrase there).

Once Rhiannon has minded her "P"s ("Q"s are next week I am assuming, as this is a traditional school), she has to circle the pictures that begin with "P". On row one, she immediately gets stuck.

"'Bucket' does NOT start with 'P'".

"I think that's popcorn, Rhiannon."

"It doesn't look very much like popcorn."

"The artist is a hack, Rhiannon. Trust me. It's a bucket of popcorn."

"'Bucket' starts with 'B'!"

"Trust me. Circle it. 'P' for 'popcorn'."

"Okay".

She also circles a picture of a puddle.

Onto the next row and she's stymied again.

"'Apricot' starts with 'A'".

"I think that's a peach, Rhiannon."

"Why?" (she is always saying this, and in this context she has an excellent point).

"Um. Because this is a 'P' worksheet. So let's call it a 'peach'."

"Okay." She circles the apricot.

Final row.

"Dad, there's another bucket."

Sigh. She's right. But we are well in to learning about synonyms.

"I think it's a pail."

"Oh. But it looks like a bucket."

"You're right, but because we are doing the 'P' worksheet, it's a pail."

"OK."

No Child Left Behind? I think the worksheet's artist was.

"Can I color the pictures now please, dad?"

"Sure! But can I show you something first?"

Rhiannon is skeptical as if I am about to show her supper.

"OK. What is it?"

"Did you know that there are different alphabets?"

"No."

"And that in the Greek alphabet your name starts with 'P'?"

Rhiannon laughs. This is big fun.

"Here, let me write it out for you."

So I take the Hannah Montana pencil and write out her first name, commenting as I do so:

Ριαννον

"There's no 'h', so we just skip it. The 'R' looks like a 'P', and the 'a' looks like a fish, and the 'n's look like 'v's and do you know what 'o's look like?"

"No."

"'O's", I say.

This makes her laugh. "So in Greek, you spell your name 'rho iota alpha nu nu omicron nu'".

She is on the floor laughing, and I have officially blown her mind. She keeps the sticky note where I have written her name, though. And she accepts that other people must have other ways of communicating. We'll have more Greek lessons later. But for now, at her Arizona school, we have mastered the pronunciation of "tortilla". In Spanish, not Welsh. We are "p"s in a pod.

Rhiannon. Cute in any language.

Andrew (Παπα)

PS: Here's what I wrote, and then she copied it:

Medieval Time Out


On Saturday night, Jayni, Rhiannon, and I visited the Scottsdale residence of esteemed Arizona State University Professor of English, Dr. Bob Bjork, invitees to a party to welcome Medieval Studies faculty and graduate students. Originally Jayni was supposed to go to represent the History department and I would come along as moral support and to ingest as much free salmon, chicken wings, stuffed mushrooms, and Stella Artois as possible within a three-hour period. But I get ahead of myself.

Our babysitter bailed at the eleventh hour, so Jayni called the hostess, who teaches Shakespeare (classes, not the dead guy) at ASU, if Rhiannon could come. The answer was an enthusiastic yes as the Bjork family has a four-year-old daughter named Francesca. Thank heaven for little girls.

We arrived, and Rhiannon when straight for the nametags, wrote her name correctly in red marker, affixed it to her dress, and promtly went searching for Francesca. This is after perusing the 30-volume set of August Strindberg in the foyer, dipping into the fiesta-colored tortilla chips, and introducing herself to everyone, leaving Jayni and I a bit out of place as our social daughter made the rounds. I should make her business cards.

It turns out that Francesca was asleep, so Rhiannon made her self at home and ultimately ended up playing outside in a tiny playhouse that apparently almost cost the Bjorks their marriage. I suggested that perhaps they should have gotten their graduate students to do it as some sort of architectural history project. Alas, I was too late.

Rhiannon also brought along a stuffed kitty so she could have something to show Francesca. A note about said kitty. It looks alive. It is permanently curled in a too-cute position of sleeping, and has an internal bladder powered by batteries that make its chest rise and fall in imitation of sleep. Occasionally the thing purrs. Imagine everyone's shock when Rhiannon dropped it on the tile. So of course we said it was our dear cat Tuffy, dead these past ten years, that Rhiannon still sleeps with at night to keep him close.

We are sick people. And of course this made us all celebrities.

Francesca finally awoke and came down to meet Rhiannon. Unlike the other Bjork, she was not dressed in a swan outfit, but instead in a rough-and-ready party dress. Rhiannon was wearing a homemade dress (courtesy of a friend) with Cinderellas on it, so of course they hit it off, two too-cute girls up to no good.

