learning my ABZs

a is for appalled, but not quite impaled

A few Sundays ago I was reading to the kids on the floor in the toy room. Brennan was at my side drawing and listening; Zoe was at my feet listening; and Ava was on my back trying to balance (and presumably hurt me a little) as she walked from my feet up to my neck. About halfway through a Shel Silverstein poem about a boy who turns into a TV (Jimmy Jet and his TV Set), Ava fell off my back...onto Brennan...who had paused his drawing and was contemplating his next sketch...with his pencil sticking straight up in the air. Point up. Ava took the pencil in the butt. Upon further investigation the pencil had plunged through her pants, through her diaper, and into her little butt cheek, missing the rectum by about...oh, I don't know, 1/8 of an inch. Awful. The curious thing is that each of her cheeks had a small laceration. Which means that she flexed her butt at just the right moment, stopping the pencil from plunging into her. Fantastic. Quick Ass Ava.

The next morning I took her to the doctor to have them look at the wound and to remove as much of the graphite tattoo as possible. During this process I was up near her head, telling her it would be alright, singing songs, and making her favorite noise (flatulence). To no avail. Ava was not happy. For the first 3 minutes she just cried. But after that, she began to swing at me. Not pawing at me like a helpless kitten, but rather taking great swipes at my nose and eyes. I reminded her that she would be getting a toy after the doctor (in our house, trauma equals toys. We do it equally for all the kids. Ava gets stabbed with a sharp object, she gets a toy. Brennan goes through the window requiring 27 stitches, he gets a toy. Zoe has the hiccups, she gets a toy). However, even the reminder of a toy didn't help Ava this time. She simply continued to hit me while saying, "Toy! Toy!"

In separate but related news, Ava has been throwing up since Saturday night, and I think we've bonded as a result. Lori was out doing some Christmas shopping on Saturday night when the puking began. Over the course of 1.5 hours Ava threw up 4 times. The first one was a full body doozie--in the hair and on the socks (it happened while she was sleeping). It totally grossed her (and me) out. After that, however, she made it to the bowl and simply did her thing. When she was finished, she would glance up at me, and in a soft, vulnerable, stoic little baby voice, she would mutter with matter of fact simplicity, "All done." It was so strong, and I think she knew that I was impressed. I am impressed, Ava *.

b is for birthday

Brennan had a pretty great 8th birthday. Cousins, pizza, new indoor shoes, Brasil jersey (with "Breninho" on the back), his own scriptures, and (still unbeknown to him) his own blog. Our good friend Mel put this together for him and I think it's going to be a big hit. For some time now, Brennan has been threatening to take over my blog. "Mine would be funnier," he claims. He's probably right. And now he'll have the chance to prove it. With a growing son, this bit of reality is becoming more and more apparent--the truth is, he probably will be funnier than me, smarter than me, taller than me, kinder than me, and stronger than me. There is plenty of literature (fiction and non-fiction) which describes this familial friction, but I honestly think it's kind of lovely.

Now I don't want him to murder me for my kingdom or anything, but I'm also not going to banish him to ensure it doesn't happen. I want him to one day cast a shadow on me. A big, brazen, better-than-my-shadow kind of shadow. This process has been described by sociologists as "demographic metabolism." The replacement of the generations creates opportunities for societies (and families) to rethink, and perhaps redefine roles, rights, responsibilities, and rewards. There is some evidence out there that this connection between changes in culture and the gradual and continuous processes of individual aging may even intersect with personality development. And here is where that intersects with what I believe: Brennan is Brennan. He always has been, and always will be. However, as one part of a collective (family, school, Church, teams, society, other kids his age, etc.) he will both change his environment, and be changed by it. An actor to act, not entirely an object to be acted upon.

This makes me happy for the future, because Brennan is an extraordinary kid. He is kind and funny. Smart and social. Strong and polite. He changed our lives when he was born 8 years ago and continues to shape our family for good. We were 23 when he was born--barely able to care of each other, let alone a little boy. But Brenno, you've made it to eight. Despite the shortcomings of your parents (mostly your father, your mom is usually spot on as a mom), you are pretty darn great. Your mom and I love you. Your sisters adore you. Your friends enjoy you. And to all of this I say, demographic metabolism, roll on.

z is for ziti (and other delicious food)

Zoe loves to be involved in things we are doing. Domesticity and care-taking come very natural to her and if the thing we are doing involves either of those elements (which we try to keep to a minimum), she's in the mix. Now, let me back up a minute to discuss the dichotomous nature of this domesticity. Recently I walked into the living room and inquired of Lori where Zoe was. "She's in the bathroom. With Dora the Explorer. Who is stuck in lava." Upon walking into the bathroom, indeed there I found Zoe with her life-size Dora doll, who did appear to be stuck in something. Zoe confirmed that it was lava. Now that I have unfairly characterized Zoe as Kathy Bates in Misery, let me continue. Last night Zoe was helping us make fish. She pulled the fish out of the packaging, put it on the pan, and seasoned it ever so carefully. After it was time to take the dinner out of the oven, Zoe insisted on serving it to Lori and Brennan. She got the plate all ready, then walked it out to Brennan. She put it in front of him, and after taking his first bite, she asked, "Did it blow up your mind?" Mind blown (up). It was delicious.

