My first grade daughter: "I love Charlie, even when he drives me up the wall."
She paused. Smiled. Then continued.
"By the way, 'drives me up the wall' is an idiom. I learned it in school. Do you know what an idiom is, Daddy?"
Charlie is starting to come around to Star Wars. His sister is not a fan (only because the boys at school love Star Wars), so he has assumed the same position out of blind loyalty. But he is beginning to crack.
Eventually we'll watch the films together and enjoy them.
Another thing that will sadly change in regards to Charlie and Star Wars (but hopefully not too soon): He doesn't call the movie Star Wars.
He calls it Star Whores. It's hilarious.
Out of curiosity, I looked to see if there is a movie called Star Whores.
Of course there is. Actually, it was the an adult sci-fi comedy pilot that never went beyond a pilot. The IMDB description of the show goes like this:
Follows the adventures of Commander Nymphette and her droid, Six-of-Niner, aboard the SS Deep Thruster.
Reading the IMDB page for this TV series is quite entertaining. I won't share all of the amusing tidbits found on the page except for these two:
Strikes me as a tad informal.
For the record, I also have an IMDB page (which I rate as one of my greatest accomplishments ever). I'm listed as a writer for the film Unexpectedly, Milo, which is currently under development.
I'm hoping that someday soon, we will move past development and into production. And with people other than Big Jim and Ken and his dad.
I know it's my kid, but it's so damn cute.
Seven year-old Clara told three year-old Charlie, "I only have the capacity to listen to Brass Monkey once at a time, so stop singing it please."
Yes, she used the word "capacity."
And yes, Charlie was singing The Beastie Boys' Brass Monkey. Credit my wife for my children's outstanding taste in music.
Charlie's response: "You're a funky monkey, Clara."
My kids are killing it today.
My daughter, Clara, celebrated her seventh birthday Saturday.
At the party, I asked her where one of her friends was.
She said, "Oh, she lives in an urban community - you know, a place like Hartford - so it may take her a little while to get here."
An urban community.
First grade has changed quite a bit since I spent my time eating paste.
My three year-old son discovered his mother's heartbeat today.
He calls them "heart beeps."
Don't you dare correct him.
I wrote this seven years ago today, upon the birth of my daughter.
Today she celebrates her seventh birthday. Such a big girl.
_______________________________________
Our day began yesterday, at 11:53 PM, when you mother awoke me from twenty minutes of glorious sleep to inform me that her water had broken. In fact, it was still breaking as I awoke. I could hear the splashing from the bed. Despite the hours of birthing class and hundreds of pages that Mommy and I read on pregnancy, we both stared at one another and asked, “What do we do?”
It was at this point that both us fell into an “I told you so” situation. For me, I doubted that your mother was experiencing contractions, since the brutal, possibly hedonist midwife earlier that day had told me that there was “no mistaking contractions.” Since you mom said that she thought it might be contractions, I assumed that she was experiencing cramps and that we should probably not go to the hospital yet.
Your mother, in a bit of a panic, insisted that we go and refused my suggestion to call the doctor first and bring Kaleigh to the Casper’s house before heading off. Less than fifteen minutes later, she was on the phone with the doctor, and for a moment, she was wishing that the Caspers weren’t already on their way to our home.
Oh well. Mommy and Daddy aren’t always perfect.
After loading up the car and waiting for Jane to arrive to pick up Kaleigh, we were off, leaving the house at 12:30.
Seven minutes later, we arrived at the hospital, and I dropped Mommy off in order to park the car. I said, “Don’t wait for me. Just go up.” She replied, “There’ll be no waiting for you” and exited the car. I admit that I secretly hoped that by the time I made it up to the sixth floor, you would be well on your way out.
No such luck.
Mommy was filling out paperwork with a nurse when I arrived in the delivery center, and it was at this time that I finally understood the degree of Mommy’s pain. As she was being asked questions, her responses were not very coherent. Of course, her contractions were coming every three to four minutes, which explains the pain.
After being led to our room, we met Cassie, the first of two nurses who we would come to adore throughout the process. Cassie was with us throughout the evening, making us comfortable and helping us to catch a few hours of sleep. After arriving, we learned that Mommy was almost entirely effaced but not dilated at all. We were shocked. On the way over, we took wagers on how dilated she would be. She said 4 centimeters would make her happy, and I was hoping for 7.
Zero was a disappointment.
