little robbery

• Brennan turned 7 on December 11th. Happy Birthday my little man. This blog's for you.

Last week I was in NY. After spending several days in the city, I was happy to get home to real life. When I am gone for 3+ days, I typically bring the kids some kind of memento from the place I've visited. I could think of no better gift from NYC than kiddie moleskines I picked up from a little bookstore in Chelsea Market. I got home late Friday, and the kids were still up, so I gave them their new notebooks prior to shooing them off to bed. The next morning when Brennan woke up, he excitedly came to jump on me (which is both sweet and annoying...more sweet in retrospect, but in the jet-lagged and overall exhausted lull of the moment, more annoying). To buy myself some more time in bed, I prompted him to go find his moleskine and draw me a picture. He ignored my petition, but after repeating it several times, and changing my tone from "prompt" to "command" he went downstairs to begin his work. I slept for another 15 minutes. I was awakened by Brennan standing next to my bed, giggling. He opened the little book and showed me the drawing posted above. To the untrained eye, this may look like a typical 7 yr. old sketch, but journey with me for a moment into the mind of my son. The figure on the far left is me, sleeping happily, mole on my cheek and mild "Zs" being muttered. The middle character is Brennan, hands on face yelling "Ahhhh!" He is yelling "Ahhhh!" because the third character is, as Brennan described him, "the midget robber who has come to take all of our little stuff!" This "midget robber" is also yelling "Ahhhh!" probably more to sound menacing than to express fear. As Brennan explained the picture to me, I began to laugh uncontrollably. Brennan, satisfied by his ability to a) make me laugh uncontrollably b) definitively wake me up, and c) include a midget in his illustration, began laughing uncontrollably as well. I questioned whether he thought this comedic drawing would have gotten me out of bed quicker than if a real midget robber had entered the house and demanded all of our "little stuff" (shame on me for not asking Brennan what exactly qualified as the "little stuff" that would constitute the midget's booty). His response: "I think I answer that question in the picture, obviously." He's probably right. He followed that up with, "you're only a little bigger than a midget." This was totally besides the point, and I'd like to think untrue, but Brennan was on a roll, and there are few things more hilarious than little people to the XY chromosomes. This is substantiated by: Mickey from Seinfeld, the number of YouTube hits for videos containing the words "Thai, Dwarf, Kickboxing, Fight," Verne Troyer, Weeman, Little People Big World, etc. etc. In fact, a friend of mine and I were ironically talking about this very subject while I was in NY.

So, Brennan, congratulations for being both very funny and completely normal. I'm not sure that's at all a good thing (at least when it comes to normal = fascination with dwarfism), but when you're a teenager and completely frustrated out of your mind with me and saying things much more hurtful than "just a bit bigger than a midget," I know EXACTLY what will buy me some time with you: "Beware the midget robber, my friend. He will take all your little stuff...including your car keys."

zoe 10:34

Last Wednesday, in classic Franz fashion, my parents impulsively invited my two nephews, Brennan and Zoe to join them on a getaway to the north woods in Minnesota. While I could fill up an entire post with just the texts from my mother, (1:23pm. "this is great! i'm so glad we r doing this! ur kids r awesome!!" 1:46pm. "i cant believe u talked us n2 this...y r we doing this!? Pray 4 us..."), I'll instead focus on how much we enjoy our little people and how much we missed them (but we did enjoy the time while they were gone...shamelessly). As my mom and dad learned on their trip, Zoe says some pretty spectacular things. She can be quite hysterical. While I was way too self-absorbed to notice I had any siblings while we were all growing up, had I noticed I had a sister named Maggie AND had I paid attention to her personality, I would probably recognize similarities between her and Zoe (please Zoe, no prepubescent glamour shots...please). Zoe is hilarious without trying. Brennan is really funny too, but the dude works it...hard (yes, Kari and Maggie...I know what you are thinking). Zoe just talks to herself and tells stories. And it's funny. She refers to anything in the past as "last night" and anything that happened today as "tonight." When Brennan is telling a story, Zoe follows it up with something nonsensical that is bewildering yet charming (just like Sassertations). And when she tries to rebuke or be bossy, she weaves together a threat that is eerily familiar yet unlikely. When we picked up the kids on their way back down from Minnesota (we met them in Bloomington), I ran out to the van and in an attempt to scare my two nephews I opened the door and yelled, "alright, who was mean to my kids!? Whoever was mean to either of my kids, I will break your legs and arms!" As per usual, my nephews laughed nervously at me and avoided eye contact. On our way back to Champaign from Bloomington, Zoe chimed in from the backseat, the following conversation ensued:

Zoe: Daddy, you can't break my cousins' legs.

