Bradley Cowan

TRY, TRY AGAIN

noreply@blogger.com (Brad Cowan) — Fri, 19 Nov 2021 14:22:00 +0000

I couldn't tell if her face was red because of guilt or from the taillights of the car in front of us at the stoplight. I turned my focus back to the stalled line of traffic and let her continue with her story. Conversations under seatbelts without direct eye contact and music in the background are better than therapy if you ask me.

Details flew around the car like confetti. I closed the sunroof to keep them in.

She recognized that she hurt someone's feelings at school earlier but didn't know how to address it. An apology, sure. An effort to do better going forward, of course. Sometimes, though, once the damage has been done, repairing it isn't always a straightforward process. Sometimes there are curves and forks in the road you don't see coming.

I've learned this lesson many times, often the hard way. The light changed - green for go - and I gently pressed the pedal to move us forward. She shared stories of when her own feelings have been hurt. We talked about forgiveness. We talked about patience. We talked about understanding.

It's easy to get wrapped up in numbers, in ages, but she's always been a bit wiser than her years.

Her mother nor I have ever really indulged her with baby talk. We've always spoken to her in our normal voices, in our normal way. When she asks questions, we give her the answers regardless of how difficult or uncomfortable the topic might be. Is this the right approach? As with all decisions when parenting, only time will tell.

I pulled into the grocery parking lot to grab a few last-minute ingredients for dinner. A strand of hair escaped her falling ponytail and danced in the wind from the air conditioning vent. I swerved into a parking spot but missed fitting in between the lines. She told me she prayed about her mistake.

I glanced her way to watch her grow up, another moment collected, right before my eyes. She tucked the loose strand of hair behind her ear. I put the vehicle in reverse, backed up, then pulled in a second time. She said she would reach out to her friend tomorrow.

Sometimes taking a step back and trying again is all we can do.

THE ATTIC

noreply@blogger.com (Brad Cowan) — Fri, 12 Nov 2021 14:45:00 +0000

Our anniversary was Monday.

We celebrated the last 13 years the Friday before, just the two of us. With the kids at their grandparents' house, we opted for a casual dinner downtown. Conversation ran uninterrupted by toddler giggles and endless requests. We tuned in to each other without distractions of school day stories and preteen social dynamics. We saw each other as husband and wife instead of Daddy and Mama, a difference often overlooked but one always worth remembering.

When you've been with someone as long as we've been with each other, 21 years, there's a lot of ground to cover. When you've seen someone through every phase of life starting with their teenage years, there's a lot to unpack. When there's so much history, so many ups and downs, so many laughs, so many tears, it's easy to tuck them all away as memories and just look forward to tomorrow. When you've said all there is to say, sometimes it's easier not to make withdrawals from the memory bank.

Good thing we're both stubborn.

We spent Monday night, our actual anniversary, celebrating with the kids. A day like every other where we gather around the table for dinner in our unassigned, assigned seats. The meal was filling and the toddler giggles were contagious. The conversation leaned toward recess and YouTube celebrities while Allison and I played hide-and-seek with the wife and husband behind the mother and father. We snuck a few glances, shared a few smiles, and soaked in our children - the love between us personified.

We cleaned up the kitchen, ushered the kids upstairs for their bedtime routines, and listened as they said their prayers. We slowly pulled their doors closed, blowing kisses through the narrowing crack, then we snuck back downstairs to uncork a bottle of champagne. I secretly bought a bottle earlier completely unaware that Allison was doing the same. We grabbed our glasses and quietly climbed the stairs to visit one of our favorite places.

The attic.

It was our first Valentine's Day in the new house when we created a little hangout in the attic. Innocent enough, it was just to get away from our offspring for a few minutes, a last-minute romantic gesture in a season of diapers and lectures. A moment of quiet from the constant commotion of day-to-day life where we could see each other and hear each other. We never dismantled it and, instead, come back to it often.

A few old beach chairs folded out with an even older chest between them. Leftover carpet left behind from the owners before partially rolled out for warmth underneath us, for Charlie mainly. A few strands of string lights, with burned-out bulbs that somehow survived the move, are strung loosely along the studs and the railing. A street sign bearing the name of a backroad between our childhood homes that we drove countless times on the way to see each other, racing to beat the clock from an impending curfew.

It's ours.

We raised our glasses and toasted, to what we had and what we have, what we've been through and what we're building, and we sipped while surrounded by boxes of seasonal decorations and random items the kids have outgrown. The attic, our grown-up version of a treehouse, is where we go to reconnect. It's a routine that developed unintentionally, but one we both look forward to.

It sounds odd, sure, but it's where we're able to see each other without any outside influence shading our view. It's where the conversation never runs dry even when the champagne bottles do. We give each other downloads of our day, we talk about our kids, we discuss our dreams, we note the goals we've checked off the list and those still ahead. We talk about this and that and everything in between.

We talk.

Sometimes for hours. Sometimes for minutes. Sometimes not at all. We turn on a playlist in the background and sing along or listen to the rain on the roof as the thunder vibrates the walls. We laugh. We cry. Sometimes we laugh until we cry. We revisit those kids 21 years ago who thought they knew everything but had no idea. We acknowledge their mistakes. We celebrate their wins. We show them love and grace and understanding and thank God we had each other every step of the way.

Monday night, we climbed the stairs with champagne flutes in hand and drank to the commitment we made to each other 13 years ago. Still young. Still believing we knew everything but still had no idea. We relived our wedding and our honeymoon, noting every detail we would change and those we wouldn't touch at all. We'll climb those stairs again, probably tonight, probably tomorrow night. God-willing, we'll climb them again another 13 years from now, surrounded by a life's worth of souvenirs, to revisit who we are today.

Cheers to that.

BOYS WILL BE MEN

noreply@blogger.com (Brad Cowan) — Fri, 05 Nov 2021 19:58:00 +0000

I knew before the sonographer confirmed. One look at my wife, her eyes darting from me to the screen and back to me again, told me she knew too. Conversations without words, a favorite perk of our relationship. We didn’t say it out loud because we didn’t want to tell Madison yet. With a seven-year age gap between her and her sibling, we wanted her to be a part of every pregnancy milestone – ultrasound and gender reveal, especially.

This was just as much her baby as it was ours. This was family-defined.

