Of Dads, Axes, and Hopping Tools

Ty is teaching the children how to chop wood.

I ran out to snap some photos, and then ran back in. I can't watch.

Why?

Well, for one thing, there is an ax involved. And a hatchet.

For another thing, Sylas thinks he is the next-to-last Airbender.

And a third thing: the only snippet of conversation I heard while I was out there with my camera for 32 seconds was,

"Sylas, don't hop around with an ax. It is not a hopping tool."

(said in Ty's quiet, calm tone)

(the tone I reserve almost exclusively for lullabies and fevered brows)

How can he be so unconcerned?

Did he see the ax?

Has he met our children?

I guess that is why some things are best left to the daddy. While the mommy backs away.

(But that doesn't mean I am not sitting here flinching with every loud pound of ax to wood, one ear tuned to emergency frequency)

If it weren't for their father, my children would be wrapped in bubble wrap at all times, and not allowed to leave the house. Most likely.

That is to say, they are lucky to have a fun and opposite-of-me dad.

A dad who lets them learn from their own mistakes.

A dad who always thinks they're old enough.

(remind me to tell you about the time Saylor was 5 days old and Ty tried to teach her to walk, complete with a side-long glance at me (taking pictures) and a, "When DO babies learn to walk, anyway?" Oh, guess I already did)

And capable enough.

And, thank heaven, enough enough.

(cause my worry cup runneth over with just the three we've got)

Dads are the best!





5 posts this week: check