While the grown-ups chattered away, Rhiannon played, and would come downstairs to inform us all of what she had found, not the least of which was a pink unicorn. "I'll drink what she's drinking," I said.

"Dad!" said Rhiannon. "It's REAL!"

And she was correct. The animal was rather small, but no one would confuse it for a stuffed cat, real or not. But it was pink. And had a horn. I found myself wondering, "but is it Medieval?"

Children, especially up to age five, are perfect for large gatherings in small spaces. Rhiannon was the most mobile of any of us as she navigated the legs of tables, chairs, and guests to get to the chips and the strawberries. Between she and Francesca, they must have consumed two bags of torilla chips and a flat of strawberries. Evidence the following morning confirmed this at home.

By the end of the evening, much by the grace of Rhiannon, we secured a play-date with the Bjorks. For the children, this will include dollies. And for the grown-ups, Jayni and one Dr. Bjork will plan a team-taught class on Shakespeare and the Classical tradition, while the other Dr. Bjork and I will explore the wonderful land of Scotch whilst discussing Medieval Latin. I will start studying now.

Rhiannon fell asleep in the car on the way home to the wonderfully husky voice of Cat Power singing the Oasis classic, "Wonderwall". Tucked in to bed later, she said that she had a wonderful time at the party and cannot wait to go back. May all her parties involve play, chips, strawberries, and pink unicorns, as she is surrounded by academics in love with old things. Although the party had a Medieval theme, her smile was a Renaissance one, as if she was one of Raphael's putti.

Rhiannon. Beatifically cute.

Andrew (Papa)

Curioser and Curioser

Rhiannon startled me today with a most-unusual request. We were having an action figure party when she all of a sudden stands up and closes the door. She looks at me very seriously.

"Dad?"

"Yes."

"I want you to do what I do, even if it's gross, OK?"

I think about this for a moment. Hmm. "Sure!"

Rhiannon smiles and immediately drops her pants.

"Rhiannon, I don't think I'm going to do that."

She is bottomless and a little angry.

"You have to! You PROMISED to do what I do!"

"No. I'm not taking my pants off."

"Dad!"

"No!"

"But when Kwynn and I did it, she took her pants off and I took mine off. It was FUN!"

Oh God. I held my ground.

"Rhiannon, if you want me to pick my nose, I will, but I'm not taking my pants of. Sorry."

She thinks about this for a minute, and then pulls her pants up.

"OK. Can we play with Barbies?"

"Sure."

And when Rhiannon plays Barbies, their clothes are off in an instant. So they can put different clothes on, of course.

Rhiannon. Nakedly cute.

Andrew (Papa)

eLearning with Rhiannon


For her fifth birthday, Rhiannon got her first laptop. You can see it by clicking here. Note that it is neither a Dell nor an HP. It is a Barbie. To be more specific, it is a Barbie Diamond Castle laptop. For ages 3-5. Now what would a three-year-old want with a pink laptop other that to chew on it, or use it as a stool in order to reach something better to chew on? We'll never know the answer to that question as Rhiannon got her laptop at five. Call her a late-adopter.

So what does said laptop do? It comes loaded with eleven pre-installed "games". Now, dad knows a little about eLearning (enough to avoid the hyphenated spelling), and a little about games, and in real life tries to make people believe him when he says that he has to play World of Warcraft as part of his job.

Anyway, these "games" are pixellated adventures featuring Barbie and an anonymous "friend" of Barbie (I secretly think Barbie is bi, but has Ken's eager approval on this score), a diamond castle, and a whole lot of noise. Apparently, makers of kids' electronics think that kids want a sound and light show. Wrong. They don't want this from Barbie. They want this from Pink Floyd. What kids (ages 3-5) want from a talking box is for it to tell them where mom and dad hid the Christmas presents this year, why Uncle Bob lives with Uncle Ned, and how to drive. Or rather, how to drive to McDonald's with the cash that the talking box has told them how to retrieve from another talking box called an ATM.

For those children who actually care about learning and letters, or taking orders from Barbie in-game like, "type the letter 'O' you knee-biting banshee" (I added this last part for comic effect), this laptop is perfect. And it actually seems to be working.

Rhiannon starts her day with a bowl of Cheerios, milk, a Disney multi-vitamin (now! with more princess flavor!), and her laptop. Much like dad in his home office. But while dad's PC talks to him quietly via the magic of the email, Rhiannon's is shouty and full of Casio-riffic monophonic "music"! But she loves it. And she plays along and types the right numbers and letters. If only the keyboard was QWERTY... I am writing Mattel a note. On the Barbie laptop.