Zoe's one-liners are pretty fantastic, as I think I've written about before. I posted one such one-liner on Facebook (the one about Mommy "even marrying Daddy with that mole on his face"), and it received 26 'likes' and 12 'comments.' Which says to me that Zoe has pretty broad appeal...and may be saying things that everyone else is thinking. I mean, c'mon. Who doesn't want to see an episode of Dora the Explorer wherein she is trapped in lava and can't make it over to Bubble Gum Island?

* When I wrote this at 4:20 a.m. on Tuesday, I was impressed. However, by 7 a.m. on Tuesday I was 'both ends' sick. Not impressed, Ava. Not impressed at all.

angels, balls, and genes

Here is a look at the recent deductive reasoning that has been swirling in my head: "I hate statistics. I am not good at statistics. However, my grandfather was a fairly talented Professor of mathematics. We share many (presumably) of the same genes. Therefore, surely I must be able to excel at statistics." These thoughts both buoy me and damn me. As in, "Oh buoy, I sure hope I understand the chi-square distribution before Friday's exam...dammit." The fact is, I may have very different mathematical predispositions than my grandfather (apparently there is a decent amount of controversy about the existence of a "math gene." I found this out while doing the obligatory pre-post-wikipedia-research.); my father certainly thinks that this is the case with him. So, my faith in this hoped-for-predisposition may be entirely in vain, right? Maybe not.

Faith is, at its core (and by design in my opinion), irrational. The things we put faith in, are for the most part only valuable to the extent that we make them so. I recognize that this is tantamount to equating Jesus with a four leaf clover (read, Catholicism); however, I am not afraid to state that His significance is a result of deeply personal experiences which are based upon feelings, thoughts, and a bit of irrational hope. And yet, many believe (including myself, most of the time) that He holds tremendous power. And who is anyone to question that experience? Alright, back to Grandpa's DNA.

My faith as it relates to success in statistics boils down to this: I'll pray for divine intervention and hope for genetic adequacy. If indeed the divine intercedes on my behalf, I'd like to make the request that Grandpa Franz be the Clarence to my George Bailey. And Grandpa, if you are headed this way, I'll welcome you with an apology: I'm sorry about that time we were playing catch in the backyard and I threw the baseball at you and it hit you in the testicles and then I proceeded to laugh hysterically/uncontrollably for 5+ minutes.

In the case that I'm saved by DNA, I'd like to thank your aforementioned testicles for making that possible. Either way, cheers to Grandpa Franz. And may my faith be fortified.

short stories of short people

#1 the incredible inedible egg
Last month at about this time, Brennan made some observations around the house which necessitated a lesson about the menstrual cycle. I gave him a very simplified version of the process, without using the words, follicles, corpus luteum, or ovulation. Basically I taught him that once a month Mommy's body produces an egg that could turn into a baby under the right conditions. If those conditions are not met, the body doesn't need the egg anymore and therefore disposes of it. We also discussed additional consequences of this process; namely, hormones and their effect on mood and behavior (which happened to be one of Brennan's observations). He accepted all of this, took it in as Brennan typically does, and went on his merry way. Tonight as we were preparing for soccer practice Lori was effectively juggling 14 different tasks and it was beginning to wear on her; eventually this manifested itself in a bit of a snippy comment directed at me (which I may or may not have deserved...this is MY blog). She walked into the kitchen. Brennan (who was sitting next to me), looked up at me grinning, and said, "Maybe she's having that situation with the egg." Maybe so, Brennan. But if she hears us talking, there is a good chance that the "situation" and the "egg" will have less to do with the endometrium and more to do with Mommy throwing chicken eggs at us.

#2 drawing cartoons for school (DCFS)
Zoe is getting very good with the marker. She has been waiting for this moment for some time, and now that she can put together a story through pictures, she is quite pleased with herself. At school today her art class creation involved a large circular figure with spiky hair, four ears, a button nose, and a pleasant smile (all in red marker). This character is surrounded by a number of other smaller characters (all in yellow marker) who look rather forlorn. Or scared out of their minds. Think Dr. Seuss meets Wes Craven. It could mean any number of things, so no need to be concerned. She is a creative little girl. Except that it did mean something to Zoe. Something very specific. Something that she told to her teacher so that the teacher (remember, hippie/pacifist teacher) could record it for all eternity in the bottom right corner of the picture.

A monster touched the little boy.
And he is crying.
The family of monsters ate the little boy.

I don't know what disturbed me more...the touching or the eating. I think the touching. Just because I envision Zoe's teacher transcribing this particular statement and almost passing out. I'll let you know how the in-home visit goes. I'll blame it on Shel Silverstein.

