I realize that my daughter is going to Harvard. I would take a Yalie, but I prefer Harvard. No Oxford though, I don’t trust the Brits around her.
She is continuing to learn a great many new things at 1 year old. In fact, I believe that she is creating havoc at a 3 year old level. She’s a genius that no doubt takes more after her mother than her father.
I say this because my wife has a very freaky ability. She’s a speed reader. I have seen my wife go through a thick paperback book in less than 4 hours. When we go on a plane, we have back several books just to last her the ride. It can get very expensive. The Barnes and Noble’s discount card is by far the only discount card that has been worth it. When she reads this blog it takes less than 30 seconds per story. This irritates me because she is somewhat my editor and I wish to know what makes her laugh.
I think that my daughter takes after these traits of my wife. She seems to be able to adjust and learn very quickly.
We both take an active role in teaching her, but we seem to take slightly different roads on what we should teach her.
My wife has taught my daughter the word no, although when Little Hoss reproduces the sound it comes out more of a “go” but she gets the jist. For example, a couple of days ago Little Hoss thought it would be funny to go through the paper trashcan that we have in the living room. Hossmom said no and Little Hoss looked her, then started crying. So she knows what this means.
Hossmom has taught our daughter the following: how to eat solid foods, how to splash in the tub, how to SOFTLY pet the dogs, and how to get your “brand” out there in a very competitive baby market.
I have taught my daughter how to growl.
I have followed up this great feat of teaching instruction with another necessary and classical form of communication: The High Five.
You must remember, I live in a house of women. Normally, this strokes my ego to no end. Everyone runs from a mosquito hawk, calling for dad to bring down the righteous hammer of justice. I am the hero every time. But there is, on occasion, when I need a few dude qualities interjected into my household. Namely, when my sports teams play.
It is rare now that my brother in law has moved away that I am able to watch any sporting events with any other guys. To do so requires nothing less than a UN Security Council meeting to verify that, yes dear, I will be home at midnight. I also feel a little guilty leaving her alone with the kiddo all day when she is pregnant as well.
This means that most of my sports watching comes either in the form of late night Tivo or when I just through a satchel of books at her to keep her distracted. It’s like giving the steak to the lion so that you can sneak past, something has to be sacrificed.
When my daughter was born, it was the day before the superbowl. My daughter’s first introduction to TV was the Steelers vs. the Seahawks. It was greatness and I knew that we would do this every year, or at east until she became to embarrassed to hang around with me.
Our first week home also just so happened to be the first week of the Olympics. Anyone that knows me, knows that I am an Olympic freak. I will watch anything, anything, with a US team competing. Combine that with Tivo and 24 hour cable and we had roughly 98 hours of Olympic coverage at anytime. My daughter and I spent every waking moment watching the Olympics. It was the only month that I was happy that she woke up at 3:00am because then we could catch a nice curling match vs. the hated Canadians. (We won).
But I have been unable to express my excitement over these events. If you watch sports by yourself, you realize that you look like an idiot when you jump up and down by yourself. You look even worse when instead of yelling like you want to you are whispering “yes, yes, great catch, yes” because god help you if you wake the baby.
There was no one to hug, there is no one to relive the moment with and there is no one to High Five, the pinnacle of manly sports watching. My wife can’t stand the high-five. She hates it and absolutely refuses to do it. I have to beg for it. Begging for a high-five totally takes out the meaning of the high-five. She just shakes her head and goes back to the book. She may be a Communist.
And then it happened. But not during a sporting event. Like most great things in our life, it happened during another episode of Star Trek. I owe so much to that show.
The Enterprise had once again averted disaster while my daughter and I watched on. Playfully, I put my hand out and said “high five”. To my astonishment, she put her hand up to. Is this going to happen? Is this moment going to actually freaking happen? Do I finally have someone in my house to High Five!?
Yes. Yes it did.
I clapped my hand with hers and the father/daughter high five was born. She loved it, I loved it. In fact, we scoured the cable channels for any sporting event or Star Trek that we could find.
“Look Little Hoss, some guy just landed a radical jump on a motorcycle, High Five”
Smack, her little bear paw hits my big bear paw.
“See that Little Hoss, the Klingons have been defeated!”
She growls and gives me a high five.
Tears are in my eyes, I have found someone to give me High Fives.
So the next time my college team is on and they drive 99 yards to win the game in the closing seconds I will jump for joy and scream. Your damn right that I’m going to wake the baby.