Look what you can do with a full head of hair.

/

Oh, how I long for the days when I had enough hair to have this level of hat head.

Not really, but still, it's cute. Right?

My daughter betrayed me. I'll say it doesn't hurt, but truthfully, it hurts a lot.

/

My daughter - who is in first grade - told her friends at school that I was a DJ.

Her friends, most sensibly, were impressed. They made the motion that DJ's make when scratching records and asked, "Does he do wiki-wiki?" 

"What'd you say?" I asked.

"I told them that you weren't that cool." Then she looked me in the eye and said, "You're not that cool, Daddy."

What the hell does she know? She's in freakin' first grade.

For the record, I can certainly scratch as her friends described, but I do so digitally and not often. I'm a wedding DJ. It's more about management of the wedding, establishing fast and productive relationships with people, and coordination of services.

Much less about my slick mixes and cool jams.

Little girl makes little boy's dream come true.

/

It's nice to have a big sister who is willing to build you a jet pack that you can wear around the house. 

My daughter has become a same-sex marriage activist and a storytelling promoter

/

As we were leaving the playground yesterday, a little boy approached my six year-old daughter and asked to be her friend.

I wasn't surprised. In the span of about an hour, Clara had organized the other four girls at the playground - all older than her - into a massive game of 'Neighbors" and had placed one of the girls in charge of her younger brother, Charlie. She was leading Charlie through the maze of tubes and holding his hand as he slid down the slide. 

The boy must've seen Clara as some kind of organizational friendship savant.  

Clara asked the boy for his name - which I can't remember - and then suggested this:

"You should ask your mommy and daddy, or your mommy and mommy, or your daddy and daddy if you can come over my house sometime."

Then she gave the boy our address, thankfully reversing the two digits of our house number. She asked the boy for his address, but he didn't seem to understand the question. 

Then she said (as I feverishly recorded her words into Evernote):

"Do your parents ever go to Speak Up? That's a show that my mommy and daddy own, and they do shows all over the place, so maybe your parents know my mommy or daddy, because they know a lot of people and a lot of people go to their shows. And if they don't go, they should. It's great. Except I've never gone. I always have a babysitter, which is fun, too. "

At this point, the boy - who was about Clara's age - looked shell shocked. Too much information for him to process at one time. 

Clara then reached out, hugged the boy, and said, "Maybe I'll see you here sometime. Go play with those girls. I taught them Neighbors."

She waved goodbye, and we walked away, leaving the boy looking a little lost.

"That was a nice boy," I said to Clara.

"Sure," Clara said. "But he didn't really talk much."

Her willingness to share our address with a stranger was mildly disconcerting, but otherwise, I couldn't have been more proud of my little girl. Her acceptance of same sex marriage always warms my heart, and her promotion of Speak Up was impressive.

But mostly, I am astounded by her ability to talk to strangers with such ease. Two nights ago, while eating dinner at a restaurant, she walked across the room to a table where a woman was eating dinner with her sister and her infant son.

From afar, I watched Clara chat with these women for at least three minutes for returning to the table to tell me that the boy's name was Nathan. He was three months old. He likes to eat. He doesn't cry much. This was his first time in a restaurant.       

As we were leaving, the mother called me over to her table and told me that talking to Clara was like talking to one of her girlfriends.

Her mother gets the credit for most of this. Whether it's genetic or a learned behavior, she is slowly becoming the spitting image of Elysha. 

Thank goodness. For a while, it was looking like she would be more like me. 

Owl hunters interrupt fiction writer's flow

/

In case you didn't know what an owl hunter looked like, here are two are in the flesh. Note the uniform: 

Pajamas. Straw hat or beach pail worn as helmets. Rain boots.

Each is also equipped with a mode of transport (scooter or tricycle) and a flashlight. 

In this training run, I served as the owl. Lights in the house were turned off because the taller of the two hunters noted that owls are not diurnal. They are nocturnal. 

You never know what is going to interrupt my attempt to get a little writing done. 

My daughter's first homework assignment: First steps on a rotten road

/

It's my daughter's first homework assignment. 

She didn't mind doing it. She said it was easy. It took five minutes. Her brother sat with her in solidarity.

Still, she has begun a journey that will not be fun. A journey that her father despised. A journey that many kids despise. A journey that most rationale people despise.

My daughter has at least 16 years of homework ahead of her. The poor thing.   

My son says the funniest things. In retrospect.

/

Texts from my wife abut my three year-old son, Charlie:

Driving thru Starbucks. Clara wants a water. I ask Charlie if he wants one, too. He says, "How about no? How about a Dunkin Donut?" 

  1. Charlie woke up early because he pooped. When I went in his room he said, "I pooped. Will you change my diaper and then take care of me in your bed?" So cute. I was hoping he'd get in bed and cuddle and maybe nap but nooo. He was wide awake by then! Now he's chasing Owen around with a Lego saying, "Here kitty kitty kitty!"