#3 the devil wears robeez
Ava turned two on Friday (the day before the day that used to be recognized as my birthday). And Ava is definitely playing the part. Like Daniel Day Lewis staying in character during an entire filming, Ava has embraced being two in a very real and believable way. The only thing is, she has been in character for about 4 months now. She will hit you. She will scream unapologetically in public. And as the nice woman at the park now knows, if you are trying to charm her or admire her cuteness, and she does not want you in her face, she will yell 'NO!' at you very loudly. Her fear of the bathtub is only surpassed in intensity by her love of shoes. Any shoes. Your shoes. Numerous times this summer Lori had to chase Ava into the baby pool because she had heisted a stranger's flip flops and was making them hers. She is also incredibly agile. She has made it down our fairly steep, wooden stairs in: Lori's black pumps, my black chuck taylors, Brennan's Buzz Lightyear slippers, and Zoe's sleeping beauty dress up shoes (daily, sometimes hourly). When we try to remove these shoes from her, she turns into a miniature version of a Darren Star character, simply incredulous that someone could take shoes away from her. I have no idea what the shoes thing means. Maybe this will become an expensive habit. Or maybe she's the first kid to look in our closet, realizing instantly that Lori and I like shoes. A lot. Or maybe (and this is my theory), Ava just wants to be big. She wants to keep up with her brother and sister. She mimics them. She WILL walk a mile in their shoes. And more, if allowed. She wants to be them. And that's ok with us.

Minus the intelligent smart-alecness of her brother and the creative macabre mind of her sister, of course. Actually, throw them in there too. It is because of those things, not despite them, that we love these short people like we do.

breaking rules. broken heart.

Zoe got into a bit of trouble during her first week of pre-K last week. The teacher's assessment was that Zoe was being "exclusive" and "making other friends feel bad" (friend is code for student...yes, it's slightly obnoxious, but a great school). She almost got suspended for a day. Seriously (stuck up kid + school run by hippies = suspension). We've seen this behavior in Zoe before (shall we call it transparently preferential), and admittedly, we haven't done too much to curtail it. With Brennan, the minute we saw him exhibiting slightly negative behavior, we were all over it. I'll still never forget the day that an innocent 13 month old Brennan intentionally pushed over a neighbor kid of the same age. Lori was convinced he was destined for juvie. We had long conversations about the behavior and began reading Dr. Brazelton's Touchpoints to figure out "what to do next!?". Two naive 23 year old parents, staying up late, hand in hand, worrying about their future anti-socialite. In reality, the neighborhood kid was a skinny little ginger who probably deserved a good push or two (I think she was saying the ABCs at the time...total show off). By the time we got to Zoe, we realized that we had spent most of Brennan's little life overreacting; couple that with her mild-mannered and exceptionally sweet demeanor, (being really cute doesn't hurt) and Zoe didn't get a timeout until she was 4.5 (the same cannot be said for Brennan or Ava...and Ava can't blame overreactions...or a lack of cuteness). She's also been protected from punishments because she's not afraid to lie. For which I blame/praise the XX Franz chromosomes (Kari and Maggie are spectacular liars).

So now Zoe is 5, and we are, for really the first time helping her correct certain behaviors. She is doing fine, but is a bit on edge, and it's breaking my heart. There have been a lot of talks about treating all people kindly (even gingers), what it means to be a "Franz," why lying is wrong (sorry Maggie and Kari), how to respond when someone isn't doing exactly what we want them to do, etc. Yesterday after playing at the park I was putting Ava in her seat and Zoe was playing outside the car (in the rocks...she loves rocks) and I heard a little "ping, ping, ping." The F-150 next to us had little rocks on its foot step, and Zoe was looking up at me expectantly.

Zoe, did you throw rocks at that truck?
*after a brief hesitation where she began to shake her head 'no' she weakly nodded 'yes'*
Just don't get mad at me. Please. I didn't mean to hit the truck (may or may not have been true...again, she's pretty good).

We discussed why not to throw rocks at cars, particularly the F-150 ("the owner of the F-150 is what we refer to as a 'Proud Vehicularist;' they love the truck, they hand wash and wax the truck. This is part of their identity. They don't take a rock-chipped paint job lightly."). She nodded politely, smiled a couple of times, but mostly blinked a lot to keep from crying. It was painfully adorable...so much so that I wanted to throw a boulder through the F-150's windshield, just to show her whose side I was on.

But I can't do that. Zoe has to learn. I'm sure she will. Instead I just blinked a lot as I climbed into the driver's seat. Darn sun. Always makes my eyes water. I too am a liar.

master of none

My sister Maggie and I were talking the other day about the time (many years ago) when Dad was working on his Masters degree. He was working full time, raising a family full time, cutting wood full time, helping people full time, and "doing a Masters" (which of course made no sense to us at the time). We recalled talking about this ubiquitous "Masters" quite a bit...and particularly during family prayer. "Bless Dad and his Masters." "Help Dad finish his Masters." We walked the journey with Dad...not because we had any idea where he was going, but because we sensed it was important. He wasn't doing the Masters for a green jacket (sports reference, check!), but rather so that he could spot human disorders from a mile away; and then walk the mile to correctly assess the malady in person, and offer some kind of counsel. Buddha and his tree. Joseph and the upstate forest. Mohammad and his cave. Jesus in the wilderness. Abraham and an altar. Dad and the mentally ill. Maggie and I were also reflecting on another result of Dad actually completing his Masters: we had nothing else to pray about as children. "Ummm...hi God. Yeah, so...Dad got his Masters. Thanks for that. So...should I get a Masters, God?" Such were the effects of the Masters. And it remains part of our family. Years after successfully defending his thesis, it's not really over.

