More coffee on the Inside than Outside

You ever have one of those mornings where the world feels just a wee bit blah?

It's funny, I'm hesitant to say "I'm kinda depressed" because that word now has this dazzling, scary weight to it, but I'm definitely feeling blah. Let's put it this way: was Charlie Brown ever chronically depressed? -- Probably not, but I'm sure that when the damn football was snatched away for the gazillionth time he probably wasn't feeling in the best of moods.

So, while it's not like I play football, I certainly feel like something has been snatched away from me.

And this is the silly stuff I do to make myself feel better...

First, a cup of coffee in a Tardis mug.

My lovely wife bought me a Doctor Who book for Father's Day (did I mention the Darwyn Cooke "Parker" page she got me for Christmas -- she is truly and astonishingly wonderful) and it was a great book but I already had it, so off I went to exchange it.

And as she said afterwards, had she seen the mug that I exchanged to book for, she would have got it for me. And there is nothing better than exchanging a gift and getting the stamp of approval for the new present. So although I went and got the mug, I really got it from her.

It is however more beautiful than it is functional. The mug is surprisingly difficult to drink from and I have to steer myself to the corners which is not where one instinctively goes to take a sip, but once I got over the awkwardness and found a way to make it work (which, I know, sounds stupid cuz IT'S A MUG but its beauty outshines its grace) it is a lovely thing. It and my Far Side 'Cat Fud' mug are treasures on a coffee needing morning.

So, cup of Tardis coffee and a bowl of cereal (Raisin Bran cuz I'm trying, really trying to be a bit healthier) as I read about Jack Layton's life. With regards to Jack: we all know the end is coming, but Layton knew his was imminent and that sense of an unavoidable closing chapter gave him the opportunity to leave with style. Quite remarkable.

And after breakfast the other silly thing I did was I opened Mister Miracle and Big Barda.

There is a wonderful comic shop in London Ontario named Heroes Cards and Comics (although I think they mostly go by "Heroes") and I was there last week as we visited my brother and his family. And I know I shouldn't have, but I ended up buying a fabulous Mister Miracle t-shirt (to which my lovely wife responded, "Does that mean you're going to cook dinner? -- Because *that* would be a miracle," which is, let's be honest, some funny shit) and of course it is a t-shirt that I don't need but it looks really geeky cool.

I grabbed two action figures as well. Hence their freedom this morning.

Years ago when "40 Year Old Virgin" came out my wife was amused with the similarities between me and the main character when it came to action figures. My boys, should they see the movie in years to come, will also marvel at the fact that "Hey, my dad didn't want to open his action figures either! We'd always ask him when he'd open the Doctor Who Dalek Attack set and he never did!"

But today -- What the hell, throw caution to the wind, be crazy! -- and out came Mister Miracle and Barda. If you know the character, you're not surprised that he escaped the packaging cuz of course that's what he does. And then he'd help Barda out, too cuz they are husband and wife. But you know all of that.

(Barda should be taller than her husband, but I guess they action figures are of a standard size but they look so nice together, free of their packaging. And yes they are standing in front of a giant Opus. I'm sure they will all get along.)

Cup of coffee in the tardis mug, open a couple of action figures and then the best part...

Zed came into my office as his mum phoned and as she & I were gabbing he starts using my 'no it's not Rory' gladiator figure from Doctor Who to quietly attack the stufffed dragon that's sitting on my desk. And as my eight year old later explained "The gladiator attacked Torch but then he realized that he's a good dragon, so they're friends now."

And with that, the morning seems so much brighter.

Between all of those things the world no longer seems so blah; instead, it's filled with creative wonder and enthusiasm. And somehow I doubt that Charlie Brown ever felt the wonderful silly grin that comes with that realization.

That Covers It

Yesterday I'm at the supermarket with the boys and I noticed that Zed, age 8, seemed all embarrassed and flustered.