These typing games, spelling games, addition and subtraction games, head games, war games, Olympic games, etc., do seem to wear thin on Rhiannon though. Occasionally she will exhibit computer "Turet's Syndrome" where, out of the blue, she'll yell, "that's what I typed in, LADY!" Barbie does not enunciate all that clearly, especially "C" and "Z", so Rhiannon is left scrambling for what to type. When pushed, Rhiannon fights back, and I wonder if Barbie won't end up with a pixellated black eye after Rhiannon has had enough of trying to spell "Czechoslovakia", which her maternal grandmother still thinks is an actual country. Perhaps it is wishful thinking.

After dinner, it's more laptop time, which is supplemented with books, dollies, blocks, and coloring. And Rhiannon understands already that there is no substitute for being read to by a real-live person, or that writing on paper can be so much more satisfying than typing "b-u-l-e-m-i-a" into a pink plastic talking box. Rhiannon drew princes and princesses tonight, and Wonder Woman, and a bunch of other people in dresses, and gave them names, and signed her work. No automated voice shouted or gave approval. No frenetic music played. Instead, pictures were passed around for coloring and have been added to the art stash which dad keeps hidden in his office for when Rhiannon is out of college and wondering what she was like as a kid. The Barbie laptop? No save/print features. That note to Mattel is getting longer.

Rhiannon. 5 TBs of Cuteness.

Andrew (Papa)

Fight Club


Rule Number One: You do not talk about Fight Club.

Rule Number Two: You do NOT talk about Fight Club.

But at Rhiannon's school, you CAN talk about Girls' Club. And you CAN sing the school fight song.

That's right. Rhiannon's school, grades K-5 (ages 5 - 10), has a fight song for when it's time to swing the ole Louisville slugger upside the heads of those good-for-nothing, no-good, two-bit, biznatches that have no earthly reason to call themselves a school just because they are learning their letters by scribbling in the dirt with sticks. And they wouldn't know a football if it him 'em in the pigskin.

*ahem*

Anyway, Rhiannon's school has a fight song. I wish I could tell you the lyrics, but when Rhiannon sings them, they come out sounding like something from Miley Cyrus. Which I am sure is not accurate. BUT, the melody IS clear. Do you know the Notre Dame fight song? Well, Notre Dame got the tune from Rhiannon's school. Have a listen by clicking here.

As for Girls' Club, Rhiannon's into that, too, and will do the cheer at the mere suggestion of Girls' Club, girls, clubs, cheers, chairs, hubs, squirrels. You name it, she'll cheer for it:

"Gooooooooooo...........Girls' Club!!!!!!!!!"

Yep. That's it. Oh, and she throws her hands in the air when she shouts this out.

So fair warning to those "students" on the East Saiiiiiiieeeed. Rhiannon's got a cheer and a fight song and she's not afraid to use them. Oh, that and a kickin' eyepatch. And wigs. She'll effin' take y'all to Penzance, yo. Or back home to play Barbies (she's kind of a softie).

Rhiannon. Cute enough to fight for.

Andrew (Papa)

Rollin' and Tumbin'

(not Rhiannon)

Rhiannon's best friend at school invited her to go with her to The Little Gym for a 5:00 PM class today. Now, understand that Rhiannon has never been that graceful, that she has only begun to run in a straight line, always knocks stuff over (in fact, one of her favorite games at home is when she plays "Knockover" with dad -- she throws herself bodily into him and they both go tumbling over). During the Olympics, Rhiannon watched the replay of women's gymnastics which included the wee Shawn Johnson (see photo above), and she thought that after swimming, that maybe gymnastics would be okay to try.

Rhiannon lasted about two months in ballet at age three -- she never listened to the instructor (a 16yo Mussolini in a leotard), and always wanted to dance a mix of Aurora-in-the-forest and Laura Petrie. This did not fly in Kenosha, and Rhiannon was kicked out for...um...being a kid.

So today we tried gymnastics. Rhiannon wore her orange and pink camo skort and her goldenrod "Arizona State Princess" t-shirt. I hung out with one of the dads while the six girls and two boys, all between 5 and 6, filed in. Two gymnasts coached the kids who warmed up, ran around, and ultimately got to try out the different equipment including the vault, uneven bars, balance beam, plus tumbling blocks and "cheese" for cartwheels.

