so they say/do

On generational differences 

"Sometimes I have a hard time talking to old people.  I mean, I'm like, 'so, what do you think about  Lionel Messi?' and they're always like, 'I don't know, but I sure like Elvis!'" 

-- Brennan (on the way to soccer practice)

Takeaway: If you know anything about Elvis, you're old.  

On cell phones and the homeless

"You definitely are going to need to finally get a cell phone when I'm an adult.  Because I'm going to be busy.  I'll be a professional ballerina and a soccer player.  And we'll live in the same town.  So, if you're driving around and  you see a homeless person, you can call me and I'll take a break and go to the homeless guy and bring him some food and a blanket.  And maybe find a place for him to sleep."

-- Zoe (biking home from the library)

Takeaway: If you are homeless, be homeless in the same town as adult Zoe.  If you live in the same town as Zoe and have a home, you might want to consider becoming homeless.  

On backpacks

Me: "Why do you have a mouse trap in your backpack?"

Ava: "To catch stuff."

Me: "Why do you have a camera in your backpack?"

Ava: "To take pictures of stuff."

Me: "Why do you have that little pinball game in your backpack?"

Ava: "To have fun when I'm not catching stuff.  Or taking pictures."

--Ava (on the way to school)

Takeaway: If our life ever resembles a Wes Anderson film, we'll have Ava to thank.

i need a hero

When Lance caved to the pressure imposed upon him for years by the dogged pursuit of the anti-doping agency, I won't lie, I was a little sad.  The truth is, I had suspected Lance was a doper all along. But the finality of it all, the damning conclusion.  It's a bummer.  The morning the news hit, I read Lance's statement and expressed some of this sentiment.  After explaining to the kids what had happened, Zoe responded: "You should send Lance a letter and tell him you're sorry that he lost all of his prizes.  And also tell him drugs are bad."

Our heroes often fail us.  Because in the end, they are human.  Even Peter Parker's humanity got in the way (I think).  And that's a shame.  Or is it?

The messiness of life requires that we have very human exemplars of how to make it through.  Imperfect beings making sense of life and others - behaving according to the bundle of values and interests that define us all.  I'm ok with that.  I'm ok with my kids seeing my warts, the warts on history, the warts on the sacred.  I'm ok, because it makes all of these things accessible and real.  And when life bears down, I want them to access things and people that are real.  That they can feel.  That they can relate to, and utilize.

The weekend after Lance formally fell from his perch, I walked into the toy room to find this:

You might not be able to make out all the details, so let me explain them to you.  That's Lori, pumping for Hayzel, braiding Zoe's hair, and eating breakfast.  At the same time.  I'd feel like a real heel if I were just walking around snapping shots like this...but I did make breakfast.  That's good, because I'm terrible at doing the girls' hair.  And the pumping, well, I'm sure I'd be terrible at that too if I tried.  I won't try.

I wasn't sure whether I should praise or pity her for this feat.  I'll go with praise.  Lori does not like to be pitied.

Lance may have fallen; but we still have Lori.

fourth & final

Before Lori had little Hayzel people would look at her with a bit of incredulity when realizing it was her fourth.  In a few instances Lori engaged in conversation with these people and told them that this was it, our last child.  Their countenances usually softened, as if to say, "Good.  Because four is pushing it.  And five is just gross*."

Some of our friends who have come to the end of the procreation stage express a sense of loss; sadness with the finality of it all. One hilarious friend, a mother of four, often talks of her uterus beginning to twitch when she walks into a nursery or sees a new baby.  Baby fever.  Hayzel turns six weeks this Friday.  And while I think she is pretty adorable, I'm glad she is the last.  Interrupted sleep.  Exhausted wife.  Distraction.  Disruption.  Spit up.  Blood.  Doctors.  Diapers.  These are a few of my least favorite things.  I can't imagine my uterus ever twitching.

And yet.

Seeing Zoe and Ava calm her down.  Watching Brennan take her out of the swing and put her back to sleep.  Watching Lori figure her out.  Seeing her smile for the first time.  This loud little disruption brings along so much sweetness.  And the inconvenience is so short-lived.  So maybe...

