Yesterday Michael, his mom and I drove up a short way into Washington to retrieve sister S, who’d spent a week with her dad.

Her first grand announcement as we pulled back onto the freeway headed for home:

“I’m a vegan now!”

“Good luck with that,” I replied.

See, this is a girl who only recently has maintained that she will one day be owning a combined Hot Topic / Taco Bell store. She loves steak, chicken and ice cream. She never met a piece of bacon that she didn’t like. The thought of her going one day without consuming an animal product in some form or another is by all rights absurd.

On the trip back, we prodded a little bit for more on the how, why, when and what of it.

“Who got you interested in being a vegan?”

“Mr. Sparklepants.” (Note: this is not his actual name. However, the name we were given is not any more believable.)

“And how old is Mr. Sparklepants?”

“He’s in seventh grade.”

A sterling credential if ever there was one.

“And is he a dietician?”

“No, but he knows what he’s talking about.”

“Give me an example.”

“Well, you can get all your Omega 3s and protein by eating walnuts.”

“Okay…”

“So that’s what I’ll do.”

“Just walnuts?”

“And Ramen.”

Sounds to me like she has the plan all worked out. She explained it to us with such confidence, we figure she must have notes:

“Where are you going to get your calcium?” her mom asked, after a brief pause.

“And your vitamin B?” I asked, immediately afterward.

“And your vitamin D?” her mom asked before I’d finished my question.

“I don’t know… I’ll figure it out.”

This is where we let it drop. My wife and I know when to step up for battle and when to stand down.

While we certainly support lofty goals and noble causes such as protecting animal rights, it is our job as parents to ensure that our children understand every aspect of what they’re getting themselves in to. Knowing sister S, we’re pretty sure she’s missing quite a big chunk of the picture. She latched onto one facet of the vegan lifestyle and a couple of tips and figures she’s ready to run with it.

I give it a week.

(We’re on our way to church camp. Michael is excited.)

Michael: “Daddy? Why is the road blocked over there? What are those cones? They’re working on those rocks, aren’t they? There are a lot of rocks. They’ll break your tires if you drove over them whoa! That’s a twirly sprinkler! Have you ever seen a twirly sprinkler like that? I bet you haven’t. Can we get a twirly sprinkler? It’s a bingo because it’s yellow and SLUG BUG! I saw a slug bug just now because it’s rounded and blue. Or I guess it’s a Koala because it’s white and blue. When you see white and blue slug bugs they’re Koalas because they’re white and blue. How many more minutes until we get there, daddy? Are you driving the right way? I’m in orange starfish today because you told me. Are they having a party? What’s my snack today BOY THERE ARE A LOT OF CARS! Look at all the people. Oh, I don’t think we can park… you’re a good driver because you drove right between the cars. There’s a place to park and WATCH OUT for those kids, oh that was close. Are you parking here? That’s good. You’re doing a good job.”

(Daddy parks, and after opening doors unbuckles Michael and helps him to the ground.)

Daddy: “This way, sport.”

Michael: “I can’t wait to see what we’re doing. Are we doing a craft today? Is that my snack, because it doesn’t have soy or cow milk? You know what’s cow milk? It’s from cows and it’s got dairy. We have to walk a long way. My hair is okay now, isn’t it? Are we doing a craft today? I’m shy so I’m not going to walk next to you. Can I hit the button to open the door daddy? Do we go in here?”

(We enter the building)

Michael: “Hmmm… I think we need to go upstairs because that sign is orange and I’m an orange starfish and that sign is pointing upstairs. Is that where my classroom is, daddy? Where my usual classroom is? Are you going to the big people church or not? There are a lot of kids here. Are they having a party over there? Look at all those balloons! And what’s that parrot and those paper things?”

(The teacher approaches, and smiles at Michael.)

Teacher: “Why hello! Are you all ready for church camp? And what’s your name?”

Michael: “”

(Daddy waits for a moment)

Daddy: “It’s Michael.”

Teacher: “Michael! Well, we have your name tag right here. Are you excited for today, Michael?”

Michael: “”

Daddy: “He is. I just think he used up all of his words on the way over.”

Rare is the time when Michael is caught speechless. But it does give one’s ears a chance to relax for a bit.

Michael has a lot of little characteristic behaviors that tend to belie his actual age.