Rhiannon adored balance beam, and did great on it, not falling off, and her coach showed her how to sweep her feet gracefully along the bar, and then to jump off onto the mat, landing on both feet without falling over. Hallelujah.

She also loved the apparatus with the single, horizontal bar. She hung there, legs wrapped around it as her hair touched the mat below. She almost did a full flip, but reconsidered it because of the height she was off of the ground.

"Well, where's the cute," some of you may be asking. Rhiannon, true to her free spirit, started tumbling on her own, and ended up doing a rather agressive somersault onto a rather thin mat. She started crying, and all I could do was watch through the window as she sat up, comforted by her coach. She asked Rhiannon if she wanted to stop, and Rhiannon, trooper that she is, said no, and went back with the other children who wanted to fly in the air off of the jump-pad by the vault.

This last apparatus failed utterly for Rhiannon who is maybe 45 pounds dripping wet and could not generate the inertia to make the springs actually bend. Rhiannon ran and ran, hopped on the springboard, and...nothing. So instead she did a somersault on the floor in front of the board and felt pretty darned good about it.

When Rhiannon came out from class, she was all smiles and told me how fun it was.

"Dad, that was fun. I want to do it again next week."

"Okay, Rhiannon. We could do that. Why were you crying earlier?"

"I broke my back!"

"You did?"

"Yes! But I am better now. But I really, REALLY broke it."

"Can I see?"

I lift up the back of her shirt to check. All clear.

"You're okay, kiddo."

"Yeah. But I really broke my back."

Rhiannon. Durably cute.

Andrew (Papa)

World of Rhiannoncraft


I play World of Warcraft. I admit this freely, although I had to be dragged to the game kicking and screaming by a coworker who swore that this would be fun, especially since I completely dug Blizzard Entertainment's Diablo series (Diablo III is coming out soon!). She was right, of course, and I have been playing for over a year. I have two "toons" now: my "main" is a Level 70 Tauren Hunter named Philabovis (fakey Greek for "cow-lover" as Taurens are a race of minotaurs) who leads a Latin-speaking guild, Carpe Praedam (real Latin for "seize the booty") on the Feathermoon realm; my "alt" is a Level 2 Night Elf "dr00d" (druid) name Cliothalion (an amalgamation of the muses Clio and Thalia -- history and comedy) whom I shall begin levelling like crazy. But I'm not a geek. Honest!

Anyway, Rhiannon likes to "WoW" with me. She sits on my lap and directs, or makes comments about the action on-screen. Because Rhiannon is an aesthete, she loves Blood Elves, otherworldly hotties who are both vapid and vain, but reasonably decent in a fight. She loves to go to "Skeleton City" (aka Undercity) which is the city of the Undead populated by all kinds of spooky things, which gets back to her goth roots.

Probably her favorite thing to do, though, is feed Philabovis' pet, Roy. A little backstory: all hunters in WoW can have their own pets (as well as "familiars", oddities like my "Ancona Chicken" which is a hoot because I work regularly with Latin goddess Dr. Ronnie Ancona). Philabovis' first pet was named "Stavros", but didn't last too long as my in-game mentor suggested a more suitable, low-level kitty from the fields of Mulgore to serve as adoring companion. Hence "Roy". I chose the name "Roy" because an old friend used to say that she had an old friend who called everyone and everything "Roy". Seemed reasonable that I should do the same, although in hindsight, I should have named the cat "Philabovisbovis" (you do the Greek).

Anyhoo, in WoW, you must feed your pets. Not feeding them will make them fight poorly, resent you, and they will eventually leave, never to return. So whenever Rhiannon is on my lap, she makes me feed Roy. A lot. We feed him all kind of meat (and nothing but) including delights like Talbuk Venison, Raptor Ribs, and even Mystery Meat (this is TRUE!). So Roy sits and snacks. Thank goodness Philabovis keeps him constantly fighting to work off those frequent snacks.

Occasionally Rhiannon, lap-sitting and engrossed in making NPCs (non-player characters) talk to her, will spot The Enemy. The Enemy is usually some kind of two-legged baddie, off doing evil business, or, in the case of much of WoW, just standing around looking evil and bad-ass and up to no good. So Rhiannon helps me send Roy off on a tear, followed by slow Philabovis (handy with a bow, but not very quick), to take the pine to said evil peon. And of course, after the kill, it's phat lewt time (no, Phat Lewt is not another regrettable George-Lucas-created Star Wars minor underling, but is, instead, a phrase meaning "good treasure" -- praedam if you will).