We watched and listened as the heart was identified, small but strong. We saw movement on the screen, our baby in motion, while our first baby (bigger but little still) struggled to stay in her seat. She wanted a sister. She wanted a little girl to pass her clothes to and play dolls with. She wanted another version of herself, and she had mentally planned out their entire childhood in the last few months leading up to this appointment.

“Congratulations! You’re having a healthy, beautiful baby boy.”

I smiled. Allison smiled. Madison fought back tears, but one single drop lost the battle and ran down her cheek. Having a brother had never even occurred to her. What, of hers, would she give him? When he was old enough to play, what make-believe world would they dream up? How could she possibly relate to him? All were thoughts she got lost in over the following days before coming to terms with the reality of it. Regardless, she was going to be a big sister, a fact that wouldn’t change, and as he grew so did her excitement to meet him.

“How are you going to raise a little boy?”

While I was so caught up in her, this question was tossed my way several times from several people. As if raising a daughter somehow made me incompetent to raise a son. It was insinuated that since I don’t hunt or fish that I was somehow unequipped to have a boy. It was inferred that since I’m not athletic or involved in sports that I wasn’t qualified to father another male. As if killing something or handling a ball demarcates masculinity. These unwarranted comments became my silent insecurities. These camouflaged insults portrayed as casual concern became my inner voice, whispering and shouting all at once, that I wasn’t good enough for this child.

So, fast forward three years – how am I raising a little boy?

I’m raising him to be kind. I’m raising him to be patient and understanding. I’m raising him to be cognizant of the world around him and the people sharing it with him. I’m doing my best to teach him that not everything will go his way, not everyone will be his friend, not every situation will be positive but to stay valiant and push forward anyway. I pray for him throughout the day and make mental notes of mistakes I’ve made before falling asleep at night. I’m raising him to be strong – physically as well as mentally and emotionally.

I’m raising him just like I’m raising his sister.

Being a boy doesn’t change the fact he is my child. Being a boy doesn’t determine his nature, good or bad. Being a boy doesn’t control the state of his heart, hardened or otherwise. Being a boy doesn’t quantify how many hugs he gets or how much love he’s shown or the way it’s received. Being a boy doesn’t alter the challenge of raising him, that challenge comes with the territory of parenting.

“Boys will be boys.”

If that means they’ll get dirty and smelly and play with cars over dolls or dinosaurs over unicorns, then sure. Although I know plenty of girls who checked those boxes growing up and never heard anyone question their parents. However, if being a boy means he gets a free pass to be inconsiderate or unkind or violent then, to answer the question, I’ll be raising him differently. Hunting, fishing, and sports can all be learned, and I’ll suit up if those are interests he pursues, but they’re outside interests. I’m more concerned with the core of him as a person. The rest will inevitably take care of itself.

What people fail to remember is that boys will be boys that will be men.

And what the world really needs, now more than ever, is men that aren’t afraid to raise boys – even when they’re questioned, even when they’re doubted, even when they’re terrified. Parenting is hard enough as it is, dividing it into categories doesn’t make it any easier. How am I raising a little boy? I’m raising him the best way I know how and deferring to God when my best isn’t good enough. I’m raising him with the acknowledgment of the boy he is today and the consideration of the man he’ll be tomorrow. Brave. Bold. Bright. Loved.

Hopefully, I’m raising him well.

HOME

noreply@blogger.com (Brad Cowan) — Fri, 29 Oct 2021 12:42:00 +0000

A year ago... we weren't looking, but we weren't not looking either. At least that's what we told ourselves as we stalked real estate listings in our area over the course of five years (give or take). We knew what we didn't want, but more importantly, we knew exactly what we did want. With two kids and a golden retriever in tow, we wanted our next move to be our last move.

We wanted our forever home.

After narrowing down a few neighborhoods, we were on high alert for any houses that popped up. We're obnoxiously picky when it comes to spending money. Call it penny-pinching or cheap or tight or whatever you want, but we know what we like and, more often than not, we're not willing to settle - especially when it comes to big-ticket purchases like a house.

Then it appeared. A near-perfect listing.

We were nervous. We crunched numbers. We moved cautiously, slowly, too slowly, and it got away. Back to waiting we went. We were fine with it. Bruised egos and hurting hearts, sure, but still fine to wait. The first house we purchased a decade ago, as a young married couple, was suiting our needs. It was the house we brought both of our children home to. They crawled then walked on those floors. They said their first words within those walls. Bittersweetly, as children do, they were growing up and we were sadly outgrowing the space.

So, we prayed.

We prayed and we saved and we paid down the last of our debt from our frivolous spending in our 20's. (Lessons learned. No regrets.) We waited patiently. We waited through hard-earned promotions and career pivots, highs and lows, then a pandemic hit. Our waiting suddenly turned towards defeat and we almost gave up the hope that our dream home existed. We almost gave up the hope that the house we were waiting for was somewhere waiting for us, too.

Almost.

However, God has a plan, as He always does. Our white flag was us letting go but little did we know it would be exactly what He was waiting for us to do - to surrender. We continued to pray. Although our house prayers were slipped in towards the end of bedtime as an additional PS before falling asleep or sandwiched between immense gratitude for making it through another day of uncharted times in a COVID-world.

Then it appeared. The perfect listing.

It was a Saturday, a day reserved for household chores and family time not for looking at recent real estate listings. That task was designated for weekday mornings over coffee, but there we were... looking but not looking. And there it was staring back at us. Screens can be deceiving, so we immediately reached out to our realtor for a showing first thing Monday morning. We counted the minutes, our blessings, and our finances for the next few days until we pulled into the driveway.

God's presence. Crippling fear. Sometimes they accompany each other.

The floorplan was everything we wanted. Open but with subtly defined spaces. So, I built walls. The layout was perfect for our family. A natural flow with plenty of space to spread out but would always lead us back to one another. So, I closed it all in. There were a few changes needed to make it feel like us. A fresh coat of paint to highlight all the stunning moldings throughout among other updates. So, I said it was a deal-breaker. The house was impeccably built and maintained, so I mentally tore it apart.

I was scared and nervous. I self-sabotaged, as I tend to do, and we walked away.

Over the next several days, I stalked the listing completely unaware that my wife was doing the same. We couldn't get the house out of our heads. It checked every box on every list we ever made. Plus, it added new boxes that we weren't even looking for but couldn't stop thinking about and checked them off too. We toyed with the option of building our own and toured a few new builds in various stages of progress, but in the end, what we wanted was already built. We both knew it.

