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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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:
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.
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.
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:
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.
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 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.
Charlie's commandments are fewer in number and much more like the commandments that his father would write.
They also kind of say it all. At least for me. And brevity is the soul of wit. Right?
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.
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.
My wife: I love what you're making over there.
Clara: It's a refugee camp. That's a place for people who lose their homes in a war.
She learned about refugee camps by reading a book. She's always had an enormous heart.
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.
I'm really not sure how to feel about the sign that I found on my daughter's door.
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.
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:
Text message from my wife, Elysha, received yesterday at the moment I needed it most:
My four year old son, Charlie, drew a picture of his family at preschool last week.
Here is his creation. See anything wrong with it?
When he handed it to me, I couldn't help but notice how angry and mean I looked. When I asked him why I look so mad, he said, "You're not mad, Daddy. That's just what you look like."
Didn't make me feel any better.
