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Love and Backwash

It’s embarrassing. I started this blog to commemorate all the milestones and noteworthy stuff that might otherwise be forgotten with time. But do I mention two of the biggest Weevy happenings of 2012? Of course not! So without further ado, before memory lapses and sleep deprivation take their toll and wash away the details, here goes:

First off, I accidentally turned poor Weevy into as much of a soda junkie as her daddy. It all started innocently enough — she’d see me polishing off a two liter bottle of carbonated aspartame-and-various other carcinogens and, as is inevitable, express some interest in joining me. So I’d let her quaff the few drops that were still sitting at the bottom of the bottle, otherwise known as “backwash,” which is what she still calls it today.

Well, one thing led to another, and before I knew it I was giving her a couple of ounces of the stuff at breakfast. And dinner. And occasionally during the day as well. I know, I know. Hey, at least I give her Zevia, an awful tasting but relatively not-unhealthy soda containing the natural sweetener stevia. It may be the beverage equivalent of a nicotine patch, but it’s better than Pepsi Max.

Anyway, I figured at some point if she’s going to drink soda, she ought to drink it in style. So I poured it in a whisky glass, which holds about three ounces, and let me tell you, she was THRILLED. “Backwash in little tiny glass?” became the morning refrain. And that’s not all. I taught her how to clink glasses with me before drinking and say “Bottoms up” AND “L’chaim” — so she’ll be prepared for whatever company we have over.

Weevy experimented with different glasses, which went a little awry when we moved on to cordial glasses and she got a little enthusiastic and broke one. Nobody got hurt, thank goodness (although we now have an uneven number of vintage cordial glasses, which drives me slightly crazy), but she’s since gone back to juice glasses for her backwash. Still, I think I’m teaching her how to be a classy imbiber.

The other thing… well, the other thing. Every parent waits to hear his or her kid say to them, “I love you.” And waits… and waits… it seems like forever. I haven’t gotten an official “I love you” yet, but it’s close enough for comfort. A few weeks ago we were doing something, I don’t remember what, and she barked out “I… love… DADDY!” To which I responded “I… love… WEEVY!” We went back and forth with the love for a good few minutes, and at the risk of sounding sappy, well… you can probably guess how I felt.

Then, a few days ago, I was carrying her somewhere — where, I don’t remember, which is why I should be updating this damn blog more often — and she said, “Daddy love you?” (She gets “me” and “you” confused most of the time, and I have no idea how to explain it to her without sounding a little like Who’s On First.) I kissed her and said, “Yes, Daddy loves you very much.” Then I figured I’d try my luck. “Do you love Daddy?” A pause, which probably seemed far longer than it actually was, and then she leaned in very close to my ear and said “Yeah.” And then she patted my shoulder very gently, the way she pets our cat. Well, if that doesn’t bring a tear to your eye and a lump to your throat, I just don’t know.

Or maybe you had to be there.

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