Our boy watches Star Wars for the first time

My son Charlie, age 5, watched episodes 4, 5, and 6 of Star Wars with me and Elysha over the past two weeks. 

It was quite the experience. 

Though he knew almost nothing about Star Wars, he owns about a dozen action figures and received a Millennium Falcon for Christmas this year. He knew there were good guys and bad guys, but that was about it. He had sadly realized just a couple weeks before that the movie's title is Star Wars and not Star Whores. 

He was primed for viewing.

He loved the first Star Wars movie, originally titled Star Wars when I sat in the aisle in The Stadium in Woonsocket, RI back in 1977 to watch it for the first time.

Today it's titled A New Hope, and although George Lucas has tinkered with the film several times over the years, it's just as great as it was when I watched it as a six year-old boy.

The first picture was taken as John William's opening began and the famous Star Wars scroll appeared. He was saddened at the death of Obi Won Kenobi and shouted with joy when the Death Star was destroyed. 

When I told him that the next episode was titled The Empire Strikes Back, he said, "Uh oh. Doesn't sound like the good guys are going to win."

It was a tough movie for him. The Rebellion struggles throughout the movie, but what was most upsetting to him was the discovery that Darth Vader is Luke's father. The second photo was taken as that information was revealed for the first time.

He was genuinely upset. Confused, too. 

A day later, he asked me in a hushed tone, "Dad, will you ever turn to the dark side?"

I realized that this was the first time Charlie saw a father behave badly. It shook him to the core. 

Later, he said, "Dad, I think Darth Vader will turn back to the good side."

Of course, he was right. In Return of the Jedi, Darth Vader sacrifices himself in order to save his son's life and kill the Emperor. Charlie cheered again but was saddened to discover that Darth Vader was dying.

"But he's good now. Why does he have to die?"

Later, Luke cremates Vader's body. Charlie asked what was happening, and I explained that some bodies are buried and others are burned into ashes. Charlie said, "You'd better not burn me."

He has all three movies available to him now on his iPad, which is unbelievable to me. I watched that first film in a theater so jam packed that I had to sit in the carpeted aisle, and then I didn't see the movie again for more than a decade.

He has them at this fingertips.

He's watched A New Hope a couple times since that first viewing and still cheers when the Death Star is destroyed. I suspect that he may go back to Return of the Jedi at some point, too. 

But it might be a while before he returns to The Empire Strikes Back. Charlie prefers to live in a world where fathers never turn to the dark side and the good guys triumph in the end. 

Who can blame him?

Stop getting older, little girl.

Today is my daughter's ninth birthday.

As I write these words (at 5:40 AM), she's standing about seven feet to my left, listening to the music of Grace Vanderwaal and, in her words, "enjoying an early morning Grace Vanderwaal dance party."

The cats are sitting on the counter, watching her dance. Transfixed by this not-so-little-girl move across the kitchen floor.   

If only I could freeze these moments forever. 

Watching her dance on her birthday morning reminded me of this tweet and photo, posted by a high school senior in 2017 on her last day of school.

Killed me. 

"My dad has been peeling oranges for my lunch since kindergarten & on my last day of high school I got this instead."

It's a wonder I get anything done

I was writing this morning. It was quite early. The sun had yet to rise. Words were flowing. Paragraphs were forming. Things were good. 

Then my daughter, Clara, age 8, appeared at the table. Early. The sun still wasn't up. 

Her very first words of the day to me were these:

Clara: "I know Hawaii became a state in 1959. Right?"

Me: "I guess so?"

I had no idea. Maybe? Why are we talking about this at 5:42 AM?

Clara: "And before that, Hawaii was a United States territory. Right?"

Me: "Yes. Definitely."

I knew that one. 

Clara: "But my American Girl book says that Hawaii was the only state in America to enforce laws about people staying in the state, on the island, during World War II. And they were the only state had blackouts from 6:00 PM until 6:00 AM, too. So the Japanese couldn't see them." 

Me: "Okay..."

Clara (rolling her eyes): "But World War II happened in the 1940's, Dad. If Hawaii wasn't a state until 1959, why does the book say that Hawaii was the only state doing those things during World War II? It wasn't a state during World War II."

My response was perhaps a little less than what she hoped,  

Me: "It's not even six o'clock yet, Clara."

Not great. I know. Her response was better. 

Clara: "That's not an answer, Daddy."

And there you have it. The end to the writing that morning. 

Penguins were mating at a little girl's birthday party

My daughter Clara, age 8, was sitting at the neighbor's dining room table with about half a dozen other kids, eating a birthday cake that was originally shaped and frosted to look like a penguin. 