Just kidding.

Lori is--although completely exhausted--in her element with newborns.  And while Hayzel is a little particular, Lori's figuring her out.  To give you insight into my 'baby whispering' abilities and Hayzel's temperament, last week Lori said, "Hayzel's been amazing today.  She's let me put her down, has calmed herself on her own.  Did you drop her yesterday?"

Hayzel's presence has also prompted some great reactions in the home.  After explaining the supply and demand of breast milk production (i.e., Boobinomics) to Zoe, she responded, "Boobs are awesome."  Yes, Zoe.  Indeed they are.

Ava spoke in barks for a few days after Hayzel was born.  I'm sure it had something to do with having the role of 'baby' ripped from her little paws.  Ava, like the rest of us, was uncomfortable taking on a new role.  "If I'm not baby, then I'm not human!"  But she got over it and now has taken on a new role: she can routinely be found by herself in the toy room breast-feeding various toys.  It's cute with the baby dolls, but a little creepy when it's a Barbie or toy soldier.  I secretly hope she begins putting toys in the oven again very soon.

The "fascination with boobs" theme among our children ends here.  For now.  I'm sure that Brennan will enter that realm in a few short years

Brennan's been a champ.  Now the only boy in a sea of sisters, he's handling the ratio very well.  His being a boy is made more salient through his behaviors, but I sense an increasing sensitivity and an acceptance of his role as the leader of this little clan of cuteness.  He still teases, still provokes, but he loves his sisters.  And he loves that they love him.  Accordingly, he's informed me that he now has a song: "Amazing" by Kanye West.  I'll admit it, I love the song as well.  Ever into subjecting my children to conduct comparative analysis, I asked him to think about the song "Amazing" as it relates to a children's song we often sing at Church, "I am a Child of God."  His response?  "They're pretty much saying the same thing, Dad."  Touché.

So, here's to you, lucky little Hayzel.  Your sibling predecessors have set the bar high.  Don't disappoint.  Otherwise we might have to do this again.  And that'd just be gross.

Just kidding.  Don't sneer at me.  I'm sure you'll be great.

That's more like it.

* We know lots of families with 5 kids that aren't gross.  For example, the Duncan family from "Good Luck Charlie."

crash but no burn

On Friday evening during the first 10 minutes of our bike ride (Ava's longest to date, 2.5 miles when all was said and done...on this bike) Zoe bit it.  Hard.  It was a "oh please let her still have a nose" kind of crash.  To add insult to injury, this all happened in front of three of last year's 5th grade boys at her elementary school.  Not just any 5th graders, but the 5th graders every one knows, including Zoe. Right before she hit the pavement, the boys turned around and witnessed the whole thing.  And then they:

a) turned around and kept walking
b) asked if she was ok
c) laughed out loud
d) none of the above

To my surprise and delight, the answer was 'd.'  They didn't just ask if she was ok, they rushed over and expressed real concern.  Not a hesitation.  No muffled laughter.  As Zoe buried her head in my shoulder (the injuries were minimal--scratches on her knee and ankle) one of the boys put his hand on her shoulder to console her; another kindly joked that it was probably their fault--that they had "jinxed" her.  They stayed there by our biker caravan chatting with Lori, Brennan and Ava until Zoe calmed down.  After about 3 minutes, realizing both her pride and her body were still in tact, Zoe was ready to resume the ride.  We headed east down Healey as the boys went west.  Their response assuaged Zoe's pain (both physical and emotional) and provided Brennan with an example of what it means to be a cool kid.  It was a great moment.  Thank you, Gus, Jake and Will.  Your parents should be proud.

know fear *

* weren't those shirts the best?  I associate them with Zima for some reason.  I never owned a No Fear shirt and I never tasted a Zima, but for some reason, they just go seem to go together.  

There are a few universal fears that all children experience.  And I feel safe in assuming that those fears are perpetuated by older siblings.  For those of us who are oldest siblings, I have no idea where we learn them (Sesame Street?).  All I know is that we did/do our best to ensure that those younger than us are more afraid (in general) than we are.  In this we take solace.

