The Book of Dylan

While the chances of Dylan joining the priesthood, or a nunnery, or holding any mid-level non-secular job seem as unlikely as the Seahawks making it to the playoffs Superbowl, she has been, lately, infatuated with Baby Jesus and God.  I think the trifecta of Grady's baptism, Christmas, and a steady dose of religion from Grandma have piqued her interest.

Has Dylan reached a level of holiness that we cannot fathom?  Is she the Golden Child?  No.  She still beats our pets with sticks and regularly throws tantrums that make the neighbors lock their doors.  But, once she puts down her weapons and dries her eyes (and we unlock the door), she'll ask questions like, "Where's God?"  If we respond with "Everywhere," she starts listing.  "Our house?" "Yes." "The barn?" "Yes." "Julie's house?" and on, and on, and on.

Last weekend I took Dylan snowboarding.  Since I usually go on Sundays, going to the mountain is often my church, and maybe that feeling rubbed off on Dylan.  On the way there, she asked if Baby Jesus would be on Mt. Shasta.  I told her that He would, but He'd probably be spending most of his time boarding the backcountry.  He's hardcore like that.

Questions about God or Jesus come up all the time.  For now, we can give her pretty much any answer and she's happy.  But if she gets a little more biblical knowledge, Regina and I will have to brush up on our religion.  Here's an example of a typical theological conversation between Regina and myself:  So ... Moses.  He's the guy with the whale, right?  Maybe.  Wasn't he the baby, floating down the river?  And then a whale ate him?  Yes?  And that reminds me, we need to pump up our inner tubes so we can float the Scott River this weekend.  Awesome.

Somewhere (Grandma's) Dylan learned that we shouldn't take the Lord's name in vain.  When she's around, we can't say: Jesus Christ, Jesus H. Christ, Jesus, Jeeze, Young Jeezy, Cheese Whiz, or Chimichunga.  If we utter any one of those, she'll reprimand us.  I love it when our Catholic cousins slip with a "Gee."  Dylan's right on top of it and scolds them.  "It's not nice to say 'Jesus.'"  It's like catching a Mormon saying "crap."  A rare and treasured gift.

Dylan still gets time-out on the pew on our front porch for all sorts of bad behavior, so I'm pretty sure she isn't ready for the convent, yet.  I'm trying to clean up my potty mouth and hopefully we'll strike a balance.  And in the meantime?  Go Seahawks.

Like A Cheese Stick

When I asked Regina what she wanted for Christmas, just behind a Jaguar XJ and Dance Dance Revolution was, simply, a date.  "What about our weekend in Portland?" I asked.  I got The Look.  "That was with Grady at OHSU."  Okayyyy.  "We just went went to Medford," I offered.  I should have quit while I was only in a shallow hole.  "Both kids, and, again, at a hospital."  I knew I had to act.

It wasn't fancy, but we took New Year's Eve Day (the official holiday for parents of young children) and went to Ashland.  After lunch we went ice skating in the park.  That sounds romantic, right?  It may be, but I'm a 200 pound gorilla flailing around on hockey skates, not Brian Boitano.  Apparently, the only adult males who skate at this rink are all professionals.  Except for me, of course.  After an hour there, my New Year's Resolution was to do one of those cool ice-spray stops that hockey players do.  I got as far as a slow stop, wall grab, and slip.  We finally had to hang up our skates when Regina got taken out by a toddler pushing around a "learning aid" (read: walker).

We limped around town, enjoyed some wine and cheese, and watched True Grit.  Our date may have continued indefinitely, but our parental responsibilities (read: guilt) kicked in and we came home to gather the kids, watch Dick Clark, and down some old champagne to welcome in 2011 (EST, of course).

For an encore, that Sunday we decided on a Family Date Day and took the monkeys sledding.  Watching Dylan rip down an icy slope is as fun as watching old people dance: there's a chance for a wreck at any moment.  Grady's not ready for high speed sledding, so he basically sat in the snow and cried.

On the way home, Grady fell asleep and I turned on the radio for some noise other than Dylan's requests for more hot chocolate.  The Far East Movement's song "Like a G6" came on and, to my surprise, Dylan started singing along.  I thought it was funny that she knew the lyrics to something other than the Avett Brothers' "I & Love & You," or "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" until I really listened closely.  For a three-year old, her rendition was perfect.  "Now I'm feeling so fly like a Cheese Stick, like a Cheese Stick."  What a great ending to my date-weekend.  I felt so fly.  Like a Cheese Stick.