Dear Zan,
So young, and yet you already have a girlfriend. Fortunately, she’s only a cartoon. Yes, you are mildly obsessed with a little Latina girl named Dora who has taken over Casa de Scratches as of late.
As I type this, I am hearing in my head:
Dora, Dora, Dora The Explorerrrrr! Boots and supercool explora Dora!
[Yeah, I know that second line probably isn’t even close, but that’s what it sounds like to me.]
That little ditty has been bouncing around in my cabeza for days now, firmly embedded there like a musical ice pick thanks to the multiple daily viewings of Ms. The Explorer’s television program, of which the TiVo now houses muchos episodios.
Doo-da-doo-doo-da-Dora! Doo-da-doo-doo-da-Dora!
Based on Dora’s bio (personal ad?) as seen at NickJr.com, I can’t say I blame you for making her the object of your desire. Who wouldn’t have a crush on a girl who is described as “an adventurous, bilingual, Latina heroine who lives inside a computer”? [Quick aside: despite watching approximately 9 million hours of "Dora" with you, I was not aware until just now that she lives inside of a computer.]
Last Sunday, we took you to see a theatrical production of “Dora the Explorer Live! Dora’s Pirate Adventure.” As soon as we arrived at our seats, your mother went to the lobby and bought you a “Dora” flashlight thingamajig. You were so excited … until you saw the kid behind us, who had a stuffed Dora doll and a stuffed Boots doll. I, of course, put my foot down. There would be no more buying of toys.
I stood firm … until you asked me in this ridiculously cute (manipulative) way if you could have them. They are sleeping in your crib with you right now. (I must learn to resist your Jedi mind-trick before you start asking for big-ticket items.)
Another of your obsessions these days is asking your mother and I to tell you detailed stories about things we’ve done. “Daddy, tell me the Wiggles story.” “Mommy, tell me the Dora story.” “Daddy, tell me the Red Sox story.” Your mom and I dutifully recount the adventures we’ve had with you, multiple times per day.
You love music, which delights me to no end. Often, you will come into my office (usually when I’m working, and despite the fact that your mother and I have repeatedly asked you to not do so) and say, “Daddy, make some muuuuuuuuuusic.” I then fire something up on the stereo, and you, my little friend, you dance like you have ants in your pants. The footwork is fancy, but the main attraction is the hand movement, your fingers jabbing at the air around you as you boogie down.
You love to give your own musical performances, as well.
“You can be the audience,” you tell your mom, Jayna and me as you instruct us to be seated, then strap on your guitar, cup your hand to your mouth and say, “Introducing … Zan!!!”
You’ve become a particularly good showman in recent weeks, and now engage the audience with a little call/response segment.
“Old McDonald had a farm, ee-i-ee-i-ooo, and on his farm he had a—what did he have?” you ask as you stop strumming and point at one of us.
“A pig.”
“—he had a pig, ee-i-ee-i–ooo. And what did he say?”
“Oink oink.”
“With an oink-oink here and an oink-oink there … [etc.] … Old McDonald had a farm, eeeeee-iiiii-eeeee-iiiii-ooooooooooo,” you bellow dramatically as you accent the finale by flailing your fingers across the guitar strings. A little more practice and I can start pimping you out at talent competitions.
You whine … a lot. Your mom and I continue to emphasize that, “Can I have that please?” is soooooooooooo much more effective (and less likely to cause one of us to spontaneously combust) than “BUT I WANT THAT NOWWWWWwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!”
You are extremely sensitive. Earlier this week, I told you about a trip your mom and I took with her family before you were born.
“Where was I?” you asked. Of course, being two, you had a little trouble grasping the concept of “The world existed before I did,” so you thought we had abandoned you while we went on a vacation.
“You didn’t take care of me,” you said sadly as your eyes filled with tears. After quickly gathering the pieces of my shattered heart and glueing them back together, I scooped you up and spent several minutes trying to reassure you that your mom and I didn’t skip town and leave you to fend for yourself. At one point, I resorted to firing up iPhoto and flipping through a series of pictures that I hoped would clarify the distinction between the B.Z. and A.Z. eras. When that didn’t work, I tried changing the subject altogether. As it turns out, the latter approach is one that, when dealing with a 2-year-old, is apparently more effective than giving a multimedia presentation titled “Here Are Many Pictures of Us Taking Care of You So Please Don’t Hate Me.”
You are incredibly sweet. During dinner the week before last, we were talking about your daycare, at which point you spontaneously said, “Mommy, if you and Daddy both came to pick me up together, I would be sooooo happy.” And you were.
You, along with your sister, continue to bring me more joy and happiness than anything I’ve ever known, and I love both of you more every single day.
Now if only you’d get on board with this whole potty-training thing …
I love you, Buddy Boy.
Love,
Daddy
PS: Swiper, no swiping! Swiper, no swiping! Swiper, noooooo swiping! And Swoopy no Doopy!
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One Comment
Swoopy no doopy! That’s a really funny epidsode that I laugh along with my daughter to. Great blog!