So because Rhiannon loves dress-up, whenever we find new gear, especially new armor, gloves, pants, what have you, Phil has to try them on and parade them around, while Roy does the catwalk. Sigh. I guess looking good is just as important as having 100% crit. Rhiannon's prolly right.

/crai

Rhiannon. Epicly cute.

Andrew (Papa)

It's My Party (and I can Kiss if I want to)


Rhiannon had her official fifth birthday party yesterday, the kind where there are fifteen thousand children, awkward parents, shrieking, pizza, cake, and Hannah Montana. But you know, it was fun and fine. Rhiannon's best friend in kindergarten, Rylee, has parents who own a toy store and party place in Phoenix called Toy Town. Outside of having parents who are archaeologists (Rhiannon), having parents who own a toy store has got to be the coolest thing ever. Or if you have an "uncle" with a California residence called the Neverland Ranch. Or not.

Anyhoo, we were the first to arrive, bringing a ginormous Hannah Montana birthday cake complete with her face in the upper-right corner, a plastic guitar-cum-lip-gloss-container in the lower-left, and "Happy Birthday, Rhiannon" in neon blue frosting atop day-glo orange and pink frosting. No birthday cake in the history of birthdays (or cakes) ever looked so unnatural. Our hostess, Rylee's mom, set up platters of crackers and cheese and of fruit and vegetables, and later three pizzas from the Domino's conveniently located next door. But most of the food went overlooked by the children in favor of all that there was to do.

Toy Town has a play area of miniature houses and shops that are just big enough for children under six to play in. They are stuffed with costumes and play-cars and pretend mail, and play food, and all kinds of shoes and hats and exotic gowns fit for princesses, of which all of the girls were, mostly thanks to Disney and Barbie and other creators of plastic fun (excluding Ann Summers...).

Anyhoo, there were two boys who came to the party as well. You, dear reader, have already read of one Jaden who is the one who was shirtless and kissed by Rhiannon in the school washroom last month. But sadly, poor Jaden was initially overlooked in the presence of the boy's boy, Hunter. Hunter spent most of his time playing the part of Paul McCartney in A Hard Days Night, running from hordes of girls. Rhiannon, of course, led the charge, and the chant of "we love Hun-ter" and "let's get him, girls" followed by shrieks of adoration. Poor Hunter tried to escape the mob by bouncing into the bouncy castle and then showing off his 1337, Chuck Norris kung fu style, but it was no use. Love conquers all, even imitation Chuck Norris.

Later in the afternoon, after the girls had finally had enough of hunt-the-Hunter, everyone sat down for cake. After every couple of bites, Rhiannon would excuse herself and go change in the dress-up store, returning in any variety of floor-length gowns. And when she was not changing, she was kissing. Her friends, eager to see a show, would shout, "kiss Jaden, kiss Jaden!", and Rhiannon would eagerly oblige. And Jaden would giggle and accept. And Hunter, at five himself, seemed visibly relieved. I have a feeling that twenty years from now, Hunter will actually want to be chased by a bevy of beauties, trapped in a castle. But that borders on Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Which is not necessarily a bad thing.

So Rhiannon's party consisted of pizza, frolicking, frosting, presents, lots of clothes, and lots of bouncing. Oh, and smooches, which, at age five, seems completely natural and cute. But I fret a little for ten years from now. Oh. I fret a lot.

Rhiannon. Kissably cute.

Andrew (Papa)

Goth Girrrl


Rhiannon is a goth. The above image proves it. Part of our after-school routine is to play online dressup games which we find via her favorite search engine, Google. Now, on these dressup sites, there are subcategories for emo, goth, and, wait for it...goth princesses. No lie. So she picks these sites to visit. She built the above girl with one of them.

Her goth girls are always thin. She always picks out black clothes for them to wear, but typically chooses short, black kilts, thigh-high black leather boots, bustier or halter top, and lots of skulls. The finished products are usually blonds, but she'll choose black hair in a pinch.

Speaking of, we were in the grocery store and were in the haircare/cosmetics aisle when Rhiannon (she is five, remember) points to a box of hair dye. It's dark, dark brown.

"Dad, I want to color my hair."

Stunned silence.

"Dad, I want dark brown hair."

"Rhiannon, your blond hair is beautiful."

"Dark brown is beautiful, too."

"Okay. What about black?"

"Yes. Black is beautiful, too. But I want dark brown."

"Well, not today. We have other things to do and we only have a bit of money for groceries. Maybe one day."

"Okay". She is obviously disappointed.

