Daughter's Better Than You and Other Schmaltz

Okay. I haven't been blogging lately. Actually, I'm surprised you are here. Hello!

There's a story I want to record tonight, and that reminded of other things I've been wanting to add here. So here are a few stories from our family.

Youngest did two things the other day that continue to qualify him for "cutest kid in the world," which he is.

Here's one.

I found a buckeye tree on my run and I stuffed a bunch of buckeyes in my pockets for the kids. (So for the rest of the run, my shorts kept sliding down. The dog looked embarrassed.) At home, I called Daughter and Youngest and I dumped the buckeyes on the table. Eldest is not so interested in buckeyes, though he is quite interested in Buckeyes. Capital B.

Anyway, lots of interest and mild fun ensued as they cracked open and explored buckeyes and, I don't know, did stuff with neat looking shiny nuts. For a couple of minutes. Then Daughter scampered off. Okay, I can't guarantee that she scampered. But she went away. Happy-like.

At this point, I'm into the newspaper, and Youngest is next to me, looking at a buckeye. He gently scratched the pale little top part of a buckeye, looked at me, and quietly asked, "Dad, is this really peanut butter?"

Hee hee.

The other little story:

Youngest fell asleep on the couch. I hauled him upstairs, he was just a lump, and I sort of murmured nice daddy things, more to myself than to him, he's asleep, all the way up the stairs. I put him in his bed and just sort of murmured "You going to have nice dreams?" and he mumbled "Yes, please."

Cute!

So, we're well into Schmaltzville. It's parenthood. Whadaya gonna do?

Here's what I really wanted to write down. It's more schmaltz. But it's true.

Both Daughter and Eldest took class trips this week. Eldest is still in D.C. I'm hoping he'll add some of his stories here when he gets back. About Daughter:

Daughter got back from an overnight field trip to Greenfield Village, an historical site in Michigan where kids look at Henry Ford memorabilia and they laugh at pigs and pose friends in front of fountains and eat Rice Krispie Treats for lunch.

Some less happy stuff for context: Daughter hasn't been very happy at school lately. The transition to middle schoolhas been a little rough. (5th grade is middle school at The School. Another issue.) So we were really hoping Daughter would have a great time on this trip.

And she did. At dinner tonight she talked and talked about the trip. We took her out for Mexican - she loves Mexican, and Eldest hates it, so with him out of town, we thought "Hey, we'll take Daughter out for Mexican!" and she was so excited! She ordered chicken fingers.

Okay, so we had given Daughter some money for souvenirs, and at dinner we asked her if she bought herself anything. She got really quiet and a little sad. Not a lot. Just a bit less excited. I asked her what was wrong, and she made it clear that she did not want to answer in front of her little brother. Also, I was an idiot for asking in front of Youngest. Dad, how could you be so stupid? You are a big dumb stupid idiot for asking me to answer that in front of Youngest. She said all this with a glance, reassuring me that she will be a proficient teenage daughter in just three years.

At dinner, my job became to distract Youngest.

I distracted Youngest, which is really really hard ("How's your root beer, Youngest?" "Really good." "Good.") while Mother and Daughter hid behind a menu and Mother got the full story.

Okay. Here's the deal. My daughter is awesome. She is, probably, better than you. She might even be better than me.

Just kidding. She is waaaaaay better than me. So just imagine how much better than you she must be.

Here's why she was sad:

Daughter had had some pocket money left. A little more than $8.00. So she bought two candy sticks, a little Oscar Meyer Weinermobile whistle, and a cheap necklace with a small Civil War bugle pendant.

Those are tiny things. That's because she spent eight dollars on a Greenfield Village decorated souvenir baseball. Cool!

Okay. Listen. Daughter is not all that into baseball. The baseball souvenir? She bought it for Youngest. The candy sticks, our favorite flavors, were for me and for Eldest. The whistle was for Mother (Mother has a thing for the Weinermobile. Really. Always has. Excuse me, Mother? Sigmund Freud on line one for you.) Daughter ran out of money before picking out anything nice for herself. She only had enough money left for the cheap little pendant.

Daughter was a little sad at dinner because while talking about the trip, she realized what a great time she had, but she didn't really get herself anything (much) to remember the trip. This had not occurred to her while shopping.

I'm convinced that I would have been touched by this even if they used a lower quality tequila in the margaritas.

I was very touched by this.

There's a happy ending, though, and it's not this: Daughter gave the ball to Youngest and Youngest is so happy that Daughter feels fine about the whole thing. Maybe you would have let that happen, and maybe that would have been the right choice, but you weren't there, and you hadn't had a margarita and some really good chicken cooked with spicy sausage and cheese sauce.

Here's what really happened: I told Daughter not to worry, that we had spoiled Youngest a bit while she and Eldest were away (true) and had gotten him two new toys for no reason (also true) and that the baseball will look great on her bookshelf, and every time she sees it there she will remember her great trip to Greenfield Village, even if she's not that into baseball.

"I'm not asking," I said. "I'm telling you this." And she was relieved.

When we got home, Youngest couldn't wait to show Daughter his new Spider-man and Goblin action figures, and he thought his new candy stick was delicious, though perhaps not his favorite flavor.

Back To It

I love the first day of school.

I love how everybody is at their best, imagining the best year ever ahead. I love how no one has been graded by anyone yet, and we all feel like we're in this together, and we're happy to see each other again. On the first day of school, I'm on my game. I could teach anything to anyone. I could teach bricks to float.

There is a tradition at The School on the first day. The whole school gets together on the quad, even if, like today, the temperature is 400 degrees above sun level, with the humidity of a day-long diaper, and we listen to some words from the Head and from the student council president. It's nice, actually, and every year I look through the crowd until I find each member of The Family: Mother, wrangling her Kindergarteners,; Eldest, looking cool in the way that eighth graders have to, which he pulls off pretty well, I think, but not so cool that he won't acknowledge his dad with a smile and a nod, I love him for that; Daughter, new Middle Schooler, sitting perfectly straight and on the edge of her seat, because her heart is so big that on her first day of middle school she is thinking about Youngest, and she is so excited for him.

That's because on the first day, each Kindergartener, and Youngest is a Kindergartener now, gets walked to his or her classroom by a senior. It's a great tradition, but it's no small thing for a five year old to get up in front of 1000 people and take the hand of a stranger. Some of the kids get two senior buddies - it's a math thing, you wouldn't understand. And Daughter was perched so straight and tall, excited to see her brother do the walk that she did years ago, and Eldest years before that. My armpits were damp, my brow was dripping, and my heart was warm.

"Drops of Jupiter"

So.

The last week of school was Eldest's talent show. Eldest performed twice.

The video camera I had was unreliable, and my attempts to film his first act failed. And I had to get back to work. Fortunately, I work at the same school.

So I was able to run back to the theater after an event in the Upper School just as Alex was taking the stage to sing. And this time, the camera worked! I got the whole song on video. Hooray!

A week or so later, we babysat for our niece and nephew. And the niece was being sooooo cute with our dog! You should have seen her. Oh wait! You can! I grabbed the video camera. Quick! It's a baby and a dog! This could end any minute. No time to check the tape! Of course it is cued up and ready!

I filmed it! I got it!

And I filmed right over Eldest's song.