Earlier this year a child predator in a...wait for it...white van (!!) was allegedly trying to nab kids near schools in town.  The kids heard about it.  A lot.  In school.  At home.  At friends' homes.  White vans are now somewhere on the list between spiders in the basement and monsters under the bed.

A few weeks ago Brennan and Zoe were playing in our front yard.  I looked out the window just in time to observe Brennan looking apprehensively at the road in front of our house; he then put his arm around Zoe's shoulder and led her towards the backyard.  He glanced over his shoulder twice during the retreat, quickening his pace each time.  What was the source of his concern, you ask?

A white Prius containing two Baby Boomer-aged women going door to door handing out political campaign material.

Unless you really dislike grassroots activism, they were about as far from predatory as it gets.  I was tempted to tell them my son had confused them for white-van-driving child molesters, but I wasn't convinced they'd find the humor in his perspective.  They looked awfully focused.

While Brennan may torment his sisters mercilessly at times, and do his fair share of fear perpetuation, I can confidently state that that he doesn't want them to be kidnapped.  At least not Zoe.  I'll take it.

PS.  He may want to keep Zoe around for entertainment.  After she saw this, she did this.

uphill battle

I recently watched a 5 minute Greek film depicting a father and son relationship.  I was touched more than I'd like to admit.  I was affected similarly the other day when I noticed an older couple watching Ava and me walk hand in hand out of the grocery store.  They watched and smiled sweetly, without words suggesting "It all goes by so quickly."  It's all a bit cliche, I know, but I can't think of another aspect of life where the passage of time is felt more viscerally than in parenthood.  With the passage of time in parenthood comes change, innocence lost, immeasurable joy, and realizations that are both painful and painfully hilarious**.  As I've mentioned here before, it's thoroughly enjoyable.  And terrifying.

I typically bound up the steps in our house two at a time.  It's not for exercise.  It's not because I'm in such a hurry that I can't be bothered with a more monotonous climb.  It's basically because I'm impatient and usually I'm going upstairs (unless it's bedtime) because I forgot something.  And if I've forgotten something upstairs it means I've probably forgotten it repeatedly: go upstairs to get something, see something shiny, forget about what was forgotten originally, descend the steps with shiny new object only to realize that I've completely forgotten what I went upstairs for in the first place.  I don't think this behavior is unique to me.  From other conversations with men and women this tends to happen frequently among my male counterparts.  And our wives find it absolutely sexy. Right ladies?

Last week, right after I completed one such high speed ascent, Ava whispered to Lori, "I wish I could do that" referring of course to the speed, not my forgetful forgetfullness.  The next day I was in our bedroom when I heard Ava's footsteps coming up the steps (Not hard to distinguish her footsteps--it's either a small cat or Ava.  And we don't have a cat.) except for this time the rhythm was different.  Instead of the step 1-2, step 1-2 (bringing both feet together on a step before continuing to the next one) it was a steady, and quick, step, step, step, meaning that she was exerting her slightness to to the max, taking each step in stride.  A very short, very quick, stride.  I went to meet and encourage her when, three steps from the top, she misstepped and cracked her left shin on the steps.  She howled that, "I just got hit in the shins" kind of howl and demanded comfort--from Lori.  After all, I was the maniac that inspired this treacherous feat.  I wanted to hug her and convince her to ignore my approach--whether up the steps or in life.

But of course I didn't, nor can I.  Parenthood after all is the recognition that we might be disastrously duplicated in some cases, and in other cases deliberately deleted. But despite the little time we've got, I have to think we can do some good.

**Ok, I'll admit it: this post probably wasn't motivated by Greek cinema or sweet old people at the grocery store.  I'm pretty sure it came from the season finale of Modern Family.

the best

We try to balance the fact that we want our kids to know we think they are the best, with the realization that others will likely not feel the same way. By striking this balance we instill in them a sense of our genuine adoration while also allowing room for the distinct possibility that we might be wrong. You know, keep them on their toes. If they can see that the world is collectively a bit more objective than us, they shouldn't have reason to get too carried away with their own greatness.

I have no reason to believe that we aren't failing.