Other indicators that she is a goth:

She adores Tim Burton movies.
She is pale, even in Arizona.
While she likes all kinds of music, there are just some days where the only thing that satisfies is a heaping dose of Bauhaus.
She plays alone in her closet a lot.
Her favorite girls/shows/cartoons/coloring all have to do with ironic loners. Or princesses.
She likes me to hold her upside-down.

I'm sure there's more.

Rhiannon. Cute. In a gothic way.

Andrew (Papa)

Working Out with Dad


Rhiannon and I have a new routine. Now that I am in Phoenix, I am keeping Illinois hours, so I work from 6:30 to 3:00 everyday (and more at night). This allows me to pick Rhiannon up from kindergarten, and I've got about three hours of quality time with her before mom gets home. So what to do with all that time? Well, dear old dad rocks a desk all day, and has done so for almost thirteen years. Post-grad-school, I weighed 165. I now weigh 217. My ideal weight? 185. So, it's gym-time for me. I hope to be at 200 by Thanksgiving.

I invite Rhiannon to come along. "Hey, Rhiannon?"

"Yeah, dad?"

"Let's go exercise! And then we can go swimming!"

Rhiannon is absolutely jubilant at this. She saw people working out last night at the pool, and has wanted in, in, in.

"Dad?"

"Yes?"

"I need to put on my special workout clothes."

"Okay..."

Me: swimtrunks, Latin t-shirt (yes, I have them...), socks, shoes (those are called "trainers" in the UK btw), water.

Rhiannon: hot-pink Hannah Montana swimsuit (sigh), Ariel water shoes, and a hoodie that would make Rocky Balboa proud. Or maybe a little silly because it is kind of small.

Off we go to the gym.

"Which way?"

"This way."

"This way?"

"Yes. That way."

"OK."

We unlock the gym door and walk in. It is empty. Apparently people in Arizona are at work at 3:30 in the afternoon. Go figure. Anyway, the gym has two treadmills, two elliptical cycles, one stationary bike, two Nautilus machines, and two racks of freeweights. There is also a yoga mat and a big, pink yoga ball that's about two feet across. Guess what Rhiannon goes to first.

Rhiannon flops on the ball and is abruptly bounced away at a comically awkward angle, Ariel shoe arcing through the air, Rhiannon headed in the opposite direction.

Rhiannon gets up laughing. "Let's do it again!"

So I let her literally bounce off the walls while I get on the treadmill to get rid of pound no. 1. Rhiannon, always an observant child, stops her catapulting and steps onto the other treadmill, hits the green "Quick Start" button, and is off to the races.

"Dad, this is too slow."

Dad, less than 0.1 km into the run, stops, goes over to Rhiannon's treadmill, dials up a manual pace of 1.0, and starts the machine for her.

"TOO SLOW!!!"

Okay...how about 3.0.

"DAD, THAT'S TOO FAST!!!"

"It's a running machine, Rhiannon. Run!" I am half-joking with her. But she does a little bit and then decides to play on the elliptical machine instead.

I go back to my "run".

Rhiannon is having a hard time gripping the handles to her machine, and settles for gripping the front bar and stomping on the foot platforms. She is so light that nothing happens. So she goes off and climbs on the stationary bike.

"Dad?"

I am 0.2 km into my run. "What?"

"I can't reach the pedals!"

This from a girl who is scared to death of anything on two wheels.

"Okay."

I make some adjustments, but it's not enough, so she decides to play on the yoga ball some more while I get back to my run. It's quiet for about five minutes as she fiddles. I then hear a few clanks, and turn around to see Rhiannon lying down on a bench in the middle of the room with a 10-pound dumbbell on her chest. She is trying to press it, succeeds, and then the weight goes off-center and takes Rhiannon along with it, right off the bench.

"OW!"

I hit the "Emergency Stop" button (this seems to qualify), and run over to her. She's OK, just surprised. So I give her a lecture on always having a spotter, and to maybe start with a five-pound weight instead. So I help her lift a bit. She goes back to using the ball to project her into orbit, and I get another five minutes in on my "run".

"Dad?"

"Yes?"

"Are we done exercising yet?"

"I guess so, Rhiannon. Do you want to swim?"

"YES!"

"Okay. Let's go."

We head out to the pool, and I do complete my workout by throwing her into the air, carrying her on my shoulders, helping her do flips, running her around the pool, and having swimming races with her. And that made both of us very, very happy, and one of us very, very tired.

Goodbye, pound no. 1.

Rhiannon. Breathtakingly cute.

Andrew (Papa)