Cal's Random Act of Kindness

Cal is usually dressed for bed before Ella is, and last night was no different.  She had just gotten her clothes off when a fully-jammied Cal was darting off to the bathroom to brush his teeth.  He did this all by himself and finished before Ella was fully jammied herself.

Without saying a word, he darted back into our room (this is where we do our jammying for some reason) and hopped up onto the bed to lay with Daddy for a bit.

Once I finished with Ella, I told her, “okay, let’s go brush your teeth.  You go to your bathroom, and I’ll meet you there!”  And off she went.  It’s the same statement every night; and, for whatever reason, I ALWAYS get full cooperation from her when I say it (unlike most other things).

I took a few breaths of my own without having to motivate anyone, respond to any questions, drum up any fake excitement over insignificant things before heading to the bathroom to meet her.  These are some of the best few seconds of my day.

I had just stepped outside our bedroom when Ella came bounding across the hallway floor toward me with her toothbrush in her hand.

“Look what Cal did, Mommy!” she exclaimed, her eyes smiling and her mouth grinning from ear to ear.

I looked at the toothbrush she held in her hand and on the brush was a dab of toothpaste.

My eyes quickly smiled and my mouth grinned from ear to ear as well.  I pictured Cal, alone in the bathroom after brushing his own teeth, thoughtfully grabbing Ella’s toothbrush, opening the tube of toothpaste (something she is unable to do herself), squeezing a little dab of paste onto the brush and gently setting it down next to the sink.  No one was watching or expecting this of him, and he didn’t bring any attention to the fact that he had.  It was a genuine random act of kindness, a small action on Cal’s part that warmed my heart and filled me with pride.

“Cal, that was SOOOOO nice,” I told him.  “I am SOOOOO proud of you.”

And Ella and I then went and brushed her teeth.

A Book About Thunderstorms (by Cal)

As I mentioned in my Daddy's Clouds post (see October), Cal is very interested in clouds.  This  interest has recently expanded to lightning, thunderstorms, tornados, hurricanes, typhoons and cyclones.  Last weekend, we made a trip to the library and came home with books on these topics (and a couple of "Fancy Nancy" books selected by me for Ella).  And it's been nothing but weather ever since.  In addition to reading the library books, we do internet searches for videos of these weather events on a daily basis.  Dan and I regularly field questions on these topics and most of the time provide answers based on our experiences and guts; sometimes, we go back and consult the library books for the "right" answers.

 

Between all of the reading, watching, asking and answering this week, Cal wrote another book on approximately 3x1.5 inch pieces of paper.  Here it is:

 

 

 

 

 

The End (unless Cal decides to add more pages).

 

Please Go to Daddy...

I heard the familiar shuffle of little feet across the carpeted hallway approaching our bedroom at 3:40-something AM today.  It’s become routine – hear kid in hallway, figure out which kid it is, look at clock, calculate amount of time left in slumber, sigh.  I knew my alarm was set for 6:03am (yes, I set my clock on an odd, non-multiple-of-five time), so I found some solace in the fact that I did have a couple more hours to get some much-needed sleep before having to wake up for the day.  I’ve been battling a cold and a nasty headache for a few days now, and every minute of relaxation and sleep seems to help; every minute of loud or stressful dealings with kids seems to worsen things exponentially.

Please go to Daddy, I thought hard.  Please go to Daddy… Please go to Daddy… Please go Daddy. I repeat this in my head every time we have a middle-of-the-night visitor, and I never get the results I wish for.  My kids always come looking for me to address whatever it is they need or think they need in the middle of the night.

“I’m wet.”

“I’m scared.”

“I’m cold.”

“I want to sleep with you.”

“Can you turn my fan on?”

“Can you turn my closet light on?”

“Is it midnight?”

“Zoe’s in my bed!”

I know Dan hears them, too.  Every once in awhile (and by “every once in awhile,” I don’t mean to suggest that this happens with any frequency acceptable by me), he’ll address the need (and by “address the need,” I don’t mean to suggest that he presents solution which is acceptable by the kid with a need) by pre-emptively hopping out of bed the moment he hears a footstep on our bedroom floor and taking the middle-of-the-night visitor back to his or her room where he sternly insists he or she stay in bed and sleep until morning.  For the most part, though, he stays out of it, leaving me to deal with the situation as requested by my visitor.  Not that I blame him for staying out of this – no one in his right mind would deliberately interrupt his sleep to deal with a tired, whiny, unreasonable kid.  Some of us just don't have that choice.