Thankfully, our humanitarian doctor, who doesn’t believe that women should ever suffer through childbirth, offered to administer the epidural immediately, even though birthing class instructors informed us that it would not be done before 4 centimeters. This was the first of what we discovered to be several false statements made by birthing class instructors, including their assertion that the hospital had no Wi-Fi, which I am using at this moment.
I left the room for the epidural (though Cassie said I could stay, which my birthing instructor said would never happen), and even though Mommy hasn’t said much about it, it seemed to go well. The anesthesiologist was a bit of a jerk, but otherwise, the needle, the meds, and all the horrifying aspects of this procedure went off without a hitch. Mommy was terrified during this process, possibly more than any other time in her life, but she held up like a trooper.
With the epidural on board, the pain vanished, the lights were turned off, and Mommy and I managed to sleep for a couple fitful hours. The chair that I attempted to sleep in was a device that harkened back to the Spanish Inquisition in terms of its torture on my neck and back, but later I found the wisdom to open it into a bed and sleep soundly for an hour or two. We slept from about 2:00-4:00, when Cassie checked Mommy again and found her fully effaced and 4 centimeters dilated. Lights went out again until 6:00, when Cassie checked and found Mommy fully dilated.
Hooray. I expected a baby before breakfast and said as much.
She began pushing at 6:30, but in the midst of a shift change, in which Cassie left us and Catherine took over, it was decided to allow you to drop some more on your own before resuming to push.
When Catherine first appeared, we didn’t know who she was, but being the woman she is, your mother immediately requested her name and rank, and we learned that Cassie was leaving us. Cassie was wonderful; an easy going, friendly, and warm woman with three young kids of her own who was perfect for helping us to rest and relax during the night. Catherine was warm and friendly as well, but she was also a bit of a drill sergeant, specific and demanding in her orders, and it was just what your Mommy needed when she began pushing again around 8:00. This was the hardest time for your mother. She pushed consistently from 8:00 until 11:30, but because of the placement of your mother’s pubic bone and the angle of your head, you simply would not come out. The vacuum was attempted briefly, but at last, it was determined that a c-section would need to be done.
A few interesting notes from the pushing:
Several times, Catherine encouraged Mommy to find some anger with which to help push. “Get mad,” she would say. “Find something to be angry about.” Your mother continually asserted that she had nothing in her life with which to be angry. Finally, Catherine acknowledged that she was dealing with the sweetest person on the planet.
Your mother never yelled at me and never uttered a single word of profanity during the entire process.
Throughout the pushing, I was receiving and sending texts to your grandmother, Justine, and Cindy, who were all dying to find out what was going on. I also managed to update my Facebook and Twitter accounts throughout the morning.
When the vacuum was brought into play, the room filled with about eight doctors and nurses. At one point, a nurse asked me to hold your mom’s leg, which I had been doing all morning. Catherine said, “Not him. He doesn’t get off of that stool.” Though I didn’t feel queasy or weak in the knees, she saw something in me that indicated otherwise. Later I was sent out of the room to “drink some juice.”
When the decision was made to extract you via c-section, things got fast and furious and I left your mom for the first time today in order to don a pair of scrubs while she was rolled into the operating room and prepped. It was at this time that I was forced to remove my Superman tee-shirt, which had been specifically chosen for the event. I wanted your first glimpses of me to be reminiscent of the man of steel.
The best laid plans of mice and men.
When I entered the OR, the doctors were already working on your mother, and I inadvertently caught a view of her before I was ushered to a stool behind the screen and told not to move. Yikes!
Sitting beside your mom’s head and three anesthesiologists who were busy at work injecting Mommy with more medicine than I could have ever imagined, I listened and waited with her. It took about fifteen minutes before I heard your first cries and one of the doctors leaned over the screen and said, “Here it comes. Do you want to know if it’s a boy or a girl?”
“Yes,” we said in unison.
“It looks like… a girl,” he said, and immediately thereafter, the docs behind the screen began asserting the same. We began crying while we listened to your cry and caught our first glimpses of you as a nurse was preparing to weigh you. A couple minutes later, after managing a 9/9 on your apgar scores, you were handed to me, the first time I have ever held an infant without the protection of a sofa and many cushions.
You were simply beautiful.
Because of the position that Mommy was still in, she wasn’t able to see you well until Catherine finally took you from my nervous arms, flipped you upside down like a football, and held your face to hers.
I’ll never forget this moment.
Your mom was forced to remain on the table, arms outstretched and pinned, for more than an hour while the doctors stitched her up. She began to go a little stir crazy for a while, unable to move and shivering uncontrollably, and we tried to calm her by massaging her shoulders and rubbing her arms.
