The Owner of the House
We’re blessed that whenever our house gets too quiet for having three school aged girls living in it we can rest assured--not always but for the most part-- that it’s not because they are up to something.
No, in our home when something is going on we hear it long before we see it. Malia, Jaida, and Sophie can get as rambunctious as...well...boys. In our house we know loud equals bad; quiet equals good.
Still, when things get too quiet and I haven’t seen them for a while my daddy radar clicks on. I put the duster down, take my apron off, and go investigate.
I’ll sneak around a corner a la Inspector Clouseau expecting to catch them in the act some elementary mischievousness.
But no.
To our surprise I find them reading sight words with Sophie, engaged in some type of creativity, applying nail polish, playing with their dolls, or in Sophie case, with her fire truck.
For the most part.
This morning, while Tammy was at the gym and I was straightening up the living room, things got somewhat quiet.
Too quiet.
Malia and Jaida are at their dad’s house, but usually I can hear Sophie singing, blowing through her 99 Cent Store recorder, clawing at the strings of her ukulele, or talking to herself or to her stuffed animals.
Too quiet. And it dawns on me that I hadn’t seen her in a while.
I went looking for her at the back of the house.
Nothing.
Then come back to the kitchen and living room area and realize that she has to be in the toy room.
She must be playing, I thought.
“Beautiful?”
“What dad?”
I pick up my orange synthetic-feather duster. Yes, it’s mine.
Okay. I’m satisfied. She’s in the toy room. All is good.
“I’m picking up all this big mess,” she yells out from the toy room.
Mess?
I drop my orange duster.
She must have seen the look on concern on my face when I walked into the tot room because she says, “Don’t worry dad. I got this.”
I just love her outlook, her use of idioms, and how nothing is a big deal to her.
Still, I ask what happened.
“dad, don’t worry.”
“What are you picking up there?”
“Beads,” she says, “and I could use some help.”
I watch her for a little while. Her little fingers picking up different colored heart and star-shaped beads.
“I’m cleaning the living room beautiful and I could use some help too. I got a good idea. Whoever finishes first can help the other person.”
She looks up and smiles at me and nods approvingly.
“We’ll see who finishes first,” she says.
Now it’s a game to her. She picks up her pace and I run back to the living room.
A few minutes later as I am vacuuming the living room I see Sophie at the entrance with an ice cream-eating grin on her face.
She is mouthing something indecipherable.
I turn the vacuum off.
“What beautiful?”
Still smiling she says, “I own you.”
She has no idea how right she is.
We’re blessed that whenever our house gets too quiet for having three school aged girls living in it we can rest assured--not always but for the most part-- that it’s not because they are up to something.
No, in our home when something is going on we hear it long before we see it. Malia, Jaida, and Sophie can get as rambunctious as...well...boys. In our house we know loud equals bad; quiet equals good.
Still, when things get too quiet and I haven’t seen them for a while my daddy radar clicks on. I put the duster down, take my apron off, and go investigate.
I’ll sneak around a corner a la Inspector Clouseau expecting to catch them in the act some elementary mischievousness.
But no.
To our surprise I find them reading sight words with Sophie, engaged in some type of creativity, applying nail polish, playing with their dolls, or in Sophie case, with her fire truck.
For the most part.
This morning, while Tammy was at the gym and I was straightening up the living room, things got somewhat quiet.
Too quiet.
Malia and Jaida are at their dad’s house, but usually I can hear Sophie singing, blowing through her 99 Cent Store recorder, clawing at the strings of her ukulele, or talking to herself or to her stuffed animals.
Too quiet. And it dawns on me that I hadn’t seen her in a while.
I went looking for her at the back of the house.
Nothing.
Then come back to the kitchen and living room area and realize that she has to be in the toy room.
She must be playing, I thought.
“Beautiful?”
“What dad?”
I pick up my orange synthetic-feather duster. Yes, it’s mine.
Okay. I’m satisfied. She’s in the toy room. All is good.
“I’m picking up all this big mess,” she yells out from the toy room.
Mess?
I drop my orange duster.
She must have seen the look on concern on my face when I walked into the tot room because she says, “Don’t worry dad. I got this.”
I just love her outlook, her use of idioms, and how nothing is a big deal to her.
Still, I ask what happened.
“dad, don’t worry.”
“What are you picking up there?”
“Beads,” she says, “and I could use some help.”
I watch her for a little while. Her little fingers picking up different colored heart and star-shaped beads.
“I’m cleaning the living room beautiful and I could use some help too. I got a good idea. Whoever finishes first can help the other person.”
She looks up and smiles at me and nods approvingly.
“We’ll see who finishes first,” she says.
Now it’s a game to her. She picks up her pace and I run back to the living room.
A few minutes later as I am vacuuming the living room I see Sophie at the entrance with an ice cream-eating grin on her face.
She is mouthing something indecipherable.
I turn the vacuum off.
“What beautiful?”
Still smiling she says, “I own you.”
She has no idea how right she is.
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