As expected, last night’s middle-of-the-night visitor came to my side of the bed.  Normally, I acknowledge the visitor’s arrival by either getting out of bed to address the situation and get the child back into his or her bed or by just pulling the child up into our bed for him or her to finish his or her night’s sleep there.  I prefer the latter – it’s easier, and I like to cuddle with my kids.  While this is true, I do recognize it’s setting a bad precedent, one that’s difficult to break once it becomes routine.  Plus, Dan very strongly prefers that our kids sleep in their own beds.

Last night, I chose an entirely different approach.  It was Ella.  I knew I didn’t want to pull her up into our bed like she wanted; but I also didn’t want to deal with the struggle that would surely follow my informing her she needed to go back to sleep in her bed.  So I just ignored her and just felt her presence not more than 2 feet from my face.  Five minutes must’ve passed before either of us (Ella or me as Dan was certainly not going to jump in) said anything.  I can be pretty strong willed, but apparently Ella is stronger willed as I was the first to say something about her being there.

“What’s wrong, Baby Girl?” I asked, gently stroking the side of her head, hoping a calm acknowledgement of her being there might have some positive influence on the situation but knowing full well it wouldn’t.

“I want to sleep with you,” she replied, handing me her blanket and sheep as if this proposal of hers was actually going to happen.

I informed her that she couldn’t, which triggered the exact reaction I was looking to avoid by ignoring her when she first came into our room.  She was very upset, throwing pretty tempting phrases like, “I want to sleep with MY Mommy” at me to change my mind.  She also tried supposed statements of fact like, “My bed is cold” and then simple negativity like, “No!”  With every phrase she threw at me, I had a logical, pleasantly-delivered response.  This was a delay tactic as still held out hope that Dan would jump out of bed to take Ella back to her room and get her back into her bed himself.  It also provided me some time to muster the strength to pull myself out of bed to do that deed myself.  I mean, I was tired, sick and prone to getting another headache.  Meanwhile, Dan did chime in with some input like, “Big girls sleep in their beds, Ella,” and then he fell back to sleep.  Gee, thanks for the help.

Finally out of bed, I placed the blanket over my shoulder, picked Ella up and held her over the blanket so she could rest her head on it and then grabbed her sheep.  I love holding Ella in this position.  I then carried them (her, her blanket and that sheep) back to her room where she informed me once again that her bed was cold.

“That’s because your blankets are on the floor, Boo Boo,” I told her.  They were.

“I want to rock,” she informed me.  The glider where I oftentimes nursed her the first year of her life is still in her room, and she likes to rock in it with Dan or me holding her.

“No, we can’t right now” I told her, “but I’ll sit on the floor and hold you for a bit.”  I then proceeded to do so, rocking us back and forth a bit myself.  At the same time, I made a mental note of the time – 3:57am… I’d sit with her another couple of minutes, get her back into bed and then get back into my own by 4:03am.

The room was silent for a minute or two.  After that, it was time for me to transition her to bed.  She initially fought this move, using the same excuses as she did before.  Getting her to actually stay in her bed and fall back asleep seemed a very distant possibility.  Giving up and carrying her back to my bed was more likely.  Plopping into her bed, throwing a blanket on her, blowing her a kiss and darting back to my room only to have her follow me seemed a sure thing at this point.

But, call me the Ella whisperer (last night only), I did get her back into bed without much more of a squawk.  I placed her blanket on her and made sure she had a “handle” (corner of it) in each hand.  I then placed the multi-colored big knit blanket from our neighbors on top of that and then placed her quilt made by Aunt Sandi on top of that.  She could not claim she was cold.

She then told me she wanted to give me a hug and a kiss (this has become a signature Ella thing), to which I was, of course, receptive.  She told me to turn on the fan and the closet light (another part of the bedtime routine), to which I responded with a whispered, “of course” and actually did so.

I was practically holding my breath at this point.  Not that it was good that I was awakened at 3:40-something AM to deal with my middle-of-the-night visitor, but it was ending much better than I had expected.  I was actually walking out of Ella’s room, both of us with grins on our faces, Ella appearing to be cooperative and committed to staying in her bed and me with a good shot of getting almost two more hours of sleep next to my now snoring, fortunate husband.