Me: Why not? If they were mean to my kids, they must pay.

Zoe: If you hurt them or crush bones, Jesus will be sad.

Me: Yeah, you're probably right, Jesus would probably be sad if I were mean...or crushed bones.

Zoe: Yes. Jesus will kill you in the night with a sword.

Me: Oh.

Now, when we sent our kids away with my folks we accepted the possibility that they would return following a twelve step program (lego addiction?) or possessing increased empathy for hermits and Engers, but invoking the holy wrath of the old Testament Jesus, wow, that caught me off-guard. The specificity. The amalgamation of Disney movies, Sunbeams, and Halloween. My girl. You see, the best part of Zoe is that she doesn't know she has just said something really hilarious, she only knows after the fact when everyone is laughing. Then she just puts her thumb in her mouth, and smiles REAL big. Just like Maggie. Maggie will rip off a hilarious blog and will smile when she gets positive feedback (she is smiling while she reads this...and is embarrassed that she enjoys being talked about like this on MY blog). Perhaps this is one reason that parenthood is so fulfilling--we see characteristics in our children that we love/admire in others. It reminds us of those people, or even helps us emulate the things we love in those people. Oh, Kari, don't worry...I'm sure Ava will be JUST like you.

lay miz

This past week Brennan took a sick day from school. At the end of the day, he was obviously feeling better (as evidenced from his incessant talking and kicking a balloon in the living room) so Lori told him that the next day he would be going to school, and that he could only stay home if he were feeling miserable. Unbeknownst to us at the time, Lori's use of the word miserable provided an epiphany for Brennan--he had received a priceless insight into the world of grown up vernacular. This word 'miserable' must be some kind of code word, recognized universally by grown ups as the term to use when wanting to escape some unfortunate situation. I shall surely use this choice word...soon. "Soon" was the next day when the school nurse called our home at 10 am. She had Brennan in her office, and although he didn't have a high temperature, he explained to her that he was feeling miserable. Although it became beknownst (hehe) to Lori and I what was going on, after a good chuckle, I decided to go to Brennan's school to a) explain misery and b) congratulate him on his craftiness. As Brennan walked out of his classroom to meet me in the hallway, he walked with his head down, trying to hide his uncontainable smirk. When he finally reached me, the following conversation took place:

• Me: So, I hear you are feeling miserable. What does that feel like?
• Brennan: Just kind of warm. And bored.
• Me: I'm not sure that qualifies as miserable.
• Brennan: Oh, ok. So what is miserable?
• Me: Miserable means you can't smile, and just want to lay on the floor.
• Brennan: Ok, I don't feel like that, I can probably stay at school. Mommy told me that if I feel...
• Me: Yes, I know what mommy told you. Well done on that one by the way...you cashed in a recently found linguistic token.
• Brennan: What does that mean?
• Me: That means I'm happy you're so smart and resourceful. Have a great rest of the day...Cosette.
• Brennan: Who is Cosette?
• Me: It's a good thing.

With my 30th birthday approaching, I have waxed reflective on life stages recently. When I was younger, stages beyond the previous stage always seemed a bit mysterious ("what will it be like when..."). I had preconceptions of what I'd "know" in the future, what things would no longer be concerns, and much like Brennan I thought that those ahead of me were speaking a special code to which I would become privy once I had arrived. I tried my hand at occasionally using the code prematurely, only to fail miserably. However, as Brennan learned this week, it wasn't necessarily failure, it's that the code doesn't exist; and actually, we are always 6. With age we accumulate more words in our vocabularies, more clothes/shoes in our closets, and more credit/debt to enjoy/regret, but does anything actually change with age? We continue to have situations we could do without (grade school becomes puberty becomes midterms becomes difficult relationships becomes economic uncertainty becomes tragedy) and circumstances we treasure (gym class becomes first armpit hair becomes graduation becomes beautiful relationships becomes success becomes newness); however, there is never a silver bullet (nor a golden grammatical nugget) to be found in the future which will release us from the bad or guarantee the good. The life stages may change, but the general experience does not. In light of these realizations (or rather, my assumptions for now), I have traded in my silver bullet for silver lining and accepted hope as a worthy alternative to control. It's not necessarily about the abstractly defined "next life stage," but the passages within each stage that define how we will proceed, how we will grow and who we will become. As Victor Hugo penned, "All extreme situations have their flashes that sometimes blind us, sometimes illuminate us." Life will never grant the get-out-of-school-early-pass with a claim of misery. Rather, life will come to check on us, to see whether or not we can still smile and stand up. And even when we're frowning and laid out on the floor, there is no guarantee we'll get out of school early. And I suppose that's ok, and the way it ought to be. But surely when I enter the world of 40 year olds it will be different...