I asked him what's wrong but he wouldn't tell me. I persisted and he finally confessed that he noticed a magazine cover that was inappropriate. I then explained to him that no magazine at a supermarket is inappropriate and that it's all okay. He then said that he noticed that *I* was looking at it and he didn't think it was right that I should be staring at it.

And all I could think was "You little monkey!"

Had my wife been with us perhaps I would have been more subtle. Hell, even with her absence I thought I was being subtle!! But this apparently was not the case.

But the worst of it was this: I was among men!!! And men never comment when other men are looking!!! But one of those 'men' was an eight year old boy who obviously figured his father shouldn't even be looking at images of women. Damnit.

Here is the offending (but oh so very unoffensive) cover that my son spied me looking at. I didn't even flip through the the magazine! I looked but did not touch!!

The funny thing is this: there may have been other magazines at the checkout, but my son was right cuz this was the only one that caught my eye. All other covers sit down when Rosario Dawson is on the stands.

But I have now learned that even the supermarket isn't safe when my son is watching me to make sure I'm not looking.

Beating a bully

So Zed told this story and came up with a great idea as we were wandering through the supermarket.

His story went like this...

Imagine that a bully is bothering you, but he's lactose intolerant, so you stop him from being mean by using a can of spray cheese!

"Keep that can of spray cheese away from me!" screams the bully.

"Heh-heh-heh," replies my son.

Such is the mind of my eight year old boy.

Universe smiles and sneezes

(Last week's Dragons greetings. It's ironic how things later played out. But that's another tale. But on Sunday we won the game 4-3.)

My Dragons:

Sometimes the planets move into perfect alignment and the universe smiles.

This weekend Gee is heading skiing with friends of ours. The little monkey likes to ski and we've got friends who (a) have only one son who happens to be the same age as our boy who, (b) enjoys Gee's company and (c) they happen to be really, really nice people. They took him skiing with them for a couple of days during the Christmas break, they all had a great time, and so they've invited him again this weekend. It's very, very kind of them.

And, on this exact same weekend, a friend of Zed's (who came up from our old neigborhood for his birthday party) has invited him for a sleepover. We're dropping the boy off Saturday afternoon.

None of it was planned. None of it was organized. It just happened. It just clicked together. Therefore, look if you will at this equation... Geel away for the weekend + Zed away for the evening = parents at home on their own for the first time EVER!!!

An evening that will perhaps consist of a delicious restaurant meal, perhaps to be followed by an Academy Award nominated movie, and then perhaps to be followed by... well, we'll see how if goes; if nothing else, at the very least we will be able to sleep-in Sunday morning.

An all-adult, child-free evening! No looking at the clock and worrying about the babysitter, no need to concern ourselves about what the boys are doing, no need to answer the youthful question "What are we going to do today?" First! Time! Ever!

But, as so often happens, the universe, after aligning the planets perfectly, smiles, then giggles, then laughs, and then emits a guffaw of potentially teasing cruelty.

Because it was then that the sneezing began.

Last night Zed starting sniffling. And his nose started running. And he woke us up at two in the morning because he was so congested that he couldn't sleep. And today it's kleenex after kleenex after kleenex.

He is drinking lots of water and he looks pretty good. He is in good spirits as he sits and watches tv. He is close to being on the mend after a quick and moderate cold. But is our weekend of wonder and joy now shot to absolute and total craptitude? -- I guess tomorrow will tell the tale.

So, come Sunday if I'm smiling it might be for a multitude of reasons. It might be because he got healthy enough to visit his friend; it might be because my lovely wife & I had our first in-house child-free night EVER; or it may simply be in account of victory...

That's right, Dragons victory is yet again on the horizon.

This Sunday at 5:15 down at the MasterCard #3 we play the Toronto Beer Raiders. Their name suggests that they don't pay for their own drinks. When means they're cheap Scottish basterds who must be destroyed. (Of course I derive my knowledge of the Scottish people from a Kids in the Hall sketch
and if the Kids in the Hall can't be trusted, who can? It's because of KitH that I hate the Swiss and know the answer to the movie title you can't remember is "Citizen Kane! Citizen Kane!! It was CITIZEN KANE!!!"