So, the video here is every single frame that remains of Eldest singing "Drops of Jupiter" in the talent show, and some of the video I made while destroying the record of that particular memory (with some extra video from later in the day, too.)

Four minutes and thirty-seven seconds. Would contain outstanding vocal performance, but doesn't. Does contain dangerously infectious pop music, gratuitous cuteness (baby, toddler, youngster, tween, and dog), and some serious anti-hygenic ickiness the likes of which some may find disturbing, especially those who asked us to babysit, which might teach them a lesson but we hope not.

edit: video removed from Google video, probably cuz I used a copywritten song.

Catching Up

The end of the school year has kept us quite busy of late. One thing you missed was Eldest's birthday. He wanted nothing as much as a cell-phone. Mother and I went to Verizon to see if, maybe, we could add him to our plan. Maybe. Though we are somewhat philosophically opposed to middle-schoolers with cell-phones. Well, to add him to our plan would mean upgrading our plan too much, so that was a no-go. But, good news! We were eligible for new phones!

So, let's review: Eldest wants a cell phone more than anything else for his birthday. We leave the house to go birthday shopping for him. We come home with new cell phones. For ourselves.

Once again, the "Parents of the Year" award slips through our fingers.

But it is fun to have a camera phone, and on this entry are a bunch of pictures I snapped with the new phone, as well as one or two from our more conventional digital camera, and a video Bon Bon took of the kids dancing at Arts Fest with her phone. As I watch the battery on my laptop dwindle, I'm just slopping these pictures up here in no particular order, so let's call it a matching game. See if you can match the image to the caption. Fun!

1. Video of the kids jammin' with Scooter and Bon Bon's daughter to the reggae sounds of The Ark Band at Arts Fest.

2 & 3. Youngest with his teachers on his very last day as a Pre-K-er.

4. Daughter enjoying the pool party to celebrate the end of fourth grade.

5. Eldest studying for exams. This was actually a really nice time, as he and I sat at a coffee shop for hours. He studied Chinese while I graded exams.














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6. Youngest - Yippee! - leaving his daycare for the very last time.

7. Youngest looking cool with his newest past-time, Super Mario on GameBoy.

8. Daughter and Youngest enjoying mall-food and discussing the philosophical implications of string theory.

9. Youngest keepin' it real with a mall-fountain enema.

Summer, baby!

Youngest: Soccer Star

Much has happened to keep me from blogging of late, including the end of Youngest's Very First Soccer Season. Video below.

Youngest's coach bears a striking resemblance to television's popular Tina Fey, former SNL-er and writer and star of the hit show 30 Rock. Long-time readers of this blog, if there were any, might see some cause for concern in this, considering Father's opinion regarding the lovely Ms Fey. No need. I am fully in command of any silliness this resemblance might cause, as this video will fail to disprove.

Dog Stories

Two of my seniors created an audio-documentary as a final project for my class, and they gave me permission to share it here. If you are a dog lover, you'll enjoy it.

I couldn't get the player to embed in this blog, so if you'd like to download it, click here. I'm only able to get it to work as a download.

It is an audio-documentary in the style of the NPR program This American Life and lasts about a half hour. It's a nice listen-to on a drive.

One segment of the documentary is me talking about our dog, Casserole.

And another is an old friend discussing the loss of his beloved Blocker.


I can't help but think that they would have been friends.



The two students got an A on the project, by the way. Here's my evaluation:

Hey there.

Nice nice work on the audio documentary. You exceeded my high expectations, and the significant concerns that I had never came to bear.

I'll start with my concerns:

Initially, you recall, I had intended not to approve your project. It was unclear to me how a presentation on dog psychology would fulfill an assignment that is meant to tell the story of a life. But, in the proposal presentation, you tied it to the family model from Mr. A's class by planning to write a mock sit-com. With dogs. Well, okay. I approved it with warnings and reservations.

Then, things started to shift, and most of what you used to justify the authenticity of the assignment fell away: The research into dog psych, the connection to the sit com / family model. What was left was stories about dogs. Interesting, yes, but again the connections to the class were getting pretty unclear.

At this point, it was pretty late in the game, so changing was not an option. I held my breath. I sensed that what you were creating had quality and integrity, I just wasn't sure how it suited the course itself.

But it really did. Listening to the documentary, it became clear that what was being reported on were stories of life, or, more accurately, stories of identity, which is really what is at the heart of the course. These stories, while about dogs on the surface, are actually about how people define their own identities through their dogs. This could seem accidental, but I'm sure it occurred because you edited with a theme in mind. And you ended up with a more authentic and in-depth exploration of identity than many students who approached the assignment more traditionally.

Of course, it helps a great deal that the final product is of such high quality. I would not have discovered the theme had I been distracted by audio noise, a poor mix, sloppy editing, or careless music choices. Your skill in recording, editing, selecting and using music paid off. You chose and excellent model in This American Life, and you emulated that show's technical excellence while establishing a different context (especially with the risky but excellent decision to eliminate a host.)

One of my great regrets with this course is that we didn't have the time or the means to publish the projects publicly. I would like all of them to have a greater forum, but especially yours. The idea is fresh and original (and risky), the content is funny and moving and meaningful, and the execution is outstanding. You should both be very proud that rather than a senior cruise you took a senior expedition and discovered some wonderful stuff, in stories and in your potential. I'm proud of both of you.

A

A personal aside: Because you are my students, and because my story and the story of a close friend are included, I would like to post your documentary as a podcast on my family blog. I would need the permission of both of you to do that. Thanks.

Youngest On The Playground

What would you do, if there was a half hour to kill before your big brother's choir concert and you were hanging out at school and your dad had a video camera with him?

I'll tell you what you'd do. You'd show off all the cool stuff you can do on the playground, that's what you'd do.

That's what Youngest did.

This video is three minutes and forty-six seconds of cuteness, with some falling down and one boo-boo. Also, gratuitous silliness.

Mormon-looking Lorax Haters

Here's a tip:

If three guys sporting haircuts and ties show up on your doorstep, and they don't ask you if you've accepted Jesus Christ as your personal lord and savior, then chances are you're going to lose some trees.

At least, that's what happened to us.

We knew when we moved in that only part of the wooded area behind our home was a buffer, and that someday development would take a lot of the trees down. Well, the men in ties were the Silver Surfer to progress's Galactus (super geek reference!)

As the philosopher once said, "And the trees are all kept equal / by hatchet, axe. . . . aaaaaaand saw!" (super geek reference number two!)

It could be worse: There is a forty foot tree-buffer preserve that they can't touch. Also, they are not building a meat packing plant. (Could be better: They are not building a joint women's prison / car-wash.)

(That would be a great movie.)

(Tarantino, maybe.)

What are they building? In our backyard?

Here's a hint: after thirteen years of delivering kids to various daycares, the last year of which required Mother or I to leave work every day to drive Youngest twenty minutes away, we are now three weeks away from never ever needing a daycare again.

Guess what they're building in our backyard?

I'm not complaining. We'll still have a nice yard. We'll still have some trees. And the new daycare will add a lot of traffic, but not an additional driveway, because it will share the driveway with the nursing home that is already there. Between the two of them, it'll be like bookends to the life cycle. And the little kids sure will get a kick out of all the emergency vehicles!

Middle School Choir Concert

Tonight was Eldest's choir concert. Some highlights are below.