red card

Note to my sister Kari--this post is about Brennan.

I am coaching Brennan's soccer team this fall. We're the earthquakes (which makes for excellent team cheers). At the first practice Brennan unleashed an aggressive prowess during scrimmage which I've never before witnessed; he was playing like a man possessed. Offense. Defense. He was all over the place. It was exciting to watch, but of course it meant that several of the kids became victims of Brennan's flailing feet. He got the ball most of the times, but shins were kicked, and in one case this resulted in an exchange which went something like this:

• Little boy: Brennan took a swing at me!
• Brennan: Did not...you pulled my shirt, I was just knocking your hand off (*starting to sob*)!
• Little boy: That's because you kicked me. And you can't cry in soccer.
• Brennan: You can't be mean in soccer.
• Me: (*at this point off to the side of the field*) Technically if you watch any Champions League soccer, you would know that crying and being mean are encouraged, but I suppose that is besides the point here. Can you guys go out there and play hard, but not get upset when you get bumped or kicked? This stuff happens in soccer.
• Brennan and little boy: Ok. *they shake hands and run back onto the field*

Brennan was still sulking a bit after practice, so I felt it was time for him to hear the infamous story of the red card of '96. Long story short: Regional championship game of my senior year (oh man, I feel like Uncle Rico...but I will proceed anyway), I'm getting mauled all game by this kid from Alton. At some point in the second half he tackles me, I don't go down, and seeing him on the ground there in front of me, I decide instead of just jumping over him (he was in my path and had to be avoided) I would gently place a foot on his back, just to remind him I was still standing. Of course when I rested my boot on his back, he flopped like an Italian, prompting the ref to run over and intervene in what was surely to become a violent clash. The ref put his forearm on my chest, then reached for his wallet and pulled out the red card. This meant that I was out of the game and suspended for the next game as well. I asked Brennan what I should have done in this situation, and he didn't know. I gave him the options of: smiling, laughing, or ignoring. My good friend Cory, the assistant coach, added, "ask him on a date" but I think that one went over Brennan's head. I repeated to Brennan what had transpired during the game: I lost my cool, and as a result I got kicked out of the game. The other kid smirked and resumed play. Brennan decided that I should have ignored the kid, but smiling was also acceptable. I liked that response.

This is a tenuous thing for any peace-loving, sports-playing father. I don't want to squelch his competitive drive, but I also don't want him to be a jerk. I believe sports to be one of those things that can be great, but can also go really, really south, real quick (also in this category: Pauly Shore, religion, socialism, and Papa John's pizza). I'm not quite sure what the proper approach is on this sports stuff, but I do know that these situations provide a nice context for great conversations with Brennan: talking about how to work collaboratively and productively with members of a team will prove to be beneficial regardless of what Brennan decides to do in life (this week it is: become a Navy SEAL). Teaching a lesson about keeping his cool when emotions run high will certainly help him in an array of life situations (particularly when they are trying to drown him during SEAL Hell week). I suppose more importantly than anything else, as long as we approach sports in much the same way that we strive to approach other things in our life--with balance and level-headedness--surely it will work itself out. If that doesn't work, I could always done a Rage Against the Machine Shirt, push Brenno to the limits, and tell the other parents to buy titanium shin guards for their six year olds.