So, a weekend of potential child-free pleasure followed by potential victory. How big will the grin on my face be at the end of the day on Sunday? -- Well, we'll see if the universe smiles or just laughs its teasing, tantalizing butt off. Time will tell.

So if I'm grinning before the game on Sunday, you'll know why. And if I'm grinning after the game, we'll all have reason to be grinning together.

Birthday pity party for me and the boy

Zed (who is now 10 days into being eight years old) has been sick for a couple of days and he woke me up at 4:22 a.m. Eventually he fell back asleep, but I haven't been quite so lucky.

Two nights ago he did the same thing and my lovely wife stayed up with him, tried to get him to drift back to sleep, and generally had her night's sleep ruined. Last night was my turn at the wheel of slumber-less mayhem.

After he drifted off and I miserably failed to do the same, I got up and puttered and cleaned and tidied and computer-ed and did my very, very best not to disturb anyone.

It's now been four hours since that rude awakening and Zed is once again out of bed while his mum and brother sleep in a little bit.

He's beside me now, playing on his DS as I take a bit of a break from my attempts to conquer the tiny chaos of messes that are constantly threatening to encroach and overwhelm my life.

And as he is battling whatever he battles as he plays Pokemon, my mind wanders and I look at him and I see myself and I think of how much I dislike my birth date and how I hope it works better for Zed.

January the sixth is a wretched date for a birthday. And for all my life, it's been mine.

In years past I've quite melodramatically referred to it as "The Unholy Trinity", composed of three parts, being Christmas, New Year's and then my birthday. I'm an epiphany baby, born on the 12th day of Christmas and unlike in the song, what I often get is not a partridge in a pear tree but instead I get a little down, a little depressed, a little morose.

My brother's birthday is 14 days *before* Christmas and years ago he and I made a vow that we would never give each other combined Christmas-birthday presents. The combined Christmas-birthday present is the most cruel of perennial pranks played on people born at this time of year -- our theory is that if we had been born in May we would have scored that present at Christmas time and then got something new and exciting for our birthday. No one has ever received a bigger and better present for be born close to Christmas. The birth date is the ultimate annual booby prize.

But while it must suck for my brother in similar ways, at least his birthday isn't an after-thought or a supposed day of personal celebration after everyone is all celebrated out. So, in typical Philip Roth sibling rivalry, I feel that my brother has it bad, but I've got it worse.

12 days after Christmas and six days into the New Year, my birthday is an annoyance like a tax return that has to be rushed to be filed or a tooth that you finally go see the doctor about. It is the sad footnote to the question "How was your Christmas and New Year's?" with my response being "Oh they were great. And it's my birthday on Thursday." The look on a person's face upon hearing the news is a mixture of pity and contempt, as if to say, "Jeez buddy, I just got over two important dates, and you expect me to care that it's your birthday? -- I'm all happy-ed and merry-ed out. Too bad for you."

And poor, poor Zed is facing a similar situation.

My son was unfortunately born on December 30th.

Oh it could be much, much worse. He could have been born on New Year's Eve, New Year's Day or Christmas itself.

Many, many years ago I knew a guy who was born on December 25. He grew to dislike Christmas and hate his birthday: everyone else got a celebration and a party for their birthday; he had family get-togethers that had everything to do with the season and nothing to with him. That joyous feeling that a birthday can bring because, for 24 hours, you are unique and special, was never his to enjoy. You could see the bitterness grow in him as the years went on.

Like all good fathers I'm hoping that the Zed's future is better than mine. This year he had birthday with his immediate family and in mid-January he's having a party with his friends. Maybe that will work for him, having two kicks at the birthday can -- one by birth, one by choice. That could be nice.