Our Little Problem Solver

Orange felt star on floor

“Mommy, look, an orange star!” Ella exclaimed to me as she approached me from across the room and saw on our hardwood kitchen floor the smallest of orange, felt stars that had fallen off of Cal’s Frankenstein bookmark.

“I see it!” I responded with the excitement that only a mom can muster over insignificant things and non-events.  I’ve gotten pretty good at this over the past couple of years.

She continued to make her way to me, sitting on the bottom of the staircase to put on my shoes.  It was Saturday morning, and we were getting ready to head outside to rake some leaves.  I say “we” and mean “we” – the kids actually helped… or tried to help.

Anyway, she and I exchanged some hugs and kisses after she reached me.  She then turned around, looked toward the kitchen and said, “Where is it?”

I knew exactly where it was, but she wasn’t looking for a response from me; rather, she was just wondering it herself.  Where was that orange, felt star?  Hmm… I saw her thinking.

She then stepped toward where she remembered it being but didn’t see it.  Without saying a word or skipping a beat, our little problem solver then walked around the island, then parallel to the sink, then around the kitchen table and toward me.  This was the exact same path she had taken when she stumbled on that orange felt star the first time.

A couple of steps shy of it, she saw it.  “There it is!” she exclaimed, pointing at it.  This time she didn’t seek recognition from me.  She was simply satisfied she hadn’t lost track of it and then proceeded to dart off and play with “Big Baby” (the larger of her two baby dolls).

I found this to be really remarkable and actually worthy of genuine excitement that went unexpressed.  Ella figured out on her own HOW to find what she knew she had seen moments earlier and then found it.  If she’s anything like her mother, this will be a very practical, frequently-used skill when she has kids of her own.

I Survived Downtown Trick-or-Treating

As we walked from our car to downtown this past Sunday, my heart settled into my stomach.  Not again... please tell me I didn't do this again, I thought to myself, not letting on to my kids in full costume (Cal a ninja, Ella a princess) that anything might be wrong.

While Cal laughed at a costumed kid sitting on his dad's shoulders as they approached us, I wondered, why are they walking away from downtown?  And then, it just doesn't seem as crowded as it should be for the start of Trick-or-Treating.  It was just after 1pm, and I thought Trick-or-Treating from one business to the next in the downtown area was to have started at 1pm.

A couple of weeks earlier, Cal missed his friend's birthday party because I had remembered the time for it wrong.  It was just before 3pm and we were on our way to the party site when I looked at the time listed on the invitation.  1pm.  We missed it.  I, virtually in tears, broke the news to party-ready Cal, apologized profusely and repeatedly put all of the blame on myself.  I felt horrible.  I had reached an all-time low as a mother.  Cal took the news better than I expected, and this made me proud.  "It's okay, Mommy," he said a number of times.  At any rate, it's still fresh in my mind and not something I want to repeat.

On Sunday, I thought I actually had repeated it, this time with two kids in full costume ready to get some candy.

I kept my cool as we entered the downtown area.  I could have counted on two hands the number of kids I saw.  Clearly, something wasn't right.  My heart was still in my stomach; the kids had no clue something was amiss.  I love that about kids -- so absent worry and suspicion that something could possibly disrupt their fun.  It's the same trait that makes it so hard for me to actually be the fun disrupter.

Anyway, I decided it was time to ask.  We were close to the running store, a place that makes me happy and comfortable, so I decided we'd go in there and get the scoop.  The employees were in full costume; and on the counter at check-out, I saw a clear container half filled with Sweet Tarts, what I figured to be the leftovers from Trick-or-Treating.

"Did we miss Trick-or-Treating?" I got right to the point.

"It doesn't start until 3 o'clock," the costumed worker replied.  "They changed it because..." and I don't remember what he said the reason for changing it was because I was so stinkin' excited that we hadn't missed it.  Of course, now I had another problem -- I had two napless, fully costumed, Trick-or-Treat-ready kids to entertain for an hour an a half before Trick-or-Treating was to start.

I informed the kids we needed to wait a bit before Trick-or-Treating would actually start.  Ella declared she had to go potty, a good 15-minute time killer; so we used the bathroom in the back of the running store.  Finished, we made our way to the front of the store and across the street I saw an ice cream store.  Before I was able to apply any motherly judgment, the words, "Let's go get some ice cream!" were jumping out of my mouth.  Ice cream before candy -- I was any kid's dream mother at that point.

