Daddy Tree: Tiny Footsteps

Willow, Cherish and I have joined the local YMCA. The membership will be good for all three of us: It gives Willow a place to go to play with other kids and to burn off energy that I just don't have the energy to help her burn. It gives me a place (and the time) to go to get my daily workouts in. Believe it or not, it's hard to get in my runs while being a stay-at-home dad. The bigger payoff, though, is I get a little time to myself. It gives Cherish a place to go on the weekends to get away from the "Crazy, Stupid Husband." It gives us, as a family, a place to go swimming all year. To be honest, the biggest benefit is Cherish and I have a place to go to get a break from parenting. No liars here. But we also like that Willow has a place to go play away from Mommy and Daddy. She gets a chance to be with other kids off all ages. But there are problems with that too. On our trip to the Y on Monday, a girl not much older bit Willow on the hand. The bite left a ...

Willow is fearless. Absolutely fearless. She and I had a banner day at the park on Monday. She hit the swings, the slides, the see-saw and the rope swing, and we explored the leaf-littered picnic grounds. We also watched the fish and turtles at the pond Willow likes. But probably the highlight of the day for Willow is when we climbed a big hill and watched a trio of boys, all roughly the age of first-graders, disappear into a metal chute and zip (at the speed of sound, no doubt) to the bottom of the hill about 25 feet below. They were going fast. Of course, Willow wanted to zip down the chute too. I had no intention of letting her head down the death trap, but I let her explore the entrance at the top of the hill to which the father of the boys said, "You know it goes really fast." I assured him I wasn't going to let my toddler girl go down the chute. The father left with his boys. I guess Willow intimidated them. After Willow explored the top of the slide for a w...

I've been doing really well with my health this year. I've managed to keep off the 50-plus pounds I lost, and I'm as fit as I've ever been, even fitter than I was in high school and college. But I'm still a few pounds overweight, and I haven't lost any weight since late July. I want to lose 10 pounds by the end of the year. And I know who's going to help me, my No. 1 coach and inspiration. Ms. Willow Rose Dunn. Of course, she'll have me running all over the house and the yard and the mall and the zoo for her, and she'll have me picking up everything in her destructive path. She's getting more active, and she's running all over the place at a higher and higher clip. I figure that's good for 5 pounds or so. The other 5 pounds, I'm going to really have to work for (and I ain't dieting anymore, Jenny Craig!). Willow is going to help with that extra work. She's going to be there (if only spirit) when I wake early every morni...

Let me say this first: I don't want Willow to hate anyone. I want her to respect other folks regardless of race, creed, politics and nationality. I guess you can say I want her to live up to her hippie name, love and peace and harmony and all that. But let's be real here. My love can go only so far, and even though I want her to be a better person than I am, I wouldn't begrudge her this one little hate that I have. Yes. I want her to hate the St. Louis Cardinals. Stop snickering. This is serious. I don't care if she roots for the Yankees or the Braves. I'll be fine if she roots for the Volunteers or the Gators. Heck, I'll even be OK if she stands behind the Blue Devils or the Tar Heels (I'll grit my teeth the whole time, though). But I will not tolerate any good feelings toward the St. Louis Cardinals, the team that boils my blood. Let's put it this way: If the unimaginable Reds' loss to the Giants (who were dead and buried, by the way) opened...

Willow is climbing on everything. She pulls herself up onto the chairs around the kitchen table, onto the couch and the love seat and onto tables and trunks throughout the house. She pulls herself up and down the steps and stairs all over the place. Her latest feat? She can pull herself onto the tall chairs at the kitchen bar. These chairs are roughly twice as high as the chairs around the kitchen table. No matter. She somehow plops her stomach onto the seat of the chair, grabs the opposite edges of the seat and starts shimmying her legs all over until she's pulled her buttom up. With such an effort this morning, she earned the right to eat breakfast with Daddy at the kitchen bar. This was a messy affair, but no more messy than if she were in a high chair (except that I usually avoid getting fruit cocktail syrup all over my arm when she's in a high chair). I'm going to have to get used to it, though. I know better than to think this is just a phase. No. Willow is growi...

Most of Willow's first year on the planet, she said one word more than any: "da-da." She said it with an angelic innocence, like a tiny bell ringing on a Christmas tree. When I heard "da-da," my heart warmed a degree or two, and any anxiety I had melted away from the tension in my back. "Da-da" lifted me, and the world, it seemed, into a peaceful place. Willow doesn't say "da-da" much anymore. That angelic utterance has been replaced by a much more guttural one: "mom!" That's right. Not "mommy" or "ma-ma." And there's no angel's tone or Christmas bells in there either. When Willow bellows "Mom!" I detect the raspy saltiness of a Bostonian lobsterman (as in, "Mom, I left the behr in the cahr! Fetch it for me, willyah!" And Willow's intentions aren't far from that lobsterman's. An example: We have a foot stool in the bathroom now, so Willow can step up to the s...