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.

dungeons and dragons

It's just Ava and me at home this afternoon. Lori is off with Brennan and Zoe enjoying the first day of Winter break at Skateland. Admittedly, I really like a quiet house in the middle of the afternoon. It's rare, but oh so enjoyable. It is prime time to do one or more of the following (in order of necessity):

1) Work
2) Nap
3) Read

After putting Ava down for her nap, my plan was to progress through that list over a three hour period in the following order: 1, 3, 2. However, 30 minutes in, I realized that none of that was going to happen. It started when she stuck her legs through the slats in her crib and donkey kicked against the wall, sending herself and her crib sliding into the middle of the room (this happens frequently, so I could tell what was going on simply by the sounds coming from upstairs). From there, she began to make a lot of noise - the kind of noise that is both distracting and entertaining. As such, there's really little else to do except ignore my own agenda, and document Ava.

I should preface this by saying that she was clearly tired and I went up to talk to her several times during the course of this performance. Because she was both tired and very entertaining, there's no way I was going to let her get out of taking a nap. So, neglect? Nah. Selfish? Probably a little.

Meowing, loudly. (1:17p)

Screaming, "Can't be mad at me..DAH-DEEEEE!" (1:19p)

Two things were just tossed from her crib. I'm guessing two books - one hard cover, one paper back. (1:22p)

"GO TO SLEEP...KITYYYYY!!!" (1:30p)

"I WANT...YOGURRRRRT!" (1:35p)

"I gonna be mad at you." (1:37p)

"ha ha. nah nah nah. try n' get me. ROARRRR!" (this repeated several times between 1:42p and 1:53p)

"I not asleeeeep, DAH-DEEEE!" (1:56p)

"Good NIGHT! Good NIGHT!" (1:59p)

*singing* "Flushed away. Flushed away. Every day, it's flushed away. You can't pee in my house." (2:02p)

"I'm awake, daddy. I'm awake." (2:03p)

"Come 'n find me, Daddy!" (2:05p)

"Daddy!? *Howl* Daddy!? *Howl* Daddy!?" (2:07p)

"There's a dragon in here." (2:11p)

And then (2:14p), asleep (Ava, not me)**. I feel bad that the last thing she told me prior to slipping into her afternoon slumber was that there was a dragon in her room. However, I'm also fairly impressed. She went to sleep despite the presence of a dragon. Or maybe that was simply the final scene in her performance. "Hey dad, there's a dragon in here. The heroine will slay it and THEN be able to rest knowing the people are safe."

I like that ending. It would have been better 45 minutes ago, but still, overall, a very strong performance.

** I went up to check on her, making sure that 'dragon' wasn't preschooler code for something that should actually concern me.

sex drugs & rock n' roll

When parents use social media as an outlet to share stories about their children, they are clearly doing so because they are a) proud of their children and b) proud of themselves as parents. Typically the latter is masked in doubt, to signal to the reader that while they want you (everyone!) to know about their decisions, they are also a bit unsure about those decisions. After all, who wants to read about a know-it-all. Especially when it comes to parenting. This post, and this blog in general I suppose, are certainly guilty of that. I'm sorry you don't get to read raw parenting posts that involve Lori calling me a 'weirdo' and me giving Lori the bird. Those stories stay at home, and hopefully deep in the recesses of our kids' minds.

It started with Virginia Ave. and progressed when I put houses on Park Place. Zoe had self-selected into the role of banker so she could be in charge of the money. She sat next to me and likely observed me biting my finger nails every time Brennan rounded the "Go to Jail" corner, one roll away from landing on Park Place or Boardwalk (both of which I owned). I wanted to end the game, and I wanted to end it as the winner.

When Brennan bought two houses for Virginia Ave. he handed the money to Zoe and requested his little green return. Zoe** responded, "Two houses for Vagina Avenue, coming right up!" This of course got just the response she was looking for (uncontrollable laughter) and prompted an unexpected and uneasy sideways glance from Brenno. He was laughing, but he was also a bit nervous. Vagina Avenue was clearly not simply a spot on the board, but something that had recently taken on new meaning, and he implicitly told me that with his glance (then proceeded to laugh out loud).

Then I bought two houses for Park Place (the move that would eventually push Brenno into bankruptcy). "Two houses for Penis Place, here you go!" More laughter and another sideways glance from our son. Now vagina I can understand. It sounds funny. He doesn't have one. Learning about it from friends can be uncomfortable. But penis? He's been hanging out with a penis since day one (aware of it since day three) and typically sees me walking around the house at least twice a week Free Willy. But still the explicit discomfort. Vagina Avenue and Penis Place, once distant properties on opposite ends of the board, had become uncomfortably close. Crossing class lines and railroads. Almost neighbors. Certainly sharing some association. I have no idea if he was thinking about it in this way at all, but I was, and it led to the logical (probably unnecessary) conclusion that a sex talk was in order!