I learned that in order for dreams to come true, you have to wake up.

We reached out to our realtor again for a second showing. With the patience of a saint, she let us in to walk through the house another time. This time, though, we envisioned our kids running through the halls leaving waves of laughter to wash the walls in their wake. We pictured birthdays and holidays celebrated in the dining room. We saw ourselves picking glitter and confetti from the cracks of the floorboards decades from now wondering how long they'd been there. We saw this house as our home and once we allowed ourselves to feel it, we couldn't imagine it any other way.

An offer was made on the spot. We attached a letter I wrote and crossed our fingers.

And just like that, we were back to waiting... and praying. From that point forward, we were strapped in for a ride that we couldn't seem to get off of. Things happened quickly. There was a mix of white-knuckling and throwing our hands up, but the ride moved on regardless. There was some back and forth, competition in a ruthless market, and we attempted to prepare ourselves to let it go if we had to. Then our offer was accepted. Our current house was listed, a buyer submitted an offer we couldn't refuse as soon as it hit the market, and we rolled with it. Strapped in. Both hands up.

I guess what is meant to be really will be.

It's hard to explain how important a house is when you're a homebody by nature. To most, it's just a dwelling. Four walls to close you in, a roof to store your things under, and a place to rest your head at night. I can understand that. For me, though, it's much more. It's where I let my guard down after a guarded day. It's where I recharge as an introvert in an extroverted world. It's where my wife and I are chasing and tackling one life goal at a time, where we're growing old together as we've grown up together. It's where the joy in this season of life is bottled, where my kids face their fears without judgment. It's where they'll establish a part of themselves that they'll always return to even when they're adults, even if it's only through recalled memories.

It's home. And there's no other place like it.

HERMIONE & THE MANDRAKE

noreply@blogger.com (Brad Cowan) — Tue, 30 Oct 2018 18:27:00 +0000

Gone are the days of her mother and I picking out her Halloween costumes, a clear indication of just how quickly she's growing up on us. While part of me is sad about letting go another aspect of the parenting journey, there's a larger part of me fascinated by her creativity and imagination. There's something magical about watching her become her own person. Smart. Determined. Never afraid to say what's on her mind. Traits she shares with Hermione Granger, no doubt.

Included in the many things that define her is now the title of Big Sister, a revelation I've yet to make in this little online space of mine, but it's true. A screaming Mandrake from the world of Hogwarts and the pages of Harry Potter, but a squishy little brother within the walls of our home. Some will tell you that magic isn't real, but when I look at these two - my daughter and my son - there's nothing else that describes it. Magical, indeed.

View previous Halloween costumes:

THE WITCH

noreply@blogger.com (Brad Cowan) — Sat, 28 Oct 2017 17:31:00 +0000

The leaves crunched under her feet. The sun highlighted the cobwebs in her path before setting completely. Darkness was near and the shadows from the trees followed her every step like old friends dying to catch up. This year she asked for spooky and scary. She's been a duck, a white tiger, a monarch butterfly, Dorothy, Belle, and Veruca Salt all of which lend themselves to the sweeter side of the Halloween costume selection. When her grandmother gifted her a webbed dress and a pointy hat to match and the Sanderson sisters started occupying our television screens daily, she asked if she could be a witch. Somehow, even with a spider on her face as requested, her charm managed to shine through her evil facial efforts... like a whispered spell on All Hallows' Eve. Spooky. Scary. Sweet.

GONE 'TIL SEPTEMBER

noreply@blogger.com (Brad Cowan) — Sat, 23 Sep 2017 00:19:00 +0000

I suppose I should have posted a sign if one were available. Maybe enforced an auto reply or an illustration of sorts. I should have provided a placeholder or given a heads up. I should have sent out a warning in case someone happened to be concerned, but it's possible anyone reading my random thoughts in this space for any length of time would have noticed the trend. June comes around and the words escape again like Houdini until the fall. There must be something about listening to my daughter state her age, new and foreign in her constantly maturing voice, which forces me to take a step back in the documenting.

One would think, after six years, the opposite effect would prove true. She celebrates another birthday and I would immediately start juggling words by the syllable, alarmingly fast with sharpened skill… but no. That's not the case. Every summer when the leaves tighten their grip on their limbs, I find myself holding on with white knuckles too. Every year around this time, I’m left holding on not willing to accept what’s coming. The inevitable shift. I subconsciously know the final tug, a deep breath, just before the leaf gives in and releases itself from the tree will confirm we’re onto the next season. Summer ends and we have to let go.

There’s always something bittersweet about the accepting of one phase’s end and the beginning of another. The speed in which the transition occurs leaves little room for hesitation or embracing, comfort and coasting aren’t available states in the world of parenting. To parent is to exist in a constant place of restlessness with a never-ending pull forward. They don’t warn you about that part. They focus more on the milestones ahead, but fail to reveal just how often you’ll look back. One minute she’s a baby and then she’s not. One day it’s June, then it’s September and you’re left holding the season you’re in with everything you have.

Let go, they don't tell you that part. Let go, but not until you have to.

SIX

noreply@blogger.com (Brad Cowan) — Wed, 21 Jun 2017 22:41:00 +0000

We’ve been kicking balloons from room to room for a week. They’re leftover from when we filled her room the night she fell asleep as a five year old and woke up as a six year old, trading one year for another somewhere between prayers and dreams and the sunrise.

Her mother and I celebrated her with surprise after surprise the entire day because six years ago she started doing the same for us. We had a few of her friends, some since birth and the other her best forever, show up randomly at places we already were. First, the indoor trampoline park where they jumped from walls to floor to foam pits and air bags then later, the bowling alley and arcade where the laughs rolled faster than the bowling balls.

We ate lunch at her favorite restaurant and cooled off with ice cream from her favorite creamery before collapsing on our couch at the end of the day. Over pizza with pepperonis displaying her age and candy she declared her favorite from last Halloween, we watched a movie and looked back at the last six years.

Then over the weekend, we watched her take a deep breath and blow out her candles surrounded by friends and family. Entertained by obstacles and gymnastic challenges, her and her friends tackled them all before she was strapped in and swung from the ceiling. Later she told me it was the best birthday ever and maybe because the words came out crisper and cleaner than ever before, spoken from someone with another year of life experience, I believed her.

