Typically I could count on Ava (5) or Jada (3) waking up between 5:45 and 6:15. This was perfect for me. At the latest I need to be up by 6:30 and out of the house by 7:15. Sure, I could get out quicker if need be but I hate to rush my mornings and I do quite well on little sleep, depending on who you ask. The last few months though they’ve been sleeping later, staggering from their room closer to 6:30 or 6:45. It was on one of these late mornings when Ava had asked about the lines.

I was rushing to get my laptop into its case when Ava called from the kitchen, “Daddy, what are those lines?”

“What lines? What are you talking about?”

“Those lines, right there!” she said.

I love it when kids do this. They reference something that is clearly in sight but fail to be specific enough for you to know what it is they are referring to and then they get exasperated because of your cluelessness.

“Ava, you’re going to need to point at what you’re talking about or describe it better because “lines” just doesn’t tell me enough.”

At this point she pushed her chair away from the table (I mentioned exasperated right?) and makes her way over to me. By this time I’ve collected most of what I need to make it out the door and am getting my shoes on. My own bit of exasperation is mounting.

“These lines” she says as her hand touches my face just outside my eyes.

“Oh, those lines.” I reply, grinning.

“That’s cool! I can see them better now.” she expounded.

“Well, that’s because you made me smile. They’re called smile lines. I have them because you and your sisters make me smile so much.”

“I want lines too” she said.

“Soon enough kiddo. Soon enough”

I couldn’t bring myself to tell her they are also called crow’s feet. I give my kids enough reason to ridicule me. Intentionally loading them up with ammunition just doesn’t seem wise.

The oldest among our small tribe, Ava, had just left for a 4H meeting with her mother. A meeting her mother has waited years for as it was the first she would be taking a daughter of her own to. Her mother loved 4H as a child and remembers fondly the impression it left on her own childhood. To share this with her own kin, one as interested in animals and service as she was special indeed. However, this writing is not about that 4H meeting or the bonding between mother and daughter, rather it is about what happened after they left.

We stood at the door. The baby, Tessa, in the crook of my left arm and the three year old, Jada, leaning against my leg. We waved as the car moved past the house and out of site. Jada looked up at me and asked, “What special thing are we going to do today Daddy?”, a fine question. It was a beautiful day outside and wasting it indoors felt like a crime. We moved to the closet and gathered up sweatshirts and fall coats. Jada commented on kicking up the fallen leaves beneath her swing and Tessa jumped and squealed in my arms as she became aware we were heading outdoors.

The backyard and swing set held the allure they always do, a safe place for the kids to run while never far from the watchful eye of their parents. This was our first stop. Jada has a deep preference for the see-saw swing and wasted no time as she pleaded for me to push her “SO SO SO SO High”. Tessa was relegated to the hard red plastic of her baby swing and looked adoringly toward her older sister.

This November day was the kind only a Michigander can truly appreciate. The air held crisp and the sky shone blue. Clouds moved lazily through the spacious sky, not wanting to touch one another. Enjoying their own quiet meanderings without having to partake in the gossip and frivolity clouds are accustomed to.

An attentive father can often sense when an activity is nearing its end. Before giving the girls an opportunity to realize they were on the brink of boredom I asked Jada what she would like to do next. “Let’s go on a nature walk.” she said, a fine idea. We gathered up the necessities, loading them into the stroller and began making our way.

Our home is three miles from the nearest town. It’s a small town the likes of which wouldn’t exist without the farming community around it. Five miles in the opposite direction is a larger town, one that can even claim a handful of traffic signals and puts on one heck of a fourth of July parade. The parade consists mostly of tractors and the good ole boys that drive them and we’re just fine with that. We enjoy the quiet. Big city folk we aren’t.

A few years ago a new street cropped up roughly a quarter mile from our doorstep. The street stretched about a quarter mile in the warm months. The winter months often leave the end of the road covered in snow drifts making its full distance difficult to navigate. It’s a cul de sac and only a few homes have been built along it. I’m certain the builders had more homes in mind but we all know how the economy exhaled not so long ago and is just beginning to consider drawing breath again. This is where we walk most times because the landscape is rough and the paved road is easy on the stroller. Being close to home doesn’t hurt a bit either.

We moved along the street, Jada investigating the landscape and discovering all manner of treasures. There was a clever thing about these treasures. They were disguised as rocks. Each one relatively bland in color and less than fascinating in texture, that is until Jada clothed them in her descriptive words.

“Look Daddy! See how this one shines. I think it might be a diamond.”