Between bites, she turned to the little girl beside her and asked, "Do you want to know how penguins mate?"

My eyes widened. I looked across the table at the other adult at the table. Her eyes were wide, too.

Clara said, "The male penguin goes out, and if the female penguin takes it, it's kind of like they're married."

If the male penguin goes out? If the female penguin takes it?

I didn't ask. I don't want to know.

Bad boy and breakfast companion

His sister wasn't ready to eat breakfast, but Charlie wasn't alone. His furry pal kept him company as he devoured Cheerios, strawberries, and mango. 

It's moments like these that allow me to forgive and forget the bag of oats that he tore open and spread all over the kitchen floor last night. Or the moment he leapt upon my head and clawed my forehead, not understanding the meaning of 1:37 AM. Or the scarf he stole from Elysha's closet, brought downstairs, and attempted to pull through the cat door and into the basement, where he undoubtedly has a hidden storehouse of other pilfered items.  

He's a bad kitty, and there are moments when he makes us crazy. After living with children for almost nine years, Elysha had to childproof her first cabinet yesterday just to keep him out. 

He can make life difficult at times. But he's pretty great, too. 

My kids were sweet and lovely this week. Don't try to tell me otherwise.

Oftentimes Elysha and I see or hear our kids do something and can't believe what just happened. 

A few from this week.
____________________________________________

I picked up Charlie, who is five years-old, from his hip hop class on Tuesday. From the waiting room, I heard his class end, then Charlie and a couple kids lingered for a bit before finally emerging into the waiting room.

"What were you doing?" I asked.

"Just chillin' and being funny, Dad," he said.

He's five. I'm still not cool enough to say words like that.
____________________________________________

Yesterday morning, I managed to snap a photo of Charlie and Clara saying good morning to each other. Clara had been awake for at least an hour (she's like her Daddy) but Charlie had just ambled downstairs:

Thank goodness for the speed of a photography on phones today.

Later on that same morning, Elysha sent me this text:

We see these things and hear these things and often want to pinch ourselves. We're so blessed. 

Just in case you're a parent of a child who is older than my kids and you suddenly feel the need to jump and say something like:

"Just wait until they become teenagers," or "Enjoy these moments now because it only gets harder," or "This is all well and good, but start saving for college because it will be a fortune" or "They won't always love each other like they do now..."

Don't. Stop. Silence those stupid thoughts.

It takes a special and unfortunate breed of cynicism to try to spoil moments like these for proud parents with your assurances of possible doom and gloom.

It also takes a special and unfortunate breed of myopia and self-absorption to assume that the future path of every child will be exactly the same as your child's own path.

Sure, there will be times when our kids are decidedly less sweet and more challenging. That was true three days ago, and it will be true three days from now, too. But we choose to embrace the beauty of these moments whenever and wherever we can find them and not sully them with anyone's inexplicable and incessant need to rain on our parade.  

Our kids were lovely and sweet and funny this week. That is what I am choosing to hold in my heart. 

Just the kind of conversation I want before sunrise

Nothing to see here.

Just a pre-sunrise conversation with my eight-year old daughter, Clara, about what the word "stillborn" means, followed by a flood of tears over the fate of Elizabeth Adams, the stillborn daughter of Abigail Adams.

I love parenting.

Earning his keep

This cat pushes everything he can find onto the floor. He's broken bowls and glasses and picture frames. He's toppled laundry baskets off counters and shoved laptops of tables.   

He eats our plants.

He has found a way to open kitchen cabinets and climb inside. Once inside, he pushes the contents of the cabinet out and onto the floor.

He is a bad kitty. A menace. A four-legged wrecking ball.

But he allows the kids to man-handle him. Drag him across the house. Aggressively cuddle him. He doesn't fight it or flee. He simply submits to the smaller people of the house.

He makes them happy.  

 So I give him a pass on all of his misbehavior. He's found the one way to make up for all of his transgressions. 

Barely.

Daddy is Mommy GPS

It doesn't matter where my wife, Elysha is.

Upstairs.
On the deck.
Out of state. 

If my son, Charlie, has not heard her voice for 15 minutes, he instantly activates Mommy GPS, which is just me.

"Dad, where's Mom?"

Of all the questions he asks me, (and he asks a lot), this is the question I get the most. 

It should also be noted that this GPS system does not work both ways. 

He never asks Elysha where I am. 

Practice makes perfect

While Elysha and I were at the Patriots game on Sunday, our children spent the day with friends. Part of that day was also spent at a classmate's birthday party. 