A little while ago Zed's brother awakened and he is sitting beside him right now. Both of them are playing on their DS, and I'm looking at them and silently smiling to myself.

Gee's birthday is March 3. He will be eleven. He will never received anything remotely like a combined birthday/Christmas present or have his birthday semi-forgotten in the rush of the season. He has no idea how fortunate he is.

But Zed at least has this going for him: years ago my wife and I decided that we didn't want him to be the youngest at home and the youngest at school. For the want of two days, it didn't make sense for him to face a scholarly lifetime of being the youngest and the smallest. So we registered him a year later than needed and he's now the oldest in his class. He loves school, he's empathetic and he's oh so very bright. (A couple of years later, Malcolm Gladwell published his book and suggested we were correct in our reasoning.)

My wife and I were smart enough to give him that opportunity. And hopefully that's a present that will work for him all of his life.

The rest he'll have to work through on his own.

If I Were the Man You Wanted

There was absolutely no friggin' reason for me *not* to sleep-in this morning.

The past week has consisted of hockey Tuesday night, coaching soccer Wednesday and Thursday night, playing soccer for the first time in (grade thirteen = 19, grade eight therefore = 14, subtracted from 46 =) thirty-four years on Friday night in a 'Refs vs. Coaches' match.

All of that plus packing, packing and more friggin' packing. And, surprise-surprise, there is a whole lot o' books in this house! And not them new-fangled ipad electronic books; nope, it's the good ole-fashioned "Damn, is this box heavy" kind of books.

And Saturday was renting a guy with a truck so we could load and then unload a bunch of stuff (including, of course, *more books*) that were at my stepmother's place and take them up the new house.

So, sleeping-in this morning would have been lovely.

But it simply was not meant to be.

Instead I was awakened because my sleeping thoughts had drifted towards fate, chance, and the decisions we make.


Do we get to where we are because of some guiding hand? Do we get here by choosing Door Number Two when we could have (and perhaps *should have*) chosen Door Number Three Hundred and Fifty-Two? Is there a master plan or just a perpetual motion of lottery ticket draws with some tickets being winners, others being losers but another draw just a decision away.

If I had taken a writing course that had been offered to me when I was a teenager and made the trips from Kitchener to Toronto, would my life be vastly different from what it is now? And would that be better or worse or just different?

And had I taken that road, would I lose everything I have right now?

Or is this where I was supposed to be? Right now. In this moment. In this instant. This is exactly the right place.

Lyle Lovett wrote, "If I were the man you wanted, I would not be the man that I am."



"Home is where I want to be. But I guess I'm already there" sang David Byrne and the Talking Heads.

Alice gave Smoky her childhood and in exchange she lost the certainty that there was a guiding hand in her life and that she had been fated to meet the man she loved. And while that realization made everything more fragile, it also made everything much more precious because she now realized that there was no master plan and she had to enjoy every moment she had. (That's me paraphrasing John Crowley's book "Little, Big".)

And if Schrödinger had ever opened the damn lid, would the cat be alive, dead or would it have got tired of waiting and decided to find its own way out?

Yes, yes: the last four occurred to me as I was writing this. And trying to make some sense of it all.

But the rest woke me up.

I wanted to sleep-in. I probably *needed* to sleep in. Zed is still asleep. My lovely wife is still asleep. I'm doing my best to quietly tip-toe around the house and not wake them. The day is going to be more packing.


And packing is like having a root canal: it must get done, it's very painful, and after it's finished there's still more pain, but in time it fades and everything turns out okay.

But this is the thing, and maybe if I had thought of all this I could have eased myself back to sleep: I'm not a piece of fluff in the wind being blown from place to place. I have roots that are strong and are being transplanted by choice. I'm Popeye with his sweet potatoes because I yam what I yam. And it's all fragile and delicate and precious but not to be feared. There's no grand scheme, but things do have a tendency to work out. It is a royal pain in the ass not knowing when the good times are going to start.