Knowing we still had a lot of time to kill, I was especially patient with the ice cream selection process.  This was no small feat and one that I surely wouldn't have managed to pull off had I not needed to entertain the kids for an hour and a half before the real fun was to begin.  Cal's vacillation was tolerable -- he pretty quickly went from brown ice cream to pink sherbet to blue ice cream, settling for the latter with white chocolate chips.  Ella didn't know what she wanted.  I thought pink ice cream would be a slam dunk, but she didn't want that, nor did she want the pink sherbet.  Every option I threw at her was met with an "umm... no."  Finally, she settled for the same blue ice cream Cal had picked.  And then I picked sprinkles for her topping as no one needed to suffer through that selection process, time to kill or not.

It was nice enough outside that we were able to eat our blue ice cream on a bench outside the store without being cold.  Ordinarily, this raises my stress to a moderate level.  My kids aren't the neatest eaters -- Cal just eats too fast to be neat about it, and Ella is still just unskilled with utensils.  I'd prefer they not drip and drool and spill all over themselves; but if it happens, I tell myself not to sweat it -- let them be kids, clothes can be cleaned.  But they were in costume, and I needed their costumes to stay clean not only for the Trick-or-Treating we had ahead of ourselves that day but also for their Halloween parade/party at school and "real" Trick-or-Treating we had planned later in the week.  I had a mound of napkins in my hand and used them liberally, immediately wiping every drop of ice cream that didn't make it into their mouths.  I used all of the napkins I had grabbed.

At this point, a half hour had been killed; and we had another hour to go.  There was no park nearby, but there was a Riverwalk, which my kids actually enjoy.  I didn't know if it would be an hour of enjoyment and was certain I'd experience high stress levels for whatever duration it ended up being, but I threw it out there anyway, "do you want to go to the Riverwalk?" I asked?  They did, so Cal climbed onto the tandem stroller and Ella declared she'd just walk; and we started to make our way to the Riverwalk.

As we reached the edge of the downtown business area, an alternative to the Riverwalk emerged -- the library.  My kids love books, read to them or paged through themselves.  There would be no river to fall into.  We could sit on chairs.  It was perfect.  I didn't present this as an alternative to the Riverwalk and declared we'd go to the library instead.  The kids were receptive to our new plans.

In the library, I read a couple of Halloween books to the kids.  They found some books and paged through them on their own.  And then they both found the computers with an interactive Dora game to play, Cal independently, Ella with a little help and both still in full costume.

After about an hour, I had to peel them away from their library fun.  This involved multiple notifications of the number of minutes left before we'd leave (as in "five more minutes," "three more minutes," etc) and a single effective threat that Ella and I would leave without Cal as he pranced from one book aisle to the next, ignoring my repeated "put your listening ears, it's time to leave, come with me" pleas.

"Okay, let's go, Ella," I said loud enough for Cal to hear but not sure which aisle he was actually in.  And we started walking away.  This was followed by a scared, "Mommy?!?!!!" and hurried footsteps toward my "I'm here, Cal" voice.  Call me mean, but that approach works like a charm.

After a not-so-quick, high-stress Leatherman visit to the bathroom (things like Ella touching the toilet seat and Cal opening the door as I finished peeing), we were out the door to start Trick-or-Treating about 10 minutes after it had officially started.  It's funny that we were actually late at this point.

There were people EVERYWHERE.  Sidewalks were packed with people and their gear and not easily navigated.  On either side of the street, people were going both directions.  In some cases, businesses had people planted outside their entrances handing out treats; in others, the kids had to go inside to get their treats.  Some businesses weren't participating, and most of these businesses thankfully had posted a sign on their doors (e.g. "sorry, no candy") so we didn't needlessly fight the crowd only to find that out once inside.

It was a parent's nightmare, really.  Battling ridiculous crowds.  Keeping track of little kids moving at different speeds.  Avoiding moving cars.  Repeatedly making sure little kids got that damn piece of candy after battling a crowd to get it outside a storefront.

Cal was a pro, stealthily weaving his way through the crowd to the person holding the candy -- inside or outside the store, Cal quickly found the candy, said his "Trick-or-Treat" and moved on.  He never went too far ahead, usually on his own volition but sometimes with a reminder from me to "wait up, Cal."

You'd never know that Ella had been Trick-or-Treating before.  She was slow, didn't fully understand the goal (get candy) and was incredibly distracted by the crowd.  She really just wanted to watch people and needed constant reminders to "come on, Ellie."