As we drove the kids over to our friends' home, I said, "Clara. Charlie. Make sure you say please and thank you today. And when you get to that birthday party, be sure to thank them for having you."

"We know," Clara said.

"Okay," I said. "But let's practice what that will sound like. Tell me exactly what you'll say.""

Clara and Charlie sighed simultaneously.  

"I already had them practice at the house," Elysha said. 

"Oh. Alright then," I said. "Never mind."

 It must be hard at times to have parents who are also teachers. 

For the first time in his life, my son cried because of a book.

I read The Giving Tree to Charlie, my five year old son, last night for the first time. 

It was incredible. 

He sat quietly beside me on the bed as the boy and the tree played together in the summer sun. 

He remained quiet as the boy returned years later, first taking the tree's apples to sell for money and then her branches to build a home.

Then the boy - now an older man - returned with the desire to sail far away. The tree offered the boy her trunk to build a boat, and when the boy chopped the tree down to a stump, Charlie gasped.

Then he began to cry. 

The boy - now an old man - returns to the tree one final time looking for a place to rest. The tree offers him the only thing she has left - her stump - as a fine place to sit. 

He does, and the tree, at least according to Shel Silverstein, is happy.

I closed the book. Charlie's eyes were filled with tears. He began speaking. 

"I hate that book," he said. "Why did you read me that book? Why would someone write such a sad book? Why did you choose that book, Dad? Don't ever, ever, ever, ever read me that stupid book again."

I told Charlie that it's a very famous and popular book. "Lots of people read it." 

"Why?" he asked. His sadness had shifted into anger. He was mad. "Who likes a book like that? I hate that book. I hate that boy. Why did he do that? Don't ever read that book to me again."

Elysha came into the room, and Charlie summarized the book for her.

"I liked the book when the boy and the tree were playing together, but then he chopped the tree down. Why did he do that, Mom? I hate that book. I never want to read it again."

Then he insisted that I stay for the before-bed cuddle. It was the first time he's ever asked me to stay and cuddle with him before bed.

I don't disagree with Charlie. I despise The Giving Tree. I'll never understand why anyone likes this book. I chose to read it to Charlie for the reasons I explained:

It's a famous and popular book. You should read it at least once in your life.

But once was more than enough for Charlie, and I agree.  

I despise the book so much that I wrote a a satirical twist on The Giving Tree last year. We hope to find a publisher for the book in the coming months.   

I told this to Charlie. 

"I hope the boy and the tree stay friends in your book like in the beginning of this book," he said. "I liked the beginning of the book. I hope your book is good like that, Dad."

Not quite, but good luck explaining satire to a five year-old boy. He'll read my version someday, and though it's not the idyllic story that he is hoping for, I think it's a hell of a lot better than Shel Silverstein's classic. 

A little girl, a Supreme Court justice, and courage

It's the top of the seventh at the Hartford Yard Goats last night, which means we have abandoned our seats for rides on the enormous, inflatable slides behind the right field fence. 

Charlie has hurtled down these monstrosities before, but for Clara, this is her first time. I expect her to be nervous. Frightened. She may back out.

She is who she is.

I watch as Clara climbs the ladder, admittedly impressed by her willingness to even begin the process. A few seconds later, a hear her voice. She's shouting.

Her words:

"Ruth Bader Ginsburg!"

Then she comes plunging down the slide, repeating the name of a Supreme Court justice again and again.  

She lands with a thud at the bottom of the slide, hops off, and makes a beeline to the ladder for another ride. 

"Clara!" I call. "Why are you shouting Ruth Bader Ginsberg?"

"When I'm nervous, she gives me courage!"

She is who she is.  

Boy and bear

You know what's even more overhyped than a partial eclipse?

The panda. I know I sound like a curmudgeon, but every time I see the panda at the National Zoo, I can't help but think, "Yup. It's a bear. Black and white, but really, just another bear." 

My friends find bears wandering in their suburban backyards all the time. Larger, more impressive bears than this solitary, bamboo-eating machine. 

Even Charlie wasn't all that impressed.

Happy anniversary to us.

Elysha and I celebrated eleven years of marriage yesterday.

I always tell her that it feels to me like we've only been married a couple years. 

She said it feels like the full eleven.

We went to dinner on Friday night with friends to celebrate. It was an eventful dinner. Amongst the scintillating conversation and good food, the following happened:

The stem on Elysha's glass spontaneously shattered, spilling a nearly full glass  of sangria all over the table. 