But perhaps worse is not realizing that the good times might be Right Now.

Fort of Feathers

So the boys, on their first day of summer, are enjoying a morning of quiet chaos.

Zed just came up to inform me that they've built a diving fort in the basement. "It's really cool. We put all the pillows on the floor and we're diving on them.

"Can we keep playing?" asks Zed.

I can imagine that it includes one of them being *in* the fort as the other one dives on top. Which of course could lead to bruises, nose bleeds, broken bones and all sorts of other fun stuff.

But I remember my brother and I building forts out of cushions, having pillow fights as we were bouncing up-and-down on our parents' bed like a trampoline, and (in a display of incredible stupidity and showing how completely oblivious we were to physical harm) having pencil crayons wars -- which consisted of hiding behind furniture and throwing pencil crayons at one another, the goal being to to hit the other person, because, y'know, we were geniuses.

"Go ahead," I told Zed. "Just make sure you clean up afterwards. And be careful!"

Running back downstairs, he called out, "We will!"

Yes, my brother and I used to throw pencil crayons at each other for fun. My boys could say they're building forts out of kitchen plates or trying to trap raccoons using rancid hamburger and it would still be less dangerous than what I did when I was a kid.

"Have a good time! Don't be as stupid as I was!" should be the rallying cry for all parents.

Last Day at School

It's funny: both of the boys found the last day of school less emotional than I did.

And because they're both heading to a new school next year, I thought there would be some sadness, tension or tears.

Nope. School's out. "It's the summer!" And they ain't looking back.

As for me, I found myself getting choked up talking to their teachers.

I spoke to Zed's current teacher, Mrs. Chapman, who taught both of the boys (she also taught Gee three years earlier) and she told me that she was sad because she would have had Zed again next year because she was going to be teaching a different grade. But she was very kind and said that the new school was going to be getting two great students.

And I also spoke to the boys' former kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Reiart. She also taught both of the boys but she had them for both Junior *and* Senior kindergarten. She therefore had them for four years in total. I was incredibly pleased that I had the opportunity to thank her for helping make the boys into excellent students. I told her that they're both doing exceptionally well in school and a large part of that is because of her teaching. She was kind enough to say that it was very likely that my wife and I also had a hand in the matter; true as that may be, for the first two years of their schooling, she was the person who showed them how to behave, interact and learn in a classroom. They learned and grew because of her.

In many ways teachers in our province have a great gig (summer holidays, a guaranteed job assuming they don't totally mess up, solid pension, etc.) but it's an incredible responsibility and a bad teacher is a horrible, dreadful, awful thing to behold. An uninspiring teacher can poison the well, salt the earth and rain on the parade that is a child's educational future.

But a good teacher -- worth their weight in friggin' gold.

Both of my boys have been oh so incredibly fortunate because many of their teachers had been blessed with a Midas touch.

Here's hoping their new school also has great teachers. And that the boys will continue to enjoy education, even as they're thrilled when they can leave it behind.

Badges of Honour

While waiting with Zed to walk into school, I overhead one of the older boys. And it reminded me of how cool is it to get injured when you're a boy.

"Look at this scab," the boy said to one of the other kids in line. "It looks like a pepperoni pizza."

And he was right. The injury was the slightly larger than a quarter in size, and had two sharp red dots within the scab. It looked like an angry, hot out of the oven mini-pizza with two pepperoni slices on top.

"Go ahead! Touch the scab!! Touch the pizza scab!" he said to his friend. I'm not sure if his friend touched it; I would like to think he was brave enough that he did.

I don't think most girls would express the injury with such joy and enthusiasm. And I'm willing to bet that the boy wasn't quite so thrilled when he hurt himself.

Had it been one of our boys who had suffered the injury, we would have held him, consoled him and carefully patched him up.

But maybe, just maybe, if one of my boys went to school with just such an injury he would have proudly displayed his wound -- as if it was a major accomplishment and something to be proud of.