Last week I was in the car with the girls and I heard Zoe exclaim for the back seat, "I'm so sick and tired of being so strong!" I then heard kissing noises and adjusted the rear-view mirror to find Zoe kissing her biceps repeatedly.

Lori signed the kids up for the kiddie marathon which coincides with the Illinois Marathon in a couple of weeks. When she told the kids this, Brennan got serious, then responded, "I'll probably get 2nd or 3rd. I mean, it's against all the other kids in town, right? Yeah, 2nd or 3rd."

Although, if we were failing, Brennan would have assumed 1st. And Zoe would have kissed her calf muscles. Right? Right? Good. Maybe we aren't failing after all.

sun of a beach

Given my affinity for the beach and 70s soul rock, I should probably be well-equipped to recognize and deal with the classical elements. This week's trip to the Redneck Riviera revealed that I still have a ways to go.

fire
On day one, Lori and I split the responsibilities of applying sunblock to the kids. My victims were Brennan and our nephew *Carter (who is as fair-skinned as he is wise and kind). That evening the girls (Lori, Zoe, and Ava) were the Pocahontas to our Sebastian. I wish that I could report that day one taught me a lesson and I was more thorough thereafter - but Carter's legs suggest otherwise. For the record, Ava's left nostril got really red on Tuesday. Lori, you disappoint me.

water & wind
On the last day I wanted to end the trip well - you know, something memorable that would let the kids conclude their completely enjoyable vacation on a high note. The wind was fierce and I thought it would be a good idea to purchase one of those sturdy two-person rafts to show the kids a raucous fun time. They loved the idea, and down we went to the beach walking right past the red flag hoisted on the pole. Red stands for DANGER! STAY OUT OF THE WATER! I thought it was the Alabama state flag. Roll Tide. Literally.

I dragged Brennan and Carter about 10 feet out. Anything deeper would have been irresponsible. What I failed to recognize is that a foot of water quickly becomes a 7 foot wave, and then a foot again real fast. So, on the first wave the boys were lifted seven feet in the air, flung out of the raft, and then whipped down into little more than a puddle. It was basically like jumping off a garage into a baby pool. Carter limped out of the water woozily rubbing his face and Brennan sauntered away clutching his shoulder.

In an effort to validate the rafting experience, I persuaded Zoe to give it a go. She reluctantly said yes. It went perfectly. She laughed, gliding smoothly across the waves, smoothly stopping at the edge of the tide on the wet sand. I got a bit too comfortable with the ease of the experience and let her get in the way of a real wave. It flipped the raft upside down sending her into the foamy madness. I desperately grabbed onto her leg for fear of losing her beneath the bubbles. When I pulled her out of the water (by the leg) she was, umm, freaking out. People began fleeing the beach. Not because my public decisions were causing them discomfort (right?), but because Zoe's crying sounded like a hurricane siren. It lasted five minutes until Lori gave her the all clear signal.

So, there they all sat: Lori shaking her head, Brennan rubbing his shoulder, Carter with a bruised cheek, Zoe not looking at me, and Ava averting my gaze because the answer was clearly 'no.' I was left with nothing else to do but give them a good show. Not so they could see 'how it's done,' but rather to punish myself for having put them in harm's way. I went out a good twenty feet, put my back to the torrent, and got flung. I almost rebroke my wrist and was still sneezing out water 4 hours later. Last day at the beach: a success. More or less.

earth
On this trip through the southern United States I became acquainted with, and amused by (mostly in Alabama and Mississippi), the three Bs of Southern subtlety. Bigotry, as evidenced by the proud public display of the confederate flag. Yeah, yeah...southern heritage, blah blah blah. It's racist and divisive and I think you probably know it. Belief, as revealed by the humongous billboard outside of Tupelo, MS that said (in red, all caps) "If you don't go to Church, the Devil will getcha!" It was so frightening that I almost told the kids to look in the opposite direction. Had they looked however, they may have seen evidence of the third B: Breasts. That's right, "Big Jim's Boobie Bungalow" of Elkton, TN. I wanted to applaud Big Jim for his alliteration, until we went in for lunch and saw the cost of a soda ("Mommy, why doesn't this restaurant have any windows?"). Just kidding.