The video is about 5 minutes long, and nobody falls down or anything. Still, it's nice.

Oh, also, throughout the video my children - specifically Youngest and Eldest, but not Daughter, I don't think - are referred to by alternate names. These names are bizarre and inexplicable. Please disregard.

Scooter and Bon Bon

When Mother and I were looking to buy a new house, I had a few priorities. I wanted to be close to the school that our whole family attends. I wanted mature trees in the backyard. I wanted a front porch.

Well, we got a house that's close to the school – it’s a bike-ride away, or a good-sized walk. And we got the mature trees in the backyard, and I love them, though many of them will be leaving soon. (Actually, I’m typing this on the back deck, at 8:16, despite what the blog clock will tell you, and my favorite evening sunshine is hitting the trees in my favorite way. I try to get myself out here for that sunlight as often as I can.)

Okay. So I’ll tell you about the trees later.

First the porch.

I wanted a front porch because of my good friend Pat the Cat (full disclosure: he’s not really a cat.) and the stories he would tell about his neighborhood. P. t. C. lives in the kind of neighborhood I dreamed of, the kind where you get home from work, you stand on the driveway for a little while talking to the neighbor, and then another neighbor shows up with a couple of beers, and the kids are playing in the yards and the cul de sac, someone brings some food, and before you know it it’s, like, midnight, and everybody is happy and laughing and having a good time.

See? That’s a neighborhood. And I think that one of the things that creates that sense of neighborhoodliness is front porches. Pat the Cat’s neighborhood has front porches. People see each other.

Well, we bought a house. This was, what, five years ago? Six? Something. Nice house, but no front porch and not much of a neighborhood. (True story: Before we bought the house, I drove around to see if there would be friends for our kids. Imagine. I was in beat-up car, and I drove up to some lady, and though I know her now, at the time I was a creepy stranger, and I asked “Hey, are there any kids in this neighborhood?” I’m sure they were thrilled to see me move in.)

We don’t really know many of our neighbors very well, and I think that is, in part, due to the fact that no one hangs out in front, where people walk by. Everyone gets home, vacuum seals themselves in with their electric garage doors, and only goes outside, if ever, only in the back yard, where the trees are nice but won’t drink beer with you.

After living in the house for a couple of years we had met a couple of our closest neighbors, but there’s a curve in the cul de sac, and we didn’t know anyone around the curve. It’s a small curve, but it’s enough that you don’t see folks when they’re mowing their lawns and stuff. Anyway, I was in the front yard, and a neighbor walked by, we’ll call him Domino. I sort of knew Domino from church. Okay. So Domino walks by, and we’re talking. This was during the ’04 presidential campaign. We were laughing, cuz he had put a Bush sign in his yard, the first in the neighborhood, and so I got a Kerry sign, and the next day he had about twenty Bush signs in his yard. That was funny.

So we’re chatting, and another neighbor drives by, and he stops, because he knows Domino really well. Their kids go to school together. But he lives on the bulbous part of the cul de sac, way past the curve, so I didn’t know him at all. We’ll call this guy, umm, Oral. Okay. So Oral stops, and I’m liking this, because I like to know neighbors, you know? New friend, maybe. I’m thinking about going inside and grabbing a few beers. But then Oral tells me something that I didn’t know.

He notices the sign in my yard, and he informs me – with no irony here, he is not kidding – that if John Kerry wins the election, it will. . .

Ready for this?

It will usher in the Apocalypse.

Yes. Indeed.

And then he starts talking about the end times, and he’s quoting Revelations and stuff. This may not be news to you, but it sure was to me, that when ancient John was in his robe and sandals, sitting in the desert heat writing about beasts and fire from heaven, he was writing about the 2004 election in the U. S. of A.

Oral knows Domino and I are Catholic, so he avoids the whole thing about how Catholics are damned to hell for sure. Mostly he just bemoans the fact that I’ll be voting to support the end of all life on earth.

I’m okay with not having a front porch.

Since then, though, we’ve gotten to know some of our neighbors. We still know Domino, and next door there are Mr. and Mr. Neighbor, we went to a crazy party there once. Oh, twice. And we know the folks across the street, and the new guy next to them seems cool and beer-and-barbecuable. And there is the requisite old lonely guy who backs into other people’s cars and who everyone helps out by shoveling his snow or calling 911.

And next to the old guy, there at the corner, live our favorite neighbors, our very good friends. Here, I will call them Scooter and his lovely wife, Bon Bon.

With the arrival of Scooter and Bon Bon three years ago, I got the neighborhood I'd always wanted.

We met them shortly after they moved in. I was mowing the lawn, and they walked over to say hi, and I invited them in for a beer, and they left at three AM.

Since then, we have shared many beers and nights on the deck and martinis and margaritas and holidays. We watched them become a family of three. Their kid loves our kids and they love our kids and we love all of them and even our dogs are best friends, how cool is that?

We love Scooter and Bon Bon. They are family.

The other night, Saturday, I was out front fixing the mailbox. (Okay. About the mailbox. Fixing it had been on my to-do list ever since I broke it. I broke with the moving van. When we moved in. So I’m not so good at working through my to-do list.)

Scooter comes over with a beer. I like beer, and mostly I like good beer. But what is it about a free Bud Light on a beautiful afternoon when you're working in the sun? I'm no beer snob, much. It was freakin' delicious. And I totally did not get paid for that endorsement.

Mother was out of town.
(Me: “Welcome home, honey! I fixed the mailbox! With new brass numbers!”

Her: “Wow, honey! That looks terrific! Let’s have sex!”

Only through such delusions do chores get done at all.)

The kids were riding around the cul de sac on Razor scooters. That one delicious beer was followed by another, and then pizzas, and then Margaritas. This occurred over a long period of time. Drink responsibly! It was a perfect neighborhood night.

Have you every ridden a Razor Scooter? Razor Scooters are crazy fun. Another free endorsement. And our cul de sac is a bit of a hill, so you can really get going fast.

We were having Razor Scooter races. At one point, we even pulled out a roll of toilet paper for a finish line. Youngest won that one.

Look at my dog there. She's awesome.

At another point, Scooter pretended to fall, and he didn’t move, and his poor almost-two-year-old daughter completely freaked out, screaming “Daaaaady!” and crying, thinking he was dead. Fun!

After she went to bed, my kids took turns reenacting that scene.

Scooter and Bon Bon have the kind of relationship in which they pretend to be annoyed with each other all the time, but actually they adore each other and take care of each other in a way that is sweet and beautiful and maybe even borders on cute. It’s nice. Like this: whenever Bon Bon was riding a Razor, Scooter was a little nervous.

The three of us, Scooter, Bon Bon, and me, went to the top of the hill. We were going to race. the kids were quite excited.

I assumed Scooter and I would be holding back, because he had been a littl nervous about Bon Bon riding. Cute. (Plus, I thought it would be fun to watch Bon Bon.) But when the kids yelled “Go!” from down the street, Scooter took off like a shot.

My competitive instinct took over. We left Bon Bon in our dust and raced down the hill. We were flying. Somewhere, miles away, animals tilted their heads at the sound of our distant sonic boom.


It became clear, as we approached their mailbox / finish line, that I was not going to catch up to Scooter. He was going to win the race.

Then he did something a little, um, I dunno. Stupid, maybe?

