No, I bet you didn’t. At some point, I will do this often enough that the shiny self-righteousness will dull a little, I promise.

My dad, Jim Donaho, is settling into old age with not nearly enough to do besides watch TV and smoke. He comes up here from the Valley to visit us once a month (and more importantly, have his poker game, go to pub trivia, see his shrink and play the occasional game of bridge). When he comes to visit, he brings liters and liters of Diet Coke, which he drinks about one of every day, as well as this V8 Fusion stuff, which could be dismissed as sugary, horrible juice except that is like a V8, only sweet. As in, it has the nutrients of 8 fruits AND vegetables. Or something. But it is the most nutritious thing he ingests on a regular basis.

And Lu loves it. She calls it Granddaddy Juice. She is allowed to have one sugary, nutritious serving every day, even when he is not around. She also loves her granddaddy, and when I see him patiently play with her, I remember the dad he was to me as a little girl. Always a man of indulgent juices, he let me drink heavily doctored “coffee milk” on Sunday mornings starting around age four. When he and Mom divorced, we’d go on Tuesday night dates to the Hunan Restaurant, then rolling skating (i.e., I’d rollerskate; he’d read a book, smoke and wave every single time I rolled by and said, “Hi, Daddy.”).

This is a man who lives to be ruled by women (there’s a long and storied history of them in his past, my mother, stepmother, grandmother, sisters, and me, most notably). Lucy can tell this, and she orders him around more fiercely than anyone. Plus, she worries about him: why does he smoke? where is he right now? where does he live? why doesn’t he live here all the time? maybe we should call him.

Tonight, when I kissed and hugged him goodbye, he said, in classic Lu style, “Wait, we forgot to high-five.” Poor guy, he is taking orders from a whole new generation of women. And I think he’s lucky for it.

Jason and his parents took Lucy to Terra Toys to buy a five-sticker treat (we are trying to reinforce extra good behavior and teach math at the same time). She went there intending to buy a tea set, but a chubby little stuffed unicorn came home with her instead. She showed him to me proudly, prompted by Dad to tell me his name:

“Mom, look, this is Bruiser.”

“Bruiser?” I ask.

“Yeah! Isn’t he so pretty?”

“Uh,” I say to Jason, “I gather you named him Bruiser.”

“Yes,” Jason replies. “But I really wanted to name him Horny.”

The three of us went down to ACL on Sunday. Lucy fit right into the rock and roll scene.

She dyed her hair punk purple.

She got her face painted (if not exactly Kiss style).

She demanded “Freebird” at the Ben Kweller show.

She passed out (though not from too much sun and Heineken).

To add to my feminist mother crisis, the waiter at the Omelettry this morning handed Lucy crayons, paper and a…BARBIE to entertain her while we ate. She promptly began undressing her: “Look, this doll has boobs!”

Then she made up a song that went something like, “Boobs boobs BOOBs boobs boobsboobsboobs…”

This morning on the way to school:

“Mom, boys are cool. Girls are pretty.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because they are.”

“I think girls can be cool.”

“No they can’t. Only boys can be.”

“Lucy, do you know what cool means?”

“What?” (What she says when she means, “No, what?”)

“Cool is when you’re great. I think you’re great.”

“I’m not great. I’m pretty.”

“Lucy, you’re great AND pretty.”

“No, Mom, I’m just pretty. Can I wear a bow in my hair like Charlize?”

Yes, fine, wear a bow in your hair. Let it be a symbol of your rebellion against everything I stand for.

I rode my bike today! Dropped Lu off at school then cruised into work. I am feeling very proud of the carbon-neutral day I am having.

It’s a bird! It’s a plane! It’s Superdad on a bike! Plus a buggy for his sidekick. The man was almost as excited as the day he got his first Diamondback (and he hasn’t owned a bike since).

We bought this rig somewhat impulsively. The walk to and from whatever parking place we find 1-3 miles from the ACL Fest is one we’ve dubbed the “Trail of Tears.” As we tried to figure out the logistics of getting ourselves (and possibly Lu) down to the Fest, we knew it was time for Jason to get a bike. And because pumping a 3.5-year-old on the handlebars is generally frowned upon by Child Protective Services, we also invested in the buggy.

Lucy is going to marry Patrick. Not cousin Patrick, although she adores him. She is going to marry her best (and maybe only) friend at school. She is going to wear a white dress like Cinderella, and Patrick is going to wait for her on the stage . And everyone is going to watch. After that, we will all dance. But she and Patrick will dance by themselves first.

I have no idea where she gets this, but I am afraid. We need to start a wedding fund now.

Lucy may be having an existential crisis. In the car tonight, she asked, “What does it mean mean?” And I was like, huh? What does it mean mean? She repeated herself a few times until I understood — “What does ‘what does it mean’ mean?” A question within a question wrapped up in an epistemilogical enigma.

Me, carefully: “Well, I think it means you don’t understand something and want me to explain it to you.”
Lucy: “Oh.”

Next week: God.