My favorite bit of subtlety doesn't get a letter, because it was too awesome. And it wasn't really southern (and let's be honest, besides the confederate flag, the other two Bs could be found in other places as well). In northern Alabama the gas was only $3.59/gallon and the station was advertising a "2 for $1.79" candy special. Perfect. Our gaggle of 6 walked into the station, with each of the kids receiving directions that they could choose one package of candy ($1.79+$1.79 = 4 packages for the 4 children). The attendant was on the phone as we perused the candy section. I watched her, convinced that she was going to a) stay on the phone when I got to the register and b) fail to grant the candy special. It was completely cynical of me. But trust me, I had my reasons.

I walked up. She kept talking on the phone. Eyes puffy from late night partying or late night crying. She did not acknowledge me. She manually typed in the price of the "food items" into the register. *blood began boiling* She gave me the first two for $1.79, then charged me $1.79 each for the next two. I stopped her, "that's two for $1.79, right?" "Yes," she replied. Then she pulled the receipt out of the register and gave it a look (still on the phone). She realized that something wasn't right. I asserted, "You charged me $1.79 for each package of skittles. You can give me $1.79 back, or I'll go get two more packs of skittles." (magnanimous flexibility, I know) She looked at me, looked at the skittles, and responded, "You mean I owe you one more pack of skittles. Can I call you right back? " *face getting hot* "No, two." She put the phone down. She looked at the skittles, then up at me, then at the receipt. She continued doing this for 45 seconds, and then right before I launched into full fledged patronization (I had my eye on a pen and scrap of paper where I could to the math, along with using skittles for a visual if necessary. I would have hated myself for doing this of course, but I was ready to do it) she relented, "go ahead and get two more packages of candy." Vindication. I grabbed the candy, and out we walked. However, before crossing the threshold to the parking lot, the attendant looked at our crew, looked at Lori's adorable belly, and with a smirk asked, "When's that one due?" Touché. Message received, you win: "I might not be able to add, but at least I know what a condom is." I was still laughing as we crossed into Tennessee. The earth got me too. Or at least this little southern patch of it anyway.

* it took my sister Kari, due to a series of unfortunate travel events, approximately 16 hours (cumulative) to get Carter to our house in Champaign from her home in the Chicago suburbs (pre-trip) and back (post-trip). I told Kari that 16 hours is ~8 hours less than the cumulative time it took us to drive to the Gulf of Mexico and back, while passing through 6 states. Carter more poignantly told Kari on their way home (he was only mildly lucid, I'm sure) that it had "taken half the time to get home as it took to get to paradise." As a result, Kari knows some nice guys in Morris, IL who let her use their phone and probably has a mild addiction to the drug Exadreen (Excedrin).

the explorer

I didn't grow up in California or Arizona, so I'm not going to pretend that I know what 'authentic Mexican food' actually is. 90% of my Mexican food experience has been sizzling chicken fajitas in a cast iron pan with a little oven mitt on the handle ordered from a restaurant named either 'Los' or 'Dos' something. However, when I heard about the new little taco joint in town that made homemade corn tortillas, even this Midwesterner knew it was something special.

Well, it is special. And delicious. Maize is tiny, but where else can you eat pumpkin flower quesadillas and huitlacoche (corn fungus: looks like newborn poo but tastes like heaven)? Given its size and growing popularity, it's not the easiest place to eat with a family of five. However, given Lori's current 'state,' if it's Maize she wants, it's Maize we all get.

The second we squeezed our way in, Zoe picked up on the authenticity. Not the food or the smells, but the language. The students were still on break, so we were the only native English speakers in the whole place. And Zoe was not about to be an outsider. It started out soft and surreptitious. With her eyes half closed she made a noise and nodded her head in approval when the server/cook/cashier brought us the chips and salsa. Zoe was saying "thank you," but she wasn't. She was warming up. I continued watching her, wondering what her next move would be. She honed in on the two women at the counter speaking lighting fast Spanish. Then she looked at me and I knew it was on.