He turned up Old Guy’s driveway. Actually, at this point, he was looking pretty slick.

But then he hit the turf.

Then he flew for a little while.

Then he planted his face in the sidewalk.

At this point, it was not funny. Scooter wasn’t moving. I admit, I was a little scared. I ran over to him (to be clear – this was AFTER I crossed the finished line)

(To be clearer, the finish line was RIGHT THERE, so I wasn’t a complete jerk.)

(It's not like I left him lying there while I finished the race. Really, it could be said that it would have been impossible for me not to cross the finish line. I mean, it was that close.)

(Still, I DID win)

(He didn’t. I did. I won the race.)

and he still wasn’t moving.

This was scary. Then he moved.

Oh. Ha! He’s kidding! Like he was before!

No. Not so much. He rolled over. There was a lot of blood.

There was a lot of blood.

Suddenly, I got all take-chargey. I was George Clooney on ER. But without the hair. I was Anthony Hopkins at best.

“Eldest, go, fast, (I said “fast.” I wish I had said “stat.” But I didn’t.) and get some wet paper towels. Daughter, take Youngest inside, watch a movie. No! Don’t come closer. Just go. Everything is okay. He’s fine. Don't look.”

He looked pretty gruesome. Big scrape on the side of his face – huge! – and a deep cut on his chin. Scrapes on all of his knuckles. And he thought he had broken his toe. Fun!

I took him to the ER. We had to wait a while. I had a Snickers bar. It was fantastic. Another unpaid endorsement.

I was glad to be with Scooter at the ER. It was important that he be cared for, and it was important that I be there to make sure he told the actual story of what happened, and not, as he tried one time, to tell a nurse that he had saved some old lady from getting mugged by ninjas.

He had to tell the story about twenty times. It was fantastic. And every time, I was there for him, adding this:

Me: “And what is the age of the owner of the scooter?”

Scooter: “Five.”

Me: “Very good.”

Three hours, five stitches (True story:

Scooter: “Is this going to hurt?”

Doctor: “No, no. I won’t feel a thing.”)

and a tetanus shot later, and off to home we go.

All in all, a great night in the neighborhood.

Family Portraits

Within the past few weeks, three depictions of members of the family have caught my eye.

The first was emailed to me by Brother-In-Law. Last winter, our family visited their family to make Christmas cookies. Here are Mother and me:


And this one, the cover of an invitation to join Daughter for a day of school. I was honored to be selected as her "special friend." I'm glad to see I've got my i.d. badge on my belt, but it looks like I could use a shave:

And finally, Youngest drew himself and Mother, sporting their new shoes. Youngest, like many five-year-olds, prefers his skies in cross-section. And that's not a ghost standing on the right. That was an abandoned first attempt on the other side of the page. Apparently he didn't get the new Spider-Man pajamas quite right:

I Was Once a Child Soldier

This is not the blog entry to read if you are looking for a quick, light diversion. What follows is a long and tragic work of historical fiction written by Eldest.

Eldest has been working for several days on a story for his seventh-grade English and social studies classes. Studying the civil war in Uganda, he read personal accounts of children who were forced into military action. He used the context and details of those stories to create this fictional account.

As a proud father, with Eldest's permission, I share it here, unedited:


I Was Once a Child Soldier


“Mother, wake up,” I whispered as I shook my mother’s shoulders. My mother stirred, yawned, and opened her eyes.

“Anaji,” she whispered, “Let’s go.”

We tiptoed through our home and woke up my six younger siblings sleeping on the mat on the floor my mother, father, and I slept on a breaking bed that was actually less comfortable than the mat. Once we had woken all of my brothers and sisters, we all slipped on our car-tire sandals. My mother placed my youngest sibling, Iniko, a brother born just a few months before into his pouch and slung him onto her back. We had heard that the Lord’s Resistance Army took even extremely young people, and we didn’t want to take a chance, no matter how odd it seemed. I thought of Iniko’s name, which means “born in dark times”, and how right his name seemed at the moment. I also thought of how lucky he was to be so young. Being thirteen, I now value youth and the happy ignorance younger people still have. I also grieved for the childhood that I never had, I had heard stories of America, and the long, happy childhood that most children have there. Mine was over before it had begun.

We ducked out of our tin-roofed hut and started our long trek to the bigger city. As we reached some more of the main roads, we were joined by more “night commuters”, which eased the pain of the nightly walking. I met a girl named Adamma, which has a special meaning of it’s own, “beautiful girl”. We talked about our lives, and I made the mistake of asking about her parents. She whispered as though I had struck a deep chord inside her heart, “They died of the monstrosity of AIDS.”

I instantly regretted asking that question, but my embarrassed feeling wasn’t able to last for long, as three armored vehicles started to surround us. Children and their mothers fled in all directions. Those who were nearing escape were shot in the back as they attempted to run. I tried to protect my siblings alongside my mother, and we gathered them in a huddle behind us. A man charged towards, his intention clear, to bull over my mother and I and reach my siblings. He pulled out a knife and slit my mother’s throat as she was pounding his head with her fists. Tears stung my eyes, and in a fit of rage, I sunk my teeth into his arm. His blood mixed with my tears, and as he screamed, he whirled around and with his free hand, bashed me in the face.

* * *

I woke up to a scene of carnage; bloody bodies lay everywhere, and children cried for their mothers. I held my throbbing head in both of my hands as I looked around. Nausea overcame me and I turned my head and threw up on the ground. I lifted myself off the dusty road with my hands, and felt a sudden sense of terror. My siblings! I started running around in a frenzied panic, checking every body for a sign of my family. Then I came across my mother. Her body had clearly been dragged across the road for a few yards, and tears swelled in my eyes as I remembered what had happened. The gash across her neck didn’t help my nausea, and I spilled whatever food I had left in my stomach on the ground. I couldn’t find the rest of my family, and starting sprinting across the road, checking bodies. I didn’t notice a tall, broad-shouldered man in front of me in my fear, and slammed into his powerful abs. He wore the uniform of an LRA soldier. My stomach dropped through my feet. He grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and dragged me over a hill, his gun over his other shoulder. He threw me over the last part of the hill, and when I lifted my face and spat dirt out of my mouth, I gasped. There, on the other side of the hill were a hundred or more children being counted by ten or so grown men. The man who had dragged me over the hill yelled to one of his comrades, “Hey, I found another one running through the bodies.”

He kicked me down the rest of the hill, and in a crumpled heap, I landed at its base. My sister Ayanna (“beautiful flower”) ran over to me and helped me to my feet, Iniko in her arms. The man who had forced me here and another one pushed us into the group of children. I hugged all my siblings and greeted them warmly. The man I had become to hate cuffed me on the back of my head to shut me up. A man wearing a different type of hat than the others started giving us a speech, but I only understood two words, “child soldiers”.

A girl, hearing this term, ran out of the pack, and started to run into the open. She was quickly chased down, and was beaten with a stick. The man who had caught her shoved a handful of red peppers into her mouth, and kicked her in the side, his hand still on her mouth. She gagged, and he let go. As she spluttered, he dragged her over to the leader, and they whispered for a few minutes. The leader turned to us and shouted, “As an example of what happens to ‘runners’, you will kill this girl with sticks, and drink her blood.” Gasps echoed through the children. I didn’t gasp, I was trying to figure out why this girl seemed so familiar. That’s when it hit me; it was my friend from the night before, Adamma. I couldn’t kill her, or anybody else! Men started shoving sticks into our hands, and trained their weapons on us as a threat. One man shot a child, and the rest of us starting running towards Adamma in fear. I let myself fall to the back of the group; I couldn’t bring myself to kill her.

