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...

red card

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

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

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

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

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

but it seemed like such a good idea

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

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

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

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

just kids

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