I failed the "Where do babies come from?" question, but only because my son is a biology nerd.

Last night Charlie, my four year-old son, asked me how a daddy puts a baby in a mommy. 

Fear not. I was ready. 

"When a mommy and a daddy love each other," I said, "a baby is born inside a Mommy."

Charlie stared at me for a second, shook his head, and said, "I don't think that's right, Daddy. That's not how it happens. That doesn't make sense. Maybe the doctor puts the baby inside the mommy."

He was genuinely disgusted with my answer.

Then he asked me how a baby could survive in a woman's tummy "with all those gastric juices," which led to a discussion of the womb, which I quickly discovered I was ill equipped to have.  

The boy is obsessed with the human body and might know more than me before long. 

I was stupid when I was young.

My daughter Clara - age 8 - in the midst of eating breakfast and watching Blues Clues, just asked me who won the Nobel Peace Prize in 2016.

"Are they talking about The Nobel Prize on Blues Clues?" I asked. 

"No," she said. "I was reading something about inspirational people in the world yesterday. And I just thought that the Nobel Peace Prize winner from last year would probably be inspirational."

She reminds me every day about how incredibly stupid I was at her age and for many years thereafter. 

My daughter embraces respectful dissent and nonconformity. Even in the face of Trump.

My eight year-old daughter, Clara, is no fan of Donald Trump. Ever since she saw a clip of him speaking poorly to Megyn Kelly on CBS Sunday Morning months ago (it seems like years ago), she has despised the man. 

Nothing since then has convinced her otherwise. Understandably so.

Still, when confronted with a weekly reader at her school featuring a piece on Trump's inauguration, she said, "Most of the kids in my class scratched his face off the cover of the magazine because they all hate him, too. But I didn't. I wanted to be respectful even though I really don't like him." 

Had Clara scratched his face off the magazine. I would not have complained. I may have even cheered the decision. 

Still, I was proud of her. I appreciated her surprisingly nuanced understanding of respectful dissent.

Her little brother, by comparison, is fond of saying that Donald Trump belongs in a trashcan.

A lot less nuance. 

Also, whenever my daughter takes the side of nonconformity, it warms her Daddy's heart. It's not always the path of least resistance (as I well know), but I believe it's the path to inner strength and enlightenment. 

Brother and Sister Day

Yesterday, February 11, my kids declared it Brother and Sister Day, a self-made holiday of sorts.

I thought it was cute when they proposed the idea the day before but thought nothing else of it. I figured that they'd probably forget about the whole thing by the next day.

Boy was I wrong. 

The two of them actually turned it into a genuine holiday, spending enormous amounts of time in each other's company. They didn't argue a single bit. Cuddled frequently. Complimented each other constantly.

They don't fight very often, but yesterday was a genuine love fest.  

And around 6:30 PM, Elysha and I heard Charlie lament, "It's so sad, Clara. Brother and Sister Day is almost over."

"I know," Clara said. "It was such a good day. I love you."

I listen to my kids say these impossible things. I watch them love each other beyond measure. I often turn to Elysha and say, "No one would believe the things our kids say to each other."

I witness all of it and know that they will always have each other.

Each other. It might be the best thing we ever give them. 

My daughter, the eccentric artist

My daughter, Clara, loves to create art. She once said, "I let my mind go wild, and then I fill it with art."

Our living room has become her gallery, with pictures hung with scotch tape all over the walls. While I initially wondered if I wanted a living room covered in marker and crayon drawings, haphazardly hung over every surface, I've grown to love the look of the room. I find myself in many well appointed, meticulously decorated homes, and while they are lovely, my home is a mismatched, chaotic celebration of the imagination of my daughter, and more recently, our son, and I can't imagine anything better.  

There will be time for well appointed and meticulously decorated. For now, I'll take this child-centered place of color and shapes  

Clara's methods, however, can be eccentric. It's not uncommon for me to find her sitting on the table, drawing, coloring, and sketching, even though a perfectly good chair is available. 

Despite of the bizarre seating positions and postures, I can't help but love what my little girl produces.

The Lincoln Memorial. In blocks.

Remember when Donald Trump said that it was “very seldom” for incoming U.S. presidents to celebrate their inaugurations at the Lincoln Memorial, even though both of his predecessors had hosted far larger and more well attended inaugural events at the Lincoln Memorial?

