iRhiannon



Rhiannon has a cellphone and an iPod. She made them herself at school today. I found them in her backpack when I was unpacking it this evening. The astute reader will notice that Rhiannon prefers a stick phone with a heart symbol in place of the hash symbol (aka octothorp aka pound sign aka number sign). The phone's wallpaper is of our one-year-old cat, Tony, whom Rhiannon likes to call "Big Fluff". Which he is. He is also trouble, but that's another story.

Rhiannon's iPod appears to be an older generation one that is more along the lines of a Shuffle with clickwheel but no screen. The headphones icon perhaps indicates that it's for sound only. Why she doesn't make herself an iPhone I don't know. She would only have to carry one device around instead of two. Maybe when her budget for art supplies increases, she will make one. For now, she enjoys having these, and one wonders when she'll upgrade her current MP3 player and Gameboy Advance.

I also wonder what music she will choose to put on the iPod. The other day we were watching the "Singing Show" and Ryan Seacrest announced that the songs were available on iTunes.

"DAD!"

"Yes, Rhiannon?"

"I have GOT to get those songs on iTunes."

"Okay, Rhiannon."

"DAD?"

"Yes, Rhiannon?"

"What's iTunes?"

Rhiannon. iCute.

Andrew (Papa)

Weird Science


Rhiannon and I performed our first experiment today. It was all Rhiannon's idea. At first. We were painting this morning, and she wanted to see what color would be dominant if she mixed everything together into a plastic cup. So we tried it and came up with a vaguely gray-purple liquid.

"DAD?"

"Yes, Rhiannon?"

"Can we do something else?"

"Sure!" I was hoping she'd as that question.

"Let's put it in the microwave!"

"Okay."

I like the way this kid thinks. I put the cup of water-paint into the microwave oven and ask Rhiannon for how long we should nuke the solution.

"Um...one second, or else it will explode!"

Rhiannon knows somehow that heat can be a catalyst for chemical reactions. Genius.

So we nuke it for one second exactly. Rhiannon refuses to get near the stuff and is afraid to touch the cup which is in fact quite cool.

"Let's put something else in!"

"Okay, Rhiannon. Good idea. But you know what we should do first?"

"WHAT?"

"We should get paper and pen so we can make a note of what we are doing. If the experiment works, we'll know how to reproduce it, and if it fails, we can see where we went wrong."

"OKAY!"

So we begin to go through the refridgerator and cupboards adding the following things in this order to make a solution that Rhiannon is quite sure will explode. Because that's what chemistry is about. Blowing $#*( up. Oh, and because of this, she needs eye protection and grabs a pair of Jackie O sunglasses to wear with her Hello Kitty feet pajamas as we add:

coffee bean (1)
jalapeno pepper sauce
Not Osama red pepper sauce (Rhiannon calls this "President Sauce")
pickle juice
milk
kalamata olive juice
caper (1)
chocolate syrup (Rhiannon tests this on herself first)
grated parmesan/romano cheese
garlic juice
soy sauce (Rhiannon chose this over Worcestershire sauce)
sprinkles
red wine vinegar (I showed Rhiannon how chemists waft odors)
baking powder

Now, as every kid and parent knows who has made their own volcano project, these last two ingredients combine to make big foam, and fast. Rhiannon did not expect the reaction and jumped off the counter and ran out the front door with her hands over her ears.

Once I stopped laughing, I went outside.

"Rhiannon, it's okay. It didn't blow up."

"But it MIGHT!"

"No, it's okay."

"Well..."

"Maybe I should drink it to see if I become a werewolf."

"NO DADDY DON'T DO IT!"

"Okay. I will pour it down the sink." This is what every chemist knows....

A minute later Rhiannon comes back inside. Everything is gone, cleaned up.

"Well Rhiannon, that was fun."

"Except the last part. That was scary."

"What should we call the experiment?"

"Root beer float."

Rhiannon. Experimentally cute.