Eventually the surgery ended, and you were finally handed to Mommy. The two of you were rolled into Recovery while I had the pleasure of telling your grandparents, Aunty Emily, and soon-to-be Uncle Michael all about you. There were many tears. Your grandfather laughed, your grandmother cried, and in keeping with her character, Emily was indignant over her inability to see you and her sister immediately.
She’s one demanding babe.
It’s almost 9:00 PM, and we are now sitting in our room, resting and chatting. You are asleep and have been for the past few hours. I must leave soon in order to go home so that I can teach tomorrow and use my time off when you and your mom are at home. My students will be thrilled to see your photos and hear all about you.
For your mother, the three plus hours of pushing were her greatest challenge of the day. For me, the greatest challenge will be leaving this room tonight and not taking you with me. I want nothing more than to hold you in my arms for the next week.
We love you so much, little one. Welcome to the world.
He's not a prodigy. He can't read this book yet. But he loves books and loves to pretend that he's reading them. It's a good start. And he especially loves this one. He's named after a character in it.
Charles Wallace.
This is my daughter's drawing of a Halloween party.
Clara is a black cat.
Charlie is a bird.
Mommy is Cleopatra.
I am toast.
Toast.
When we put our son, Charlie, to bed each night, he complains about having to go to sleep. He refers to it as a "big sleep."
"Mommy, it's going to be a big sleep."
"Daddy, I don't like a big sleep."
We explain to him that a big sleep is important to being healthy and growing up to be a big boy, but damn it, why does he have to phrase his sleep every night in such terrifying existential terms?
Doesn't he know how much his father already suffers from an ever-present, unbelievably potent existential crisis? Doesn't he know how often the fear of death stabs an icy stake in my heart?
The last thing I want to be thinking about as I put my son to bed each night is the real big sleep... the one that will someday obliterate my world.
Thanks, buddy, for hurting me where it hurts most.
I took my daughter on the Essex Steam Train's North Pole Express last night.
For those of you unfamiliar, The Essex Steam Train is a 100 year-old functioning steam train and museum run out of Essex, Connecticut. During the year, you can take a ride the train, celebrate your birthday or your wedding on the train, take the special Thomas the Tank Engine tour, and even take the train to their steamboat, where you can cruise the Connecticut River on their old fashioned steam boat.
There are dozens of special rides and events produced all year long, but their most popular option is the North Pole Express, a ride upriver to the North Pole, where Santa, Mrs. Claus, and their elves board the train. Santa hands each child a toy, the elves deliver cookies and hot chocolate, and Mrs. Claus stops by for photos and chit-chat. The train car is decked out in festive lights and garland, and the ride is hosted by an uproarious elf who leads the train car in song, games, and more.
For a child who believes in Santa Claus (as mine do), it is an amazing ride. And the thousands of tickets to these rides - which run from Thanksgiving through December 29 - sell out almost instantly.
We were supposed to take the ride last week, but the stomach bug hit my daughter hard, forcing us to sell our tickets and reschedule our ride for yesterday,
As fate would have it, the stomach bug then hit my son even harder, providing both him and his parents one of the worst nights of our lives. Unable to reschedule our ride again, we sold Elysha and Charlie's tickets (easily), and with heavy hearts, Clara and I went for the ride on our own.
The ride was spectacular as always. The train car was filled with music and laughter. Children peered into the night with the hope of catching a view of Santa in his sleigh. After about 30 minutes, we arrived at the North Pole, a beautifully decorated location along the track (the steamboat port) where we stopped to allow Santa and his crew to board the train.
All was well until the elves arrived with the cookies. Clara is allergic to peanuts, so before I could even ask, she had grabbed an elf and inquired about the peanut status of the cookie. The elf informed Clara that although the cookie contained no peanuts, it was made in a factory that produced peanut products.
As a result, no cookie for Clara. She was disappointed to say the least. And yes, it was just one cookie, but watching a train filled with children eat cookies baked by Mrs. Claus and handed out by elves while you had none wasn't easy.
The best part came when Mrs. Claus boarded the train for photos. When she reached us, Clara leaned in close and said, "Why aren't your cookies made peanut safe for kids like me?"
Mrs. Claus was a bit flustered but recovered quickly saying, "I'm sorry. I just can't guarantee that they weren't made in a peanut-free environment."
Clara's response: "Why not?"
When Mrs. Claus didn't respond, Clara added, "You should fix this for next year. And what's an environment?"