I never broke my arm as a kid or did anything that required a cast. And I sure as hell wouldn't want to break a bone now. But I remember that I always felt a tiny bit of envy whenever I saw other kids getting their cast signed. It was like we all had to acknowledge their pain and pay tribute to their bravery. As if by accidentally hurting themselves they proved to be smarter and more daring than anyone else.

It's the attainment of popularity and fame through injury. Pity can come from adults; from other kids, it's awe.

Describing a movie to a ten and seven year-old

The other night I took Gee to see "Avatar".

It was still playing at the fine Scotiabank Theatre here in Toronto (even though it's now out on dvd, they're still playing it!) and I wanted my son to experience it in 3-D and in a cinema.

It seemed like a Good Dad thing to do -- although he hadn't expressed a lot of interest in seeing "Avatar", I thought it was important for him to see The Biggest Movie of All Time.

(In a deep announcer's voice lecturing like in the warnings on a Viagara tv ad, you now have to imagine someone saying, "Please consult your local movie expert regarding actual statistics of the biggest movie of all time, these figures are not adjusted for inflation or the 3-D ticket surcharge, saying that it's the biggest movie of all time may cause film geeks to get angry and lecture you on ticket prices for Gone With the Wind, biggest does not mean best and all movies are relative to the period they were made.")

It was my second time seeing "Avatar" and I enjoyed it more this time out. I could just sit back and enjoy the visuals and just let if flow over me. The first time I saw it, the story bugged me and the long, extended, never seeming to end battle sequence at the film's conclusion seemed self-indulgent. But second time out, I could just enjoy the ride.

As for Gee, he told me that he liked the film, but he certainly didn't love it quite as much as I thought he would. I thought he would be blown away by the special effects and the sheer beauty of the film's images. But while he liked it, he found it too violent -- almost disturbingly so.

Nevertheless, it must have been on his mind because the next day as I was walking the two boys back from school, they asked me what *my* favorite movie was.

And I paused. And thought. And puzzled. And thought some more. And finally replied.

"That's really tough. I mean, I have a bunch of favorite movies. It's tough to pick just one."

But that of course is not much of an answer for two boys. "Okay, but if you had to pick one, what's your favorite?"

It is all in terms of absolutes when you're young. The notion of composing an entire list of great films is not quite there. The reasons why a film might be a Top 10 and why the list might shift and change depending on one's mood -- the concept is not quite there for a 7 and 10 year old. It's either the BEST or it's really not worth mentioning.

So I replied, "Probably 'Casablanca'. Sometimes 'The Matrix'. But probably 'Casablanca'."

(With more thought it could also be 'Blazing Saddles', 'Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory', 'Monty Python and the Holy Grail', 'Ed Wood', 'The Big Lebowski', 'Citizen Kane', 'Invasion of the Body Snatchers', 'The Usual Suspects', 'Punch Drunk Love', 'Bull Durham', 'Singin' in the Rain', 'A Clockwork Orange', 'Fight Club' and of course 'Young Frankenstein'.

And that list would be completely different in half an hour. And none of it is carved in stone. But it's almost impossible to explain a list like that to children.)

"What's Casablanca about?" asked seven year-old Zed.

And again, I'm at a loss. How can I summarize 'Casablanca'?

"Well, it's set during a war. And this guy owns a bar, a restaurant kind of thing. And he was in love with a woman. But she disappeared. And then one night she comes back. And he had been haunted by her memory. And the story goes from there."

(Which of course isn't a great description of 'Casablanca' because it doesn't deal with the World War II setting or Rick's role in the war or Sam at the piano being asked to play it or the fact that she's married to the head of the resistance and Rick was betrayed and heartbroken and at the end he gives her up because of a hill of beans... or any of the stuff that makes the movie amazing.)

Zed, trying to make sense of my brief description and put it within his own frame of reference, asks, "Was she a ghost?"

I'm a little surprised. "No, she's not a ghost."

"Was she a vampire?"