Those were the good old days, before Trump spent a week lying about the size of his disappointing inauguration crowds, blocked immigrants and visa holders from seven majority-Muslim countries, called his decision "a ban" and then became angry at the media for calling it a ban, began the steps for ending Obamacare with nothing at all to replace it, and spoke about Frederick Douglass as if he were still alive.

It's remarkable how much a person can do in just a couple weeks. 

Back then, before the disaster of the last two weeks, Clara asked me questions about the Lincoln Memorial. We looked at some photos. Apparently she did some more looking on her own, and yesterday, she built this from memory.

The Lincoln Memorial. In blocks.

Her only regret: "I couldn't make the 50 steps that I know it has. I just didn't have the right blocks."

A very sweet boy who wants to see your insides

We're so fortunate. Our children are truly beloved by so many of our friends. 

One of those friends is a woman named Kathy, who our four year-old son Charlie feels a special affection for.

A few nights ago, as my wife was tucking in Charlie, he said, "Kathy is my friend."

"I know," Elysha said.

"I can't believe I have a grownup for a friend!" he said, sounding fairly astonished. A moment later, he asked, "Wait. Is Kathy a kid?"

Sweet boy. 

Last night Charlie informed me for the first time that he wants to be a doctor when he grows up. This is a change from his previous career plans of hydrologist or electrician. 

"That's great, Charlie," I said. 

"Yeah," he said. "I want to open people up so I can see what's inside."

Not quite as sweet.

What is wrong with Queens?

My daughter Clara is angry that Super Wings - a TV show about anthropomorphized planes that visit other countries - hasn’t visited Israel yet.

“Or Argentina, at least! Or how about Queens! What’s wrong with Queens?”

Yes, she's talking about Queens, NY. The place we drove through yesterday on our way home from New Jersey.

The perils of the road

This is what happens when you spend the weekend performing in Illinois:

You miss a dance party that was apparently held in your own home.

My little boy is expanding his horizons.

I opened the pantry this morning, and this is what I found.

Apparently his bedroom isn't big enough.  

Deep thoughts in the early morning hours regarding an important consumer product

First words spoken by my daughter at 6:14 this morning:

"Daddy, when I have a baby someday, I'm going to make sure that I have plenty of diapers in the house. And you know what? I'm going to buy Pampers. You know why? Pampers are the number one choice of hospitals."

Three thoughts:

1. Who wakes up thinking about the diapers she will need for a baby that had better be at least two decades away from existing?
2. I'm not opposed to her future use of Pampers (she wore Pampers when she was a baby), but damn, advertising is powerful. She's seven years-old, and Pampers already has its claws in her.  
3. If Pampers is looking for a surprisingly articulate, exceedingly cute, shockingly loyal spokesperson, I have just the right person for them. 

Saturday morning reading material

My daughter spent the first hour of her Saturday morning reading. Her list of subjects included:

• A biography of Barack Obama
• A nonfiction article on the mystery of the Loch Ness Monster
• A biography of Laura Ingalls Wilder (she's reading all of her books with her mother)
• A short story called Losing Grandpa, which necessitated explanations of strokes and comas
• A science article on bird beaks from around the world which contained references to Darwin
• An Irish folktale that made her laugh

I am in constant awe at how stupid I must have at her age. Blindingly ignorant of almost everything.

I'm also worried that she may know more than me in about nine seconds, and I'll have to fake it until she moves out someday.

How Poor Were You?

I spent last weekend in the company of Elysha's 94 year-old grandmother. We call her Nana, and I always love speaking to her. In the midst of our chat, I was reminded of a conversation Nana and I had a couple of years ago. 

Nana told me about a game that she had played with friends called "How Poor Were You?" Players were challenged to provide evidence as to the extent of their poverty at some previous point in their life, and accolades were given to those who could prove themselves to have been the most poverty-stricken.

The game wouldn't have gone well during our visit, as I suspect that Nana (who grew up during the Great Depression) and I were the only people present to ever feel the sting of real poverty, but it sounded like a fun game just the same.

But I also recall that Nana said something to me in the midst of this discussion that I understood fully, and something that I do not think those who have not experienced poverty could ever truly understand. She said, “We were poor, but there were times when it was fun to be poor. You had to be really creative to survive, and to even eat, and there’s a certain joy in that.”

I couldn’t agree more. There have been times in my life when I was barely able to feed myself, but it was often fun trying to do so. 

