Author Archives: jim

‘liar, liar, parts of fire.’

“Some people say, ‘liar, liar, parts of fire.’ and that’s not nice.”

“What do they say?”

“‘Liar, liar, parts of fire.’ That’s mean.”

“Did someone say that to you?”

“Yes! and I wasn’t even lying.”

“It’s not very nice.”

“It’s mean.”

“It’s actually, ‘liar, liar, pants on fire.’”

“Ahhh. It’s not nice.”

“No, it’s not nice. Sometimes it’s better to not listen to people when they say mean things. People say a lot of things in a day, and sometimes they say things that aren’t nice. It’s better to just move past those things, and move on with your day. Let those mean things be about the person who says it, and not about you.”

“Daddy, will you hold my hair.”

As I picked you up from school today, you said, “Daddy, will you hold my hair while I get a drink,” as you stepped up to the water fountain.

I can’t express how much I love you. But I tried.

Walking to the car, you took my hand, and I said, “I like the person you are. I’m very proud of you.”

I hope you understand that.

Big Strong Girl

Most nights when I put you to bed … “put me a bed,” you say, just as you’re falling asleep, I tell you how much you are loved. Sometimes I say,

“You’re a big, strong girl.”

Tonight you replied,

“You’re a big strong man.”

Thank you, big strong girl.

A joke

“Daddy do you want to hear a joke?”


“How did the rooster get in the tree without flying?”

“I don’t know, how did the rooster get in the tree without flying?”

“A hamburger.”


The stoplight

Why are we waiting with no stoplight?

“There’s a stoplight; it’s right there.”

“I didn’t see it.”

“That’s OK. Sometimes we don’t see things, but they’re still there. Like God.”


“We don’t see God, but God is still there. Like the wind. You feel it on your face, but you can’t see it. But it’s still there. Or the love mommy and daddy have for you. You can’t see it, but it is still there. Right?“

You nodded silently.

The light turned green and I drove away.

“More lights from the aggatt.”

“More lights from the aggatt.”


We were driving through the neighborhood looking at Christmas lights.

“We need more lights from the aggatt,” you said again.

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure what you said,” I replied.

When we got inside, I asked again, “what did you say in the car?”

I watched you think, a forgotten cracker still clutched in your little hand.

Slowly and carefully, you said, “The… aggate.”

I shook my head.

“Come,” you said, as you turned and walked away.

I followed you up the stairs and you pointed at the ceiling.

“The… aggate.”

You were pointing at the attic.