I planned my approach days in advance, knowing the exact conditions and location of my assault. My arsenal included one simple but lethal weapon: Mommy Laid an Egg. I typically read a bit of expert opinion before diving into some facet of fatherhood. With sex education however, I have stayed deliberately distant. Mostly. There are a few sources/people I trust, but for the most part I think everyone/everything else is totally insane. Most people cannot talk about the topic calmly, and it leads to education that is either tense and taboo-ridden, or relativistic and suggestively exploratory. So, I chose the book that has led to the most bans and critiques from the groups I trust the least, and use that as my go to. Mommy Laid an Egg is hilarious, informative, and in my opinion, completely sweet. It starts with a couple of hippies naively teaching the birds and bees to their kids and ends with crayon stick drawings (by the kids) of their parents having sex on a a skateboard. I placed this book in Brennan's backpack prior to heading out to his first real concert (The Avett Brothers).

The concert was great. Brennan got a little tired prior to the end but not before me getting teary-eyed during Murder in the City and Brennan getting his first good whiff of pot ("What's that smell? Is that a skunk? Did you toot?" "I'll explain in the car."). On our way out to the car Brennan asked what he could do on the way home. I told him that I packed a book for him to read. After explaining the smell to him (soccer is great because it usually provides some good material in these situations: "Is that why Maradona got kicked out of soccer?" "I'm sure Maradona smoked marijuana, but he got in trouble for cocaine and hamburgers.") he got into the book. I watched him in the rearview mirror. He was thoughtful. Then amused. Then confused. He read a couple of pages several times. He laughed, then put it away. Then gave me the same sideways Monopoly glance. Then he asked "What?"

What followed was a great conversation about eggs, seeds, tubes, holes, love, marriage, choices, and consequences. We both laughed. He told me about some jokes he had heard at school. He asked me if this is the reason that lesbians have to adopt kids to become mothers ("Because there's no seeds, just eggs, right? "Exactly."). He asked me if sex was bad, to which I responded of course not. That it is special, and fun, and powerful. He made the connection that if it weren't those things, people probably wouldn't do it, and then there probably wouldn't be people on the earth. And the earth needs people. Exactly. We talked about boundaries and unintended consequences.

We talked about a number of other things I won't share, with Brennan gracefully concluding the conversation, bringing us full circle, by asking about the UEFA Champions League. "Do you think Real Madrid will win this year?"

"Yes, buddy. I do. And here's why..."

** later in the evening Zoe would reprise her role as the family's raunchy stand up comic by butting in as Ava sang the ABCs with, "l-m-n-o VAGINA!"

3 > 32

There is surely a bit of narcissism behind the human desire to procreate. "Oooh, what fun! A little version of me. The world will be thrilled!" Or, "Ooooh, this could be scary. For the world's sake I hope that some of my genes get suppressed." In the former, we are great and should be replicated. In the latter, we recognize that perhaps we aren't so great, but we're excited that maybe we can create someone to share in our seemingly unique quirks. Everyone loves company!

When Lori was pregnant with Ava and we received news that her due date would fall somewhere in October, I'd like to say that her scheduled arrival coinciding with my own birthday had no effect on the aforementioned egoism, but alas, it didn't. I envisioned the two of us together, exuding libra charm as we diplomatically and idealistically floated through our self-indulgent lives. However, when Ava was born the day before my birthday (Oct. 8th to my 9th), it turned out to be a little too close for comfort. For the past three years now I have endured birthday cakes decorated with dogs and princesses. I have to yell, by myself, "AND DADDY!!" right after everyone else sings 'happy birthday, dear Ava.' In short, my shortsighted narcissism has backfired in a very serious way, rendering me obsolete and forgotten. The Fall used to be mine. No more.

In reality, sharing October with Ava is a delight. Much like Ava herself. For the week leading up to the 8th and 9th we'd play a little happy birthday game that could have only two players: Ava and me. I'd say, "Happy Birthday, Ava." And she would respond "Happy Birthday, Daddy." Ava, now that she is three, has found an entertaining new sense of self. She rejects any adjective BUT Ava used to describe her. "You are tired, aren't you?" "No, I Ava." "You are hungry, right?" "No, I Ava." She also keeps her prized possessions in a decorative bird cage that Lori elegantly placed next to her crib. Last night in the bird cage I found a bag of trail mix, a toy walkie talkie, a pocket watch, and a headband. Like something you'd see in Grey Gardens.

Gentzy tends to be my favorite adjective as well. I just looked in the drawer of my beside stand: Toy soldiers. Deodorant. Envelopes. A certificate recognizing my credentials as a minister in the Universal Life Church .

Ava, I love your company.