Reminder while we're away....

Thomas's birthday (August 17th) approaches, it is nigh. Relatives in England, should you be perusing this in enough time, he has a wish list on Amazon.co.uk (yes, not .com) of special English stuff. Just saying...

Countdown to Canada

Thunderstorms are forecast for the next ten days. Why did I ever suggest going on a two-week camping trip to the edge of civilization? These sorts of things always seem such a good idea during the middle of the semester when you can’t possibly go anywhere. But now, 12 hours from our time of departure, the idea seems like complete madness. Thomas has expectations that he is going spend much of the time playing a Gameboy. After Simon and I quickly disabused him of that notion, he set out to collect a giant stack of Lego sets to bring along and assemble during the trip. Simon and I insisted that to do so was asking for disaster. I imagined a 1,000 mile long trail of Lego bits, dotted around Lake Superior like dandelion seeds, never to be seen again. Thomas, ever the optimist, insisted that my worries were unfounded. “How could pieces get lost if I work on the sets in the car or in the tent?” As he says those words the past 8 years played through my mind and I recalled the countless occasions in which Thomas is standing next to my car, sobbing uncontrollably, because somewhere in the backseat is that special dime he found in the parking lot or that last red M&M he was saving or that little plastic bit that came with that plastic thing and if I don’t find it the whole thing will never work and he didn’t even get to really play with it because we just got it.…And of course no matter how many times I feel around the floor of my car or cram my fingers into the cracks of the car’s backseat we never do find any of those things. Where are they all? And just how much crap can fit into the secret spaces of my car? Thomas dismisses my concerns—he was little then, a mere child, prone to the misfortunes of slippery pieces. And yet wasn’t it a mere two weeks ago that he had a near meltdown when he thought he had lost his brand new Pikachu marble just seconds after I told him to wait until we got home to open the package? And what about the time we were coming home from the Lansing Zoo and Frederick, after grabbing Thomas’ brand new Magnamorph creatures (mutatable things held together with magnets) and we couldn’t find the reptile leg? “Ah, ha!” Thomas says, triumphantly, “we DID find the Pikachu marble AND the leg”—“‘We’? I think it was me that found both.”—“Well, there you go. So you’ll find the Lego, too.” And with that he neatly shifts his argument from “They won’t get lost” to “I will lose them but I have complete confidence that you will find them again” with the unstated, yet implied, claim being, “And if you do not, I will sob uncontrollably for hours and hours.” This trip has me completely worn out and we haven’t even begun packing.

Area man displays birthday bounty

Cousins, (Non)-Identical Cousins, as You Can See

Jimmy and Thomas joined this evening's trip to For-Mar. As usual, For-Mar's resident fauna didn't disappoint. The boys got to see a dozen or so little turtles (I know a few were painted bellies, but am not sure about the non-striped ones) and one MASSIVE snapper. That guy was at least 2 feet long and clearly enjoying the "oohs" and "aahs" coming from the kids at the water's edge. Ol' Snappy did a few stunts, bobbing his head in and out of the water, spun slowly, and then let a little turtle (a mere 6 incher) settle onto his back for a ride. They also saw damsel and dragonflies by the thousands. (And, fortunately, we know the difference between the two because we are loyal fans of David Attenborough's dvds. For those that have not yet had the pleasure, Sir David claims that dragonflies perch with their wings apart whereas and damselflies perch with their wings folded.) We also saw catfish, frogs, a deer and heard something rather large rustling in the tall grass a few feet from us. We didn't investigate but chose to let him or her have their privacy.

In this picture, Jimmy is heading to the water so that damselflies will land on his hand (one did) and Thomas is going to find and catch a frog (plenty of frogs, none willing to be caught). We decided it was time to go when Jimmy got scratched by something nasty that gave him itchy, stinging welts on his ankle and Thomas twisted his ankle. Despite their wounded ankles (and, perhaps, because of them), Thomas and Jimmy had a great time.

Roll Out the Barrel

My childhood was filled with the sounds of polkas. Although no one in the household I grew up in listened to this type of music (I remember Don Ho and Burt Bacharach LPs kicking around our livingroom with Beatles, The Guess Who and Led Zeppelin condemned to the basement), every childhood friend's house echoed with the sounds of Frank Yankovic and the like blaring from Milwaukee's finest AM radio stations. ("Milwaukee Polka," "Hoop-dee-doo," "In Heaven There is No Beer" and "Too Fat Polka" are, I am sure, tunes with which all readers of this blog are perfectly familiar.) So imagine my pleasure, nay, GLEE when I realized that Frederick may have a real future as an accordianist. He doesn't crank away at the thing, as most kids would, producing bleets like so many dying sheep. Rather, he sits in a quiet corner of the playroom, slowly pulls and pushes the bellows while working the chord buttons, and sings a soft and sweet tune. His favorites are Talking Heads' "Burning Down the House" and "Road To Nowhere." He has created novel interpretations of these great pop tunes and it's just possible David Byrne would approve.