but it seemed like such a good idea

Seriously. It was a fool proof plan. Zoe was strapped into the stroller and Lori wasn't that far down the hill. Really, how much momentum could the stroller gain before Lori caught her? The two of them would embrace with a laugh and smile--an instant little memory and adventure would be shared and treasured forever. My well-designed plan came to a screeching halt as the stroller went up onto the curb at 6 miles an hour, flipping the stroller over onto it's side and sending Zoe crashing to the concrete pad below. Instead of joyous yelps from Lori for a moment well-lived, Lori yelled "dammit" and kicked a soccer ball (which went rolling towards her after it fell out of the tipped over stroller) while biting her lip (which Lori does when she is exceedingly mad...the bit lip is usually followed by a swing in my direction, or preceded by profanity. In this case I was too far away to punch, so dammit had to suffice). I ran forward fully expecting a busted mouth/forehead, broken tooth, or sprained wrist, but all that was to be found was a traumatized little girl and a skinned knee (she enjoyed the ride, the tipping was a bit much for her...understandably so). Of course I felt like a bad father, terrible person, reckless human, etc. but I was offered some solace by the memory of my father providing adventures which had the same inevitable conclusion as the runaway stroller. I'm quite sure there are others, but I'm aware of at least 2 (Mom, maybe you can help me complete the list):

1) Victim: a young me (4 yrs. old?)
Activity: careening down the driveway, much too fast, on an old hot wheels three wheeler
Culprit: my father
Result: a split toe nail which would leave my foot permanently scarred until my 13th year
2) Victim: a young Kari (my younger sister)
Activity: an ice cube fight in the backyard
Culprit: my father
Result: Kari's lip was sliced open by a flying ice cube. This did not result in stitches,
but probably should have.

The reason these memories comforted me in my moment of irresponsibility is because my dad is a great dad. Even in these instances when he inflicted pain, it was the consequence of fun intentions and there were no lasting negative associations with his playfulness (i.e. you never would have heard any of us kids utter, "No, I will not go swimming with that man. I will surely drown." Perhaps that's because we all focused our concern on his neck mole and that it would be eaten by a spotted sea trout...even when we were in a swimming pool. As if his neck mole was so appealing, it had the power to lure aquatic lifeforms from their ocean dwellings to a public pool in central Illinois).

I am happy to report that I believe Zoe has forgiven me and that she is still willing to play my games. Yesterday I took her for a 30 mile bike ride in the trailer. When she began to feel uncomfortable and voiced her concern that she shouldn't have agreed to this madness, I promptly stopped at a nearby park where we had fun swinging on the swings and playing hide and seek. Even the game of "tornado" which we typically play at full force on the tire swing could have been appropriately renamed, "mildly suspicious funnel cloud." She is forgiving, and I am adapting. Although now that I know all she suffered was a skinned knee, and no visible emotional baggage, is it ok to say that seeing Lori's face and hearing Brennan's response ("why would you do that?") made it all worthwhile? Maybe, but surely that thought will prompt karma to send a trout to attack my right cheek during tomorrow morning's shower. In light of that possibility, and the fact that I still genuinely feel bad about the outcome, I will just say, sorry Zoe.

just kids

Zoe turns 4 today. Happy birthday little Zo. No other little girl will ever have a fourth birthday with 50+ attendees and a mix cd as a party favor with tracks from Jackson Browne and Ray LaMontagne. Yes, you are THAT cool. The other night as I was putting the kids to bed they began their ritualistic request for water/books/stuffed animals which usually begins after I have already read/sang/cuddled. I was tired on this particular night and not up for the reasoning required to trim down their requests into a manageable number. Despite my desire to avoid the monologue, I began listing the reasons that they don't need water/books/stuffed animals. The list included peeing the bed and too many books/animals could minimize the amount of space they have to sleep on. My exasperated attempt was brought to an abrupt halt by Zoe, who, as I came to the climax of my case against prolonged bedtime petitions, looked up at me with her eyebrows furrowed, and said, "Daddy, we're just kids." Oh yeah, I forgot. And what wonderful kids they are.

