Morning Wood

We've been noticing some symptoms of allergies in Shea over the last little bit and have been discussing it a bit around her.  She doesn't necessarily have a runny nose, but her nose and eyes are always a bit itch.  She's constantly running her fingers into the tight corners of her eyes against her nose.

Because of this, Shea has started to diagnose herself with "allergies."

"I'm allergic to the butterfly plant," she said the other day.

"I'm allergic to Neera," she said one morning as the two of us got ready for the day with the dog lounging at the end of the bed.

Each time she brings up a new cause, her mother and I poopoo her wild notions.  It wasn't until tonight that things took a turn for the bizarre.  As I washed the dinner dishes, Tracy came down from upstairs with quizzical look on her face.  I raised a question mark of an eyebrow at her, and she laughed briefly.

"So," she said, putting a finger to her mouth as if physically restraining her laughter, "guess what Shea just told me."

I love these moments because there is no way a rational human being can guess what a five-year-old is thinking.  I say, "What?"

Tracy says, "Shea thinks she's allergic to morning wood."  The both of us pause for a moment and look at each other.  Then, we both laugh.

"Well, I would hope so," I say.  I've never been grateful that someone else has an allergy before.

Ronny

After having drinks with my wife's Italian relatives in the backyard of my in-law's, Shea began playing with a toy cellphone.  She lounged in a white molded plastic lawn chair, talking absentmindedly into the headset.  She said things like, "Thanks, Ronny," and "Yes, Ronny," and hung up shortly afterward.

She milled around the yard a bit until she wound up next to me with an exasperated look on her face.

"What's up, honey," I asked.

She shrugged her shoulders and tipped her head into my shoulder, kicking at a loose pebble at her feet.

"Who is Ronny?"

"My husband."

Taken by surprise, it took me a moment to respond.  I shook my head, my bottom lip jutting out like I'd just heard a fascinating bit of information, and said, "Is he nice?"

Shea sighed dramatically, like the relationship was on the rocks and she was debating her long term plans, and said, "He's obsessed with work."

I successfully managed to not burst out laughing on the spot, not wanting to spoil her fantasy, and told her that I didn't think that was a good thing.  Shea didn't appear to mind as she then skipped away into the grass where she picked a couple of blades and sprinkled them onto the sleeping dog's head.

Repurposing

I've been spending a lot of time with Shea lately.  It's been nice, having the summer to explore and do fun things with her.  We've been swimming, bike riding, shopping, etc.  This is the last summer before she begins full time school and that feels big to me.  Her time won't be the same again after this summer.  Nap times, days spent in frivolous (and important) play, and alone with her grandparents will be a thing of the past (mostly).

This change in Shea has also coincided with a certain crisis of purpose for this blog.  I don't know what I want it to be right now.  Haven't for a while.  So, I ask myself, what is the one thing my blog followers ask about most?  Shea.  I've decided to focus myself around the purpose of documenting her life and the experience of parenting her. 

I don't want to overcommit in terms of how often I will be blogging in the next couple of months, but I do want to begin producing.  It is a good exercise in consistent writing that isn't writing on the novel.  So, for the next little bit, I will be focusing almost solely on Little Miss Thing.  It will be good for her to see how much I was paying attention when she was little, how invested I am in her childhood and well being.  Until then, folks...