"No, she wasn't a vampire. Why would she be a vampire?"

"Because she came back at night. And you said she haunted him."

And then it all clicked for me. I explained, "It's not important that she came back at night. She left him and then she returned. He was haunted by her memory, not because she was a ghost."

"Ohhhhh," said Zed in reply. And the conversation then moved on.

Then I realized: for my boys, with their love of monsters, aliens, Scooby-Doo and Doctor Who, each and every story is more enjoyable if it has a ghost or a vampire.

Clean up. Clean up. Everybody do your part.

There is something to be said about going back to the basics.

As an example...

While camping for an extended period of time holds no appeal for me whatsoever, I can appreciate the beauty of a single night out in a tent: fresh air, the sounds of nature, stars glittering in the night sky. Much like the sport of golf, I can see the appeal, but I just don't want to do it for an extended period of time.

Which brings me to the joys of dishwashing.

Now, I'm sure there were better and more significant moments between my mother and I when I was a teenager, but I remember our best talks -- our best casual chats, if you will -- occurring as we were doing the dishes together. For my mom and me, it was an opportunity to do something together without the outside world (girls, school, work, relationships, 'what are you going to do with your life?') getting in the way.

Maybe it's because the task is so simple and so very achievable that it allows people to work and relax at the same time. The task of finishing a stack of hideously dirty dishes can look enormous and daunting; the sense of achievement some fifteen minutes later can be immense.

The realization I had yesterday was this: my boys, now age 7 and 10, have no idea how to do the dishes.

Somehow they've managed / we've allowed them to completely dodge the dishwashing bullet.

But, when your dishwasher catches fire, all of a sudden the basics become necessities. And all of a sudden the boys get to pitch in.

It wasn't as if they jumped for joy at the chance. There was some surprise and a bit of moaning as they were told to assist in the task. And I know Gee was none too impressed as I attempted to show him how to dry a plate without touching it with his hands. And Zed was surprised to hear that once the spoon hit the floor it had to be washed again and therefore he'd have to dry it again. But the dishes got done and for me there was some pleasure in the fact that the men of the house had cleaned up the kitchen together.

I'm not saying that the boys should help do the dishes all the time. And I certainly do not mean to imply that we won't replace our old automatic dishwasher -- delivery of the new shiny machine takes place on Thursday. (And it's strange to realize that when a person says "dishwasher" we now think of a machine. The term "automatic dishwasher" is almost archaic.)

There is, however, a kind of peaceful charm and quiet smile that comes to me as I think about the boys as they muddled and stumbled as they tried to dry the dishes last night. If I didn't think it would end up with my wife never speaking to me again, I am almost tempted to make one night a week the "Human Dishwasher Night". We would give the machine a break and clean up the old-fashioned way.

I could even ask my mother if she has any dishtowels she could pass down to her grandsons.

The Hockey Scarecrow

I sometimes hang my hockey equipment outside.

And to be honest, it's not as romantic as it sounds.

I would like to say I put the equipment outside because there is a definite need to air it out, but, being a guy, I have never felt an overwhelming urge to freshen it up. I could, to be embarrassingly honest, just leave it alone and let it grow more and more disgusting and eventually cast it aside and buy knew equipment. Much in the same way that bachelors are eventually forced to buy new dishes.

More than anything the equipment gets sent outside because it's good for peace in the family. When my wife says something along the lines of "Wow, does that ever stink" it's a good idea to actually do something about it.

(It's a none too subtle hint along the lines of a co-worker saying to you "So, when did you run out of deodorant?" -- if you do nothing, you risk the other person taking action into their own hands.)

This morning, when I brought the equipment in to avoid the rain, Zed asked if it was outside to act as a scarecrow. I thought that was an interesting image -- my equipment guarding the backyard against aggressive birds and raccoons that were interested in scoring on our house -- and I should have asked Zed to elaborate. Maybe tonight I will.