It's been two weeks since I began my own educational journey with kids (and patiently supportive Lori) in tow. The reflection on Dad's Masters has been fun to think about, because like me when I was the perceiving child, our kids have no idea what's really going on. There was the countdown to my last day of real work (kid translation: "Daddy will now be at home all day!"). Moving my office from the nice almost-corner office with big windows and a modern desk to the basement of the same building in a cinder-blocked office with no windows and an office mate (kid translation: "Now we don't have to walk up any stairs to your office!"). And then talking to them about becoming a Doctor (kid translation: "You are going to help sick people!?" Not really. "You are going to be a scientist like Cory?!" Not exactly.). I'm walking the fine line between distinction and disappointment.

Our kids get that this is important, but like the kid version of me with my Dad, they don't know why. My hope is that, like the kid version of me, their innocent acceptance of my pursuit as "important" will turn into pride. I'm fully aware that it is difficult to deliberately delineate moments of significance onto the soul of a family--for better or worse, I believe those eternal etchings tend to take root a bit more organically. But I'd be lying if I said the thought is not at least part of the reason I'm doing what I'm doing (the thought certainly protects me in those moments when I think, "what am i doing. what have i done."). It would be easy to slide down the slippery slope of cliched hyperbole right now, so I won't. I won't talk of seizing dreams, or taking risks, or attacking life with reckless precision...or teaching our children to take value in their craft and enhancing their identity through worthy pursuits. Or teaching them to have pride like my mom has, not like the kind in the Bible that turns you bad (lyrical reference, check!). No, I won't do that here.

Here I'll just hope that the PhD is the new Masters. At least in their prayers. At least for a few years. Then it will be over .

aitkin for the bacon...

I was in Aitkin, Minnesota last week and had the chance to spend a lovely 24 hours with my 93 year old maternal grandmother, Grandma Jones. Aitkin is two hours north of the twin cities. The Mississippi runs along its outskirts, just 100 miles south of the mighty river's humble beginnings. I can throw a rock across it in Aitkin...with my left hand. A far cry from the rumbling rapids that flow below the modern-twisted steel of the bridge in Alton which is the more familiar Mississippi to me. A far cry from everything.

Before I left, Zoe told me to "tell all my friends in Minnesota hi. And Grandma." I'm not sure who those friends are (although with Zoe, everyone soon becomes a friend), but I did say hi to Grandma. And I enjoyed it immensely. I asked her deeply personal questions and made her give me equally personal responses. I just sat back in her massaging recliner and listened intently as she described the means by which she dealt with marital conflict, how she survived raising four "delightful, but very strong willed girls" (euphemism for, "without God and vitamins, I would have murdered those psychos"), and how she currently deals with the "delightful, but very strong willed neighbors" in her apartment complex.

Walking around town with Grandma was a bit like hanging out with the Dalai Lama. Everywhere she went people would wave and smile. People would stop and talk to her...ask her how she was doing, then make some comment about how amazing she is. I was slightly disappointed each time she introduced me as her grandson; I was enjoying the reverie so much that I wanted these people to imagine I was her long-haired lover, visiting from California. They appeared to be disappointed as well when I became "the grandson from Illinois." I think they wanted me to be the lover too. She would be even more mysterious and remarkable. 93 years old. Perfect hearing. Great driver. No limp. Five almonds and 16 vitamins with every meal. Spelt wheat muffins. Fruit.

It was a wonderful trip...almost spiritual for me. I learned a lot by asking so many questions and gained insight by revisiting childhood with an adult perspective (by myself, which I think was key). The hogback is a molehill, not a mountain. The lakes are still beautiful. I ate Grandma's homemade rhubarb crisp and nibbled on fresh cherries that sat in a bowl on the middle of her kitchen table. I listened reverently as Grandma talked about my Mom and Dad. How much she loves them, and admires them. How grateful she is for Dad...as a father, a provider, a supporter. "We never worried about your Mom...because she had your Dad." How happy she is that they irrationally ended up together and that despite having had their fair share of life's challenges, they have remained happy and faithful to one another, and to God. She thanked Darlene for all the good that has come from her life. Darlene was just some girl she met her freshman year of College. Darlene was popular and liked by everyone. And she liked Jesus. She talked openly about prayer and it was then that little Lucille decided to start praying like Darlene. Prayer was her answer to almost every question I asked during my trip. I marvel at her authentically effortless faith. Calcium supplements strengthen her bones. Prayer strengthens everything else. She really prays. And I'd dare say that if Grandma's prayers weren't flowing out of Aitkin, I'd still be able to throw a rock across the Mississippi at Alton...

my (world) cup runneth over

I'm a Franz. I'm not great at telling people to do things when the message is hard, or contrary to what they are currently doing. I've asserted myself once or twice in my life, and I think it almost cost me a few relationships, and at a minimum, caused some hard feelings for a while. I'm not good at it. I affirm well. There is a reason the Senator Al Franken's Stuart Smalley was a bit of a cult hero in our home. We like telling people they're good enough. They're smart enough. And gosh darn it, people like them. Even when they suck, they're dumb, and no one likes them (except for us). This is not a perfect approach to people, I know, but it's what we do best, and what comes naturally. Le chemin de moindre résistance, as the French say (I just Googled that).

