WHAT DID YOU SAY?

If you know my family, it may not surprise you that our daughter, Evanjalyn, began speaking at an early age. (Everyone has an opinion, and apparently she wanted to speak hers.) In that way, she followed in her mother’s footsteps.

My wife’s first word was “turtle.” Her family was quite proud, as it came not only four days after her birth, I’m told, but also because it was a two-syllable word. My beloved took this on as a sort of “heritage quest” when our own daughter was born. We spent the early hours of her life, between feedings and sleep, rehearsing her first utterance. I’m proud to say we were successful, and our daughter also said “turtle” mere days after her election into the human race. The legacy continues.

From there, her lexicon grew, though some interpretation was necessary. For example, when she was a guest with my wife at a baby shower at Southern Hills Country Club, she emphatically demanded “wee-wee’s!” It was later determined that she was actually saying “strawberries” or “strawberr-wee’s.” Her rather thick baby accent made it difficult to understand her.

It was that same accent that transformed “thank you” into “chi-chew.” We still use that phrase in our house today.

From there, her diction improved, but the sentence structure lacked continuity. In moments of fatigue or duress, she would run to me with arms outstretched and say, “Hold you, Dada.” I, of course, would refuse until she said it properly.

She quickly learned to be specific about what she wanted. Early on, veggie fries were a travel staple for us. We seldom left home without a baggie full. Our daughter soon made it clear she wanted “hot fries,” the cholesterol-fueled potato treat my younger brother, Jimmy, used to call “fry-fries.”

To continue providing for her, we eventually enrolled her in a pre-school program at First Friends so we could work. It was only a couple of blocks from our office, and during coffee breaks, my wife and I would drive by and watch her play with other kids on the playground (which is cute… when you are not a stalker).

One afternoon, Evanjalyn and I were in the car after I picked her up from school. After a minute or two, she asked from the backseat, “Dad, how’s your view?” How’s my view? “Uh, my view is good… thanks for asking. How’s your view?” “Fine,” she said, pleased with herself.

Somehow, in repeating this odd salutation, I figured out what she meant. We had just been at school, seeing her teachers, administrators, and other parents. In each case, I asked the people in our neighborhood, “How are you?” Evanjalyn heard that question as “How’s your view?” I guess both are technically viable and even insightful questions.

We seemed to have a lot of car moments like that. She used to love this game we made up, where we would find tickets left over from a drawing or a school fair. Reading was still pretty new for her. Each ticket read “Keep this Coupon.” Evanjalyn read it as “Keep this Competition.” Again, from her car seat in back, she would ask, “Dad, you wanna play ‘Keep this Competition’?” To which I would answer an emphatic “Yes!” Then I would morph into the voice of an exuberant game show host. “Ladies and Gentlemen, it’s time for everyone’s favorite game, Keep this Competition! Evanjalyn, tell the audience what prizes we’re playing for.”

The prize list, maybe not surprisingly, would include such jewels as: snot, boogers, all the money in the world, something Spider-Man-related, and candy. From there, I would announce random numbers to see if we had the winning ticket. Each time, I would lose and grow more animated in frustration until, exasperated, I would announce that I was quitting because I never won. Then my daughter would encourage me to try just one more time. I did. And I won!

Evanjalyn eventually had to leave First Friends to lead the life of an elementary school student. We were heartbroken. She did well in school, like her mom before her. Then came summer. We had to find something to fill her time while we worked. She was obviously too old to go back to preschool, but they offered Vacation Bible School. We figured a little religion might just do her some good. So we enrolled her, told her there would be snacks and crafts, and said we’d pick her up at the end of the day.

I kept my promise and arrived dutifully at 3 p.m. In the car, I asked her about her day. She paused, looking out the window as if she were exhaling a long drag of a Virginia Slim, and said, “It was a lot, to be honest. A LOT of Jesus.” I tried to reassure her. “Well, honey, it is Vacation Bible School. I mean, it’s right there in the title. What did you think it was going to be?”

From the rearview mirror, I watched her turn toward me. “I know, but we prayed like four times. It was a bit much.” Then I realized she was more like me than I knew.

During the years she attended Kane Elementary, I used to park on Shawnee and walk her the remaining two blocks to school. We would hold hands and tell stories, like on super-cold days when we would complain about being so hot we feared we might melt, and we would drag our limbs as if we’d suffered heat stroke. And then we would do our special handshake when she was dropped off at the door.

One day, as we were walking, one of the school buses drove past us. She looked up at me and said, “Dad…I don’t ever want to be a bus rider.” That surprised me because I knew she was secretly obsessed with riding the bus, wondering what great adventures went on in there. “Why don’t you want to ride the bus?” She just looked straight ahead and said, “I like walking and holding your hand and talking.”

I’m not crying. You’re crying.

Last week, we pre-enrolled in high school classes. All along, she has been becoming who she will be. But seeing her choose courses that she felt best expressed her future… that was amazing. In addition to band AND orchestra…One of those classes will be a creative writing course with Darla Tresner. “Mz. T” was one of those “life-changer” teachers for both my wife and me. She empowered us. Made our worlds bigger. Challenged us. And altered the direction of our future selves. Now our daughter will embark on that same kind of journey. There’s a good chance she’ll be bringing home a riveting tale of “A Turtle in the Bathtub” or “This One Time at Vacation Bible School.” If she does, I’ll keep you in the loop.

Until next month, friends - there’s so much good to be done out there. Let’s go do it.