“This one is red right here just a little bit. Ruby’s are red right Daddy?”

It should be clear to most that any walk worth its distance cannot be travelled far without a good walking stick. The girls have been taught that a good stick can be carried as a tool, crutch or weapon. This lesson was not lost on Jada, her gaze constantly surveying the side of the road for the right walking stick. Ultimately her perseverance paid off as she found a right proper walking stick indeed. Now sure in her step and well equipped we continued the way forward.

Our stroll was unrelenting as we entered the cul de sac. It was eerily quiet as Jada marched headstrong toward some destination unknown to me. She paused to investigate the dirt that met the road and noticed animal prints, prints she were sure belonged to a lion.

“A lion!” I scoffed. “That’s just absurd Jada. You do know we live in Michigan right? There haven’t been lions native to this area for three decades or more.”

“They are lion steps Daddy” she assured me. “We should be careful”.

“Then careful we shall be my girl. Careful we shall be.” I said as I scanned the horizon.

We moved maybe a quarter of the way back toward home when Jada stopped us abruptly. Her index finger in front of her lips as she crouched peering into the tall grass.

“I see it.” She said in her hushed voice.

“The lion?” I asked.

“Yes, don’t move” she whispered while she pushed Tessa’s stroller away with one hand, the other clutching the walking stick. In one fierce motion she brought the walking stick up over her head and yelled something in what could only be described as a tribal tongue and then fell silent. Tessa sat in her stroller staring wide eyed.

“Is everything ok?” I asked.

“Yes” she said. “It was jumping at us but I got it. I killed it.”

I was about to praise her quick and true response to the threat when I heard it. Had the dragon been any closer it may have been too late. The quiet of its wings was almost upon us when I turned. The sword free from its scabbard I slashed the air above my head.

The battle ensued until Jada’s cry broke through. “Noooooo!”

“Jada what’s wrong?” I asked while placing the sword back in its scabbard.

“That was a good dragon Daddy. It wasn’t going to hurt us.” she replied.

“I’m sorry honey. I didn’t know. I thought it was mean” I said, surprised at this turn of events.

“It’s ok Daddy. This one is dead,” she said, “but there are more. Good ones and bad ones.”

“Thanks for understanding Jada”

The remainder of the walk was relatively uneventful. Shortly after we were safely home the oldest girl and her mother found their way home as well. Jada wasted little time filling the two of them in on our adventure. Ava laughed as Jada and I shared in the telling while their mom listened intently.

Jada would throw glances at me as she talked, seeming to look for some nod of agreement.

“You’ve got it just right kiddo” I thought. “That’s just how I remember it.”

This particular park does an excellent job of helping parents keep track of their kids. They go so far as to sound an alarm every 15-20 minutes which serves as an opportunity for the kids to exit the water so they can be counted. The lifeguards are pretty relentless about this too. If some kid decides he doesn’t need to get out then no one else goes back in until he does get out. There’s even a drill that takes place in the event a child comes up missing. The parents are asked to lock their arms and wade into the water together (as long as they don’t have small children to tend to) searching and clearing the area directly in front of them. I lean toward the overly cautious side so these steps are just the kind of thing I like to see.

On this day the alarm sounded and kids were counted. Just as everyone was heading back into the water a mother cried out. She couldn’t find her daughter.

My wife and girls were at the park with our neighbor, another mom, and her two boys. They quickly sat the kids down on a blanket and directed them to NOT MOVE. The parents locked elbows and began wading into the water while others began looking in other areas of the park. My wife was looking over her shoulder at our kids almost constantly. The children sat on the blanket. Stock still and wide eyed.

Within minutes the girl was found. She had wandered outside the water area and was just out of sight. She was returned to her mother and I imagine there was a collective sigh among the parents and lifeguards.

When my wife returned to our kids, who still hadn’t moved, our four year old girl Ava asked, “Did you find her?”

“Someone did honey. She’s right over there with her Mommy. Everything is fine. Are you ok?”

Ava looked up and asked, “Kids really do go missing?’”

My wife responded, telling Ava that kids do sometimes go missing and our occasional warnings to she and her little sister are real. She explained that we just want to keep everyone safe and together.

Ava said she understood and had a great big hug for her mom. The littler one, Jada, was also keen to what was going on and wedged herself in between the two of them.

My wife relayed this story to me on the phone after they had come home and the kids were down for their naps. I was obviously relieved there had been no tragedy’s to report.