I worry about this quality as a parent. Probably more than anything else, I try to identify the right times to assert myself with our children; when to set boundaries, when to impose a consequence, when to push them, when to blatantly correct when something or someone has been wronged...and then when to let it be, let it play out...affirm. If I've succeeded at all in asserting boundaries, it's because I think about it a lot. If I've failed at asserting boundaries, it's because I think about it a lot.

After 30 years of life, and at least 25 of those being involved in some sort of organized sport, I've been able to observe a lot of father-son interactions on the pitch, the court, the field, and on the sidelines. I've watched my friends puke before games, shutdown during games, and cry after games...all because of an over-bearing father. I was never that kid, thank goodness, and I certainly don't want Brennan to ever become that kid. And even though it's against my nature to be imposing (being 5'7" helps too), I'm aware that what I prefer impacts my son. I'm aware that despite having a physique (at this point) that may suit him well for swimming or basketball, he is obsessed with soccer in no small part due to my love of the sport. During the month of June, Brennan and I (and 14 other Americans) watched a lot of soccer. I've answered the question, "Who are the seven best players in the world," at least 89 times (in 89 different ways). I've tried to discover what number Lionel Messi wore on his first Argentine jersey...and his first Barcelona jersey. I've been required to learn the "Number 10" for each team that made it to the quarterfinals of the World Cup. We've analyzed how Tim Howard's Tourette's syndrome may actually enhance his ability as a goalie. We now have a couch in the basement named "Maradona." This quasi-obsession made it possible for Brennan to sit outside for 9 hours in the brutal heat this past Saturday to watch me play in a 3v3 soccer tournament (we lost in the championship game. Mom and Dad, I'll tell you all about next time I'm home. Just make sure Kari and Maggie are around to hear ALL the details). He loves the game, and I'm happy to answer all of his questions.

Of all the Q&A exchanges over the past several weeks, one will always remain with me. It wasn't a question I answered, but rather a question I posed which Brennan answered. During the US v. Ghana game I mentioned how much I appreciated Michael Bradley's game. The guy hustles like mad, has a great command of the midfield, and gets everyone involved in the game. My kind of player. I asked Brennan, "Why do you think he gives it his all like that? Why do you think he plays so hard?" Without missing a beat, Brennan looked up at me out of the corner of his eye, and said, "Because his Dad is watching him." And of course he was. Bob Bradley, Michael's father, is the coach of the US team...and Brennan, of course, knew this. I responded, "Do you play harder because you know I'm watching you?" He looked at me, a bit embarrassed, and responded with a smile and an honest, "Well, yes."

Even though I fear what I may be keeping Brennan from as a result of my affirmative approach, I'm happy that I can influence him...passively. This week Brennan is learning soccer from a bunch of Brits who charge WAY too much money to teach American kids how to really play football. We're paying for an accent and fancy Pumas. They'll have an impact on his love of soccer, no doubt. But they won't be his Dad. That's mine. Despite being passive at times, overbearing at times, and carrying general shortcomings at all other times, I'm happy with the arrangement of being Brennan's Dad...and happy that he wants to play hard for me. Just don't puke, Brennan. Please. You're good enough...

fantastic ms. zozo

I'm a big Fantastic Mr. Fox fan. It was the first real book that I read and it spurred a mild childhood obsession with Roald Dahl. It was also the first real book that I read to Brennan. The fact that Wes Anderson chose my favorite Dahl book to create the best cinematic interpretation of any Dahl book to date (read and weep, Chocolate Factory lovers) just makes it that much better. It's like the ultimate white compliment, and even better than claiming that you saw Bottle Rocket (1996) in 1994.

There is a scene in the film where Mr. Fox is lamenting his life under ground and his respectable profession as a newspaper columnist. He asserts that living in their current home makes him feel poor. His ever-loving and ever-practical wife responds, "We are poor. But we're happy." He replies in his characteristically flippant manner, and the movie goes on. It's a good moment in the film, but not one that I ever considered particularly memorable...especially for the kids. Until the other day.

Brennan has become a bit concerned with our recent decision to quit my good job and resume graduate studies on a full time basis. We openly talk to the kids about our early years of marriage...we didn't have any money, ate a lot of rice, took good advantage of eating a ton during trips to our parents' homes, etc. When we have discussed this in the past, Brennan wears his passage through poverty like a medal. "You know Zoe, I didn't have chocolate until I was four. That's how poor we were. Opening scene of Saving Private Ryan? Yeah, I've been there." Perhaps we overstated the poverty, but I don't think so. Brennan has my propensity for taking life's circumstances and mentally bending them just enough to convince himself that he is a conqueror/saint/survivor. Have I ever told you about no warm showers for 5 months in Brasil?

On this particular day, Brennan was asking specific questions about how life will change when I quit my job. "Will we move" (we tried. not any more.)? "Will we keep the black car" (yes. forever.)? "Will I still go to Southside" (yes.)? After a few more questions, he arrived at the final question. The kicker. His real concern. "Will we be poor? (voice reflected partial excitement, part terror.)" Before I could respond, Zoe, who had been taking all of this in quietly, chimes in with: "We are poor. But we're happy."