I was served a burger with mustard, and I am allergic to mustard. Sadly, I didn't realize there was mustard on the burger (since it wasn't listed on the menu and I specifically asked for cheese and bacon only) until I had already swallowed one bite.  I've been known to break out in hives after eating mustard depending on the amount and type. In this case, I felt slightly sick to my stomach and itchy.

Even worse, I only ordered the burger after my friend ordered one. Planning on the rib eye or the pork chops, I only switched when my friend ordered a burger. Worried that I might experience food envy, I changed my mind and followed suit.

I should've stuck with my first instinct. 

At the end of the meal, Elysha and I decided to exchange anniversary gifts. 

Elysha's gifts to me included:

1. The promise to finally connect the Apple TV that her mother gave us more than a year ago. 
2. The promise to design/purchase an organizational system for the kids' shoes, coats, winter gear, etc. 

These are perfect gifts. I've written before that the two gifts I desire above all others are time and knowledge. I'm not a person who wants stuff. Except for the occasional replacement clothing item (I need new snow pants for the football season), there isn't much that I want when it comes to gifts except for time to do what I want and the knowledge to do something I cannot do. 

Elysha's gifts offer me time in abundance. Not only will these two problems be solved without any effort on my part, but having a better system for the kids paraphernalia will mean I don't have to pick up shoes, coats, and mittens nearly as often.

As for the Apple TV, we don't watch much television, but it will be nice to finally be able to stream television programs and movies into our home. 

I'm also a bit of a minimalist and an organizational obsessive. I live in a perpetual state of discontent, staring at bins and boxes in corners of my home that have not moved in months, wondering when they will finally be moved to an more appropriate location. You can't imagine how hard it is for me to live with a family that doesn't care too much about piles and stacks and is more than willing to put something down and for ignore it for months.

Getting the coats and shoes out of my sight will help mitigate this discontent quite a bit.

These are two outstanding presents.  

After Elysha "presented" her gifts to me, I decided to reciprocate. I opened a web browser on my phone and went to ThirdLove.com, a company that customizes bras for women. I heard about the company from a friend who hosts a podcast and is sponsored by Third Love, and she raved about the product. Bras come in half sizes in many shapes and styles, and they are made from memory foam, meaning you can wash them again and again, and they return to their original shape every time. You can also try the bra for 30 days and return it for free if you don't love it. Your slightly used bra will be donated to a charitable organization, and you'll be sent a new one to try for another 30 days. 

I bought Elysha credit on the Third Love website so that she could purchase three new bras and discard her old ones. 

I have to say:

She was very happy and very impressed with the thoughtfulness of the gift. 

I thought it was amusing for our friends to witness this odd act of gift giving. Elysha made two promises, and I showed her a website featuring bras. 

Not exactly ribbons and bows and wrapping paper. 
Not exactly jewelry or a gap wedge.
Not the steel that the traditional eleventh wedding anniversary dictates.
No greeting cards.

Just two people who love each other and know each other very well. Well enough to know that we don't need pretty wrapping paper and golden baubles to make each other happy.

Someone remind my children that I pay the mortgage

Even though my kids don't currently contribute to the mortgage, they seem to believe that they possess more control over the house than they actually do.

Recent signs in my home have indicted that the first floor bathroom is now Tickle Monster Jail and a new sign on my daughter's bedroom door (co-written by her sleepover buddy) apparently gives access to the room to our two cats only.

I'll be informing her that she can't have this level of control unless she's planning to hand me some cash every month.   

Though I have to admit that Clara's writing - in all its backwards lettering, misspelling, and crayon smudges - is completely precious.

I can't stand the thought of the day when it becomes more conventional. 

Democratic Republic of the Congo, of course!

My daughter, Clara, is a bit of a geography nut. At the tender age of eight, I would venture to suggest that she knows more about world geography than most human beings.

And it has nothing to do with her intelligence or our attempt to instill a love of geography in her. She simply became curious about the topic and was handled the tools to pursue that curiosity. 

Books. Maps. Websites. 

The desire to learn is so powerful. 

In a recent competition to name countries beginning with certain letters, Clara included these three in countries beginning with the letter S:

• Sudan
• South Sudan, "which isn't the same as Sudan!"
• Singapore, which she informs me is both a city and a country. "Just like Vatican City, Daddy!"

When we reached the countries beginning with D, she opened with Denmark.

I countered with the Dominican Republic and suggested that there might only be two. 

"I can think of another one," she said.

After thinking about it for a minute, I finally surrendered. "I give up. What?"

"The Democratic Republic of Congo, of course!"  

Of course. 