When she was three, she couldn’t wait to be six. Now that she's six, she can’t wait to be twelve. Meanwhile, I’m just trying to soak it all in and hang on for the ride. If the next six years fly by as quickly as the last six did, I better tighten the straps. One thing is for sure, whiplash included, she’s the best gift we’ve ever received.

( Read more about previous birthdays : Five, Four, Three, Two )

MADISON'S THIRD DANCE RECITAL

noreply@blogger.com (Brad Cowan) — Wed, 07 Jun 2017 19:51:00 +0000

The house lights were dim making shadows of the audience and there was an audible catch of breath from several around us once the curtains slid open. She tends to have the same effect on me too -- breathtaking. The spotlight was on her and we watched her strike a pose before the music started then she found the beat and encouraged her fellow dancers to do the same. The fringe of her skirt swayed and shook as the toes and heels of her feet tapped along, a group of tiny dancers with a ton of stage presence.

From tap to ballet, she returned to the stage with her friends having traded fringe for tulle. They twirled around as they do, a beautiful disaster at some points at this age, and we smiled until our cheeks hurt then we clapped until our palms did too. Watching her arms and legs extend measuring the grace and height she's gained since last year this time further proves how quickly she's growing up. The curtain closed at the end of her second performance and just before the left met the right, her eyes met mine and despite all the rhythm in the room my heart still skipped a beat.

KINDERGART-END

noreply@blogger.com (Brad Cowan) — Sat, 27 May 2017 02:11:00 +0000

Someone once said, regarding parenting, the days are long but the years are short. It’s true, I admit. The sunsets seem to stretch themselves out, pushing bedtime further away while birthdays roll around again in the blink of an eye. One minute you’re stalking the clock for a moment of silence and the next you’re trying to recall the sound of her voice when she mumbled her first word. You’re picking out her school uniform for the first day of Kindergarten then suddenly it’s the last day and you’re trying to find one that still fits. Sure, long days and short years; parenting is full of both, but the adventure is worth every single minute.

Goodbye, Kindergarten. Hello, Summer. See you soon, First Grade.

CHATTY PATTY, VOL. 29

noreply@blogger.com (Brad Cowan) — Thu, 18 May 2017 20:07:00 +0000

I have a running list of comments, phrases, and one liners from Madison that I keep in my phone. I started collecting them when she started talking because almost as soon as she said something that had me laughing hysterically, she said something else funny that made me forget it entirely. I'm not sure if these are amusing to anyone else or just my wife, Allison, and me since we're her parents, but I have a feeling we'll look back one day enjoying that we captured some of her random comments (click here for more).

Sticking out her tongue...

MADISON: Do I have any taste bugs?

MADISON: Do you know why I run from tomatoes?

ME: Nope. Why?

MADISON: Because they can't ketchup!

MADISON: Do you know what diarrhea sounds like?

ME: What?

MADISON: Ploop. Ploop. Splash.

ME: Gross.

MADISON: True story.

Rubbing her finger all around her mouth...

ME: What are you doing?

MADISON: Did you know my teeth go all the way around back here? Interesting stuff.

After a picnic in the backyard...

MADISON: Let's play duck, duck, chicken! Forget the goose.

HER MOTHER'S SHOES

noreply@blogger.com (Brad Cowan) — Wed, 10 May 2017 21:05:00 +0000

My wife drops her keys in the bowl by the door and finds me in the living room. I watch her unstrap her shoes and kick them off in the floor in front of her. Work is over for the day and we’re both home for the night yet neither of us feels like making dinner. The meal plan on the chalkboard in the kitchen has bruschetta chicken scribbled on it, but Tuesday feels like Monday so we’re choosing to ignore it.

Madison walks in interrupting our conversation with her own thoughts and questions before walking back out again. “Will you take my shoes upstairs?” her mother asks and she does because she’s a good kid. Aren’t all kids, when they want to be? Aren’t all adults for that matter? When we want to be? We listen to her steps stretch up the stairs until they become muffled by the carpet in her bedroom.

“Am I bad mother?” she asks me when our daughter is out of earshot.

It’s one of those moments. I have them, too. Sometimes parenting picks apart your insecurities and forces them to the surface like a bruise, dark and sensitive to the touch. The desire to be a successful, working mother when the world tells you to stay home and make crafts is a weight I’m incapable of carrying for her. Mom Guilt they call it. What she doesn’t know is the example she’s providing for our daughter is incomparable. Women can do it all and still have it all and they don’t have to feel bad about it... or wear an apron.

She looks at me with her brown eyes and I lose myself just as I did when we met 17 years ago. I thought I loved her then and even more when we got married, but then she made me a father and I fell in love with her all over again. She became a mother and somehow twice as beautiful in the process. When you’ve been with someone over half your lifetime, you get to see them at their best and their worst. You get to see them fail and succeed and you get to watch them grow up in between.

You get to watch them watching you do the same.

“Of course not,” I reassure her. "You're a great mother." It’s the truth. I know it. Madison knows it. I think deep down she knows it, too. I remember all the research she did when she found out she was pregnant and how she made all of Madison’s baby food from scratch. The child never once tasted the jarred selections from the grocery store shelves; every fruit or vegetable was hand selected and each recipe was made in our kitchen. Kid tasted. Mother approved.

She read through numerous books careful to only choose the ones with words she wished she’d written. She only wanted the bedtime stories that reflected her heart and not just those that encouraged sleep. She only wanted the best for our little girl. She still does. You can tell by the way she makes her bed or does her laundry or packs her lunch. She has weaved her love into the braids of her hair and tucked it deep between her tiny toes.

Only good mothers know that love is more than just four letters.

I hear it buried in the middle of lectures and lessons, bouncing around in sentences of advice and appreciation. I see it reflected every time their eyes catch each other across the dinner table. I feel it erupt from their laughs flooding our walls and halls in the process. I taste it in the dough they roll out by hand when cookies are on the agenda. I smell it every time they hug and trade scents, mother and daughter, sweet and comforting. A breath of fresh air.

Loud stomps are heard overhead and we both make our way upstairs to see what Madison has gotten into. She beats me to the steps because nothing stands in the way of a mama bear and her cub. Once in her room, we see our little girl shuffle by wearing the shoes she carried up earlier. Her mother’s shoes. The footsteps are bigger and the shoes harder to fill, but it doesn't stop her from trying. “Look! I’m just like you, Mama,” she says. "You're the best."

See? Not bad at all. Not even close.

