Balls and Titzle
My life changed the moment I became a father. It just so happened that I was picked for the job the day my Isabella came into this world. I’d never felt that kind of love before.
It’s only expected that one of my favorite holiday memories is one that involves Izzy as a toddler. She must have been three. Miranda and I were married and living in the carriage house. She’d gone with my mother to do some Black Friday shopping while I stayed home with Iz.
Since this had been planned, I’d agreed to set up the tree and get it decorated while she was out. Miranda had left me strict instructions. “Wait until Bella goes to bed and then get out the decorations or else it’ll be a disaster.”
The thing is, when it came to my daughter, I never followed the rules. We were a team and I wanted her to be a part of this tradition. Keep in mind, I was newly wed and being a family was a learning experience for the first five years.
We waited for the women to leave before opening the boxes. One by one I pulled out the special bulbs our parents had given us, and even though she was too young to appreciate what they were, I still explained each one.
“This one says Mommy’s name. It’s from when she was your age.”
“Me see. Me hold it, Daddy.”
“This is a glass bulb, sweetie. Daddy doesn’t want it to break.”
“Daddy, pease. I not break it. I hold the ball.”
I quickly hung it on the tree up top and went onto the next ornament.
If it wasn’t fragile, I let her hang it low. She got a kick out of helping and sometimes reached into the box to get the next bulb herself. While I was working on a set of lights that were half out, I saw her with a bulb in each hand. “Daddy, yook, I got two balls.”
There was a moment of spit-laughing before I could respond to her. “Bulbs.”
“Balls.”
“No, sweetie, BULBS.”
“Yes, balls.”
She’s been learning numbers and could count to five easily. I didn’t want to take away from her counting, so I let the word pronunciation issue slide. Besides, my daughter saying balls was pretty damn funny. I couldn’t wait to explain it to Miranda.
After we’d managed to get the lights and “balls” on the tree, I pulled out the messy stuff. Back in the day tinsel was the go-to finish for the tree. Miranda had found it in gold and it went well with our red ornaments.
Izzy was amazed by the shiny, sparkling layers upon layers of the stuff. I allowed her to play with some while I showed her how we were going to put it on the tree.
I wanted it to be fun, no naturally I started throwing handfuls at the branches.
Izzy giggled and copied me, getting more in her hair and on the floor than the tree.
“This is called tinsel. Do you like it?”
“Titzle.”
“What did you say?”
She gave another hand of it a toss, broadcasting it on the floor around her. “Titzle, Daddy.”
I could hardly hold the laughter in, but I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.
In all fairness to my wife, she’d been right to warn me about putting Iz to bed first. We ended up falling asleep on the floor together, half the “TITZLE” done and the rest all over the room.
That next morning I forgot to mention the balls and titzle. Days went by and I figured it was something I’d keep between us and cherish. I knew one day I’d tell Iz all about it and laugh with her.
Christmas came and the whole family was together again. We always had a huge tree at my the Mitchell Ranch that was fancily decorated.
In front of the whole clan, my daughter runs up to the tree and yanks off two bulbs and some stringy decor and then makes an announcement.
How come when it needs to be loud it’s always dead silent?
“Yook, they got balls and titzle, Daddy. Balls and titzle, Mommy.”
Everyone looked at me. Of course they did.
Miranda leans down and asks her, “Who taught you that?”
She swayed excitedly, a smile and two dimples on those fat cheeks. “My Daddy did.”
Yeah, I was in the doghouse, but from then on the whole family called them balls and titzle.