i smell a frat

I ride the bus to and from work. It's not because I'm overly socially responsible, it's simply because the bus is free and it picks me up a block from my house, then drops me off a block from my office on campus. Stingy and lazy. Yesterday on the way home I got paired up with Buck, the bus driver. Buck is consistently unfriendly and belligerent. He grunts as I board the bus and rolls his eyes when I show him my University ID (which allows me to ride for free). He honks at cars, flips off crossing pedestrians, and--this could be just my perception, but I doubt it--never acknowledges Asian passengers. Now rudeness I can forgive; road rage I commend; however, if your abrupt stops cause me to lurch forward nauseatingly at every corner, I will bring it. By the time I had travelled the 19 blocks home, I was about ready to vomit. I exited the bus without my typical cheery, "thanks," and immediately dialed the number for the mass transit district. I asked to speak with a supervisor. She put me on hold. After waiting 3 minutes on the phone, Lori arrived home with the kids. Brennan announced that he wouldn't be getting out of the car until I was off the phone (which made me feel like Robin Williams in Hook); this made me giggle and I walked over to the car to see how serious he was. He was serious.

Brennan: Who are you talking to?
Me: The bus company. I had a really bad driver today who almost made me throw up every time he stopped the bus.
Brennan: So you are trying to get him in trouble?
Me: No, I'm trying to give him the opportunity for rehabilitation and improvement.
Brennan: Did anyone get hurt?
Me: Well, no.
Brennan: You don't have to call and tell on him.
Me: No, but I should.
Brennan: Why?
Me: Because...(as I hung up the phone)

Had I stayed on the phone longer not only would I have ended up needlessly busting Buck's chops, Brennan and I may have only found Waldo 10 times, as opposed to the 18 times we did end up finding him. And I must say that searching for the red-and-white-sweater-wearing-Bob-Sagat-look-alike was a worthy alternative to causing tension in the workplace. Today however I sought to restore balance by striking the bus system and walking home from work. I left the office around 9:30pm, followed two ATOs for 4 blocks (seriously, the strong scent of their cologne was more nauseating than 46 blocks with Buck), and by the time I had walked the 19 blocks home, my DSW Johnston Murphy wannabees had given me six blisters. Moral of the story: same as the paucity of nope--Gentzy sucks at being a hard ass. The universe wants me to be a Franz.

the paucity of nope

Last night the kids and I walked down to Brennan's school where we played some basketball, swung on the monkey bars, and I got called "daddy" by some random little girl who was convinced I was her father (she almost convinced Brennan too...he gave me that "you're not, right?" look). Before leaving the house and walking the 4 decently long blocks down to the school, Zoe and I had an altercation--she wanted to ride her bike down to the school, but I knew it would turn into me carrying said bike, so I said nope. She began to get really cute and sad, so I relented--with the condition that she ride it the whole time, and that I would not help out if she got tired (which inevitably happens every bike ride, about 45 seconds after it begins). She agreed, stopped crying, and away we all went.

45 seconds later

Zoe: I'm tired.
Me: Sweetheart, you know the deal.
Zoe: But I'm sweating.
Me: Sweat is good for you, and you know the deal.
Zoe: But now my knees hurt.
Me: Mine too. You'll get used to it.

We finally arrived at the school 10 minutes later and had some good fun. I smiled awkwardly at the young girl's mother as she called me "daddy." The mother failed to correct her or giggle. She just looked at her, then looked at me. I smiled, and she just kept looking at me. I felt like I should introduce myself, or give her my business card. I really didn't know what to do. Brennan got the concerned look on his face, so I assured him that I only have three kids. I didn't go into great detail of how I can guarantee there is zero chance I have additional children, but I didn't need to, he believed me. When it was time to go, we began the trek home, with Zoe and Brennan jumping on their respective bikes.

45 seconds later

Zoe: I'm tired.
Me: You know the deal.
Zoe: But I'm sweating real bad.
Me: You are very cute and convincing, but I'm not carrying that Dora bike.
Zoe: My knees are sweaty.
Me: Let me feel. No they're not.
Zoe: But my tummy....
Me: Stop.
Zoe: But I love you.
Me: Good grief.
Zoe: *lip curling*
Me: I'm not carrying your bike for you. Let's go.