THANK YOU

noreply@blogger.com (Brad Cowan) — Wed, 03 May 2017 20:44:00 +0000

Somehow it slipped my mind. Somewhere along the way, I forgot when she first told me she loved me. I’ve misplaced the memory when she first said the words without being prompted or said them in return to my own. There have been several times since, of course, and they sprinkle my thoughts like confetti forcing smiles to the surface... a cause for celebration, without a doubt.

The other day she crawled in my lap, as she does, and tucked her feet in making herself comfortable. We asked and answered random questions as they presented themselves and we had silent conversations between. We had a thumb war and told “knock knock” jokes just for fun because it was one of those days where we had nowhere to be.

Before long she hopped up and I planted a kiss on her forehead and told her I loved her then she skipped off. She rummaged through something in the kitchen and I pictured her trying desperately to sneak a snack while being quiet and failing miserably. Adorably. She ran back towards me and gave a wet kiss on my cheek. I could smell the veggie straws on her breath. “Thank you,” she said.

I assumed she was talking about the snack I silently agreed to or the snack she was about to ask for or the mess from her snack she wanted me to clean up. Maybe she was thanking me for the snack we were about to share because suddenly I was hungry and she seems to sense these things. “For what?” I asked. “What are you thanking me for?”

She let the dog lick salty crumbs from her fingers and she smiled at him then at me. “For loving me and for being my Daddy, for everything,” she said. “Thank you.” She crawled back into the chair, still wearing her pink pajamas with the gray polka dots, and I tried unsuccessfully to pause time. Being her father is the greatest accomplishment of my life. She doesn’t have to thank me, but I’ll never forget the time she did.

TRUE COLORS

noreply@blogger.com (Brad Cowan) — Wed, 26 Apr 2017 20:38:00 +0000

I press play and she leans into my chest. I can feel her smiling because I’m smiling, too. She’s currently in a Trolls phase and we watch the movie once a day, at least, and we blast the soundtrack whenever we’re in the car. Voices of celebrities I practically grew up with surround us; they’re new and exciting for her yet familiar and nostalgic for me. The songs takeover and we’re both singing along.

You with the sad eyes...

Small creatures with crazy hair dance and talk on screen and she jumps up to join them, acting out her favorite parts. She’s memorized their actions and words and recites them all. The scene ends and she crawls back into my lap tucking her arms into my chest, careful not to spill the popcorn, and she leans her little head on my shoulder. “Shhh,” she says. I’m still singing without even realizing it.

Don’t be discouraged, oh I realize, it’s hard to take courage...

She tells me a story about someone bossing her around on the playground and I listen, torn between thoughts of disapproving and accepting, necessary evils. She’s a bit bossy herself so while I would never want someone to walk all over her, we all grow from challenges and it could be a good thing to not get her way from everyone she meets. Sometimes it's okay to take a step back if only to see the best path to take moving forward.

In a world full of people, you can lose sight of it all...

She says she didn’t say anything when it happened but made a note that next time she wanted to choose the game. Fair is fair. Then she told me another story when she said something to a friend that wasn’t very nice and when questioned about it, she cried. “It felt wrong and I knew I shouldn't have said it,” she admitted, practically growing up between her words. Tears formed in her eyes at the recollection. Tears formed in my own at the realization.

The darkness inside you can make you feel so small...

She said she apologized afterwards and I let her know that’s often the hardest part. The admitting and acknowledging and accepting and apologizing, it doesn’t get easier. It’s best to learn that lesson now because it’s one she’ll reference over and over again. We talked about her inner voice and the feeling she gets when she listens to it versus when she ignores it, happiness versus guilt.

I see your true colors shining through...

The troll with the pink hair talks about getting back up again after she falls and facing fear and chasing dreams, Poppy is Madison’s favorite. Madison is my favorite. We watch a town full of evil give in to joy and see a troll full of sadness laugh again. I watch her skin thicken and her heart soften. The animated characters warn her that the world makes you crazy, they tell her to just call me up because I'll always be there. It's true, I remind her of the same.

I see your true colors and that's why I love you...

The credits roll and she asks to dance along as she always does. We twist and turn in the middle of our living room. We're both off beat and she's standing on my toes, but our laughs drown out the music so it all seems right in the moment. I pick her up, holding her like the baby she once was, and I spin around quickly so her hair fans out above her head like a troll's. I can feel her smiling because I'm smiling, too.

Don't be afraid to let them show... your true colors are beautiful.

TOE TO TOE

noreply@blogger.com (Brad Cowan) — Wed, 19 Apr 2017 12:56:00 +0000

I took another step and then another as I felt the grass give in beneath my feet. I heard her tiny steps behind me, whispering short phrases, interrupting the conversation she sparked along the way. We talked and laughed and when I stopped, she stopped. I looked back and saw her standing in the prints my boots made. Her foot filling only a portion of my own. How could something so small seem so big?

“Keep walking,” she said. “I’ll keep following you.”

Sometimes it hits me, the pressure of parenting is intense. The responsibility can be crushing, it’s heavy and consuming. The constant thinking and overthinking of every decision and the never-ending thoughts that you have no idea what you’re doing seem to define more days than not. You live in fear of consequences should you do this instead of that and ask yourself repeatedly: what happens if I mess up.

What happens if I mess her up?

Keep walking, I’ve learned. The path somehow reveals itself after every step, it appears and catches your feet and memorizes your prints. The road is paved as you go because every journey is different and no one has walked this way, your way, before now. Until now. Some will try to convince you otherwise, they've been where you are, but lanes can run parallel without being the same.

“Daddy?” she asked a few minutes later. “Can you slow down?”

I looked behind me and realized my strides were wider than hers and her tiny footprints were dotting my own with another one in between. Her path. The road is paved as you go, every journey is different. While she’s following my example, she’s creating her own version of the rules in the process. While she’s listening and learning, catching life lessons as I throw them over my shoulder, she’s finding her own way.

I stopped. She stopped.

We faced each other because sometimes you can’t see what lies ahead unless you’re willing to look behind you. She stepped on my toes like she did when she was smaller and we danced. She slid off and climbed back on between steps and everything disappeared, the path and the doubts and the pressure, as my feet carried hers in circles and sways. The grass made every effort to capture our prints, but they were mixed together and flattened. Messy.

What happens if I mess up?

She stepped off my feet and her toes faced my own. We looked around and noticed the prints were different, our paths changed. Some of her lighter impressions were leading while my heavier steps were following. Some of her prints were inside mine and others beside. Some were going in opposite directions and some, my favorites, were toe to toe; challenging and rewarding. Parenting, a path worth paving.