Found on the sofa

What can it mean?

My Annoying Brother - by Thomas

[This was a story that Thomas wrote at school. I understand that some people received incomplete copies, so here it is in full. Punctuation and spelling has been left unaltered. Remember that this was written for the amusement of his fellow students, and that it is fiction. For one thing, Thomas is actually 8...]

Chapter 1: “I Didn’t Do It!”

Hi, my name’s Thomas. I have a little brother named Frederick and he’s a pain. Anyway, I’m 10 and he’s 3.

“I wanna glass of juice!”

That’s Frederick. “Get it yourself,” I mumble.

“I want da juishy now!” he whines.

“Whatever.” I get up and make him a glass of juice and give it to him.

Then I go back to reading my book in the sitting room and Frederick disappears into the playroom.

The next thing I hear is, “Hey kitty. You wanna have juice?”

Then I hear, “Row?” It is Tiger, our oldest and fattest cat.

“Come on kitty. Drink da juice. OK, I’ll make you drink it,” I hear.

I rush into the playroom just in time to see Frederick dump the juice on Tiger. Tiger growls and scratches Frederick. Frederick starts to cry.

“Da mean kitty scwatched me!” he whines.

“Well, you deserved it,” I say, annoyed.

“What’s going on here?” my mom says as she descends our stairway.

I was about to say nothing when Frederick whines, “Thomas stole da juicy and dwied to dump it on me, but he dump it on Tigah, who swached me.”

“Thomas, is that true?” my mom asks me.

“No, of course not!” I reply.

“Then who did it?” my mom asks me.

“Frederick did,” I reply.

“Well, whatever,” my mom says and walks away.

Just then I realize Frederick is not in the room. Then I see that my mom left the baby gate to upstairs open. Upstairs is just a bathroom, my room, Frederick’s room and my mom and dad’s room, 4 rooms. I dash up the stairs to see my room door open.

“Oh great,” I think as I enter the room. This is what I see. The window is open with the screen pushed out and Frederick heaving my Lego out the window.

Chapter 2: “FREDERICK!!!”

“What are you doing?” I yell.

“Twoing your Wego bye-bye!” Frederick replies.

I look out the window to see thousands of Lego bricks and a shattered screen on the ground. “Mom,” I call.

“What?” my mom says as she runs up the stairs. “Oh my gosh!” she says when she sees what Frederick did. “Frederick, you’re grounded for a week!” she says infuriated.

“Wadh!” I don’t like you no maw!” Frederick whines.

“Go!” my mom says.

So Frederick slouches into his room. I can’t help but get a small smirk on my face.

“Come on,” my mom mumbles. “That screen’s gonna cost a lot!” …..

Six hours later, my dad comes home, just in time for dinner.

“Frederick broke Thomas’s screen,” my mom explains to my dad.

“Where is he now?” my dad asks.

“In his room. He’s grounded for a week,” my mom explains.

“Good. Now I’ll go get him down from there,” my dad replies. So he begins ascending the stairs. About half a minue later I hear, “Oh my God! Jami, come up here!”

“OK,” my mom replies as she runs up the stairs.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Come up and see,” my dad calls.

So I climb up the stairs and enter Frederick’s room. “Oh, my God!” I say. The window is open and Frederick has tied his sheet into a rope and climbed out the window.

“Let’s go ask our neighbors if they’ve seen anybody like Frederick,” my mom says sounding faint.

So we walk across that street. Then I ring the doorbell to the people’s house across the street. A lady opens the door and says, “If you want to sell something, I’m not buying it.”

“No, we’re looking for a kid that has blond hair, blue eyes and is about a meter tall,” my dad replies.

The lady yells, “Honey, some people are looking for the kid that came here and said he was up for adoption.”

“Alright. I’ll send him down,” a man’s voice replies. Then Frederick comes trotting down the stairs.

“Come on,” my dad said, sounding angry.

“Bud I wive here now,” Frederick whines.

“Come on,” my dad repeats; this time pulling Frederick out the door.

Chapter 3: Frederick’s Help

“Frederick, you don’t do that,” my dad says.

“What should we do with him?” I ask.