One of them is his construction of imponderable phrases:

“How come the ice cream trucks are all the time?” (translation: “I’ve seen over four ice cream trucks pass today. That seems excessive.”)

or

“I need to save my laughs, because I’ll want to laugh later.” (translation: “This was fun, but I’d like to move on to another activity.”)

or

“Oh no! Now I smell the peanut butter again. I’m going to have to sleep with my socks on!” (translation: “Alas, my malodorous feet! I should like a shower.”)*

Today, though, we saw a vast improvement in Michael’s ability to communicate clearly. This milestone concerns his manner of directing attention to an object he sees.

In times past he would simply point (or not) and say “What’s that?” and when met with a probing question would only repeat, with greater emphasis, the word “THAT!” which brought naught but frustration to all parties as we tried to cajole him into giving more specifics about the “that” he was pointing to, such as color, shape, direction, distance, etc. We would usually end up irritated and grumpy, and Michael would slap his forehead in aggravation. Often times he would do this in the car, pointing at something from the back seat while we in the front seat had no hope of seeing where he was looking or where he was pointing.

This morning came the breakthrough.

Michael, from the back seat: “Daddy? What’s that yellow light?” (aha! Use of color and descriptor!)

Daddy: “Yellow light? What yellow light?”

Michael: “THAT one!” (whoops – pointing outside daddy’s field of vision)

Daddy: “I can’t see what you’re pointing at. Give me more information.”

Michael, showing remarkable patience: “It’s on the light pole, to the left, on the bottom.” (Wow! A triple, giving two directions and an anchor point.)

Daddy, seeing the light: “Oh, that. It’s a blinking yellow for drivers going the other way…”

And on it went. He was satisfied, I was happy that we actually got through one of these without yelling or crying.

It may not seem like much… but when you’re parenting, you have to celebrate the small victories.

* Please note that this is an actual sentence Michael uttered, not a phrase constructed from whole cloth intending to prove a point via hyperbole. I couldn’t make this stuff up.

Michael, holding plum between thumb and forefinger, for me to see: “Mommy and Daddy? Can I eat this?”

Mommy: “You need to wash that off first.”

Michael: “Where can I wash it?”

Daddy: “Anywhere you can find running water.”

Michael trots to the bathroom and rinses plum off under faucet, then saunters back, nibbling on the plum.

Michael standing just outside of Daddy’s focal range and pointing indeterminately at the plum: “Daddy? What’s this?”

Daddy: “The hard part in the middle?”

Michael: “Yes.”

Daddy: “That’s the pit. Don’t eat that. It’s hard like a rock, and it’s the seed inside.”

Michael, now closer, and now pointing to another part of the plum: “No, not that, this!”

Daddy: “I don’t know what you’re pointing at.”

Michael, emphatically, still pointing at same spot on plum: “THIS!”

Daddy: “It’s either the skin, the flesh or the pit. That’s about all there is to it.”

Michael ponders this for a few seconds.

Michael: “I think it’s a plum, daddy.”

Daddy: “Yes, it is.”

There are times when I think maybe Michael might be an alien.

Sometimes I just can’t figure him out; what his motivations are, what his thought processes are, where his road is taking him. By this, I mean that he often does and says things that I simply cannot reason out.

A few weekends ago he and his mom were working in the front yard, watering plants. Each time he got wet, even slightly, he deemed it necessary to do a complete wardrobe change. Because God forbid he should ever have to endure moisture of any sort.

Couple this with the fact that in just one short summer he’s become a swimming lessons champ, moving from the A class to the C class in record time. He took to water like he’s part seal, showing no fear and gladly holding his head under water from day one.

He will fairly regularly attempt front flips and pratfalls off the couch in the immediate vicinity of the very hard and corner-profuse brick fireplace hearth, showing no concern that his head might actually meet up with unyielding stone in a violent manner. The lessons from previous episodes resulting in contact with bricks seem to have been forgotten.

Just a couple of days ago we were driving along in the car and I noticed a large pile of dirt at a construction site. “Wouldn’t that be fun to play on?” I asked.
“Well, yes… but it’s too high to be safe for children, and you’d get all dirty,” he replied after careful consideration of my suggestion. I have some fond memories of playing on such a dirty pile as a child, and I do not recall even considering the notion of “dirty”.

Some kids are happy to receive a toy in a large box, and will play with that toy as it is intended. Most other kids would be more happy with the box itself. Michael would ask a parent to cut holes in the box and draw pictures on it with Sharpie markers, and while that was going on he’d crawl after the cat and see if he could antagonize her into scratching him.