I was solo, and keeping both of them, neither one even 4 feet tall, in my sights amongst the crowd at all times was a stress that no one in his right mind would invite upon himself.  It was awful, just awful.

Looking back, there were some amusing antics amid the awfulness of this ordeal.  A few times, Cal stopped traffic for us to cross the street.  The first time he did this, I had no idea what he was doing.  "I've got it" he announced out of the blue after we started to cross the street (mid-street, low car traffic).  He saw a car coming slowly and quickly got into a ninja-like stance and, facing the car, stretched out his arm with the palm of his hand facing the car, a universal symbol for "stop."  He did this a few more times, which was okay because the few more times we were at least in a crosswalk, crossing the street "legally."

About mid-way through the event, we were leaving a pizza joint after collecting some treats when Cal announced dramatically that his "stomach hurt."  This has become synonymous with "I have to poop,"  which he eventually informed the pizza joint's employees after I re-directed him back inside the store to use their bathroom. "I have to go poop," he told the lady who smiled and directed us to the back of the store.  Lucky for me, there was a urinal inside this bathroom that Ella felt the need to touch despite my repeated requests that she not do it as Cal pooped to his heart's content.

Just before 5pm, I informed the kids that we were finished and needed to start heading back to the car.  To encourage cooperation and full acceptance of this, I threw the reward of choosing one of their well-earned treats once we got out of the crowd and to the fountain at the Riverwalk, which was 3/4 of the way to our car.  It worked.  We got there without incident.  Cal picked the Butterfinger he had asked me when he got it if he could eat it, and Ella picked a pack of rainbow Twizzlers.

With the rainbow Twizzlers half eaten, Ella announced she had to go potty.  We were at the Riverwalk.  Any potty that we could use would require fighting an unusually cooperative Cal and hauling ourselves and our gear back into the insanity.  So I actually ignored it.  She had already gone three times since we left the house -- did she really  have to go?  Plus, she was distracted by the fountain that she had fallen into earlier in the summer and the many ducks swimming on the river anyway.  If she did feel like she'd have to go, maybe she'd forget about it for a bit.

We then started to make our way across the bridge.  The kids enjoy stepping up on the wooden slats of the bridge and yell down to the ducks, and Sunday was no different.  Halfway across the bridge, a photographer took pictures of a newly engaged (I assume) couple.  His picture-taking was disrupted by Cal, who had hopped up next to the kissing couple, disrupting the moment being captured by the photographer.  I don't know if Cal really knew what he was doing, but we all laughed as if he did.

Finally across the bridge, I decided I wanted a picture of the kids at the Riverwalk.  So I once again bribed them with candy to cooperate for a picture by the river.  Cal fully understood the bribe and what I wanted and tried to pull Ella close to him to smile for his candy.  Ella, tired and possibly with a full bladder, resisted.  This isn't unusual -- Ella likes her space and feels perfectly comfortable informing anyone violating her space to leave her alone.  I have mental images of the beautiful, happy pictures I could take of my kids, and rarely are they realized.  Instead, I end up with something like this one, clearly a compromise to at least record the moment:

The kids ate their bribe, and we then made the final walk to our car where I hoisted Ella's princess dress over her head (she had a long-sleeved shirt and leggings on) in case she did finally have the accident that was surely brewing since she had announced she had to go potty back at the Riverwalk many minutes before.  I got the kids situated in the car and then climbed in myself.

To say I enjoyed my Sunday afternoon with the kids may be a lie.  I'm really not sure.  No one in his right mind would call that fun; but I'm not really in my right mind when it comes to my Leatherkids.  If you asked them, I'm not even sure what they'd say.  I think they enjoyed it, but I also think they may have enjoyed a visit -- in costume -- to our neighborhood park just as much.

One thing is for sure: I survived.

Daddy's Cold Voice

Dan and I took this week off from work, mostly because we had some days off to burn.  I probably need the time away from work, and I'm sure it won't hurt Dan, either.  With Cal in Kindergarten now, though, we're a little tied to home; so we didn't plan any getaway other than a last-minute (i.e. it's still being planned) "getaway" to in-town, kidless dining, shopping and an overnight stay at a hotel.

So the kids will be going to school every day this week.  Without the pressures of having to catch a train at a particular time, I'm anticipating some easy mornings... I mean, easiER mornings.  I would never suggest any morning is ever actually easy with the Leatherkids.
 