For the record, the Democratic People's Republic of Korea (North Korea) and Djibouti also start with D. Clara didn't know North Korea's official name (nor did I) but she knew about Djibouti and quickly showed it to me on a map.

Sleeps like her daddy

My daughter Clara, age 8, is very much like her Daddy. Up before the crack of dawn almost every day.

Recently I was telling my students about all the books she has been reading on historical figures, and one of my students asked how she gets so much done.

"She's up at 5:30 every day," I explained. "That gives her a couple hours every day before school to be productive. She reads a lot in that time."

My students were aghast. Most awake about half an hour before school. 

Last Saturday, Clara declared her love for the weekend, saying that on Saturday mornings, she can "sleep in."

"When was the last time you slept in?" Elysha asked.

"Today," Clara reported. "I woke up at my usual time, and then I closed my eyes for another 3-5 minutes."

Three to five minutes. My definition for "sleeping in" as well. 

My children's personal ten commandments are beautiful, heart wrenching, and completely applicable.

My kids were studying the Ten Commandments at Hebrew School this week. As part of the lesson, they were then asked to come up with some commandments of their own. 

My daughter's commandments are beautiful. Much better than the Bible's ten commandments, which waste the first three on God's obsession with being the best and only God and forbid adultery (#7) but say nothing about rape.

Also, there's the commandment that orders that Sundays be kept holy (#4), which is ignored by almost everyone in America and is especially ridiculous during football season. 

Here are Clara's commandments. Nine in all. 

1. Have fun!
2. Let me tuck and kiss my brother at night.
3. Eat good food.
4. Have friends!
5. Have a good education.
6. Get good helf care. (healthcare)
7. Do not bother me when the door is close (except at night).
8. Be kind, respectful, and responsible every day. 
9. Let me have flowers in my room. 

Charlie's commandments are fewer in number and much more like the commandments that his father would write. 

1. Do not die. 
2. Love. 

They also kind of say it all. At least for me. And brevity is the soul of wit. Right?

RIP Uncle Harry

My great Uncle Harry passed away this week. 

Yes, his name was Harry Dicks. Not even Harold Dicks. Straight up Harry. 

Growing up, I lived next door to Uncle Harry. He lived with his brother, my grandfather, on a sprawling piece of land that served as my childhood adventure land. Land that my father and his siblings once roamed became the place where I walked and ran in their footstep.

I knew Uncle Harry well back then and less so as the years have gone by, but he has always been there, a fixture in that small, white house between the fields and forests that I loved so. 

It's hard to believe he's gone. 

Uncle Harry was the last of my grandparents generation. Gone now are my grandparents and all of their brothers and sisters. My father and his two surviving siblings and my mother's four surviving siblings are the family elders now. 

I was fortunate enough as a boy to know both sets of grandparents, as well as my great grandfather (my father's grandfather), my great grandmother (my mother's mother), and Uncle Harry fairly well. I have solid memories of all of those people. Men and women born before and during the Great Depression, decades before World War II, who have now passed on.

I can't help but wonder what they were like as children. How did they spend their time? What games did they play? What dreams did they dream? What were their hopes for the future?

All I want is just one day. Give me one day to go back and see those people - my grandparents and great grandparents - in all their youthful glory. To see Uncle Harry with the sun on his face, the wind at his back, and so much time ahead of him.  

This is a picture that my brother drew of Uncle Harry. Captures him well.  

Our cats are not perfect.

Cats are smart. So damn smart. 

This is Tobi, one of our two new cats, cuddling with my kids and with his brother, Pluto. 

In my son's case, he was sick at the time. Lying on the couch with fever, Tobi would curl into Charlie's body and purr as if he knew Charlie needed a little love. He did the same when my wife, Elysha, was suffering from a concussion, and when my daughter, Clara, was battling the stomach bug. In each case, Tobi (and to a lesser degree his brother) gravitated to the person in the house who was most ill and in need of love.  

At one point, as he was being cuddled by Tobi, Charlie said, "I think I'll smile forever."

The cats also seem to understand the difference between adults and children. When the cats are with me or my wife, they will often bat our hands with their paws and playfully (and sometimes painfully) bite our fingers, hands, and (terrifyingly) our chins. 

But nether cat has ever bitten or clawed one of our kids, and the same was true for our former cat, Owen, who passed away last year. He was not averse to biting me or my wife when he was overstimulated, but he never bit either one of the kids, regardless of how roughly they may have treated him.  

Brilliant animals. So intuitive. Also more than willing to knock everything off the counter, sneak outside, climb into my daughter's box spring, and eat all the dog's food instead of their own, so not perfect.

But close enough.