We continued along until we reached Prospect which is one of the busiest roads in town. As we approached the street, I told Zoe I'd carry her bike while she held my hand and crossed with me. Brennan was to stay at my side on his bike. There was a sizable break in the traffic, we looked both ways (because that's what you do!) and seized our opportunity. When we reached the sidewalk, Zoe let go of my hand and took off running. Just as she did this, Brennan came zooming up behind her: there was the screeching of tires, the grimace on my face, and the inevitable collision of boy, girl, and bike, all three heaped together on the sidewalk. Both of them started screaming (Brennan because he felt bad, Zoe because she just got mauled). And then it happened. Zoe looked down at her foot and saw blood. True, real, red blood. Just as she was about to start really letting loose, her face softened and she realized what this meant: "he WILL carry the Dora bike now." She began to sob cutely, then looked up at me with those big blue eyes, and began:

Zoe: I'm bleeding daddy. I can't walk.
Me: Oh, you're right, that looks like a bad owie.
Zoe: *through sobs* Hold me Daddy! Hold me! Hug me!
Me: Ok...but only because you're...oh forget it, come here.
Zoe: *on my shoulders, running her fingers through my hair* thank you daddy, I needed you.
Me: I need you too sweet girl.
Zoe: *with thumb in mouth* I love you daddy.
Me: I love you too.

Twinkle twinkle little Zo.
How I wonder where you'll go.
Over land and through the sky.
With a twinkle in your eye.
Twinkle twinkle little Zo.
I love to watch you grow and grow.

And when the twinkle doesn't get you what you want, a scraped shin and a tire mark across your thigh certainly will.

insufficient testicular fortitude

I usually try to limit my accounts to those which I witness first hand, but today's little episode was way too good to pass up. It's Saturday, which in our house is preceded in sacredness only by Sunday (although I must admit, occasionally the order is reversed). When I have extra work I typically get up really early or stay up very late during the week in order to avoid weekend absence from Lori and the kids. However, with a looming * publisher's deadline and a fast approaching family road trip to DC, today's visit to the library was unavoidable. I had been gone about 5 hours when Lori called and said that Brennan was wrapping up a headstrong tantrum after being frustrated with his inability to find a very specific Lego guy. Even after he found it, he was difficult to console and ended up taking apart all of the Lego creations he had laboriously put together during the afternoon. Then he said something about "never getting any attention around here because of Zoe and Ava" and took off for his room "to get some socks for my hands so I can put my hands through the window."

About a year ago Brennan was sliding across our living room floor and slid a bit too far, going hands first through a window. The result was a tremendous amount of blood and 27 stitches which left a very noticeable u shaped scar on the outside of his left wrist. As you might imagine the experience was traumatic for everyone, and Brennan was babied for several days, ate way too much ice cream and a was offered a regrettable foray through the aisles of Toys R' Us where he exploited my intense sympathy for children in pain.

Brennan occasionally employs these little techniques; and whether or not he is expressing a real concern, we tend to ignore him until he settles down and can talk rationally. If the concern is real, we tend to have a pretty good conversation when things simmer. If the concern isn't real, when it's brought up later Brennan giggles and admits he was "just mad." So, Lori ignored the sadistic threat of bloodied socks and gave him some time to calm down upstairs. After about 5 minutes she went up and asked if he was ready to head downstairs to rebuild the Lego city he had decimated. He responded affirmatively, but said he would "need to put his hands through the window first...then Daddy will just have to meet us at the hospital." (that was real emotion, after all, I was not honoring our day and he needed to play). Lori responded that this was one way to make that happen, but "daddy will be home soon, so let's just wait." Brennan followed her downstairs with socks on his hands...stood in front of the window...moved the curtain to one side...moved Ava's baby toys away from the spot where his blood would fall...then proceeded to punch the window...with about the same force I just used to press the space bar with my right thumb. Lori witnessed the whole thing and started dying with laughter as our little Brennan showed his ability to make good on his word, coupled with his inability to do anything too terribly damaging. After being satisfied with his level of expressed obstinacy he stopped...took off the socks...and returned to being the kid we know and love; like he had awakened from a dream, returning to the conscious state where he smiles and shares.