I cried after she had been murdered, and I glanced at her broken body, this time, my body didn’t have anything to lose, so I coughed and spluttered where I was. Unfortunately, I couldn’t refrain from having to drink her blood. A man brought a tin cup filled with it and sneered, “I noticed you didn’t beat the girl, you have a cup of blood.” He grabbed the back of my neck and bashed me in the face. As I cried out in pain, he shoved the liquid down my throat and I gagged. He chuckled and walked away. I spat the blood onto the ground when he was out of sight, and started gagging again, unable to lose anything else from my stomach.

Next, the men ordered us to march, and march we did. We walked until smaller children collapsed. I told my siblings to remain close, and held Iniko on my back in his pouch. I was incredibly relieved at the fact that none of my siblings had died or been slaughtered. It seemed that everything else had been taken away from us, and we weren’t about to let us drift apart from each other. After marching for days, and sometimes carrying three of four of my youngest siblings in my arms or on my back, we finally reached a large encampment. I collapsed on the ground, and my siblings spilled out of my arms. Only Iniko remained on my back. Instead of crying out in complaint, my brothers and sisters who had fallen lifted my head in an attempt to lift me up. I propped myself up with my arms, and pushed myself the rest of the way up with my weak legs. I teetered back and forth, but Ayanna steadied me with her tiny arm. I thanked her with a warm look, and she smiled back at me. A man with a gun came up behind us, and ordered us to walk over to where the other children had gathered. He jolted me roughly in the back with the front of his weapon and we marched. When we reached the huddle, more men started pushing us into crude lines, and I was curious as to what the lines were for. I was at the back of the long line, so my curiosity would have to wait. When I neared the front, I noticed a large, wooden crate filled with weapons. Ayanna, who was in front of me, reached the front of the line. I gasped when the man standing by the crate pulled out a gun and handed it to her. She stared down at the killing machine in her hand, and then gazed at him. He pushed her away and into the mob of children who had received their weapons already. When I got my gun, the man looked at Iniko, who was peering over my shoulder at the man. He asked me, “How old is that child?”

I didn’t answer the man, so he grabbed Ayanna, and held a knife to her throat. I cried out in desperation, “Not more than fourth months old!” The man nodded, and threw Ayanna face first back into the swarm. He grabbed Iniko off my back, and I attempted to shoot him in the face. The man chuckled, and punched me in the face. I toppled over, and was dragged into the crowd of other captives. I stood up and looked at the man, he had placed Iniko in a plastic bag, and was suffocating him to death. I berated myself for not realizing that he was too young to serve. I screamed and charged him in a teary frenzy. I smashed at his legs with my gun until two more men grabbed me by my arms. They threw me back with my siblings, and held me until Iniko had died. The man threw the baby’s body to the side, and I broke out of the men’s hold to clutch it in my hands. The men didn’t care so long as the baby was dead, and allowed me to take it.

* * *

That night, we were assigned to a tent to sleep in, and I snuck out to bury Iniko. I prayed to God for his soul to be taken to heaven, and cried by his grave. I stayed up all night by the makeshift grave, and had to sneak back into the tent when a patrolman came back to check the camp.

The next morning was the first time we had had food in two days. The first act of kindness from the LRA soldier’s came with breakfast. Apparently, they either decided to be nice, or they had all gotten drunk the night before. But I didn’t say anything, I was happy with food, but I still felt white-hot hatred when I came to the man who killed Iniko. He chuckled when I walked by him, and made a choking gesture at his neck. Later that day, the men drove us to a new location, and my siblings and I were again forced into a line. This time, the camp was a city. I saw tents set up already, and figured they were for us. But when I got to the line, the unloaded killing machine still in my hand, the man pushed me off to the left, and Ayanna to the right. I screamed, realizing that we were being separated, and the man butted me away with his rifle. I fell on the ground, and Ayanna’s screams were drowned out as she was pushed onto a bus. I was thrown onto another bus, and was relieved when two of my siblings wound up with me.

When we got to our new destination, a bullet ripped through the bus and pierced a child I didn’t recognize in the head. Blood flew all over the walls of the bus, and the children all screamed and ducked to the floor. I shivered at the feel of warm, human blood on my clothes and face. I then realized that we were about to fight, without being warned or briefed. One of the men ripped open the door of the bus and started dragging us off. More men came and were hurling us to the ground and telling us to jump into the bushes and trenches. I chose a trench and ducked low to the ground. All my siblings, besides Iniko jumped into the same trench as me and ducked as well. None of us wanted to fire our guns and spill more blood. They were enough rivers on this battleground. And we didn’t fire, until children around were shot through faces, stomachs, arms, and legs, and we were sitting in puddles of blood. That was my first shot. I poked my head above the trench and pulled the trigger. Nothing. I still didn’t have ammo! The men had forgotten to give it to us. I spied a crate over to my left, and crawled over to it on my stomach. I lifted the top and pulled out plenty of cases of ammo for my siblings and I, and snagged a couple of grenades. When I reached my siblings again, they all loaded their guns as the men had taught in an earlier class at the camp where Iniko was buried.

After the gun was loaded, I fired into the midst of trenches of the enemy. I felt a cold shiver run down each vertebrae in my spine as a man’s head exploded from the shots. I fired again and again, killing many men and adding to the mass of blood and organs on the ground. Eventually, the enemies saw our trench as a threat, and grenades were lobbed towards us. We ducked further into our trench and saw the grenades fly over our heads, exploded harmlessly yards away. But our luck didn’t hold out. One man had a nice shot and we gasped as the grenade rolled down the side of our protection. We froze. The grenade exploded. We all cried out and our blood flew into the air. I felt an immensely sharp pain in my left leg, and passed out with that.

* * *

I woke up in the same trench, caked in blood. I struggled to lift myself up with my arms, and gasped in horror. The tears and nausea came before I saw the whole gruesome picture, my siblings body parts were flung around the inside of the trench, blood covered the dirt and made it red rather than brown. I threw up all over the ground, mixing my food with blood. That’s when I looked down at my own mangled figure. The bottom half of my left leg was gone, not even anywhere in sight. It had been obliterated. I cried for my own loss this time, and crawled out of the trench. I was careful not to rub the stump I had left, for pain seared it every time it was so much as scraped. I threw dirt into the trench to bury my siblings, and once again prayed for hours.

When I had prayed all that I had left in me out, I crawled along the dirt further, looking for something to help me walk. I finally found a piece of wood that had been used to build a defense, and propped it under my arm. I lifted myself up with it, and began to hobble my way to only God knew where. Many times I fell, and I cried out in pain as my leg was battered against the ground, causing more blood to flow from it. To halt the bleeding, I ripped off my sleeve, and wrapped it around the stump, and over my shoulder. This stung insanely, but it was either that or die of blood loss.

After three days of ambling and falling, I finally reached a large city. My first initiative was to find a church, and water. When I reached the church, I pushed open the door and fell onto the ground, thinking that I would give up right there and die. I closed my eyes and went to sleep, not wishing to wake up.