Now, I remember my own childhood and a billion goofy things I did as a kid: terrorizing my brother’s models by throwing them out the window (I told him they were bombs); putting toys in the piano keyboard cover and playing “mailbox”, closing the cover and being amazed that the toys would be gone when I opened it again; climbing up in the tree in the back yard and painting the limbs with shoe polish; good times… goooood times…

So I have some understanding about being goofy. My daughters did some goofy stuff as little children too (by the way – happy 17th birthday to sister B!), but it was all stuff I could relate to.

Michael, I haven’t figured out yet.

Not long ago I tried buying old junk at Goodwill that we could take apart. He was happy to watch me take stuff apart, for a little while, but he’d soon lose interest and start shoving pennies in the cracks of the kitchen table or poking holes in the placemat.

Once in a while he’ll ask to play with the walkie talkies, but one of the first things he’ll do with them is start pushing buttons and changing the frequency so that they can’t communicate. If not that, he’ll continually press the “call” button so the other walkie talkie just rings without end.

Occasionally I’ll sit down with him and we’ll use letter tiles to spell things out. Either I’ll ask him to spell something, or I’ll spell something and ask him to sound it out. This quickly dissolves into his inventing new words and asking me what they spell, and then him becoming tearful in frustration that he can’t make a word.

The things that motivated me, that interested me, that kept me occupied throughout my childhood are not the things that keep Michael interested.

I have to accept that fact, because he’s not me. He’s Michael, and he has his own style and speed.

My prayer is that I can learn how to meet him where he is, and help him channel his energy into something more productive than bothering the cat.

Michael is now employing the “truth hurts so I’ll lie” method to handling new and different foods.

He says “I love it,” meaning “that was vile, but I get in trouble for being brutally honest about how disgusting certain foods are so I’ll say what I think you want to hear so you’ll leave me alone.”

For instance, last week his mom picked up some rice bread for him to try. This was the only bread she could find that didn’t have milk and/or soy in it.

After lovingly crafting a PB&J sandwich from this new bread, she handed it to Michael, who took an exploratory bite.

He made that face: the one that looks like he just licked something he thought was chocolate but it turned out to be a moray eel, but he’s too cool to allow a genuine emotion to spread across his visage.

“Well?” his mom asked, expectantly. “How is it?”

“I love it,” he said, on his fiftieth chew of the one bite, his nose wrinkled ever so slightly while he strained to hold his breath and to keep his tongue from actually contacting the masticated wad, lest he taste it.

“Great!” his mom said. “Finish that up then and we can go on our errands.”

“Uh, I’m done with it. I’ll just save it for later,” he said, putting it down. The “later” of which he speaks is no doubt coincident with the end of the Mayan calendar.

For several weeks now Michael had been pestering me to get Brussels sprouts for him to try. He happily eats broccoli and many other vegetables, so this wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. It’s just that Brussels sprouts are infamous as the nemesis of children’s palettes everywhere, throughout all recorded history. Legends have sprung up over tales of stubborn children sitting for days, staring at their plate of uneaten Brussels sprouts until their parents finally cave in or grow too old to fight.

So for him to actually request them was nothing short of a miracle in my mind. And I couldn’t help but be a little proud, since I actually like them myself.

However, I resisted the first few requests, having previous experience with children and their unusual culinary requests (miniature bananas, edible flowers, Mexican hot chocolate, etc.) that ended up shoved to the back of the refrigerator to become fungal substrates.

On his continued insistence, I eventually broke down and bought some.

I made eight of them. A simple recipe: clean them, boil them in salt water, serve warm.

He was so delighted to pack into this “little cabbage” the way he chows down on the “little trees” of broccoli.

I knew things weren’t going well when I saw him take an exploratory nibble and make that staring-straight-ahead, corners-of-the-mouth-curled-down-slightly sort of chewing face.

“Hmm… not so much?” I said.

“It’s good,” he said, unconvincingly.

“I don’t believe you,” I said, unconvinced.

“I love it,” he said, still chewing the microgram of Brussels sprout he had in his mouth.

“Michael, you don’t need to lie to me. If you love it, eat it all and have more.”

He cut the sprout in half and forked half into his mouth.

He chewed on it for the better part of 45 minutes.

“Well? Do you still love it?”

“Yes,” he said, finally swallowing. “But I’m full.”

“Mmmkay. I’ll eat the other seven,” I said.

“Okay. They’re really good.”

“Maybe we can get more tomorrow!” I said, brightly.

“No, that’s okay,” he said. “We can try something else.”

“But you love it, right?”

“Oh, yes. I love it. Can I have a treat now?”