Hold. The. Phone.

6 words. Nailing the context. Roald Dahl. Resolving concern with a gentle, optimistic rebuke. Quoting film. I think I'm in love. Zoe instantly recognized she was on to something brilliant and continued quoting the film: "What the cuss did you say, you little cuss?" I suppose we could do without that, but she was on a roll, so I had to let it slide.

There are many lessons here, and parallels to be made between our life and that of the Fox family...but that's for another time. In the end, the experience made me grateful for our kids' good sense of humor, their appreciation for good entertainment, their keen memory, and their ability to appropriately access pop culture and insert it into daily interactions (clutch). I hadn't been this proud since a 3 yr old Brennan started singing Salt n' Peppa's Push It to a surprised checkout clerk in upstate New York.

Stuff White People Really Like #476: Children who can quote Wes Anderson.

5 reasons

Kids, in case you are ever short on reasons to love your family, here are the top 5 (current) reasons.

05) The other day, my father (your Papa) was playing wiffle ball and (apparently) crashed into Deea (wife of my cousin), giving her a concussion, stitches in the ear, and a dislocated shoulder. Deea is a very sweet person and surely didn't deserve this. I have no idea how it happened. I simply know that it is just ridiculous enough to make the list (and my lack of details makes it an even better/more tragic story).

04) Your Aunt Maggie was recently robbed. The thief entered her home, went through her panties, stole her computer, bled on her bed, BUT did NOT take her bike. Score.

03) Your parents are taking you to LouFest. Carolina Chocolate Drops. Jeff Tweedy. Built to Spill. Zooey Deschanel. Want to know what music I was involved in as a 7 year old? Safety Kids. That's right. Me dressed up as Freddy holding a stuffed frog hollering, "You're not gonna get rich on me!" while my mother (your Mimi) mouthed the words from the audience. *

02) _________________________________________________________________
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_______________Irish_________________________________________________
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(That was a story about your Mom's family that I can't tell you. It's really cute and endearing, but it might be misunderstood and lead to awkward silence, so it's probably best just left like this.)

Drum roll...

1) Your aunt Kari used to be married to Jerad. For a variety of reasons, they got divorced. Things were a bit dicey for a spell, but they are fairly smooth now. Their wonderful kids (your cousins) are well-adjusted and Kari and Jerad have begun their own separate lives.

Or have they?

Kari met a great guy named Kelly who loves her and the boys. He bought her a ring. They are getting married on June 12th.

Jerad met a gal named Kelly who loves him and the boys (I think). He bought her a ring (which according to Facebook looks a LOT like Kari's ring). They are getting married on June 12th.

Good thing they have three boys. Two ring bearers and one to spare? Any more Kellys up for a wedding?

And those, my sweet children, are five reasons you should love your family.

* I actually enjoyed Safety Kids, so thank you Mom. I'm not sure how or why I got involved...but I think it might have been Mom's first attempt at a multi-level work-from-home-business. Indeed, she didn't "get rich on me." Now if I were a little boy made of wax, then the story would have (does have) a different ending.

M&Ms (&M)

This entry is not about candy.

The other day, during his lunch break, my father went out for a ride on a tandem with his new lesbian co-worker. It's been fairly obvious that Dad has a gay co-worker, because he has brought up gay issues consistently during every recent conversation we have shared (except for the call where he tried to explain to me why nose-picking isn't ok in public. "Gentzy, it's like sex. We all enjoy sex, but you can't do it in public." Right, Dad...it's JUST like that.). This is classic A. Gentz Franz. He is SO open-minded and accepting that all he needs is a little exposure to something/someone and he is sold. I remember having a friend in junior high school who was a little untrustworthy. My parents (Dad mostly) expressed a slight objection to my socializing with this particular friend...until I had that friend over to the house. By the end of the visit, my dad had made up a nickname for him and was ready to have him marry one of my sisters.

This is not to say that my Dad was anti-gay before his interactions with this co-worker, it's just been an interesting time for all of us practicing Mormons and gay rights. The Church took a very strong stand that was hard for many of us to understand. We've been forced to think about the issue (which is good), but it was confusing for many to think about what to do with the issue. Some people jumped in line and supported the Church, while others walked the tight rope of "faithful Mormon and gay rights supporter." Those are of course only two reactions among myriad reactions to what has become a painful and divisive issue for many of our faith. Not to speak for Dad, but I'd explain his discomfort as a result of his intense love for the Church and his superordinate love for people...all people. Anyway...back to the tandem.

At some point after the tandem ride during lunch, this co-worker approaches Dad and tells him that "it would never work out between us because of the 3 Ms." My father, taken aback slightly, asks, "what are the 3Ms?" To which she responds, "Mormon, Male, and Married." When this was being related to me over the phone, at this point my mother yells out, "Can you believe this?" in a somewhat threatened way (as if Dad were being propositioned). Mom, no need to worry...the 3Ms pretty much define Dad. Getting one of those Ms out of him is not going to happen. You're safe.