“Just feed him and sent him to bed. We’ll discuss more later,” my dad murmurs in reply.

“Pose pepoe fed me,” Frederick says.

“Alright, then go straight to bed. It’s past your bedtime,” my dad says.

So Frederick is sent to bed…………………….

At about 1:00 a.m., I am awakened by a crash of glass. “Better not be Frederick,” I think as I get out of bed. But when I go into Frederick’s room, Frederick is fast asleep. Just then Frederick jerks and wakes up.

“Whad are you doing here?” he asks.

“I’m seeing if you broke anything because I heard a crash,” I reply.

Just then we hear voices from downstairs.

“We’ll take this TV, this radio, oh, and this jewelry,” a man’s voice says. “Hey, I found a wallet!”

“Hey, I hear footsteps. Put up your gun!” a deeper man’s voice says.

“We’re being robbed!” I gasp.

“And day got guns!” Frederick whines.

“But, who are they going to shoot?” I think, worried.

Just then I hear, “Rowww?”

“Oh, it’s just a cat. Put your gun back, Bob,” the deep voice says.

“Whew, just Tiger,” I think.

“Alright, Bobby,” says the other man.

“So da deep voiced man id Bobby, and da odder one is Bob,” Frederick exclaims.

“Yes,” I say in reply, “but we need to think of a plan to call the police without being shot,” I explained.

“Bud how?” Frederick asks.

“Well, you’re going to have to snned down to the basement and call the police on the phone down there,” I explain. I look at Frederick’s puzzled face. “It’s 911,” I add.

“Alwight, bud why does id have to be me?” Frederick asks.

“Because you’re smaller,” I say. So Frederick begins to go down the stairs.

Just then I hear, “Hey, there’s a toddler right there!”

“Oh, no!” I think.

“What are you doin’ son?” Bob says.

“Gedding a dwink a watah,” Frederick says.

“Fine, then get it,” Bob says. Then silence. Then I hear Bob and Bobby talk some more about what they will take. Then I hear Frederick coming back up the stairs.

“Did you call the police?” I ask him.

“I was supoed to caw da powice?” he answers. Frederick trots back down the stairs.

Then I hear, “What are you doin’ here again?”

“Do get a dwink a watah.”

“For crying out loud, you just had one!”

“Bud, I’m still thiwsty!” Frederick whines and begins to cry.

“Fine,” Bobby says. Then Bob and Bobby talk some more. Then Frederick comes back up the stairs.

“Did you call the police?” I ask him. My question is answered by the sound of sirens outside. Then I hear Bobby and Bob say some swear words I don’t know. Then the door opens and the police come charging into the house.

“You’re under arrest!” I hear. “Hey, this is Bob and Bobby, the most dangerous out-laws, in this house!”

“But, who caught them?” I hear.

“I did!” said Frederick as he ran down the stairs.

The police gave him a $50,000,000.22 reward!

Frederick's For-Mar Frolics

Recently, Frederick and I (the male parent) have been going to For-Mar Nature reserve every evening for a walk in the woods. For-Mar is great: it's actually within Flint, but it takes up a few city blocks and is completely wild, with a lake full of turtles in the middle and all kinds of wildlife (besides F) running around. On Wednesday, we were walking down the path and a fawn just walked up to us. It seemed a little dazed and didn't mind us touching it, but just ambled on. Of course I didn't have a camera then, and when I did bring one, we didn't see anything. But here are some photos of Frederick anyway.

God, Bowl!!!!!

Thomas has always been known to have eccentric musings. Yesterday, while we were driving to Target, he became thoughtful for quite some time and then said, "Mommy, I think I figured out a way to find out if god really exists." He waited for the requisite acknowledgement and interest from me and, after getting it, continued. "First we need to make a giant bowling ball and ten giant-sized bowling pins. Then we make a giant sign that says, 'God, bowl!' Then we put everyone in the whole world into a deep sleep for four years. Then, when we wake up, we check to see if the bowling ball has been used to knock down the bowling pins. If it has, then we know that god exists. If it hasn't then we know that god doesn't exist." I praised the plan, in that way that good, supporting parents always praise the ideas of their off-spring and was just on the verge of probing his thoughts a bit (being a full-time philosopher I felt compelled to subject him to a bit of Socratic dialogue, in particular concerning the assumptions (1) that god would have an irresistible interest in bowling and (2) that the bowling equipment must be giant-sized). But Thomas interrupted me with his own concerns regarding his plan. "Mommy?" (Again he checked to make sure I was paying adequate attention. I was.) "Do you think Christians would knock down the pins to trick people into believing that god exists? (short pause) No, they wouldn't because they would believe that god exists and so would think the bowling pins would get knocked down." I praised that nifty bit of deduction but then suggested that some believers may prefer that most people didn't become believers because then they (the real believers) would no longer be god's favorites. Thomas objected that such a preference was not reasonable but then admitted that it fit with human behavior he has observed first hand during his as-of-yet short life. Brow furrowed, he said, "So they might try to destroy the bowling ball test. (muttering to himself) Then we'll have to keep it secret."