“Just keep walking,” she said and the grass gives in under each step.

CLICK

noreply@blogger.com (Brad Cowan) — Wed, 12 Apr 2017 22:30:00 +0000

I turned the burner down and let dinner simmer while she grabbed oranges from the fruit bowl and moved them around the table. She assembled them in a specific order then sat back admiring her work. I knew it was coming, the problem, I was waiting for it. This is a regular scene in our home, arranging objects then building math problems around them.

“Okay...” she started.

I knew it.

“I have 8 oranges, but you take 2 with you to work for a snack. How many do I have left?”

She rolls two oranges in my direction and rearranges those left in front of her, her tiny palms barely fitting around them. Then she looks up at me equal parts curious and impatient. Before we count them, she throws a curveball.

“Wait! Mama didn’t realize you already had some so she set aside 2 more for you. How many do I have left now?”

She sat back, proud of herself, and crossed her arms. We walked through the scenario even though she knew the answer before she asked the question. I walked back towards the stove while she gathered all the oranges to set up another equation.

It’s easy to timestamp the beginning. As soon as she was born her mother and I have been teaching her things. It’s easy to see when it started, but what becomes difficult to pinpoint is the transition of material. When did we stop referencing noises when referring to animals and start explaining their habitats? When did she stop waiting for us to feed her and start preparing her own snacks from the pantry? Was there an overlap? There had to be, right?

She has a notebook that she’s been writing her own word problems in; a collection of random math stories and equations using names of family members and fellow classmates. Her little voice attempts to grow louder echoing down the stairs and through the hall asking me to spell a certain word.

“Daddy, spell shoestrings!”

I throw the letters back to her one by one. Once she’s written an entire word problem, she clicks her pen signaling she’s done and we read over it together. Sometimes she crawls in my lap with the little notebook full of her 5 year old handwriting and we solve every problem she comes up with.

I hope that never changes, the problem solving and the trust it takes to bring them to me. Maybe I’ll be more aware of the transition going forward, when the math problems evolve from addition and subtraction to finding out what X is. There’s an overlap, right? There has to be.

I turn the burner off and yell that dinner is ready even though we’re all in the same room already. It’s her mother’s turn, oranges roll into place on the table. Charlie yawns and stretches as the food crosses overhead; I grab plates and utensils and watch them work out the details. She writes this one down.

“Daddy has 8 oranges, but 3 have gone bad so we throw them away. I take one to school and Charlie takes the rest because he thinks they’re toys. What is Daddy left with?”

Click. She clicks her green pen and sets it down.

I sit beside them at the table, each in our own seat designated by habit alone. Charlie moves to squeeze under Madison’s chair, a four legged crumb catcher. My daughter smiles at me. They answer the question together. Nothing. All the oranges are gone so I have nothing left, they agree. But they’re wrong. I have them and that's everything.

Click. Sometimes you have to spell out your problems to find the answer.

CHATTY PATTY, VOL. 28

noreply@blogger.com (Brad Cowan) — Wed, 05 Apr 2017 21:10:00 +0000

MADISON: You know what?

ME: What?

MADISON: Everything is better with sugar and candy.

ME: Yep. Except too much is bad for your teeth.

MADISON: Wow. Every party has a pooper.

While eating cotton candy...

MADISON: Is this fabric? It tastes like fabric.

MADISON: What are we having for dinner?

ME: I don't know.

MADISON: I'll ask Mama, you know she knows everything.

Picks up her Buzz Lightyear toy and runs around...

MADISON: To Bed, Bath, and Beyond!

MADISON: You know what my favorite color is?

ME: Purple.

MADISON: Nope. Rainbow.

ME: Rainbow isn't a color though.

MADISON: Yes, it is. It's ALL the colors.

THE LIBRARY

noreply@blogger.com (Brad Cowan) — Wed, 29 Mar 2017 16:23:00 +0000

Her eyes scanned the rows of books climbing from floor to ceiling and she tried her best to keep her squeals to a whisper because everyone knows you have to be quiet when in the library. She peeked through the spines into the next aisle and she motioned for me to join her. I looked through the titles her tiny hands had separated and asked what we were doing, what we were supposed to see.

“The dragon,” she said with her words barely audible.

Immediately I slammed the books back together and caught my reflection in her big brown eyes. I’ve been here before, but it was practically a lifetime ago. I’ve been lost in my imagination, but that was before I knew the weight of adulthood. I decided to let her lead the way. “What should we do?” I asked and I waited for her to decide. I waited for her to remind me that the world isn't always about looming deadlines and endless tasks.

“Follow me,” she whispered as she started walking, “to the kid section!”

We tip toed, like amateur ballerinas, through Non-Fiction and slid our way, backs against books, through Biographies. We paused in front of the Periodicals before flying over and under Fiction finally landing through the double doors of the Children’s section. I watched her look around, taking it all in, the numerous worlds to see and characters to meet; I watched the cape of curiosity she draped over her shoulders, wild and unhinged.

“It’s around here somewhere,” she said as she pulled and replaced books on the shelves.

She navigated through age ranges instead of sections, weeding through illustrations while the pages slowly started accumulating words. Then she turned towards me, her fingers pausing over an orange spine. She plucked it from those on either side and stuck her thumbs just inside the front and back cover. Before she opened it, she explained it was a portal that would somehow save us.

“We’ll be here,” she said. “Then we’ll be there.”

The book opened and she tucked it under her arm. A smile crawled across her face, wide and contagious, and we stood there until she pulled another book from the shelf. She tossed it to me and I saw the Knight on the cover holding a shiny sword by his side and I caught her smile before slamming her book shut. We put both books back in their places on the shelf. She was thinking what I was thinking.

“Watch this,” I said lifting a fictional piece of steel in the air.

Then suddenly the dragon was gone. She grabbed the books she wanted to check out holding all three of them with white knuckles while we made our way back through Fiction and the Periodicals. She kept up the pace through the Biographies and Non-Fiction until we reached the place where we had started. We were there and then we were here again. She even had a card with her name on it to prove it.

Every day, everything, with her is an adventure.

BRAVE THE COLD

noreply@blogger.com (Brad Cowan) — Wed, 22 Mar 2017 22:13:00 +0000

Choosing only the buttons that promised to keep her coat closed, I buttoned them quickly. I twirled her hair into a loose knot and tucked it into her hood as I pulled it over her head then we both ran. A new playground in town warrants a visit, even in the middle of winter, even if temperatures were threatening to freeze.