Mrs. Claus did not answer Clara's question. She smiled and moved on. She probably didn't answer the question because there is no good answer. While I don't think that businesses are required to cater to my daughter's allergy or any food allergy, an attraction like the Polar Express, designed specifically for children, should probably seek to be peanut-free given the surprising prevalence of this allergy.
Right?
There are plenty of peanut-free cookies on the market, and they don't cost any more than the cookies produced with or alongside peanuts. Why not try to mitigate a food allergy that has become sadly and inexplicably common in today's world?
I explained to Clara what an environment is, and I promised to write a letter to the Essex Steam Train asking them to consider providing peanut-safe cookies next year.
She thought this was a great idea.
I also promised to bring cookies of our own next year in case they decided to ignore my letter.
Another winning proposal in Clara's estimation.
And on the way home, I bought her a donut at Dunkin' Donuts - a business that can ensure that their products are peanut free and have therefore earned my business.
Though she was still annoyed about the cookie, she felt that a chocolate glazed donut was an acceptable substitute for the sugar cookies that the elves were handing out on the train.
I have thankfully never suffered from writer's block, but if you do, perhaps you could try this innovative means of writing in hopes of curing it:
Write naked.
I can't say that his work was especially impressive that day, but he was putting words to the page, which apparently is a big deal to anyone suffering from writer's block.
My daughter has a whole host of imaginary friends, who she calls "pretend friends." We hear about them a lot less than we did a couple years ago, but they are still around, and from time to time, we will hear her talking to them.
Audrey. Elizabeth. Anna. The list goes on and on.
Most of these pretend friends are related to one another in some complex family tree that is set in stone in her mind. She expects me to have this family tree memorized as well, and she becomes angry when it's not (which it never is).
Amongst these human pretend friends is Connor, the Unicorn.
Connor went missing about a week ago. The first indication of his absence were the signs that started going up around the house.
Lost unicorn signs.
Then she began talking about his absence. Lamenting it. Looking genuinely sad.
The other day I walked into the living room and found Clara sitting on the couch, head in hands, looking as sad as I have ever seen her.
"What's wrong?" I asked. "Are you sick?"
She answered with one word: "Connor."
This has happened a few times since then. I walk into a room, find her sitting quietly, looking sad, and when I ask what's wrong, she says, "Connor."
You would think that a guy who wrote an entire novel about imaginary friends (and almost finished a sequel) would love this imaginary world that my little girl has created for herself.
You'd think that a guy who had an imaginary friend of his own as a boy (and thought that imaginary friend was real for years and years) would understand his daughter's emotional attachment to her mythical, imaginary friend.
But no. Not if the damn thing is going to make her sad.
Someone please find this stupid unicorn and make my daughter happy again.
BJ Novak's The Book With No Pictures is one of those ingenious books that I wish I had written.
Same holds true for books like The Day the Crayons Quit, The True Story of the 3 Little Pigs, and The Quiet Book.
Clever ideas brilliantly executed.
And I am not the only one this thinks The Book with No Pictures is brilliant.
My son can't really read yet, but watching him "read" The Book With No Pictures is testimonial enough.
My kids and I have been playing Monster, It's a game that I played with my brothers and sister when we were young, and it's a game our father played with us before the divorce forced him from our home.
In the game, I am the monster. I chase my kids. That's essentially it, though recently, Clara and Charlie have begun to add twists to the game.
They each have a ball that they can throw at me, which according to them, should make me stop if they hit me.
They have declared the area an the living room "the Monster's lair" even though I didn't ask for a lair.
They use flashlights to blind me.
They bury me in pillows and declare me captured.
Last week, they added booby traps to the game. I have no idea where they learned this word.
Essentially, they plan traps for me. They put pillows on the floor, hoping that I will trip on them and fall. They reposition furniture in hopes that I won't notice the chair or couch and will run into it and fall down. They use paper and scissors and tape to make nets and snares.
They don't keep the preparation of these booby traps a secret. I hear them plotting in the other room, mostly because they are incapable of whispering. Sometimes they will tell me to stay away until their booby trap is ready. I am never surprised by what they have planned.
Until yesterday.
I heard them plotting a booby trap in the living room, so I waited in the kitchen, giving them time to finish whatever devious plan they had in mind. When they got quiet, I knew it was time. I ran around the corner, roaring and screaming, arms flailing, and found them both standing in the middle of the room, completely naked.