When I did wake up though, I berated God, asking why he couldn’t just kill me. I opened my eyes and looked into the face of an elderly nun. She muttered something that my disorientation didn’t allow me to comprehend, and rushed off. When she returned she was carrying a gigantic bottle of water. I grabbed it greedily from her hand and downed all the water in about two seconds. She then helped me up and took me back out of the church. All of this was very confusing, and my exhaustion only made matters worse. We crossed the street and went into a building. After three flights of stairs she walked me into a room with hundreds of children. I realized what was going on, and finally accepted something for the first time in months, my whole family had been killed, and my father had been nothing but abusive, so this was the best place for me.

She dragged me past all the children and into a small office. She said to the man behind the desk, “This poor child has lost his leg and wound up in the church.” The man nodded and motioned to a chair. He thanked her for bringing me here, and she left the room briskly. He told me that as soon as he heard my story, I would receive help from a doctor.

“And that’s where I am today,” I told the man.

“Thank you Anaji, the doctor will meet you in here in five minutes or so.” He left almost as quickly as the nun had, and gave a reassuring smile before he closed the door. When he had gone, I pondered everything that had happened in the previous weeks. I thought of how true Iniko’s name had been, and how ironic mine was. Anaji: he who triumphs.

Exit Stage Left

Done.

With set strike yesterday, I’ve completed what will be my last production for a while.

I direct the high school plays here at The School. Or, I did. But with the end of this show, I will be taking a leave of absence of at least a year to decide whether directing is more in my blood or on my back.

For the last twelve years I’ve directed a fall play and a spring musical as part of my job here at The School. That’s a lot of plays. (I did take off one spring when Youngest was brand new.) Two of the musicals were original, one a musical adaptation of Shakespeare, and the other this one.

Remember how admirable it seemed when Seinfeld's show went off the air while still at its peak? Well, I maybe stuck around a little too long.

Simply put, after twelve years the grind was getting to me. Not the working with kids part; that's not the grind. Rarely will you find teachers who get burnt-out from working with kids. That’s the creamy nugat center. It’s all the other stuff, the crunchy outside. The million little things that have nothing, directly, to do with what the kids are doing, and learning, on stage. It's the reading of twenty plays to find one, the scheduling of limited resources - like, oh, a theater - the eleven or twelve hour days for most of the school year, the daily walks in the dark to the last car in the parking lot.

Most especially, it is the frequent and increasingly long conversations in which my judgment is questioned. This is a natural part of being a director, and I don’t begrudge the questioners.

And I’ve watched myself start to play it safer just to avoid the long emails and meetings required to justify choices. That, in part, is why I ended up choosing and directing the show that I just wrapped. It was a popular success, as was expected. More students auditioned than ever before. We had to add a matinee, we sold more tickets than ever before, and everyone; cast, crew, and audience; seemed to have a good time. But it's fluff. Fluff's okay. And I had no problems. But it didn't really expand any minds or advance theater as an art form. It isn’t the kind of show I dreamed of directing when I was studying educational theater.

Something needs to happen to invigorate the program. That something is either the arrival of an invigorated person to head it, or for me to return, invigorated. But it isn’t me staying.

As expectations in each field have increased tremendously, it is no wonder that the English Teacher / Theater Director animal is virtually extinct, or at least endangered.

So I’m going to concentrate on the English Teacher half, and explore other ways to grow or to be creative.

I was grateful to one colleague who expressed it this way: It takes courage to walk away from something with which you have had success and acclaim. That's a nice way to think about it.

Look, lots of people - most people - have it much worse than me. They work harder and longer for less satisfaction. I am grateful for my opportunities and happiness here. Mr. Neighbor once said to me, when I first met him, "The only people I know who like their jobs are teachers." I'm one of those people. And I certainly have no intention of leaving The School. It's not perfect, but it is an amazing place in countless ways, and it cares the most about the most important things. My whole family is here. We're lucky for that.

And to be clear: My job here as an English teacher is secure. I’ve asked for, and was given, some time off from leading an extra-curricular program. I appreciate that very much. And whether I return to directing or not, I know I’ll be glad I climbed out of the rut to decide.

E Is For Youngest

This was a while ago: Youngest's Pre-K Program at school, a surreal exercise in alphabets, fly swatters, homemade costumes, and, well . . . learning!

He's cute, in an eggs-all-over-him sort of way.

Asthma Blows. But Not Very Hard.

An email from Uncle Second Eldest, Father's Side, and my reply, concerning a trip to the ER.


What’s this stuff with little [Youngest] going to the hospital?? What kind of treatments do they give for asthma attacks? Since when is asthma a problem in this family anyway? Poor little fella. Eat more veggies. I sure hope all is well now.

Eldest had asthma too, but he outgrew it. It's not a our-side-of-the-family thing. We are made of sturdier stuff than that. But Mother's family is so riddled with allergies it's a wonder they can reproduce. Our nephew is allergic to everything. I think his diet is limited to, like, sheets of paper and water from the Euphrates.

Youngest is on a bunch of medicines, many of which, he was sad to learn, are not available as generics, so the money has to come out of his college fund. Why should we suffer? We're healthy!

The emergency room trip was a first for us - for asthma - though if you're gonna go to the emergency room at midnight, I recommend asthma. No waiting! Turns out, the whole breathing thing is sorta important. And a tip of the hat to Children's Hospital. That place is pretty incredible. I was moved to tears by the fact that they have cable TV in every exam room, though I may have been a little emotional, what with the sleep deprivation, and my kid not being able to breath and all.

There, they gave him, like, four huge doses of Prednisomething, which is the stuff that is in his inhaler already, but they loaded it into him, dose after dose after dose. It's sad to see him laying on a hospital bed with a mask on his face so he can breath, but he's used to those masks - which is sad too, I guess.

The stuff they had him breathing is a stimulant, so his heart was racing - which gave me another thing to worry about. I thought my phone was vibrating in his chest.

Then they gave him a dose of a steroid. Wait. The steroid is called Prednisomething. The other thing is. . . I dunno. At home we just call them puffs. Anyway, these days he takes two puffs on his inhaler every four hours, and the steroid twice a day.

That was Thursday / Friday. Yesterday he had to go to his doctor for an update, and she said things aren't much better. She put him on allergy meds as well. So now he's on Puffs, Prednisomething, and an allergy pill that starts with S. Are you writing this down?

The doctor made it clear to Mother that this is a pretty big deal, which is just what Mother needed to calm her down. I'm all like, relax! Its' just breathing! It's not like he can't do his chores.

The steroid should come with a sticker that says "Caution: Causes dickishness." The poor kid is a complete pain in the butt to live with when he is on it - he's belligerent, cranky, prone to tantrums. I have to keep reminding myself that it isn't him, it's the medicine. But that medicine is a real asshole.

The other bummer is that Youngest was going to leave on Friday to go to Disney World with his grandparents and Mother's brother's family. Yesterday the doctor said that if the trip were tomorrow, she'd say no way. As it is, the trip being Friday, she wants to see him again on Thursday. But Mother and I have decided it is a no-go. Disney World is built on a swamp. If the change of seasons in the Midwest did this to him, I'm not sending him down there. Especially not with those people, whose genetics are responsible for all of these problems in the first place.

