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Oshie twitches, moans and growls in his sleep. Struggling in his dreams to escape a little girl chasing him with a stick, a magic wand, a metal box, a pillow, and everything else you swing at him.

Or perhaps he’s dreaming you’re grabbing him by the ears, and pulling, which you do too often.

Maybe he’s trying to get away from you as you chase him with your grocery cart or a stool.

But he clearly  loves you … and you love him.

Crescent Hill

Daddy’s mom played on these stones when she was a girl. Daddy played on these stones when he was a boy. Today, you played on them, too.

One of Daddy’s oldest memories is playing on these stones when I was a little older than you are now. 

Fixing your toy. “Blue.”

“It not working.”

“Let me see. Do you need me to fix it?”

It was in fact not working and had fallen silent. 

It spent some time outside, and you’re rough with the moving parts (which don’t move anymore), so I’m surprised it makes any sounds at all.

“Fix it daddy. I help,” you said as you ran into the kitchen.

You came running back with the last two batteries in a pack. 

“Hold on, we need a screwdriver.”

“Ok,” you said, running back to the kitchen. 

“Let Daddy get it,” I said, following you in.

Your little hands were pawing through the tool drawer, where you got the batteries.

“Look,” I said, holding up a screwdriver.

“Hmmm?” That’s what you say sometimes when I know you’re listening. “Hmmm?”

“This is a blade head and this is a Phillips head.”
I held one up. “Which one is this?”



We went on to change the batteries, “I’m helping Daddy,” you yelled joyfully. The toy made music again.

The experience will long be remembered as the time you identified a green and black handled Phillips head screw driver as, “blue.”