"Naked booby trap!" they screamed and ran towards me. Like any good father who wants to positively reinforce his children's creativity (and because I was honestly so surprised that I was a little frightened), I ran away, chased by two, small, naked children.
Naked booby traps. Who knew?
If only I could get my wife to set a naked booby trap for me.
I took the kids to McDonald's on Thanksgiving morning, thinking that this would be a win-win-win for the entire family.
And for a while, it looked like things would work out well.
We left Elysha at home with a new book and some coffee.
I ate my customary breakfast.
Clara and Charlie enjoyed some pancakes. Then they went off to play while I continued work on my latest novel.
About 15 minutes into my work, I heard Charlie call for help. I waited, hoping that Clara would solve the problem or the problem would go away (as it often does), but when his calls for help increased in volume and intensity, I went to check what was wrong.
I found Charlie about 25 feet off the ground, trapped in a plastic tube connected to the structure by netting on both sides. He had climbed higher than ever before, crossed the netting to reach the plastic tube, but was now trapped, afraid to cross back over. Adding to his fear was the instability of the section of tube in which he was stuck. Every time he moved, it shifted left and right, causing him to freeze in place and cry.
It would be extremely difficult for me to climb to him, and there was a sign indicating that the structure was not built to hold an adult's weight. So I asked Clara to retrieve him, which would've meant climbing higher than she had ever climbed before.
Clara refused, retreating to a corner and sucking her thumb, leaving me without any options. I begged, pleaded, cajoled, demanded, insisted, encouraged, and threatened Charlie for about 20 minutes before Clara finally agreed to climb up and help. She went as far as the netting - a monumental feat for her - but refused to cross over to his tube. From about five feet away, she encouraged Charlie to crawl over to her, reaching her hand across the span and asking him to meet her halfway.
It was while she was trying to coax him across the net that something magical happened.
She said, "Charlie, whisper to yourself what you love most, and that's how you can be brave. That's what I do."
Tears welled up in my eyes. My daughter's wisdom astounded me. And I suddenly found myself wondering when she last needed to be brave. Had I missed it? Was I letting her down? Failing to protect her? Was she afraid more often than I thought?
I felt like I was trapped in a Neil Gaiman novel. Danger and mystery and brilliant words of wisdom swirled around me.
Clara repeated her advice. "Whisper to yourself what you love most, and that's how you can be brave. Do it, Charlie."
Then he did. In a tiny, high-pitched whisper, I heard him say, "Mommy. Mommy. Mommy."
You can't win them all.
Then he moved. Crawled toward the netting. The tube shifted again, causing him to freeze and resume his cries of terror.
Eventually I had to climb through the structure and across the net to scoop up my boy, who was, to his credit, very appreciative. Lots of hugs and kisses and "Thank you, Daddy" and "I love you, Daddy."
I didn't get a lot of work done, and I ended up with skinned knees and a bump on the head, but it was well worth it.
My son, Charlie, has been doing an outstanding job in regards to his potty training. He is in underwear almost all of the time now and rarely has an accident.
Two hurdles that are still left to overcome:
My wife put my three year-old son, Charlie, into timeout after he hit his sister. Ten minutes later, she returned. "Do you know why I put you in timeout?" she asked.
"No," Charlie replied, defiantly.
"Fine, then you'll stay in timeout until you can remember."
My wife turned and took one step before Charlie shouted, "Okay! I slugged Clara!"
Folded like a cheap suit.
Back in July, my six year-old daughter, Clara, bought a Playmobil dollhouse. It cost $89.
Knowing that Mommy and Daddy would not buy it for her, and knowing how far away her birthday and Christmas were, Clara spent months saving her birthday and allowance money ($1 per week) until she had enough to make the purchase.
I was so proud of her.
Now she's done it again.
After purchasing the dollhouse, she set her mind on a Playmobil Santa Village. A $40 toy. And after months of saving her allowance (now $1.25 per week) and money occasionally given to her by family members, she finally had enough to make the purchase.
The toy arrived yesterday. She was thrilled.
Of all the amazing things that my daughter does, I think it's her ability to delay gratification, set a goal, save her money, and then realize that goal that impresses me most.
That and the ridiculous about of love and patience that she has for her brother.
When I watch Clara pile money into her long term savings jar, avoiding the sticker books and other small items that she could be buying and desperately wants, I can't help but think how so many Americans are incapable of doing what she is doing.
It makes me certain that she is going to do well in life. As much as she may want stuff, she understands that it must be earned. Patience is required. Hard work pays off.
She's saving again. She's not sure for what. But she knows that it'll cost money.