So, there's that. Thanks for asking.

Eldest's New Friend of Color

It's opening night for Eldest. The show, as I've said, is The Ensemble Member and the Baker!, in which he is the star, which some people call Aladdin, in which he is an ensemble member and a baker.

I was very proud of Eldest for auditioning for this show. Really. The theater company has a great reputation, the director more so. It was an intense, sweaty-palm, stomach-churning, heart-in-the-throat couple of days. It was tough on him, too.

He got cast, and ever since he has put a tremendous amount of time in the show: Three hours every night, a big rehearsal every weekend. He's missed family events and parties and sleep and play and downtime, and he never complained even once, not because he was being a trouper (though he was) but because he was having such a great time. Every time I picked him up, he was in a terrific mood. He had a nine-hour rehearsal last Sunday, and when I picked him up he was energized and goofy.

And tonight is opening night. The whole family is going - the immediates, I mean - and hopefully you'll come see it too. Unless you're some creepy internet-trolling bad guy, in which case I should tell you that all of my children are heavily armed and trained in the arts of the ninja.

Here's some information that was sent:

[Eldest Last Name] (center) is performing in Columbus Children's' Theatre's production of Disney's Aladdin, playing through April 29th at the Columbus Performing Arts Center. Also pictured is Sam (left) as "Genie" and Stephanie (right) as "Jasmine." The show is recommended for ages 4 and up. For ticket information call: 614-224-6672 or visit colschildrenstheatre.org.

So It Goes

New York Times obit

A tribute in today's Salon.com

I saw Kurt Vonnegut speak once. I took some students to a lecture series years ago. We sat in the front row, and from the excitement of the kids you would have thought that he was a pop singer.

I’ve often referred to the cantankerous wisdom Vonnegut shared that day. One pearl that has stuck with me is his response to the lecture series itself. The title of the lecture was pretentiously long, written by some academic to impress the likes of Vonnegut, having to do with a threatened free press in the US. Vonnegut, it would seem, would have strong feelings on the topic. He’s an author whose works are frequently banned in schools, and he was a card-carrying member of the ACLU. He did have strong feeling, but not those that might be expected. He mocked the topic and criticized it, saying that there is no threat to a free press in the US, that freedom of expression is guaranteed. He said that too many people mistake the right to express themselves with the obligation of other people to listen. No one has the right to write a bestseller. If you want to write, write. No one can stop you. Write, and then show your writing to people. Drop essays on tables in coffee shops. Don’t try to write for the world. Write for you, or the people in your family or your neighborhood. Publish in your school paper or literary journal. Hand copies out on the street. Nobody owes you an audience, but you can create whatever you want.

That's more what I heard than what he said, I suppose. I hope it's close.

To me, a guy who has a room filled with unpublished songs, three plays sitting on a shelf, and a folder filled with generally unheard lyrics, it made a lot of sense. Though most of what I’ve written sits on a shelf, what little I have shared with my small part of the world I have shared, in part, due to what Kurt Vonnegut said. So, in that spirit, I’ll share a song that my friend Chris and I wrote years ago. It’s about Vonnegut.

Flatulence, Tea Makers, and Paradise on an Airplane

A Twelve-Year-Old's View of England
courtesy of Eldest's Journal

Date: March 22nd, ‘07
Time: Around 3:00 pm
Where: Hotel (finally!)

Day One

After semi-malfunctioning ear plugs (my fault), constipation (not my fault) and hunger, not to mention three or four train rides, I let out horrible farts, composing and conducting a flatulent symphony in less than 12 seconds. I’ll call it [Eldest’s] 1st. Today was a good day (so far) except for the previously mentioned ailments.

Kensington Gardens is beautiful, but I’m disappointed that just about everything was dead. I had bookmarked that in my London for Dummies book, so I can check seeing the gardens off for now. The gardens are right next to our hotel, which makes it easy to go to them. I’ll probably see them a lot, considering that we can also use them as a means of transportation.

Lunch was fairly interesting, because we chose a Chinese restaurant, and the food was great. However, they didn’t give us silverware. Only chopsticks. Grandpa coped by using one of the serving spoons (we shared two plates), but Bumma and I seemed to be pretty good with the wooden eating utensils.

Bumma and Grandpa are both asleep, and I've decided to write in this. It was only until recently, though, that I thought Bumma and Grandpa knew what they were doing! We had to ask the hotel concierge when Spamalot is showing at the Palace. I was a little bummed that it wasn’t at the Globe.

I’m not quite sure, but I think that I’ll buy a beanie. I love them, and it’s one of the better souvenirs that you can find around in shops.

I’ve been surprised at how un-English some of the accent have been around here. There have been a few really nice cars, though (I’m putting this down because my friends want me to take pictures of “the nice England cars” for them.)

The plane was great (at least the one to here). We ended up having the middle section all to ourselves. That was nice because I got to lay down, and had two pillows. But this plane was like heaven! They had on-demand movies, music, games, and a map so that you could follow the plane via GPS.

England’s a lot more crowded than I expected, too. Everything’s right on top of each other. That’s probably for tax reasons. The hotel is a lot nicer than I expected (after the cramped- ness) too. There are three twin-sized beds, so everybody gets their own. There’s also a tea maker and a tiny TV. I’ve yet to check out the bathroom, though.

The time change hasn’t been too much of a problem for me, but I probably should get a little sleep soon if I can; don’t wanna miss any of Spamalot!


We haven’t gone on the tube yet, so I’m looking forward to that. By the way, I don’t think I’m going to have any Indian food. In England, every restaurant’s menu is in its front window, and guess their special for today. No, really. Guess. . . . Done? ‘Kay, it was fried seaweed! Eck! Don’t think that I’ll have any of that.

I’m kinda out of things so far for today, unless you want to hear about us sitting in our hotel’s lounge watching the top forty ‘80s songs strictly by women. Well first we. . .kidding.

Okay, I think I’m gonna sign off for today. I’m all out of stuff!

Love ya,

[Eldest]

From Daughter and Youngest's Journals

From Daughter’s journal, written just before spring break:

Dear Journal,

I am very excited that we are going to Cincinnati. We are going there for fun and we have to drive my big brother [Eldest] to the airport because he is going to England. We are going to stay at a hotel with a pool and my mom said that when we get to the hotel me and my brother [Youngest] are going to jump and play in the pool even if it is really late at night. Me and [Youngest] are buds so me and him are going to have fun together with each other.

Love, your friend,

[Daughter]

P.S. I love my little brother [Youngest}

I REALLY LOVE HIM!


From Youngest’s journal, as dictated to Daughter, same day, just after:

Dear Journal,

I am very excited because my brother [Eldest] is going to England and we have to drive him to the airport in Cincinnati and we are going to stay at a hotel overnight and me and my sister [Daughter] are going to jump and play at the pool in our hotel. We are going to sleep there for two nights.

Sincerely, your friend,

[Youngest]

We're On Spring Break. You?

I’m at the library, the big main one. “Best in the Country!” say all the banners, and I’m not well traveled, but am inclined to agree. I’m drinking a funky green tea (Pineapple Ginger. I’m comfortable enough with my masculinity to order that.) You can sit in the library, get internet access, drink tea. You can do all that here. And you're on spring break. So, all around, you're happy. If you're me.