This story sums up my Dad (kids, your Cakoo Papa). I've heard my father speak Ebonics, southern, sign language, and redneck (separate occasions). In those moments, he was black, southern, deaf, and a hick. NOW, he is a lesbian. Pleasers the world over salute you. If you ask me, this is a wonderful example of how my dad has made sense of the tension that frequently occurs within the mind and heart of many a person who actively practices a religion. This woman feels loved and accepted by someone who looks like the people who so frequently reject her. But my dad jumped on a tandem with her.

Religion is not enough of a reason for Dad not to love her. Indeed, as Dad views his religion (correctly, I might assert), his religion demands that he love her. Ironically, religion was 1/3 of the reason she cannot love him. Fair enough. I really don't think our family can take the whole, "Dad's leaving Mom for another woman...whom he converted to Mormonism and heterosexuality." We'll take the M&M&Ms.

lori's got the cayman islands. but we've got mexico.

Lori is somewhere in the Atlantic ocean right now, enjoying some well-deserved down time on a cruise with a bunch of old Europeans. Per the one text message I've received from her in the past 5 days, she seems to be having a good time. But here in sunny Champaign, we're having an even better time...here's proof:

On Saturday morning during the ride to Brennan's soccer game we were listening to radio commentary on the recent legislation in Arizona. Brennan asked a few questions to clarify what was going on, then listened to the rest of the report. Four hours later, he and Zoe were quietly playing in the toy room/bathroom. After about 25 minutes of the quiet play (complete solace...I almost fell asleep), Brennan emerged from the bathroom and announced, "A Mexican woman is moving into our bathroom." Zoe was dressed as the Mexican woman, and the bathroom was decorated eerily similar to some of the Latin living rooms I have been in. Complete with kitschy knick knacks, an electronic keyboard, and a Mexican flag. The only thing missing was a statuette of the Virgin. I am not sure if he was making a political statement, going for laughs, or just being compassionate (he definitely got laughs). While this was going on, Zoe simply stood there, exhausting her entire Spanish vocabulary over and over again: uno, dos, tres, quatro, cinco, seis, siete, nacho, libre, dez.

as i say. or, thank you grandpa franz. or, look Mel, paragraphs. or, Trina this nose is for you.

Last night I was on the tarmac, getting ready to leave O'Hare for Champaign and I was g-chatting (that's what the kids are calling IMing these days) with my good friend Cory, about an unfortunate run-in he had with some environmentally unfriendly Mormons. As the flight attendant made her rounds asking us to turn off all electronic devices including two way pagers, I powered down my phone and pulled out my book. As I was transitioning from the chat with Cory to my book, I did what I typically do when I'm mentally multi-tasking: I picked my nose. I had already scoped out my "drop zone" (not in the aisle, not on my pant leg, not on my carry on) so I was using discretion as I dug away; halfway between Glenn Beck and Steven Levitt in my head.

I had pulled away from my excavation recreation and settled into my book when I noticed a hand outstretched across the aisle towards me. In the hand was a little package of Kleenex; the hand was attached to an arm, which led to a lady, who, with arched eyebrows and a pitying look asked, "do you need one of these?" I had no idea how to respond, so I simply said, "I don't think so." She kept the Kleenex in my face, and without saying a word her expression yelled, "Um, yeah you do." I turned quickly back to my book and she gave up shortly thereafter. As I sat there, processing what had just occurred, I was left with only one thing to do. Well, two things. Ok, three. First, I checked for a hanger. Because potentially, I had a big ol' booger dangling from my nose that would indeed warrant a much appreciated tissue from a stranger. After discovering no such unfortunate stow away, I laughed to myself because of this unexpected airplane interaction (c'mon, who does this!?). Then finally, I did what any other reasonable adult would do; I put my finger in my nose and left it there. For the entire 29 minute flight down to Champaign I was picking my nose, altering fingers and occasionally striking the Grandpa Franz pose (thumb on chin, index finger on temple, middle finger in nose, pinkie and thumb dangling). I know she saw me, but she just pulled out her handheld Yahtzee player, pushed play on her disc man, and completely ignored me the rest of the flight.

During the flight while I was was picking and pretending to read, I had the chance to consider what had driven this woman to an inexplicable moment of boldness. Had she been through a rough relationship with a nose picker? Did she find it morally reprehensible? Did she think I would pick, roll, and flick in her direction? I was shocked and intrigued. I wanted to find out where she was coming from, but instead I sat there and made every shallow observation possible with the hope of arriving at some conclusion (missing teeth, orange Fanta, nose ring, smokers skin and voice, blonde highlights, white K-Swiss, acid wash jeans, faux snakeskin belt). Still, I had nothing. Maybe her reaction was visceral; however, when I told Brennan the story and asked him what he thought about her behavior, he concluded that "she probably thought you were uhskusting (*disgusting*)." I am sure he has overheard Lori denounce my nose picking with those exact words. Grandma Mary to my Edgar. I tell Brennan not to pick his nose.

Maybe it is disgusting, or maybe her reaction to my boogers is the same as the aforementioned Mormons' response to the question of why self-proclaimed creationists don't feel a greater responsibility to protect the environment ("because global warming is a lie"). At some point Ms. Anti-boog made up her mind that nose picking is ridiculous and she was sticking to that opinion. It was not open for debate. And in fact, she is so convinced of this fact, that she is willing to take great social risks to convince others that it must stop. For some people, some things are not open for debate or discussion. While I suppose that's ok (and of course I naturally take this approach on some things as well) I think its equally ok for people to pick their nose in opposition (or the appropriate equivalent).