Andrew (Papa)

The Good Bad Words


Rhiannon is Obsessed with cursing. Not that she does it. Far from it. But she knows that words have power. She knows the "F" word, "B" word, "D" word, "S" word. She doesn't use them. She even knows how to differentiate between "Jesus" the religious figure and "Jesus" the curse. She uses them correctly. At one point two years ago, I said something to Rhiannon that had her go to her room muttering "Jesus" under her breath. It was not a prayer.

Rhiannon has a friend, Emma. Emma is allowed to curse at her house. In theory she is forbidden to curse elsewhere, but would make a sailor blush with her four-letter-word-rhetoric. Guess who's having a birthday party at her house on Saturday? Give up? Emma. And Rhiannon told me yesterday that she is very much looking forward to going to Emma's house to party because she can then, in theory, cut loose with every expletive she knows. I am halfway interested in going to the party to hear if this actually happens. Of course Rhiannon has been told "no" about using these words at Emma's, but you never know.

Last night, Rhiannon did a recap of what she considers to be "good bad words": dang, darn, darn it, dang it, dagnabbit, goshdarnit, gosh, golly, oh no, drat, oh my goodness, etc.

I decided to wind her up. "What about 'f...udge' or 'f...arkle'!"

"NO!"

"Or 'frak' or 'funkadelic'"!

"NO! DAAAD!"

"Okay, okay."

"I can say "d-a-m" but not "d-a-m-n".

"Right."

"But I can't say the 'F' word. F-A-C."

"Close."

"F-O-C?"

"Almost!"

"DAD! TELL ME!"

"Nope. Just know that the 'F' word is bad."

"What else is bad?"

"BUSH!"

Rhiannon loves this. So the next time she trips or drops something, she's going to say, "Oh, Bush!". And that's a good bad word to me.

Rhiannon. Cursed with Cuteness.

Andrew (Papa)

Art Rock


Jayni's parents left today which allowed us to have our time back after a week of entertaining and being entertained. Craving something different, we drove up to Deer Valley Rock Art Park north of Phoenix. This park is not to be confused with the Deer Valley Art Rock Park featuring bands like Yes and Pink Floyd. Actually, the latter park is fictitious yet necessary as kids today have no clue about anything related to rock. I am trying to change that with Rhiannon. I can't believe I just wrote, "kids today". I'm 36.

Anyway, the park features ca. 1,500 petroglyphs, symbols and figures that were etched into the Hedgewood Hills, a massive collection of volcanic boulders impossibly piled atop one another. It looks as if the hills will collapse at any moment, smushing photographers and small children with impunity. Nature is amoral and has the potential to destroy both the cute and good looking.

But the native peoples here, most likely the Hohokam, took risks and climbed all over these granite hills, leaving their marks for future generations to ponder. We do not know what many of these symbols mean, only that they were carved by people hundreds of years ago for some unknown purpose.

When we entered the park's museum (Rhiannon, still 5, got in free), she was handed a clipboard with a purple sheet of paper (how did they know she adores purple?) on which were twelve petroglyphs to look for. Out of 1,500. When did the place close for the night? Rhiannon, however, took her charge seriously, and it was out the door and down the trail in search of rocks with pictures on them.

She immediately starts circling things she sees: a spiral, a snake, a bug-like thing which we hope was not carved as actual size as the bugger is three feet long. Never mind that these symbols are not necessarily on the rocks, but are appearing on the signage around the park.

"Dad! There's a spiral!"

"That's on the poster."

"So? It's a spiral and it's on my sheet. I am circling it."

If there are rules, Rhiannon knows how to get around them on technicalities. And she gets made at me when I enforce the rules when playing chess. She hates not being able to work around boundaries, and it is cute, at times, to watch her figure her way out of corners with her agile mind.

We sit on stone benches and contemplate the rocks for an hour. Rhiannon rushing back and forth like a crazed surveyor, looking through the park's telescopes, making notes, drawing smileys, until she is preoccupied with a gecko. The lizard is black and brown and six inches long, tip to tail. She stalks it, and it runs.

"Dad! If I see a gecko close to me, I will stomp on it!"

"Why?"

"So it won't get on me!"

"It won't get on you."

"Why not?"

"Because you are too pretty."