Here is Thomas's illustration of the test being constructed (with an explanation to follow because of the inadequacy of the condensed scan to capture its majesty):

[starting in upper right corner: First, we have the GOD, BOWL!!!!! sign. Then, moving to the left, we see a worker lying down with the speech bubble containing 'Zz...'indicating that he is asleep. Further along, we see a computer control panel, two workers sitting at a table enjoying their lunch, one worker with the speech bubble, "Now we'll show the world God is real!!!". In the upper left corner we have a worker near monstrous scaffolding, looking down at another worker falling to his doom (this poor chap has the speech bubble, "ahhhhhhh!"). Two workers below the falling person are resting, one has the "Zz..." speech bubble. One is left to imagine the horror that those two are about to experience. And of course, taking up the entirety of the middle of the picture are nine giant bowling pins, with broad striped curcumventing their middles.]

Lansing Zoo

We went to the Lansing Zoo for July 4th--for what better way is there to celebrate our political freedoms than by looking at caged animals? Thomas enjoyed the black rhino, though she didn't paint a picture as promised on the zoo's web page. Frederick liked the llamas best. And for only a quarter we got a small fistful of what looked like dog food which he carefully fed to this cream and brown one. We called her Cherry Sue and anyone who has read Poppleton will know why.

Thomas and Martha Gamecubin'

Although the picture is quite old--note the woolly purple socks I knit (3-ply! would you believe it?!) that he is wearing to keep his toes warm--it still accurately depicts how Thomas spends 83% of his waking hours. (Indeed, as I type this he is upstairs happily playing away on that thing. If he had his way he would play until almost midnight tonight and then start again first thing in the morning, while still in pajamas and not even having eaten breakfast.) And there sits Martha, longing for days LONG gone by when she was the greatest love of his life. But do not be sad for she knows exactly how to switch The Cube off and, so enraged by her costing him all the gains made in the hours upon hours of playtime, he actually plays with her!

Summertime and the livin' ain't easy

I hoped beyond hope that we would slip through summer without having to suffer, but it wasn’t meant to be. There were a few spits and spurts of hot weather in May, but they didn’t last long and were followed by strangely cool days, with evenings in the low 50s—perfect for working on the pond in the day and sleeping with the windows open at night. After six months of being shut in the house during sub-zero temperatures, open windows always seems such a treat in Spring time: we can listen to the squabbling sparrows, the energetic hammering of the woodpeckers in our biggest oak tree, the squeals and protests of children as they trot past our house on their way to the nearby “party store” and, of course, the hostile outbursts of our Angry Fat Man Neighbor. During his most recent performance, he thumped with heavy sausagey feet down his driveway and then along the sidewalk in front of his house toward a branch that a recent storm had dislodged from a tree in his yard. As he neared it he sputtered, “I’m gonna rip off your FUCKIN’ FACE!!” I was upstairs staring at him through our bedroom window (as one does) and couldn’t see anyone nearby to whom he could be speaking. I also checked for on of those headset things people wear in grocery stores that allow them to argue with their loved ones while they pick out canned soup [“I don’t know! What do YOU want? (pause) Hell, no! I’m not buying that shit!”]. But no. So, unless he was talking to the branch, I can only surmise that he was prepping for an upcoming pre-dawn fight with a future houseguest. A recent fight featured him running after a fleeing guest at 3 a.m., hurling beer cans at the guest’s car while the poor man madly backed up down the driveway and into the road, thumping on the car with his fists while the driver shifted into drive, and screaming “Ass fucker! You fuckin’ ASS FUCKER!” while he drove off, tires squealing. But I digress. May’s hot/cold weather is gone and now we just have hot/warm weather—the days are steamy and the nights are sultry. A few days ago, Simon finally caved to the demands, pleadings and orders of Thomas and I and pulled the inflatable swimming pool down from the garage attic. After wrestling with this giant vinyl monstrosity, I had it inflated and the hose all set to fill it up. Thomas immediately got a floating ring, climbed into the pool and waited for the hose to do its job. Just 19 hours later, we had a full pool. And only 96 hours later, the water was warm enough to swim in without risk of pneumonia. Unfortunately, the inflatable tube that keeps the whole contraption in its proper shape has at least one slow leak—I blame Simon—and yesterday morning we woke to find the tube deflated, the pool half-empty and the backyard 3 inches under water. 9 hours later we had a full pool again but it is still not warm enough to be usable.

