Yesterday was the day I found out what Ellie was going to call me. I may have planted a few seeds along the way, but she made the final decision. I am “Papa.”
I have been warned to monitor this situation carefully. Whatever the first grandchild calls me could establish the pattern for all the grandchildren who follow. That puts a lot of responsibility on a little girl who still occasionally stores Cheerios in her stroller for later. Fortunately, Papa works for me.
With her mother at a doctor’s appointment, I had more than two hours with Ellie this morning. I may have looked at her through slightly misty, rose-colored glasses following my promotion, but I’m pretty sure that is allowed. I also had time to appreciate a few things she has been working on.
For a while, Ellie wasn’t too sure about the swing. On our two most recent park visits, she settled into it with her head down and her back pressed firmly against the seat. She stayed that way for several seconds at a time before looking around to see what was happening. I could push her from the front by giving the baby swing a little nudge, which also put me in position to be struck by her feet on the way back. My dramatic reactions to these terrible injuries seemed to make her enjoy the swing even more. I am willing to suffer for her development.
On a recent walk to the park, Ellie made several requests for “E-I-O.” My daughter had already translated this for me: Ellie wanted “Old MacDonald.” Her mother can pull it up on Spotify and let someone else do the singing, but I had a stroller to push and an audience waiting for her song. I sang the version I grew up with, where each animal gets its own verse. Some versions keep adding the previous animals, like the twelve days of Christmas. My version gives Ellie more of her favorite “E-I-E-I-O,” and I don’t have to remember every animal on the farm. Whenever Ellie asked for more, I added another verse. The dog alternated between “woof” and “bow-wow,” depending on what came to mind. Eventually, Ellie joined the farm and said “no-no,” Santa said “ho-ho,” and a turkey contributed a few seasonal “gobble-gobbles.” I don’t know how Old MacDonald managed to acquire Santa, but Ellie didn’t object, so we kept going.
There are usually Cheerios for our trips, too. Around the house, Ellie does a pretty good job of eating them. In the stroller, some make it into her mouth, some are tucked into the recesses of the seat for future discovery, and others mark our route in case Papa gets lost on the way home. She has also finished the last couple of sips of my Gatorade and dropped a few Cheerios into the bottle. On other trips, the bottle has collected mulch and other treasures from the playground. I try not to interfere too much with her curiosity, so our rules mostly involve keeping her safe. What happens to the Gatorade bottle falls outside that jurisdiction.
Ellie has had some adjustments to make at home since her twin sisters arrived. She has to share the attention she used to have all to herself, but she has also joined the rest of us in giving the babies affection. She says something resembling “kiss,” and one of us brings a sister down to her level. Ellie leans toward the baby’s face and makes a little “mmmm-ah” sound. Whether she wants to join the kissing or make sure everyone is still paying attention to her, I’m happy to help her with either one.
After Ellie does something new or particularly cute, my daughter sometimes asks, “Do you remember when I did that?” I usually have to give her the same answer: “I’m sorry. I don’t remember much about any of that stuff.” I wish I did. There are moments from my kids’ childhoods that have slipped away, and there are others I remember well enough to wish I had handled them differently.
Later that same day, my daughter told me, “I think you are a pretty good dad for me.” I may be interpreting that in the most favorable way possible, but I’m going to accept it as a compliment. As a parent, it is easy to look back and think the older version of you could have done a better job. I have a few “if only” moments with each of my kids. There were times I was there without bringing quite as much enthusiasm as their mother did, and I have been known to hold those moments against myself.
Hearing those words from my daughter made me think I could ease up a little. Despite my mistakes—and possibly even with some help from me—my kids turned out okay. Now I get to spend a morning singing to Ellie, collecting mulch in a Gatorade bottle, and answering to Papa. That feels like a pretty good place to be.