She settles down, thinking that this is an excellent answer. On our way back to the museum, Rhiannon discovers a small stage recessed in the desert foliage. It is normally used by volunteers as they give a pre-walk lecture on rock art in Arizona. Today it is used by Rhiannon to serenade park-goers with her vocal interpretations of Katy Perry songs. Look them up. She does not sing the naughty words.

Rock art. And plain rock. Rhiannon loves them both, and that makes me very, very happy.

Rhiannon. Petrifyingly cute.

Andrew (Papa)

Dear Anthony...


Rhiannon is losing her first tooth. It started wiggling today, and now it is quite loose. At first she was petrified, but as they day grew into night, she became more and more enthusiastic.

"All I am going to do tomorrow is wiggle my tooth!"

Ah, Spring Break. Would that I had a single day to loaf and wiggle. Rhiannon is completely amped about it.

"And I will tell Miss Mark and everybody at school NEXT Monday!"

I remind her that her colleague, Tyson (she spells it as "Tysin" which may be his Emo name one day), recently lost a tooth.

"It was his first," she says.

You always remember your first.

"You know Rhiannon, that's pretty exciting losing your first tooth almost the same time as Tyson."

"Yeah. I think I am going to marry him. I need to write Anthony a letter."

She dictates the curt note to me to send to her about-to-be-ex-husband:

"Dear Anthony...I think you are a wife-beater. I am going to break up with you. Love, Rhiannon."

This is likely for the best, plus she can get an annulment. Tyson is a good boy, handsome and strong, and apparently is smart and is a gentleman.

As for her tooth, Rhiannon is eagerly awaiting the tooth fairy.

"Maybe she will bring me candy!"

*snort*

"I don't know, Rhiannon. She usually brings money."

Rhiannon's eyes get big. I can tell she is counting in her head how many quarters are coming to her.

"Okay!"

Rhiannon now sleeps, and my guess is that she is dreaming of a quicker way to a tooth fairy payday. We'll see.

Rhiannon. So cute and sweet, she'll give you a cavity.

Andrew (Papa)

Renaissance Fair


Rhiannon went to her second Renaissance Festival yesterday, her first being in Kenosha, Wisconsin, when she was two. This fair is located just east of Apache Junction, Arizona, at the foot of the Superstition Mountains, a Medieval oasis surrounded by desert scrub, barren mountains, and cacti. This was likely the first fair that I have ever been to that had no mud at all. Or bugs. Fine by me.

Rhiannon wore a purple dress, black tights, pink princess shoes, a pink, ankle-length princess cape. She also brought a circlet for her hair, but that stayed behind in the car. Rhiannon is obsessed with head-dresses, hats, circlets, wreaths, garlands, twists, braids, bands, veils. I think she knows that she has a good head on her shoulders.

The first thing she saw at the fair was an ent. This walking tree stood ten feet in the air, and inside the flexible trunk was a man on two pairs of stilts, one set for his legs, one for his arms. Rhiannon stood transfixed, half in wonder, half in fear, as this tree lumbered around (pun intended) talking to people. The Green Man is in evidence everywhere here, showing up in the very architecture of the place. He even has his own stage-show.

Immediately after the ent, Rhiannon saw her first fairy. She was a young woman adorned in flowers and leaves, wings, bare feet. She did not talk. With a little encouragement, Rhiannon walked up to her. The fairy smiled, dipped her hand in a pouch, and withdrew a clear stone dusted with gold glitter. Rhiannon silently, gravely accepted the gift, courtsied, said 'thank you'. I love it when Rhiannon is spellbound. At five, she is still squarely between the worlds of fantasy and reality (from and adult standpoint), but as a child she has one foot always in the dreamworld as we slowly draw her out of it. It is a shame all children must grow apart from that fantastic reality, and perhaps this is why we play.

Around the corner from the fairy was an enormous, swan-shaped swing with seating for four. Two cowboy-thin wranglers pushed the swing into its pendulum state. It looked like big fun, so I asked Rhiannon is she wanted to ride it.

"Noooooo waaaaaay, maaaaan. That looks toooooo scary." Rhiannon actually uses the word "man" appropriately, and this (and other) turns of phrase still mystify her kindergarten colleagues. One day she'll tell them that the first album she ever listened to from start to finish was Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, So Far. And they will say, "huh?"