Dirt Mountain

/

With the entire beach - sand and water and toys - available to them, my children are naturally drawn to the thrill of a pile of dirt.

My former students occupy such important spaces in my life

/

There have been so many unexpected benefits to my teaching career, but none have been more surprising than the lifelong relationships that I have established with so many of my students.

I first got to know these people as seven or eight or ten year-old children, and so many of them are now adults who occupy such an important space in my life.

My wife posted this on Facebook last night about one of those former students:

“Kate, babysitter extraordinaire and former student of Matt (grade 3) and mine (grade 5) just sang a lullaby over speaker phone to Charlie who wouldn’t go to bed without hearing a song that only she knows. Can I just tell you how special it was for me to hear a kid (well, not anymore) who I taught 12 years ago when she was ten sing my little one to sleep? (The answer is: pretty damn special.) Kate, thank you for making Charlie’s and my night.”
— Elysha Dicks

Not every teacher chooses to forge such close ties with their former students, but I can't for the life of me understand why.



A terrible break in routine

/

My wife took this photo yesterday morning. I love it so much. 

I'm in Brazil, which means that when Clara woke up, she couldn't go downstairs and see her Daddy, who is either writing, sweeping, or getting breakfast ready for her every morning. Not wanting to wake anyone up but with no one to talk to, she plopped herself down in the hallway to wait.  

I love this. It also breaks my heart. I'm one day into my week long trip and I can't wait to get home and see her. 

Whale watch was both perfect and perfectly disgusting.

/

My wife and I took the kids on a whale watch last week. It was the first whale watch ever for me and the kids.

We set sail out of Boston harbor and spent 90 minutes at sea before reaching the area off the tip of Cape Cod where we would find the whales.

In that time, the ocean managed to alleviate about half of the passengers of their previous meal, including my son. He took one bite of a melting chocolate bar and immediately vomited all over himself. 

Thankfully he's three years-old and can get away with being in a diaper and nothing else. Other people on board were not so lucky.   

Charlie also had good reason to be sick. Seas were three to five feet, and the chop was even worse. The bartender told me that she had been working on the boat for ten years and had never felt sick until that day.

So it was bad. My wife felt sick for most of the trip, and about half of the passengers were ill to one degree or another. There was a great deal of groaning throughout the ship, and the cleanup crews were working double time.  

But rough seas equates to excellent whale watching. In addition to watching the whales flap their fins and tails for more than an hour, we saw several humpbacks breach many times from about 100 yards away. They leapt from the water, doing barrel rolls as they crashed back down beneath the waves. 

We were told by several crew members that it was the best whale watching all season.

I actually had tears in my eyes as I watched the whales. Charlie was in my arms, pointing and laughing, watching these incredible animals on display in their natural environment. It was amazing.

As we neared the end of our hour with the whales, I took Charlie and moved to the bow, where a whale was leaping into the air. A minute later, Charlie discovered another meal somewhere in his gut and threw up all over me, and then, just to make the moment complete, threw up into my mouth as well.

A crew member watched it happen and was so disgusted that she had to turn away. 

Here's the thing:

I didn't care all that much. I handed Charlie off to my nearly sick wife for a minor cleanup (since most of the mess was on me) and retired to the restroom, where I removed all of my clothing, washed it in the sink, and put it back on. The clothes were wet and they stunk, but unlike Charlie, I would've looked strange if I had been only wearing my underwear.

But it was fine. I was with my son, and we saw whales, and a little vomit (or a hell of a lot of vomit) wasn't going to stop me.

One of the ladies sitting near the restrooms asked me how I could still be smiling after the horror show that she witnessed. 

I think a few things combined to allow me to retain my smile:

  1. Perspective: Vomit is disgusting, but it's only vomit.
  2. My love for Charlie: I will never forget the look on his face when he saw that first whale.
  3. Patience: I can put up with a lot.
  4. Recognition: I had just witnessed something incredible. 

I didn't tell the lady all that. I just told her that I was tough as nails. And maybe I was.

But I think it was simply my refusal to let a minor, albeit disgusting, bump in the road spoil my day.

One of the most horrifying and disgusting things that has ever happened to me couldn't spoil my day

/

We went to Boston yesterday for a whale watch. It was the first whale watch of my life, and it was the first for the kids as well.

We were excited. Most of the day went exceptionally well.

One moment was exactly the opposite of exceptionally well. 

We stopped at Jeff Kinney's bookstore in Plainville, MA on the way down. Kinney is the author of the Diary of a Wimpy Kid books, which children adore and buy in bushels. We explored the shop. Perused titles. Bought books. I saw Jeff Kinney and waved. He was busy with customers and we were in a hurry or I would've waited to chat with him. Maybe next time.