Frederick amused by Thomas's shenanigans

And what would warm weather be without hairballs—lots of them! You would think that anyone with four cats would be used to stepping in cold, clammy vomit first thing in the morning—indeed would look forward to stepping in it! And why not? After all, it’s just a loving reminder of the dear little darlings one took in off the streets to fatten up and let shed all over one’s clothes and furniture. And yet the only emotion I feel when I go down into the basement to start up a load of laundry and see six lumpy piles of barely digested cat food (mixed with strings of cat hair and coated with cat mucus) is murderous rage. If only Thomas was three again and unclear on exactly how many cats we had, one (or two, perhaps?) could disappear and at least half of our vomit troubles would be gone—forever!

Simon and I were both teaching a course during the Spring semester that ended last week. Last October, when we set up the Winter/Spring/Summer course schedule, teaching the extra courses and earning the extra money seemed like a very good idea. And until about four weeks into the semester, I still thought it was. But then one Sunday night as I sat down to prepare another week’s worth of lessons and grade another pile of absurdly mediocre essays, I suddenly realized that there was nothing I wanted more in the world than to not have to go to work and teach one more minute of that class. And yet I did it. I screwed on my happy face, smiled into each and every one of their placid, Michigander-bovine eyes, and gave an utterly convincing portrayal of someone who actually thinks that talking about ethical theory for 2100 minutes (75 minutes, 4 times a week for 7 weeks) is worthwhile thing to do. About 10 years ago the term “Philosopher Whore” popped into my head as I sat in my office, waiting for those few last agonizing minutes to slip by before I had to begin another dreaded class. I was struck hard by the fact that I make my living by pretending to care about their lives, faking interest in and enthusiasm for their utterly predictable comments and providing seemingly sincere reassurances in response to their anxieties and self-doubts…Oh well, it’s a living. And we have made it through another slog and are now free to spend our pocketfuls of loot. The plan now is to (1) get out of debt (Guffaw! I just wrote that for formality’s sake.) and (2) make a mad-dash north, cross the U.S.-Canadian border (assuming we’ll be let in) and drive north until we can’t drive no more! Rumor has it that there are walrus-watching boat trips one can make if you are willing to brave the endless sunlight and Arctic temperatures. And who wouldn’t want to go camping with two kids who can’t fall asleep unless they have blackout curtains on their bedroom windows? Yes, it’s The Great White North for us! But all that excitement must wait for at least several weeks as we need to get prepared. At the very least we need to buy a map of Canada that is bigger than 6” x 3” in size.

Anyway we can’t leave the U.S. quite yet as Simon has signed up for an intensive 4-day course that will train him to teach high school students who will not be in the classroom with him but will be viewing him (and he them) on TV. Sounds really bizarre, doesn’t it? He’ll be teaching to three separate groups of 17 year olds, all of whom will be visible only on three different monitors and Simon will be alone in a room (apart from the camera operator who I am confident will snort with laughter at all his jokes). What won’t we do for money!? But I already said that above, didn’t I?

Meanwhile Thomas has begun his bassoon lessons in earnest. This is on top of the weekly piano and percussion lessons. (Today’s percussion lesson featured The Drum Set [previous lessons featured The Tom Toms, The Marimba and The Snare]—which isn’t as easy as it looks, apparently.) Today’s bassoon lesson focused on breathing (always important), posture (not Thomas’ strong point), and Proper Reed Maintenance (I had no idea there was so much to taking care of a damn bit of bamboo and, it seems, when Thomas can be relied upon to use a really sharp blade without risking his fingers, he will be expected to craft his own! Must we farm the bamboo, too?). I will confess that Thomas’s playing sounds like just so much squawking to me, but his teacher seems genuinely impressed with Thomas’s abilities. Apparently students do not usually start playing the bassoon until they are 12 or so, but when I explained that Thomas has been begging to play the bassoon since he was 3 (he really has!), he agreed to take him on. Poor Thomas can barely keep hold of the thing, it’s so heavy and awkward, let alone keep it still long enough to get his lips and teeth puckered just right (roll the lips over the teeth, but not too much, show a little lip, but not too much, now bite down, but not too much…) it’s amazing he can get it to make any noise at all.

Thomas practices the bassoon