For snacks at the fair, Rhiannon chose an orange half topped with strawberry-flavored Italian ice which made her lips impossibly red. Even food makes this child look storybook pretty. It took her an hour to eat it; the weather did not top 70F (although in late-summer it will be 70C, or at least feel like it), so cold things stayed cool, and Rhiannon kept her cape on.

She spent most of her time walking around looking at people's crotches (she is of that regrettably awkward height now), or ducking into shops, the majority of which sold hats or headgear. She had no interest in swords, daggers, dirks, shields, leather, plate, mail, etc. For her it was anything silk or satin, frills, lace, and gold.

"GOLD IS MY FAVORITE COLOR!" she told every shop proprietor. To my surprise, none said "gold is my favorite, too!"

Taking a break from the shops, we went through a maze at the end of which was a giant slide that we careened down together on. Rhiannon also received a fakey gold coin struck with the image of Julius Caesar around whose bust was inscribed, "Veni, Vidi, Vici". Always the archaeologist, I noticed that the coin also bore the year 1994 in Roman numerals, yet on the reverse was stamped, "Made in China 2000".

Hmm.

We stopped at one empty stage so Rhiannon could practice acting. As she was about to start, the hypnotist approached her and asked her if she wanted to try on a straitjacket.

"No thanks!"

"Ah, but it's fun!"

In the spirit of Renaissance Fair behaviour, I informed the man that Rhiannon had already been in one and hadn't like it then, either. He did not know what to say.

Then it was time for an elephant ride, and I think it was a first for both of us. The carnies kindly placed us aboard the raft strapped to the top of an enormous elephant, and we were off, led around by an illustrated man without many original teeth. After one circuit, Rhiannon and I dismounted after petting our ride on the head. Rhiannon was amazed at the rough-yet-fuzziness of the elephant's skin.

"You did great out there, kid," the carnie said. "You've got what it takes."

Hmm.

From there we got a late lunch which for Rhiannon was a caramel apple topped with sprinkles. I had a bread bowl full of chili which was called "chili in a bread bowl," as opposed to something a bit more Renaissance-ish like "ye olde breadde bowel" or "bowel of hot chilli" or something which could both describe the meal and what would happen later. Rhiannon, she chose wisely.

Lunch in hand, we went to the jousting arena and unwittingly sat directly below the drumcorps and trumpeters who played a steady tattoo throughout the ensuing performance. At first almost in tears, Rhiannon warmed to the bloodsport, especially heartened by our champion, a drunken pirate captain, and his lusty, busty ginger-headed pirate wench whom Rhiannon insisted we meet after the show. It was all her idea...honest!

Perhaps the low-point of the trip was taking her into the museum of torture, which, for the low-low price of $1.50 a head, we could be treated to the screams and laments of chidren whose parents had also exercised bad judgment. We learned all about traditional racks, wheels, and thumbscrews, along with lesser known (at least to the polite population) biomechanical devices which employed rodents, hot coals, and metal. Rhiannon freaked out, but we were trapped in an enormous queue of horror fans along with a few who thought this was the fairy princess museum.

Exiting that ordeal, Rhiannon wanted her face painted, so we went to the appropriate hovel and stood in line to pay $12 for what actually resulted in an amazing mermaid design (pictured above). Once the painting was done, Rhiannon had to take the Mermaid Oath from the artist. Rhiannon raised her right hand and repeated that she would be kind to animals and would eat all her vegetables, at least for tonight. Which she did, by the way.

On our way out of the fair, Rhiannon saw the same fairy she had met earlier, but she was standing in a different spot. Rhiannon gave the fairy a dollar and in return, Rhiannon got another stone (blue this time), plus a small song played on a pan-flute. Rhiannon became quite shy and retreated, amazed that there really were fairies, although bigger and more beautiful and more magical than she had imagined.

We listened to Classic Yes on the ride home, Rhiannon adding her harmony to Anderson and Squires', enjoying the sunshine through the window, remembering everything.

