I choose to remember by aunt Diane in a way I never got to see her.

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My Aunt Diane passed away yesterday. A sudden and unexpected loss.

Diane - sister to my father - was one of seven children who once lived on a sprawling piece of land in Blackstone, Massachusetts. I grew up next door to that home and spent much of my childhood on the same land where she once played as a child.  

Back then, my grandparents were still alive and well. Living with them under the same roof were my great grandfather and great uncle, and for a time, my uncle Neil and my aunts Sheila and Diane, who were still young enough to be living at home. 

I like to think about the days when Diane and her siblings were children, filling the small house and scattering through the fields and forest that stretch beyond. It must have been a lovely time for my grandparents. A glorious time. Four boys and three girls, young and strong and bursting with life, filling every nook and cranny of that home. So loud and so chaotic and so full of love.  

I only caught a glimpse of that time in my aunt Sheila, who was still a teenager when I was little. I would visit with her after school, sitting on the end of her bed, listening to her tell me all about her adventures in high school. By then the rest of her siblings had moved on, but I could see the evidence of a time since past in the wrecks of cars in the back fields, the toys still lingering in corners of the house, and the constant visits from aunts and uncles who still seemed young enough to be in high school.

Young enough that a few of my high school teachers would shout, "Brian!" when angry at me for something I had done.

Apparently my uncle had left an impression on them not easily forgotten. 

Seven siblings, so young and full of potential. Kids growing up in an age before the Internet and computers, when so much of life was spent in the fields and forest, under the hoods of enormous cars in an oily garage, and under the water in swimming pools and ponds.

I wish so much that I could go back for a day and see them in their glory. One day to see them as children again, strong and together and unstoppable. 

My aunt Sheila died tragically in a doctor's office while receiving a routine allergy shot when she was still very young. My uncles Harry and Neil passed away a few years ago.

Now my aunt Diane has passed.

From seven they are now just three. My father, an aunt, and an uncle. The idea of a family so large and so full of life disappearing person by person devastates me. 

Not-so-long time ago, seven small children who would one day become my father, my aunts, and my uncles lived in the tiny town of Blackstone, Massachusetts. They ran and played and laughed and grew. They found work. They fell in love. The sun was warm on their backs and the grass was soft underfoot.

This is how I like to remember them. This is how I will remember my aunt Diane. Young and strong and infinite. I never witnessed the childhood days of those seven children, yet this is how I like to think about them. Imagine them. Remember them. So full of promise and time and life. 

When I was my daughter's age, I did not know that the Supreme Court existed. Her knowledge is slightly more expansive.

/

I was playing 20 questions with Clara - age 8 - in Panera last night while waiting for our dinner. 

Clara's questions to me:

"Is it a person?" (YES)

"A woman?" (YES)

"Is it Clara Barton?" (NO)

"Did you know Clara Barton had a lisp?" (YES - she had told me this ten minutes before)

"Did she work in the US government?" (YES)

"Is she still alive?" (YES)

"Is it Ruth Bader Ginsberg?" (NO)

"Is it the first lady justice on the Supreme Court, Sandra Day O'Connor?" (NO)

At this point, I was ready to fall out of my seat. I assume that my wife taught Clara about Sandra Day O'Connor, but I'm not sure. The woman sitting adjacent to us, who was apparently listening to the conversation, looked just as surprised as I did.

"Give me a hint," Clara said. 

"She was the Secretary of State," I said.

"Oh," she said. "Hillary Clinton."

Had she said Madeline Albright, the first female Secretary of State, I don't know what I would've done. My head might've exploded. 

When Clara went to the counter to get napkins, the woman sitting next to me leaned over and asked, "Was Sandra Day O'Connor really the first female Supreme Court Justice?"

"Yes," I said. "But I have no idea how she knows this or anything else." 

Later I would find out that Clara read a book on the subject: Women of the Supreme Court.Available on Razz Kids. 

When I was eight years-old, I was still forgetting to wear underwear on a regular basis, perfecting the milk-out-of-my-nose trick, and spending my weekends in rock fights with my brothers. 

I'm not sure if Clara is brilliant or I was sub-human. 

We adopted two cats. Our kids' reaction was... unexpected.

/

Last summer, our beloved cat, Owen, passed away. We lost Owen's brother, Jack, about eight years previously.  

It was a difficult loss for our family. A couple months after Owen's passing, the kids began asking for a new cat. I wasn't ready yet, and Elysha had sworn repeatedly - to anyone who would listen - that she would never own another pet.

To my surprise, she told the kids that she would think about it.  

The kids continued to beg. They asked repeatedly. They asked individually and they double-teamed us.  

We said again and again that we weren't ready. 

Eight months later, we were ready. Elysha found an organization that rescues Egyptian maus. In Egypt there is no system in place to rescue cats, so they are simply left to the streets. Rather than adopting two kittens from a shelter here in the United States, we decided to adopt two slightly older cats who needed a home from Egypt. 

Tobi and Pluto arrived via plane to JFK last night - much later than expected. 

Tobi is named after the cat in the children's book of the same name.

Pluto is named after the cat in Edgar Allen Poe's story "The Black Cat."

The kids had been asleep for about an hour when Elysha finally walked in the door with the cats. We had been waiting all day to surprise the kids. Elysha awoke Charlie, brought him into Clara's bedroom, and then it was time for the big reveal.

It didn't go exactly as we had expected. Not at all how we expected:

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

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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

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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.

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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.

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.