“I thought you said you were full.”

“Well I am full of Brussels sprouts, but…”

“Yeah. Eat your dinner.”

If nothing else, I do admire his adherence to the maxim: “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say nothin’ at all.”

My wife and I have noticed recently that Michael has taken to questioning our driving abilities.

Just about anywhere we go, seconds after we’ve left our neighborhood, Michael will begin loudly casting doubts upon our course:
“Are you sure you know where you’re going?”
“I don’t think this is the right way.”
“We’re getting lost.”
“You’re definitely going the wrong way.”

It doesn’t matter that in every instance we actually arrive where we intended to.

It doesn’t matter that we take the same routes to the same place, every time, and that the landmarks don’t change.

It doesn’t matter that he himself still struggles with getting his shoes on the right feet.

In his mind, we’re all clueless.

And aside from the gloom report, he’s started to become a nagging alarm as well:

“Don’t hit that dog!” (when passing a dog that is thirty yards away, on the other side of a concrete barrier)
“Watch out for that cone!” (while slowly negotiating a turn around an orange pylon that is a good ten feet from the side of the car)
“You’re too close to the edge of the road!” (from the middle lane)
“Don’t forget to stop at the light.” (because Lord knows I love running them)
“You can go now. What are you waiting for?” (light just turned green, but there are twelve cars ahead of me)

I’m not sure where this comes from, aside from perhaps his listening to my own tirades against other drivers, or maybe even as the result of some experience he had while we were in the car in which I got us lost (which, to my memory, has never happened).

In any case, I’ve decided that since I cannot stop it, I’ll bend like a reed in the wind and just play along:

Michael: “Are you going the right way?”
Me: “No. I’m just driving around aimlessly.”

or

and

Michael: “Are you sure this is the right direction?”
Me: “Hmmm… I don’t know. Do you know which way is the right direction?”
Michael: “No…”
Me: “Then I guess it doesn’t matter which way we go.”

He doesn’t like it much, but it makes me feel better.

What I’m really looking forward to is when his older sisters start learning to drive. If they give me any trouble I’ll just threaten to make them drive with Michael behind them.

Same stepdaughter in an exchange with her mom:

Mom: “So what’s your schedule tomorrow?”

S: “I dunno.”

Mom: “Aren’t you going to the movies with your friends?”

S: “No, I’m not!” (delivered with the sort of derisive tone only a teen girl can properly construct)

Mom: “But didn’t you tell me yesterday you were going to see a movie on Monday?”

S: “I’m going to see The Last Airbender on Monday.”

Mom: “I just said that!”

S: “No, you asked if I was going with friends.”

Sister S has been a world-champion hair-splitter since she was very young. We believe she has a future as a prosecuting attorney.

Step daughter is standing in front of the refrigerator, staring blankly in to it.

After a moment or two I ask what the issue is.

“I’m looking for something to eat,” she says.

“I made blintzes this morning. There is one left.”

“Really? Where?”

“Right in there,” I say, pointing inside at the top shelf.

“I don’t see it,” she says.

I take a closer look inside, and notice that the foil pouch containing the last blintz is not where I’d left it.

“Huh, that’s funny. I put it right there just a little while ago.”

“Where?”

“On the top shelf. I wrapped it up in a little foil packet.”

“Oh, that. I already ate that,” she says.

Long pause.

I stared at her, not sure where to begin. “So, when I mentioned the blintz, and you said… aah, forget it.”

Kids often say we don’t understand them. I have to concede that point.

It’s morning, and Michael is once again in mommy & daddy’s room making sure we don’t do anything crazy like sleep past 6:00 AM.

He’s chattering at his mom as she quietly puts together his outfit for the day, all the while giving ear to the morning news in hopes of hearing a positive weather report. I’m nearby, getting myself ready for the work day.

On the news, a story comes on about the dangers of illegal fireworks.

At the mere mention of fireworks, Michael’s attention is suddenly riveted to the television. The reporter describes the scenes we’re watching with an ominous tone, as mannequins are substituted for ignorant, idiotic pyrotechnics enthusiasts practicing highly unsafe techniques. The first one has his head blown clean off by a mortar shell. The second has his arm blasted into splinters by an M-80. The third has an eye shot out by a Roman candle. The message is very clear: illegal fireworks are extremely dangerous.

“See, Michael?” his mom says.

Michael pauses for just a moment, obviously still trying to absorb the gravity of the images he just saw.

“We… should… GET THOSE!” he says.

Gravity not absorbed.