Rhiannon's grandparents are visiting this week, but are staying at a time-share in Scottsdale. When asked about the Renaissance Fair, Rhiannon wasted no time telling them about the unspeakable horrors in the torture museum. Fairies and pirates forgotten, she relished in describing the gore in great detail, eyes alight. I think this is normal for children to frolic in the obscene; their innocence perhaps protects them. She is now in her bedroom listening to "Lovebug" by the Jonas Brothers, reading a princess book and coloring with watercolors. She is at home in the past and present, real and other. May she always have such comfort in being in both worlds.

Rhiannon. Fairly Cute.

Andrew (Papa)

"...and you will never see your eleventh anniversary!"


Rhiannon has a temper. Or she's developed one. Where it came from is anybody's guess. I blame Michael Banner. Or radiation. Or something. Usually Rhiannon is sunny, occasionally mostly sunny, so it is rare, and shocking, when she turns green, doubles her size, and starts talking like one of the jilted women on All My Children. Or American Idol.

One of these rare exhibits happened Wednesday, and it is only now that I can recount the trauma visited on me by my only child, my daughter who has sat on my lap as we played World of Warcraft together, my daughter whom I have carried up mountains on my shoulders, my daughter who still weighs forty pounds, a weight she has held for two years. Maybe she should eat something.

Anyway, the fight started because Rhiannon's teacher told mom and me during parent/teacher conference that Rhiannon needs to start holding her pencil correctly more often. Rhiannon will hold the pencil properly when Miss Mark is watching, but as soon as her back is turned, Rhiannon returns to the fist-grip. So I thought that maybe she should start writing properly at home.

The first page of homework went well, and she held her pencil the right way. I excused myself to check email while Rhiannon got going on the second page. I came back a moment later.

"Rhiannon, hold your pencil correctly please."

"No. I like it this way."

"But Rhiannon, if you hold the pencil the right way you can write and draw better."

"No. It's messy."

"You just need practice."

"No I don't."

"Your first page was fine."

"I don't like it."

"Please do the second page while holding your pencil the right way."

"No!"

Hmm. It's unique that Rhiannon digs in like this.

"OK. I was going to make you a surprise dinner, but it will have to wait until you are finished."

"No."

Since when has this child turned down a surprise dinner?

"OK. You know, the singing show (aka American Idol) is on in an hour. I would hate for you to have to miss it because your homework was not done."

"Dad, I will finish my homework, but I want to hold the pencil the wrong way."

She knows she holds the pencil incorrectly.

"No. Hold it the right way. Finish this one page and you are done."

Rhiannon tries to rip up her homework.

"OK. You need some quiet time. Go lie down."

Rhiannon goes to her room.

"DAD! TURN ON THE LIGHT. RIGHT NOW!"

"No. Lie there quietly and think about coming back to finish your homework holding your pencil the right way."

"NO!"

Rhiannon comes storming out of her room and heads for the door.

"You are not going outside."

"I am going to wait for mom to get home." She is in tears now, angry ones. "And I am going to tell her everything you did and how mean you are. You are not my daddy anymore and when I tell mom what happened you will never see your eleventh anniversary! I don't want that to happen, but it might." [Yes, she actually said this.]

I lock the door. Rhiannon starts screaming. The upstairs neighbors bang on the floor.

"Do you hear that? The neighbors can hear you. And they will come downstairs if you keep it up."

Rhiannon looks scared. She stops with the histrionics. The door opens. Mom is home. I retire to my office. There is a compromise. Then dinner. Then singing. I wonder if I should have given in. I don't think so. But now I have given her a memory.

At 8:30 Rhiannon is ready for bed. I come in to kiss her goodnight.

"I love you, daddy."

"I love you, too, Rhiannon. But don't do what you did again."

"Okay."

And she closes her eyes and smiles. The storm has blown itself out. The house rests. I find myself laughing at the rage within her and the fact that she would not give in to a simple request even if it meant no TV, no special dinner. We could have finished in two minutes had she given in and held her pencil the right way. I find she is like me that way sometimes. Sometimes I fight to win. Sometimes I fight not to lose. I fight on principle. And Rhiannon is being true to herself. But I still wish she would hold her pencil the right way.

Rhiannon. Incredibly cute.

Andrew (Papa)