Brennan, Zoe, and Ava, I welcome you to do the same in my moments of self-assured boldness. I think...

Envelope. PLEASE.

To celebrate our nine year anniversary, Lori and I took off for a weekend in Chicago. It was great. Good food, some shopping, a couples massage, Avett Brothers, some shopping, and spending money like we didn't have anything better to do with our money (we do). The BEST part of the weekend was that our kids were sick the whole time we were gone. This was great for two reasons: a) they were sick while we were gone and b) their babysitter, my mother-in-law, is a nurse. She LOVES taking care of people. Our kids healthy are hard to keep up with. When the kids are sick they are pretty mellow and cuddly. This was perfect for Lori's mom. We had it planned perfectly--we'd arrive home, and everyone would be on the mend, and a great weekend would get even greater. We caught the train back to town, arrived home at 6pm on Monday evening, and walked through the front door to find three happy and excited little kids. The house was REALLY clean, the kids were REALLY healthy, and we each did a pair of double fist pumps in our heads (thanks Maggie). Kids were in bed by 7:30 and we follwed suit by 9:00. As we were drifting off to sleep, Ava started to make some noise. The noise grew to crying. And then to all out frantic screaming. I went in, got her settled down, and returned to bed. Screaming 2 minutes later. Lori went in. To no avail. There was no fever, no coughing, no explanation. Then, just as Ava tilted her head back to perfectly position herself for an animalistic yelp (think wolf howl or hippo yawn) we saw them. Two molars, jutting through like two middle-fingered-shaped-rocks bursting rudely through the fertile Nebraskan soil. It looked like it hurt. Bad. Luckily, we got her settled down and back to sleep despite the knifelike portrusions. 20 minutes later, a thud came from Ava's room. Thuds coming from Ava's room aren't that uncommon; she typically throws all of her books out of the crib when she's frustrated. However, the thud on this night either came from a hard back edition of Atlas Shrugged, or Ava had thrown herself out of the crib. Ava had thrown herself out of the crib. We ran into the room ready to find Ava limp on the floor, but no, there she stood, like a victorious gladiator...standing and looking straight at us. Dazed, yes. But she was standing. Ava is in the 2nd percentile in most categories that pediatricians concern themselves with, but she is in the 105th percentile in the only category that matters (put Ava in a room with 100 other 17 month olds, and she will kick all their asses within 5 minutes. 100 + 5 = 105th percentile). I wanted an award for that night of parenthood. We deserved something. The weekend was planned too perfectly for it to end with defeat at the hands of a sleepless 1 year old UFC fighter. But I suppose there are no awards. The award is the moments when we enjoy anonymity, then brace ourselves for the natural slide back into reality where we still have bills, kids still have teeth and sleepless nights, and the bed still isn't made by an unknown third party with a key to our room.

micro update

Anything with "micro" at the beginning is presumably cooler. San Francisco and its microclimate. Socially responsible capitalists and microfinance. Jack Donaghy and microwaves. So, in light of this coolness, here is a quick microglance at the latest adventures.

Ava

Brennan and I were looking at youtube videos on the floor (yes, midget wrestling) and Ava would not stop hitting the keyboard on the laptop. After removing her hand and giving her a firm "no no" several times, she finally learned the lesson, stopped and crawled away (actually, crooked crab-walked away). After about 2 minutes she returned, looked directly at me, and proceeded to pound on the keyboard...with her foot.

Zoe

Zoe woke up the other morning singing a song:

Eenie meenie miney moe

Catch a tiger by his toe

If he rattles in his mole

Eenie meenie miney moe

Brennan and Zoe

We got snowed in during our trip home over Christmas, so all of the cousins decided to have a sleepover at my parents to celebrate the spontaneously prolonged vacation. I was selected to sleep on the couch in the room where all the kids had created their sleeping space on the floor. At about 6:30 am the following morning I was awakened by Carter (the oldest cousin) who claimed that someone had peed on him. I ignored this claim, until 45 seconds later he changed his tune to "someone threw up on me." Assuming that he was mistaking a puddle of kiddie slobber for the two aforementioned bodily functions, I asked him where the fluid in question was located. He pointed to a spot on the blanket covering all four children, and in my half lucid state guided only by the soft natural light of daybreak I let me hand fall into the area Carter had identified. Upon first touch, I was no less sure it was puke then when I sniffed my fingers for confirmation. Unmistakably vomit. I commanded all the kids to stand up, then I inspected them one by one--looking for dried vomit on the face, smelling breath, you know, that sort of normal thing. From there we proceeded to inspect everyone else in the house...to no avail. Someone had blown great holy chunks all over a group of sleeping children and we had no idea who it was. It remains unsolved to this day. Kari maintains that it was Johnny, but I'm not convinced. Brennan still talks about it as if it were a new ride at Disney World and Zoe gets a disgusted look on her face and turns slightly green when it is mentioned. Nothing says Merry Christmas like mystery vomit.