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.

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...