In hindsight, I wished I had thought to bring gloves and hats. I wished I had been more prepared, but anticipating her excitement often trumps the mental lists I create for myself. It was true when she was born and even more now. I could have turned around, but we were already buttoned up and on the run so we threw caution to the wind.

It was decided. Brave the cold.

We tackled the jungle gyms conquering every obstacle we encountered. We waited our turn on the swings and limited our time to return the favor. We slid down slides and climbed the cargo nets and ran wild through various playground options until our noses turned pink and we started to lose feeling in our fingertips.

Her energy surpassed my own, as it often does, so I opted out after an hour. I tagged along the sidelines while she made friends with other kids she just met. I pulled my collar up closer to my ears as I watched her laugh at jokes I couldn’t hear and I shoved my hands in my coat pockets trying to hold onto this moment as long as possible.

“Brave the cold,” I told myself.

She knew the park existed, but she didn’t know we were visiting. She asked several times and it was never convenient with our schedule so I took an afternoon off work and made it a priority. Her eyes grew larger as we pulled into the parking lot, a secret worth keeping if only to see the surprise on her face.

Requests this easy to grant will slowly become the exception instead of the norm until suddenly, sadly, they will stop all together. As her age continues collecting the years, joy this easy to provide will soon become more challenging. They warned me how fast they grow up, to soak in every moment, to savor every fleeting detail.

They warned me to brave the cold.

Her hood fell off as she ran, her brown curls straightened behind her, the wind carried her giggles throughout the park and I saw how much she’s grown yet how small she still is. I saw happy on her face and it looked good there. It fits her well, always has. Joy this easy to provide will soon become more challenging, but it could grow with her.

Time passed, as it does, and we started making our way back through the parking lot with small talk laced between our steps. She kicked a stone in her path and slid her larger yet still tiny hand into mine; I squeezed and she did the same. “Thanks, Daddy” she said. Sometimes we have to brave the cold to appreciate the warmth.

REFRAMING

noreply@blogger.com (Brad Cowan) — Wed, 15 Mar 2017 23:10:00 +0000

A picture frame on our coffee table falls over. Somehow the arm holding it up has weakened over time and so it crashes and collapses almost daily until we stand it back up again. Teenage versions of ourselves smile back at us sandwiched between our grandmothers, our late grandmothers. Young love and promised potential surrounded by four corners, completely oblivious of the home we’ll eventually buy or the child we’ll create.

A photograph, we’ve been meaning to reframe it. Maybe now is a good time.

We fall into the couch, my wife and I. We’ve clocked out for the day. The sun has set and our daughter is tucked in and the dishes have been washed and we’ve officially clocked out from work, from parenting, from responsibility for the day. We let the silence surround us, filling the room and filling us, entire conversations that don’t require words. One of us accidentally knocks the coffee table, a picture frame falls over.

“How was your afternoon?” I finally ask.

We compare notes. We make an effort to share in the stress and the triumphs, to help carry the weight of burden and bliss. Then it happens. We break. The world upon our shoulders forces us to our knees. Dying relatives, surprising health scares from both sets of parents, bankruptcy filings from the company currently employing us both, childcare, car trouble, an overweight dog -- all within the last six weeks. Somehow the arms holding us up have weakened over time.

We’re forced to our knees and we pray while we’re there.

We ask for strength and understanding. We ask for guidance and clarity. I ask that the words He’s given me, here and there and everywhere else from then until now, are heard. Then we thank Him and we brush off our knees and get back up. We weather the storm. We divide the weight, burden and bliss, and soldier on together. Regardless of what knocks us down, at least we’ve got each other, crashing and collapsing almost daily until we stand back up again.

Our perspective, we’ve been meaning to reframe it. Maybe now is a good time.

CANDY OVER COFFEE

noreply@blogger.com (Brad Cowan) — Wed, 08 Mar 2017 01:35:00 +0000

I tear the corner from the bag and hand it back to her, Skittles for breakfast. It’s not one of my best parenting moments, I’ll admit. However, when we unintentionally won the race against the sun to see who could rise first, rational thinking insisted on sleeping in. I pour a mug of coffee for me and a cup of milk for her and slide into a chair at the kitchen table. She was already sitting on top with her feet dangling over the side, a palm full of round candy impatiently painting her skin while she popped them in her mouth one by one.

It’s Saturday morning and I haven’t had but a few sips of coffee, it’s too early for making plans. I watch her tuck a strand of hair behind her ear and notice how much her face has changed in the last few months. When did her jawline become so noticeable? When did the dimple in her left cheek start appearing as she chewed instead of waiting until she smiled? When did she start talking with her hands and raising her eyebrows separately? I lift the mug to my lips and take another sip of coffee, hot and alarming, the unmistakable taste of reality.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” I ask. It’s a question that comes up every now and then, a check-in of sorts, especially when it feels like she just grew up between blinks, right before my eyes.

She thinks. She tosses her head from side to side and plucks another Skittle from her hand, a pink one, pinching it between her fingers while she finishes chewing the one before it. She swings her feet and the sun, finally joining us, crawls in through the blinds highlighting the few red strands of hair she gets from her mother among the brown from me. “A cat,” she says. “I want to be a cat in a pet store so I could watch people come and go and visit with other animals. I could watch them decide which pet is the right pet for their family and then I could watch them take one home.”

I think about asking a follow up question, but I know her well enough to know she’ll continue on her own so I pick a candy from her hand and I wait. “If I were a cat though, in the pet store, I would help someone choose me. I would know who the perfect fit was and could scratch or hiss or hide from people. I would wait until the person came along that would love me the most and I’d choose them. If you walked into the pet store, would you choose me?” I start to speak, but she already knows my answer. “I’d choose you too,” she says. “Every time.” Agreed, every single time.

CHATTY PATTY, VOL. 27

noreply@blogger.com (Brad Cowan) — Thu, 02 Mar 2017 00:57:00 +0000

MADISON: Is the coffee table made of coffee?

ME: No, silly.

MADISON: So it's really just a little table then. Weird.

Yelling from the top of the stairs...

MADISON: Mama! MaaaaaMaaaaa!

ALLISON: What? What's wrong?

MADISON: I need to change into something more fashionable.