I’m sitting in the library because Eldest is at rehearsal. "Rehearsal?" you ask. "For what?" You are asking good questions.

First, Eldest was Smee in his school play. Smee is Captain Hook’s sidekick in a play that is called Peter Pan but should, I think, be called Smee. Or, even better: Smee! He was very good. He had a flair, a certain Je-ne-sais-really-fun-to-watch.



He was encouraged by he whole thing, and auditioned for a play at Columbus Children’s Theater called The Ensemble Member and the Baker! Actually, it’s Aladdin. He’s in the ensemble. And he plays the baker. I think Aladdin steals bread from him. Jerk. Diamond in the rough my butt. Still, you should maybe go see it. (Scroll down to Alladin)

Eldest just got back from London last night. Bumma and Grandpa took him, as a birthday present for life, and they had a great time. Watch here for pictures and stories.

While he was there, the rest of us spent a few days in and around Cincinnati, and Daughter fell in love with the sharks she could pet at the Newport Aquarium, and the birds she could feed. It’s a cool place – recommended.

Daughter, too, has been busy.

And, quite some time ago, Youngest turned five, and celebrated by getting sweaty with his friends, climbing on inflatable fun machines.

So that does a bit to get ‘chall caught up on our doings.

And how are you?

The Greatest Movie Ever

The best movie ever is The Lord of the Rings.

I'm not prone to such ultimate statements; I'm much more likely to say something is a great movie - and I do think The Lord of the Rings is a great movie - than to say that anything is the best movie ever. There are so many good movies, you know? I love movies. But I'll go on the record here and say that The Lord of the Rings is. The best movie. Ever. Today, it is.

The Lord of the Rings. All three chapters: The Fellowship of the Ring, The Two Towers, The Return of the King. All three Extended Editions. Six discs, a total of, like, what, twelve? Twelve hours.

But you have to know just how to watch it. It's a great movie no matter what, but if you want it to see that it is the best movie eve, you have to watch it just right. So follow these steps:

1. Buy the movies with an unexpected gift certificate that you got for your birthday from some students.

2. Place the DVDs, still shrink wrapped, on the television for two months to cure.

3. Wait for very very cold weather. And, then, snow. Lots and lots of snow.

4. Oh. Hang on a sec. I skipped a step.

0. Go to college and get a degree in education. Become a teacher. Marry a teacher. Have three kids. Let kids cure for 12, 10, and 5 years, respectively.

5. Have a snow day. Or a too-cold-for-school day. Have it be announced the night before school, too late to do anything, nothing on TV, but you get to stay up late! Watch excited kids run around, then settle down, then look to you for the evening's amusements.

6. Look at your new movies sitting on the TV. Look at them there. Look. "My preciousssss. . ."

6 1/2. You know, there are some really scary scenes in those movies. It would be really irresponsible for you to show it to Daughter, maybe, and definitely Youngest. Could cause nightmares for weeks. Do the right thing: sit through one of their kiddie flicks for the thousandth time. You don't want to risk screwing up your kids just so you can watch a movie, do you?

7. Yup.

8. Start the movie. Man, that music is perfect. Good story. Keep glancing at the kids. Answer questions. Watch the movie, peek at kids. Then, it starts to happen: Watch kids fall completely in love with this movie, in all the best ways - the way you used to watch The Wizard of Oz when it came on TV once a year.

See Eldest enjoy it yet again, having seen it, and love it, before.

See Youngest love it, despite some fears and some falling-asleep-on-the-big-comfy-chair-with-his-head-hanging-upside-down-over-the-edge-how-cite-is that?

But especially, see daughter stare at this movie, just gaze, just fall in love with it, in a way that allows you to see it again as if for the first time: the epic, noble story; the story craft and film craft; the characters, the language, the adventure. It is Oz all over again. It is Oz and Willie Wonka and all of the best Christmas specials and the first Saturday morning of the new TV season when you were ten years old. It is all of that, but new and now, and you get to watch it happen and live it with her. Until it is too late at night to keep watching, and you pause the film, and they beg and beg, and you sigh with a smile and watch some more, and, later, you pause it again, this time you mean it, and they beg and beg beg and beg, no, no, we'll watch more tomorrow, go brush teeth, awwww, Dad! no really, come on, night night.

9. Get another snow day. Watch the rest of Fellowship. Then, go to breakfast, swimming, lunch. So worn out. And the cold. What else can you do? May as well watch more. You watch a lot of The Two Towers.

10. Get another snow day. Go to breakfast, sledding, home for lunch. Do other stuff. Be worn out. Watch more. Marvel at how incredibly long it is. And rich. And so so good.

11. Go back to work in the morning. But, later, watch some more. Still good.

12. Wait a couple of days. Get stuff done.

13. Then, the next week, who saw this coming? get another snow day. This time for real snow. Lots of snow. Shovel the driveway with Eldest, do some stuff, home stuff, work stuff, shovel again, with Eldest, this time in the sleet. Even go help Mr. and Mrs. Neighbor shovel. Laugh a lot. Get worn out.

14. Then, put a fire on, gather the tired kids, lay on the floor, and watch more. Enjoy the fire. Enjoy the deep breaths of Youngest, who fell asleep on the floor next to you. Watch daughter do her "Daughter-fly," where she wiggles tense finger tips together in front of her mouth, something she does when excited, during the battle scenes, or the Frodo scenes. Answer all of her many questions. Suspect she has a crush on Legolas, just like she does on Will Turner in Pirates of the Carribean. Coincidence?

Watch and watch and watch. Snacks and tea. Put another log on the fire.

15. The last disk is coming to an end. Daughter actually claps - she applauds! - when Argorn is crowned king. Watch through to the end, and don't even mind that the movie has, like, fourteen endings. It's a whole half hour from the end of the quest to the end of the film. People complain about that. They're wrong. They don't get it. It's magical. Look at daughter, there. Frodo sails off. Fade to black. Nice fire.

16. Then, to shake the cobwebs off, take the dog for a walk. The family doesn't join you, thinks you are crazy.

17. Take a walk. In the lots-of-snow, now crunchy with sleet. It is still sleeting, so the whole world is making that sound, tiny ice crystals hitting fields of ice by the millions, so loud and so quiet at the same time, which is hokey but perfectly true, all around you, and pattering off of your hat and off of your coat and sticking to your dog, who is running and slipping on the ice and breaking through the surface ice in ways that are funny. She is not on a leash, because the two of you are alone at the top of the world. The sleet rat-a-tats and pings off of a flag pole, and the flag waves in the wind, but it crackles with sleet. You've never heard that sound before. You walk on shoveled sidewalks, but secretly look forward to non-shoveled strips of sidewalk because they make you feel like a more responsible home owner - slackers!- but also because you get to take big steps and crunch through the ice. You are on the tundra. You look back, and your footsteps smashed big holes through the ice. Your tracks are the tracks of a mammoth. The sleet comes faster and stings your face, but it's not as cold as it looks, so you go a little farther, pretending it's because the dog is having such a nice time, and she is.

18. Go home. Rub the sleet off of the dog on the porch. Open the door. Look: Your wife is making apple pies from scratch. You pour a Glenlivet for you, a Knob Creek for her, and you sit by the fire. The kids are playing at your feet, and you grab your laptop to record this day.

See? Isn't that the best movie ever?