So in the spirit of "How Poor Were You?" I thought I’d offer some of my poorest moments here.

From kindergarten through high school, I was eligible to receive free breakfast and free lunch from our school system, and during the summers, I also received free lunch from the park service. I can recall enormous blocks of WIC (Women, Infants and Children) cheese being delivered free-of-charge to my home for much of my childhood, and there were days, and perhaps weeks, when this cheese made up a good portion of my diet.

I received my first pair of snow boots at the age of nine after many New England winters spent in tennis shoes wrapped in bread bags.

After high school my roommate and I were so poor that we could not afford to turn on the heat in the winter. We would eat boxes of elbow macaroni (5 for $1) and sit under blankets together on the couch, huddled to keep one another warm while we watched The Simpsons on an ancient black-and-white television set atop an old baby-changing table. The apartment was so cold that the pipes burst in the bathroom and we could routinely see our own breath.

After being homeless and living in my car, I was taken in by a family of Jehovah Witnesses who allowed me to share a converted pantry off the kitchen with a guy named Rick (who spoke in tongues in his sleep) and their indoor pet goat. I did this for almost two years.

I like to think that these challenging times in my life helped to make me the person and the writer that I am today. The constant, almost daily struggle, the need for persistence and perseverance, and the opportunity to experience a varied range of the human condition, from hunger and near homelessness to enormous success and accomplishment, have equipped me with a vast storehouse of memories, experience and understanding from which I can draw.

Sometimes I feel sorry for the people who were born into relative comfort and ease.

Nana was right: Being poor can be fun.

Anyone else experience poverty in their lifetime?

If so, want to play "How Poor Were You"?

Disillusioned by the Presidential election this year? Vote for Clara.

Clara just hung this on the pantry door and announced that she's running for President of the Upstairs.

"Upstairs needs some rules," she says.

Her platform:

1. Make your bed. (which she does not do)
2. Put away your books. (which she does not do)
3. Cuddle your stuffed animals
4. Give kisses and hugs at bedtime

She's currently keeping 50% of her promises. 

Not bad for a politician. 

A trip to the plumbing store, because that's where all kids want to go. Right?

My son's ongoing obsession with water treatment facilities, electrical grids, and underlying infrastructure of our world (and more recently, the human body) perhaps reached its apex this week when he asked my wife to stop at a plumbing supply store so he could examine the items in stock.

Credit my wife for taking the time to stop and allow him to satisfy his curiosity. I'm not sure where all this interest in infrastructure will lead, but hopefully it includes an enormous college scholarship and a lifetime of gainful employment.  

First day of preschool apparently went well

I only wish I could've been there.

Also, I'm still waiting for a restaurant chain to hire him as a spokesperson. That "thumbs up" is perfection.

I think my wife is hitting on me.

Elysha's no dummy. If she's trying to woo me, she knows exactly how to do it.

Nothing is sexier than finding Organizing magazine on the kitchen counter.

I left her a note.

I know way too much about boll weevils

My daughter, Clara, age seven, at 6:40 AM:

"Dad, I want to know what a boll weevil is. It's a beetle. I know that, but I want to know more. I want to know if it's an invasive species, because I'm guessing that farmers do not like the boll weevil, and I want to know if they live around here, because they eat cotton, and I really love cozy, cottony things."

Ten minutes later, with a manuscript still waiting to be completed and almost a week late, I know too much about boll weevils.

These were not the conversations I ever expected to have with my daughter when I dreamed of fatherhood years ago.. 

Preschool is destined to disappoint my son.

Charlie made his first preschool visit yesterday.

As we ate breakfast, he asked me to come to school with him

When I told him I had to go to work, he said, "I'm so sorry that you have to work, and I'm so sad you can't come. I want you to come. I will miss you so much."

So I was basically wrecked for the day.

Then he said, "My teacher better know a lot about water treatment facilities and how electricity gets into our house."

Suddenly I felt a little less sorry for myself.

Damn Canadians are ruining my book.

Clara handed me this broken percussive instrument. "Can you fix this?" she asked.

"What happened?" I asked.

"Charlie and I are playing camping. We made a tent and everything. And Charlie's a Canadian woodsman. This is his axe. He was chopping trees, and then he tried to chop down the wrong tree. Which was actually the stairs. His axe broke. Can you fix it, because it's getting cold, and we're going to need more firewood."

All this while I try to finish the revisions on my novel...