MADISON: Pan of high ninas!

ME: What are you talking about?

MADISON: It's a Chatty Patty, just put it in your phone.

After meeting someone new...

MADISON: I was a little shy that time.

ALLISON: It's okay. I get shy, too, sometimes.

MADISON: Even though you're a mom? Moms aren't shy.

MADISON: Can I change into a ball gown?

ME: Sure.

MADISON: I have an urge to twirl.

IN WONDERLAND

noreply@blogger.com (Brad Cowan) — Wed, 22 Feb 2017 15:06:00 +0000

You’ve been there before, but never like this.

You're smiling like a Cheshire cat.

We can’t be late. We can’t be late! We can’t be late.

This conversation is like falling down a rabbit hole.

You’re the Queen of my heart.

Clues. We had tickets in our back pockets to a local production of Alice in Wonderland and simply told her a week in advance that a surprise was planned. Hints. She begged for them every single day from sunrise to sunset and we did our best without giving in or giving it away entirely. The day finally arrived and she picked out a dress she’d been eyeing in her closet since her grandparents gave it to her then we appeared in front of the auditorium where her dance recitals are held.

She's been here before, but never like this.

We handed over our tickets and received torn stubs in return before finding our seats. The curtains were open revealing a set of clouds and rolling hills and various props all intended to exercise our imaginations. Hers of which was running wild by my side, her head turning from her mother to me and from me to her mother. Her eyes like fireworks, exploding with curiosity between blinks. She sat in her seat then stood up again, climbed in my lap then back out again, unable to sit still.

She was smiling like a Cheshire cat.

The time, she must have asked for it every second. She pulled at her mother’s wrist, turning her watch over and over and tracing the hands with her fingers, willing them to move faster with sheer mental concentration, but no such luck. Time, as we all know, cannot be manipulated. Time cannot be rewound nor fast forwarded. Time cannot be rushed. Time cannot be delayed. Time cannot stand still. Time, the struggle we as parents have come to realize as the unfortunate truth, cannot be paused.

We can’t be late. We can’t be late!

One by one, the seats were filling up. Chatter from fellow patrons climbed the walls and bounced from the balcony. We waited until suddenly the lights dimmed and the first actor took their place from stage left and the show started. She fought the urge to talk, but quickly gave in to whispering her questions and commentary in my ear from her seat upon my lap because the seat we paid for was far too low for her line of vision. She delivered words and quotes and plotlines from the story we knew well.

It was like falling down a rabbit hole.

The show ended and the house lights brightened and they took their bows then turned to the audience for questions. Other kids asked about memorizing lines and designing costumes, but she offered her applause by way of affection. She jumped at the chance when it was her turn to speak then she asked for a hug. I watched her wrap her tiny arms around one of the people we watched lit by spotlight for the last hour before skipping back to her mother and me. She’s a sweet spirit. She’s a good kid.

She’s the queen of our hearts.

ALL WE NEED

noreply@blogger.com (Brad Cowan) — Thu, 16 Feb 2017 00:40:00 +0000

She left the house yesterday morning with a bag of Valentine’s for her classmates and she reappeared in the afternoon having received several in return. A practice of give and take. An exchange. A chance to share love on a day specifically designed to celebrate it.

Uniforms were shelved and Valentine attire encouraged, threads of pink and red and designs with hearts were worn in effort to spread the love. I thought about her throughout the day and pictured the heart shaped buttons on her dress, front and center for the world to see.

We’re told love is kind. We’re told that it’s patient. We’re told that love always protects and always trusts. We’re told it always hopes and always perseveres and nothing proves the strength of these sentiments more than parenting. We’re told love never fails and we tell ourselves this is true.

We hold their hands and whisper our prayers and we lift our wings to let them go a little more every day. We cross our fingers that our choices are good and their choices will be too. Attempts are made to be kind, to be patient, to protect and trust. We try our hardest to hope and persevere and we make every attempt not to fail them.

It’s a constant game of give and take. It’s a never-ending exchange. It's a fact in the mirror staring back, every day is a chance to share love - not just the one designed to celebrate it. Every day is an opportunity to expose our hearts like buttons upon our chest, front and center for the world to see. Perhaps, love really is all we need.

CAREY'D AWAY

noreply@blogger.com (Brad Cowan) — Wed, 15 Feb 2017 19:27:00 +0000

“I’ve waited almost 28 years so another hour is easy,” I said to the couple complaining behind me. Mariah Carey was late, but I couldn’t stop smiling because I wanted the full experience. It’s possible I would have been slightly disappointed had she actually taken the stage at the time printed on our stubs. She was late, but I wasn’t going anywhere. In fact, this was the whole reason I was in New York City.

It was 18 days before Christmas, 25 days before her now infamous New Year’s Eve performance, and I was sitting a few rows from the stage with my wife by my side waiting in anticipation for the red curtains to slide open. Those around us had the luxury of hearing her in person a few times before, lucky locals, and discussed the gift that is her voice. They kindly answered questions I asked while we waited before the house lights finally dimmed.

On a pedestal lit by a single spotlight with a sheer curtain of glitter in front of her and an enormous Christmas tree behind her, she hummed a note and sang the first verse of Hark! The Herald Angels Sing backed by a piano. Then the curtain lifted revealing her completely and the choir joined in and for the next 90 minutes, I was in heaven. Her voice soared through the Beacon Theatre during each song while her laugh echoed in the aisles in between.

She brought out John Legend for a duet, a somewhat expected yet welcomed surprise once we spotted his wife in the audience. Shania Twain bounced along from the front row while other celebrities blended in among the velvet seats with the rest of us as confirmation the appreciation for Mariah’s voice stretches far, fame or otherwise. Her ensembles changed throughout the evening, but her voice remained intact – and very much live.

While it was a Christmas concert and she belted her way through most of the songs offered on her holiday collection, she also pulled a few songs from her impressive catalog to remind us just how she earned the title of Best Selling Female Artist of All Time. Well deserved, might I add. She was every bit of the legend you'd expect her to be and did things with her voice that seem practically impossible. It was beyond impressive.

Mariah Carey. Every single high note and low note and note in between proved to be well worth the wait, all 28 years and one hour. On the way out, I mentally checked off a box on the proverbial bucket list and once home, saw that she announced a tour with Lionel Richie in mid-2017. I promptly purchased our tickets. This time she’s coming to North Carolina so traveling isn’t necessary, three months and counting.