Today, Day 1 of our week off from work, was "easy" morning #1.  Many hours have passed since I lived it, but I really don't remember there being the usual struggle with getting Ella to use the potty, wash her hands and try to get herself dressed.  I guess she technically didn't "use" the potty, peeing on the floor beside it and then stepping in her urine, unfazed by any of it; but other than that, I just remember her being relatively pleasant and cooperative.  Ella is rarely pleasant and cooperative in the morning.  And Cal?  Cal got himself dressed and downstairs quietly and without any drama.

Now, Dan has a cold.  One of the symptoms of that cold is a raspy, somewhat weak voice.  We must not get a lot of colds in the Leatherman house because the kids actually noticed Dan's voice wasn't what it usually is.
 
"What's wrong with your voice, Daddy?"  I think both of them asked in the middle of our slower-paced weekday morning routine, to which Dan responded that he had a cold.
 
With stuffed animals and books to take to school chosen, backpacks packed, shoes and jackets on, morning snacks eaten, ponies put in hair and kisses, hugs and goodbyes exchanged with Daddy, the Leatherkids and I were heading out the door to head to school. 

"Bye, Daddy," Cal said with a fake, gutty and raspy growl as he walked out the door, smiling as he did so.  It's hard to describe how funny it was; I think at the root of the funniness was that it was unexpected and clever.

"Bye, Cal," Dan responded with his genuine, raspy cold voice.
 
"Why are you talking like that, Daddy?" Ella asked as she walked out on Cal's heels, as if she hadn't asked him the same question five minutes earlier.  Not that she was really seeking an answer.  Two steps into the garage she had forgotten her question and was already going into her get-in-the-car banter.  "Can you hold me, Mommy?  My shoe is coming off.  Where's my baby?  You sit by me, Mommy?  Cal Daniel is in Kindergarten.  You hold this, Mommy.  I get in myself..." The list of Ella get-in-car-isms is virtually endless.

Anyway, Daddy's cold voice inspired some Leatherkid banter that quietly amused this Leathermommy this morning.

Daddy's Clouds

From out of nowhere, Cal is fascinated with clouds.  Fascinated and knowledgeable.  He learned about Stratus, Cirrus and Cumulus clouds at school; and he learned about Cumulonimbus clouds by simply watching the movie, “Up” a couple of times.   And just this past Sunday, a Nimbostratus (or something like that) type of cloud was added to the mix after he and Dan did a little research into clouds and lightning and thunder.

Cal knows enough about clouds that he can tell you, with a relatively high degree of accuracy, the type(s) of clouds in the sky on any given day.  While I can reason myself to a conclusion that the fluffy clouds are Cumulus and the featherlike clouds are Cirrus (I mean, that just sounds right), Cal knows this.  He can also tell you, based on the clouds, if it’s going to rain.

“It’s going to rain today, Mommy,” he told me as he navigated his way down our stairs one morning recently.

“Oh, yeah?  What makes you think that?” I started to probe.

He smirked and thought for a moment before responding.  “I looked up in the sky from the window in my room and I said, ‘Cal, what type of clouds are those?’ And I then said, ‘those are Cumulonimbus clouds, so it’s going to rain,’” he responded, pensive and looking up to the ceiling as he said this for dramatic effect.

What a hoot this kid is!  I don’t recall if it actually did rain that day.  I’m sure it did.  The point is, Cal likes clouds.

Dan went on a business trip last week.  He travelled by airplane and, mid-flight, found himself looking out the window at the clouds below.  Now it was the start of his trip, so there really hadn’t been much time at all to really start missing his kids.  Honestly, he should have been enjoying the silence and anticipating the adult time he had ahead of him, keeping his head free of the sounds of our incessantly loud and oftentimes whiny kids, sounds that we hear even when we’re not around them and don’t always realize we’re hearing when we are.

Instead he thought of Cal and thought that Cal might want to see what clouds look like from a different angle, from above.  It would be another bit of information for Cal to retain, that there’s a cloud-free sky above the clouds.  So he emailed me these pictures along with this message: “Cal, this is what the top of a cloud looks like.  I love you, Mommy, and Ella!”

It was a simple gesture and one that perhaps only I would think was incredibly thoughtful and notable, one that was added to the collection of random moments that collectively make Dan a really good Daddy.

I later showed the pictures to Cal and let him read the message that came with it.  He may never remember that specific moment; but he knows that his Daddy is interested in his stories, his days and his questions because his Daddy regularly does little things like send him real cloud pictures snapped from inside a flying airplane.