When I got home that evening Ava met me at the door. She filled me in on what had happened at the park. The detail she remembered was impressive. The hair color of the girl that had slipped away. The color of her bathing suit. How she had hugged her mom when they were reunited. Ava also told me that “sometimes kids do go missing, Daddy”.

I told her, “I know” and we hugged for a good long time.

This may have been a tough way for her to learn the truth of the dangers that are out there, but I’m grateful she learned.

I’m not sure what the two of them had been discussing but I took notice when Ava ran past me without her little sister struggling to keep up.

“Ava, where are you off to?” I called after her. She stopped and turned to meet me. Her hands settled with authority on her hips.

“Jada asked me for help and I don’t want to help her. I’m going inside.” Ava replied with no small amount of attitude.

I glanced back at Jada who didn’t seem bothered by this lack of support. Something else had caught her attention and while she was still following me toward the house the line was no longer straight but moving in and out of the shadows of trees and backyard toys. I knelt to meet Ava’s eyes with my own.

“Honey, Jada is your sister and when she asks for help you need to do what you can to help her. The two of you are going to need help from each other a lot as you grow up.”

She said something to confirm she heard what I said and went off into the house. Jada and I now following her lead.

A week ago my wife and girls met me for lunch at a park near where I work. None of us had been to this park before. The girls had time to play for a bit before I had to head back to work and they back home for naps. Kids and parks have always amazed me. I know this isn’t true of all adults, but when I am in the company of a large group of people my first thought is not “who am I going to make friends with”.  This is, however, exactly how my girls seem to react when entering into a group of their peers.

The girls played together and separately, moving in and out of circles of other kids at the playground. On a few occasions Ava would point out a girl and comment that she looked to be the same age as she. Off she would go to introduce herself and before we knew it she found a core group of girls all 4-5 years old.

Jada had been playing mostly by herself. In and out of the sandboxes, up and down the slides. Eventually she went to seek out her big sister and upon finding her asked if she could play with her. It was at this moment that one of the other kids chimed in to say “only big kids are playing here.” Ava didn’t lose a beat. She turned to the girl, the self proclaimed big kid, and told her, “It’s OK. This is Jada. She’s my little sister.” Ava then turned to Jada and grabbing her hand said, “c’mon Jade. You can play with us.”

It seems Ava has learned to hear Jada’s call for help even when it isn’t said aloud, and Jada has learned she doesn’t always have to ask for it. These girls of mine, these sisters, they’re starting to get it.

Yes they are.

We took a long drive to Colorado last year. While we drove, and the kids slept, we listened to “The Secret Life of Bees” audio book. Great story. One of the main characters carries sorrow on her sleeve with such urgency and transparency that her sisters send her away to their version of the wailing wall when the emotion gets too intense. She always returns looking a bit lighter for having shed the weight of the sorrow, however temporary it may be.

When we listened to this part of the story my wife and I looked at each other and said, “Jada needs a wailing wall.”

Jada is one emotional little girl. She’ll be fine one moment and just crushed the next. For her there’s always some act that justifies her sorrow. The issue is the lack of rhyme or reason. She may crash because she’s frustrated she can’t get her shoes on properly, or because she woke from her nap too soon. Maybe a bug landed on her while playing outside. Who knows. What sets her off one day, or hour, may not set her off the next.

She’s also a master at bringing her mother, sisters or I into the breakdown. If she feels slighted in the least by ones actions the response has been, “but you’re my daaahhhdddeee (or mmaahhmmeee or siiissttaahhh)” with the saddest little eyes you could possibly imagine. It’s kind of adorable when it isn’t making us twitch.

To try and combat this behavior, and help Jada work through it, we encourage her to use words to express herself rather than sobbing. She has a great vocabulary so the notion that she can’t express herself shouldn’t apply. We try introducing distractions also. We’re hoping the older she gets (she’ll be three next week) the less the meltdowns will occur. Hoping.

What seems to work best is just sending her to her room. We don’t do this in some disciplinary fashion. We simply tell her if she can’t calm down on her own, or won’t let us help her get over whatever crisis is unfolding, there is little reason the rest of need to listen to her. Nine times out of ten she takes this request and runs with it, emerging minutes later with the proclamation that she is done crying.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t share that Jada is an exceptionally happy kid most of the time. Let’s just say she has a firm handle on the extremes and we’re going to continue to work on living in between them.

For the moment we’ll just stay stocked up on ear plugs and tissues. Something tells me that living in a house full of girls these items are going to come in handy anyway.