Unfaithfulness to my wife has never been a real option (I cannot imagine sharing that level of intimacy with another person because I happen to find fatal flaws in other people pretty easily; seventeen years of knowing Lori and I'm still looking for a deal breaker) however, there have been a handful of occasions where the thought crosses my mind, "if she doesn't knock this off, she is going to be sorry. I will walk down to Green Street right now, and I will find a girlfriend." The reality is, even though I may have this thought, and I may even walk to the door with shoes on my feet (and socks on my hands), there is no way this thought will turn into action. My threat of a "hike on the Appalachian Trail" (which in my case would mean a salacious trip to Brasil, not Argentina) is so far from what I'm capable of, that the mental threat is absurd, laughable even. I have an idea of what consequences follow this disregard of covenants, this misuse of trust, this blatant and raw betrayal. As in the case of Brennan's would-have-been sliced hands, unfaithfulness would do harm to many, but I'd be left with the real scars. This inability to follow through on damaging impulses is a god send. Sometimes I type out email responses to people who have supposedly wronged me. The message is created to restore justice, yet it is never sent. The threat is completely hollow. And I don't necessarily feel better, but for whatever reason I have to prove to myself that "I will do this thing, just watch me," knowing full well that the thing will never be done. Perhaps I am projecting my own experience onto Brennan, but I'd like to think there are pertinent parallels. That these threats which we play out in our head are driven by the same need to take back control of a situation and be in charge. To show that we can inflict more pain than is being inflicted upon us in this moment. I am capable of this thing, just watch me. But to overcome the impulse and weigh out the consequences can be quite liberating and can offer insight into myself and the "offender; " for me, this insight is the silver-lining in painful encounters or uncomfortable conflicts. Christians may call this surrender, or forgiveness; Buddhists would call it vijjā, or knowledge. My friend Sam might call it "insufficient testicular fortitude" (Sam's at Harvard...those of us with average IQs call this "no balls"). Whatever it is I'm glad Brennan didn't go through with it. The first incident with the window produced a wicked cut and more blood than a Sarah Palin moose hunt. As for me, I am sure if I were to ever go for a "hike on the Appalachian Trail" (my new most favorite euphemism), the bloodshed would be about the same.

* this was a shameless attempt to sound like a legitimate writer. Have no fear, the writing is for a college textbook on compensation and benefits.

always look both ways

Happy Fathers Day, Dad. I occasionally get this fatherhood thing right. And when I do, it is in large part due to the fact that I have a wonderful example in you, which is more than many men can say. Thanks for giving me direction and a standard. I love you.

Yesterday I was on the other side of the fairly busy road which runs in front of our house. I was speaking with Mary, our widowed neighbor, about her tree which sustained serious damage during Friday night's storm (and which subsequently almost smashed our Toyota). Brennan and Zoe had followed me out of the house, but I asked them to stay on our side of the road because I would be right back. After spending more time than I (and they) had anticipated speaking with Mary, they made a dash for me and ran--unattended--across the road together. Mary about fainted, and I just stood there dumbstruck, half impressed by the bold crossing, and half mad out of my mind that they would blatantly disobey me and put themselves in harm's way. When they reached me, they had a look of satisfaction on their faces, as if to say, "dude, did you see what we just pulled off! We just crossed that bad boy by ourselves! Woohoo!" I took them by their sweet little hands, bid adieu to Mary (who still looked a little woozy), and walked back across the street and inside the house. After explaining the danger of their decision to them, and mentioning the fact that I had specifically asked them NOT to follow me, I put them in time out where they were to remain until I returned from a quick errand. Brennan said he was sorry over and over again, while Zoe just screamed (Brennan upset with the fact that "Gryffindor had lost points," Zoe just upset she got in trouble). During my errand, I thought about the kids' behavior, my response, and decisions in general. The thing about their crossing is this--they had done EVERY thing I have ever taught them about roads. They approached the road cautisously, looked both ways twice making sure no cars were within 2 blocks, and then SPRINTED across the road. We have done this together multiple times. The thought of them getting struck by a car as they ran excitedly towards me was nauseating; but I couldn't help but take some of the responsibility. Something inefficient had occurred in my teaching. Something I did or said sent the signal that crossing the road by themselves was ok. Surely such slips occur in other areas of parental instruction as well; confidently teaching a principle only to see it be applied erroneously. Of course I cannot ensure (or expect) that all lessons will be received as I intend. And even when the intended message is accurately communicated, and thoroughly received, I cannot force them to behave accordingly. Even with the potential for error, I will have to allow them to practice what I have taught, by themselves. They will cross the road alone. They will continue walking. They will walk into situations far more precarious than passersby. And when they find themselves in those situations, all I can do is hope that the lessons they have learned (from Lori and me, and others) will be remembered, and that they will always, always, remember to look both ways.