Instead I explained why it was exiled to the great outdoors and asked if I had ever shown them how sweaty my socks are after I take off my skates. I thought, y'know, just from a strictly scientific point of view that they might find it fascinating to see how drenched with perspiration one can get after a game.

I explained to them that "It's interesting, but disgusting."

And with very little hesitation Gee laughed and replied "I don't like those two combinations."

Now, one would think after years of reading Robert Munsch that the idea of some truly smelly socks would make them at least a little bit curious to touch the real thing. But that is apparently not the case.

Apparently 'interesting' would be fine. 'Disgusting' would be fine. But put the two words together and my boys lose interest.

Pizza Scientist

There are moments where your child says something that you will remember forever, when they say something that you will never forget.

Sometimes what he says is like a single flower that is beautiful and gentle and unexpectedly gorgeous. Other times it arrives like a huge overflowing amazing bouquet of dazzling wonderment and you end up thinking, “Wow, where did this come from?”

Walking home after picking the boys up from school, Zed (who is seven) was holding my hand and chatting away when he looked up and asked me…

“Dad, what do you want me to be when I grow up?”

And I was momentarily speechless because of the question.

I was speechless because the question is usually reversed and asked by the adult looking down (physically and perhaps even emotionally) at the child. I remember my step-grandmother asking me the question when I was a teenager and me giving a less than genuine response.

And I was also speechless because I did want to give him a sincere answer. What did I want him to be when he grew up?

With a lot of wheels turning and steam rising from my head, I eventually replied, “I want you to do whatever makes you happy. If you enjoy what you’re doing, that would be great.”

Zed gave my response some thought and replied, “I want to be a scientist.”

“If that’s what you want to be, that would be great,” I said.

But he wasn’t finished yet. “And a pizza maker. I want to be a scientist and a pizza maker.”

“Ahhh, so a scientist by day, but a pizza maker by night?”

“No, I would be a pizza maker during the day. That way I could have pizza for lunch.”

“And you’d be a scientist at night?”

“No, I’d make pizza for lunch and dinner. And then I’d be a scientist after.”

“Okay,” I replied.

But this is the kicker…

He continued, “And as a scientist, I would discover a formula so that you and Mum would never die. That way you could stay with me forever.”

And again, I was speechless at his insight. But even more so this time.

--> I think that at age seven the idea of your parents’ death must tickle the back of their mind. Not quite a toothache that is constantly prodded into focus with each slip of the tongue. Perhaps it’s more like a rip in a pair of jeans – it should be patched, but it can’t be perfectly patched, so you’re aware of their faults and you wear them a little more carefully and you try not to think about when they’re going to have to be thrown out.

(That’s right: all parents are like a pair of jeans that each child will eventually wear out, grow out of and that will eventually be cast aside. All I can hope is that I am a comfortable, all-time favourite pair of jeans.) <--

I finally responded, “Zed, that sounds lovely. So you would be a pizza maker by day, have pizza for lunch and dinner, and then be a scientist at night.”

“Yes. And when I found the formula, I would invent a grenade and blow up the lab.”

“Reee-ally?” I replied.

“Yes. Oh! No! I also want to discover a formula to make dogs talk.”

--> We don’t have a dog, so of course Zed is fascinated by them. Loves them. Loves the idea of them. But hates the thought of having to clean up their poop. “Zed,” we say, “you know you’d have to pick up their poo.” “Welll,” he responds, “Maybe we could…” And somehow it turns from a discussion about puppies into a discussion of how to avoid picking up poo. <--

“So you would be a pizza maker by day, scientist by night, discover a formula to make Mummy and me live forever, and then a formula to make dogs talk. And then you’d blow up the lab?”

“Yes. That’s right.”

And I smiled at him as I held his hand and said, “If that’s what you want to do, it sounds lovely.”

In summary…

He will give food to the world. He will make it a better place for parents and dogs. And then, when he is done, he will leave in a blaze of glory.

Not a bad plan.