And yes, he didn't have any of my books in stock, but I'll forgive him for that. Perhaps he doesn't know that I lived about two miles from his store for a good portion of my life. Perhaps he doesn't realize that many of my books mention the area of Massachusetts where is store is located and I have actually set my next book in his neck of the woods. Maybe he just hasn't gotten around to reading any of my books yet. There are a lot of books in the world and a limited number of hours. Regardless of the absence of the works of Matthew Dicks, it was a beautiful store.   

Opening a bookstore is a dream that Elysha and I have shared for a long time. It was a little inspiring to see his shop doing so well. Now all I have to do is sell a bajllion books and build a store of my own.

The whale watch was excellent. The ocean was extremely choppy, with swells of 3-5 feet, but we saw humpback whales breech over and over again. They flapped their fins and tails at us and came along side the boat, close enough to almost touch. The crew told us that they haven't seen this many whales breech all season long. Apparently the rough water is tough on the stomach but excellent for whale watching.  

The bartender also told me that in the ten years she had been working on the ship, this was the first time she felt like she might throw up. The swells and cop were that bad. In fact, people all over the ship were getting sick. 

This explains why our three year-old son, Charlie, threw up about nine seconds after he ate a piece of chocolate. Thankfully, he was sitting about a foot away from me and managed to contain the mess to his own clothing. We stripped him down to his underwear and he was fine. Bounced back like a champ. Onward to the whales!

Later, when he and I were at the front of the boat, watching the whales together, he threw up again. This time it wasn't so good. I was holding him in my arms, and he managed to almost completely cover me in vomit before throwing up into my mouth. It was horrifying. It was disgusting. It was perhaps one of the most disgusting moments of my life. 

But it was Charlie, so somehow, it was okay. I never felt sick. Never felt angry or annoyed. Just bad for the little guy, even though I was covered in his wretch.

Parenthood boiled down to its essence.  

We were about 90 minutes from port, so I washed my clothes in the restroom sink, put them back on soaking wet and stinking, and enjoyed our ride home while Elysha, who also wasn't feeling well, slept and Charlie sang and Clara drew. 

You might think that spending hours in vomit-infused clothing would ruin my day. You might think that having your son throw up in your mouth might ruin your life. 

But no. I waved to Jeff Kinney. Bought a book. Ate fish and chips at Legal Seafood. Saw enormous whales leap from the ocean and wave to me with their fins and tails. Ate some macaroni and cheese on the way home. 

A gallon or so of vomit couldn't ruin a day like that. 

My daughter manages money better than most Americans. And unlike me, her savings weren't eaten by a dog named after a video game.

/

For almost a year, my six year-old daughter, Clara, has been saving her allowance and birthday money for a dollhouse that she saw at Barnes & Noble one day. 

Clara receives $1 per week (plus additional quarters for the completion of additional chores), of which she divides amongst her long term, short term, and charity jars. She is required to put a quarter in each jar and put the remaining quarters wherever she wants. For months, all of her extra quarters (and birthday money) have been going to long term savings.

On Sunday, her total in the long term savings jar exceeded $90, which meant that she had the $89 need to purchase the dollhouse.

When I was ten years-old, I saved $100 selling lemonade, leftover food from my grandfather's picnic, and my brother's toys (I don't think he knows about this even today), only to have my wallet and all but $6 eaten by my dog, Pac-Man. 

I had been selling my grandfather's barbecue chicken, and some of the sauce had gotten on the money, drawing Pac-Man's attention.  

I cannot tell you how impressed I was with my little girl. She made a plan, demonstrated patience and perseverance, and it finally paid off. I know many, many adults incapable of saving money and waiting like she did. 

When we arrived at Barnes & Noble, I immediately went to the cashier and warned her that my daughter would be buying a dollhouse and paying in about $20 worth of quarters and many small bills. I thought it was important that Clara use the actual money that she had saved when buying the dollhouse. I wanted her to connect effort with reward.

The cashier's response should have been a smile and congratulations to my daughter, but instead I received a scowl and a complaint that she didn't have any quarter rolls.

I was annoyed.

Not only was she legally required to accept our payment regardless of denomination, but a little bit of excitement for our daughter;s accomplishment would have been nice. I will never understand who some customer service people don't choose to simply be kind and polite.

Thankfully, by the time we returned with the dollhouse, scowling cashier had been replaced with a cashier who was genuinely excited for my daughter. We counted quarters on the side while she took customers, and once we were ready, she took Clara's money with a smile and many, many congratulatory remarks.  

The way it's supposed to be done.

Clara is saving again. She's not sure for what yet, but she told me that she will start saving while she figures out what she wants next. 

She's also been willing do to extra chores around the house, understanding better than ever how effort can result in reward, and more importantly, what the earned realization of that reward feels like.