no trouble, mister

My son certainly doesn't get his healthy respect for authority from me. I'm the guy who got an internal suspension in high school for telling my chemistry teacher he needed a "shot of masculinity" (in my defense, he had just told me I needed a "shot of maturity"...we were probably both right). Today at the public pool Brennan was alerted to the new rule which bans outside food and drink (fascists). When Lori (my wife) tried to get Brennan to eat a homemade PBJ he refused, citing the new rule. When she explained that some rules are meant to be broken (I love my wife) he continued to resist. Finally he relented, but only after Lori helped him devise a plan whereby he could hide his contraband under a towel, eating his sandwich in covert anonymity, out of the glaring eye of "he who whistles." He peaked out from underneath his protective shield only occasionally to ensure the lifeguard wasn't on to his deviant behavior. Later in the day as we were walking out to the car from the mall I was trying to convince Zoe that if she ran into a certain spot on the wall, which I promised was Platform 9 3/4, we could take the Hogwarts Express home. When both kids refused to play into my fantasy, I ran into the "platform" myself, only to be rejected with a swift thud. I responded that we would now just have to take the flying car home, even though it was strictly against the code to do so in front of Muggles. Brennan pondered our pretend predicament, then responded, "or you could just send an owl and explain the situation. That way we don't get in trouble and risk losing points for Gryffindor." When we finally did get to the car (which at this point was not a flying car...good grief) I pulled into a handicap spot momentarily as we waited for Lori. I looked in the rear view mirror to catch Brennan's reaction, and like clockwork he got that look of concern on his face and let me know that "it is against the law to park in a wheelicap space." I was about to turn around and explain again the little deal about breaking rules, but my plan was thwarted by the mall cop who was sitting there, smiling, waving me to move along and leave the wheelicap space for someone else...who was wheelicapped. I pulled away, and looked once again in the rear view mirror to find Brennan smiling smugly, satisfied that this mall cop had validated his day of obedience and proved to his dad that just because you're brave enough to make fun of your chemistry teacher in high school, doesn't mean all authority can be disregarded. Touche. Today I was outcooled by a mall cop, but tomorrow I'll teach Brennan all about BitTorrent...

they love him

I watched as my kids played on Sunday with their uncle; my 18 year old little brother who just finished up high school. They love him. He is attentive and sensitive. He is attuned to the minutia of their budding personalities. Brennan (our 6 year old) created a game called basket football which consists of throwing a football into the basketball hoop (slightly more difficult than it sounds—particularly the rebounding); my little brother played with him until they were both exhausted and sweaty (Brennan won, 21-19). Earlier that day as we sat in church, Brennan peacefully put his head on my brother’s shoulder—a sign of unadulterated affection from a little boy who is often too busy to display such physical manifestations of his love. Zoe (our three year old) was playing with magnetic dollies, dressing them up and placing various hairstyles on each doll until she found the perfect combination of hair, shirt, and pants/shorts/capris. My brother’s was her favorite. He found a blonde dolly and enhanced her appearance with the careful placement of magnetic lederhosen and a cat mask. There was an innocence to their creative and expressive play that left me clinging to hope and fearing the future at the same time. I juxtaposed the happy, clear faces of my children with the smiling, pale, drug-enhanced darkness that shone from my sweet brother’s countenance. They don’t have any idea of the thoughts he has, or the means by which he corrals them. They don’t know of his destructive plan to walk down a path from which so many have not returned. I remember him as a child, constantly engaged in a creative and expressive play that charmed his family. When and why did the toy dinosaurs and dress up clothes evolve into pipes and powders? Why didn’t those childhood games lead to harmless (if not obnoxious) teenage games? Should I allow my guilt and hopelessness to be swallowed up by the joy my children experience in the presence of this tender, sensitive, thoughtful, and kind drug addict? Do I abandon my natural tendency to fix even the unfixable and follow the lead of my children—enjoying the moments I have to spend with my little brother? I’m confident in a hope that I can teach them—when that time comes—what happened to their uncle…why he fell in and out of consciousness as they sat playing with him. I will explain why his light was overshadowed by his darkness. I will explain why we have the deified capacity to accept and love those whom we could easily reject and disregard. Until the time for these explanations arrives, I will teach what I can, and continue to love my children. And I will love them for loving my brother. And I will love him. And I will continue to take in the lessons to be learned on these adventures in fathersitting.