Zoe began speaking Spanish. Only, it wasn't Spanish, it was nonsense. And she didn't stop. She utilized her English vocabulary only when it was absolutely necessary. For example, when she wanted some of my quesadilla she said, "Ma na ma na fooo shee tan too wooo wee taco." The words sounded Chinese but her accent was Eastern European. I was really hoping that the hours spent watching Dora would pay off. That she would throw in a "mochila, mochila" or a well placed "Vamo-nos!" but no, it was consistently and persistently Sino-Ukrainian nonsense.

As she became more comfortable her chatter got louder and she became more insistent that I join in the fun. I didn't know whether to use the little Spanish I remember, or start going fluent Portuguese. I decided against any attempt at legitimacy, and I too became a Muppet. Ma na ma na. Zoe was very pleased. Our conversation extended beyond utility (va shee mono too tee ly ly chips please?) and into the personally significant. If we are going to do this, by golly we are really going to do this. "Va la mee tok na na, boys?" Zoe responded unintelligibly, but I'm pretty sure she meant, "You're the only boy for me." She then began using hand gestures and telling me about her day. I think.

When the server/cook/cashier prematurely came and took our chips, I was kind of in a groove, so I almost told her "fa shee no khana me me Swiper." Which means, "Swiper no swiping." But I didn't. Zoe and I smiled, and then resumed our adventure.

so you think she can dance?

During 2011, like most other years, we danced a lot in our house. Some of the things we do frequently as a family we're good at, and should be continued. Dancing is not one of them. When Lori dances, the kids lose it, doubling over with laughter and awe as their typically reserved and mild-mannered mother dishes out something that was popular circa 1998 at the Pike house in Murray, KY. Me, I'm a deliberate disaster. I'm there for the laughs, that's it. However, over time the kids have built up immunity to my ridiculous gyrations, causing me to up the ante with each successive dance off. The result is basically Urkel doing a Napoleon Dynamite impersonation. Minus the moderate level of fame. It's border-line grotesque.


Brennan is convinced he has the same dancing potential as his friends Zaire and Omarion. He can do a pretty nasty worm, is getting better at the Dougie, and has mastered (thanks to my brother-in-law Kelly) the Bernie*. But that's the extent. Most of the time he looks like he's having a seizure. A very white seizure. I have NO idea where he gets it. My gosh, what am I doing to my son...


Zoe is the exception to our familial dancing woes. She can kill it. I don't even know where she gets some of her moves. When she is in the zone, completely oblivious to her audience, the girl shows that the 'B' in 'Ballet' is for 'Beyonce.' It's like watching The Nutcracker on BET. I'm both impressed and concerned.


Ava is still a bit too young to tell. She certainly gets out there with everyone else, but only (I think) because it is a 'big' thing to do, and if it's 'big' it's Ava's. Her trademark move at the moment is a very subtle shake of the butt. Which, when you're as small as Ava, turns into a very subtle shake of the entire body. But if we draw attention to how cute she is being, the show stops. Immediately. "Kiss my back."



With that series of unfortunate movements in your head, here's a list of 11 songs that we danced/listened** to a lot in 2011. My hope is that we find 12 new songs in 2012. And that we listen to them. Sitting still.

Happy New Year***.

Ashes & Fire Ryan Adams
Quarter Chicken Dark Duncan, Thile, Meyer, Yo-Yo Ma
Here Tonight STS
Towers Bon Iver
Scarlet Town Gillian Welch
Helplessness Blues Fleet Foxes
How Come You Never Go There Feist
The Show Goes On Lupe Fiasco
He Won't Go Adele
Drmz AA Bondy
Ballad of Treason Abigail Washburn

* Kelly taught the Bernie to everyone on Christmas day. You can learn it quickly by watching this video, or the classic 1980s movie, Weekend at Bernie's. I would suggest watching the latter. I should add that it's easy to confuse this dance move with a tantrum. Like the other day when I told Brennan he couldn't play the Wii, and Zoe asked, "Why's he doing the Bernie?"

** ok, we listened to a LOT more Black Eyed Peas than this list would suggest.

*** maybe the fourth Franz will bring a little more Zoe, and a little less Brennan, to the dance troupe. We'll let you know when she arrives in early July.