Michael has made me proud once again.

I’ve mentioned his audio-abilities in times past, and he’s once again proven himself a chip off the old block.

One of the things I like to bore my poor family with is the game “Where Have We Heard That Voice Before?” For example, pointing out the fact that the character “Charles Muntz” in the Pixar movie “Up” is voiced by Christopher Plummer, whom we’ve seen in “The Sound Of Music.” Or that the voice of “SpongeBob Squarepants” is the same guy who narrates “The PowerPuff Girls.”

Okay, so I apparently have a lot of  spare time.

But that aside… Michael  scooped me tonight on a voice.

While watching one of the typical Disney channel tripe shows “Wizards of Waverly Place,” Michael suddenly blurted out: “It’s him! It’s the voice of the wrench on Handy Manny!”

I listened to the character, a fellow named Dexter. Yes, he does indeed sound like that wrench.

“I think you’re right, Michael! Let me look it up.” I quickly dashed to IMDB to check out the character actor and find out if it’s really him. “What’s the wrench’s name?”

“Uh… Rusty! It’s Rusty!”

“Good job, Michael. It is Rusty.”

A quick look at Handy Manny under the cast list revealed the name of the voice actor responsible for doing Rusty the Wrench. Cross-referencing the actor’s other work revealed that, indeed, he DOES play Dexter on Wizards.

I grabbed Michael and hugged him. “Michael! You have made me so proud! You’ve done it! You picked out a voice!”

He practically beamed with delight.

It could be nothing… and it could be the first steps down a career path. The kid has a great ear, and I’m so proud he’s working on honing it.

The thought of daddy coming home after a long day at work, for me, evokes the happy reverie of children running to the door in warm welcome, shouting “Daddy!” with wide grins as father sets down his briefcase and umbrella and scoops his adoring little rosy-cheeked cherubs into his loving embrace.

What I got from my loving son when I came home tonight: “How did you get here?”

It’s a step up from being totally ignored, so I’m calling it a blessing.

It had been a typical long day at work. My wife was still at her job and wouldn’t be home for a couple more hours.

I’d run the dishwasher, cleaned up the kitchen a smidge, decided I didn’t want to even attempt to clean up the Wii Rockband accessories littering the family room (the ones two teenage girls were able to get out and set up but were somehow entirely unable to take down and put away), and had started making dinner for myself and my wife. I set Michael’s dinner before him (organic chicken nuggets with tater tots and plenty of ketchup) and then plopped myself down in my own spot at the table to keep him company, and maybe even get in a couple of rounds of Solitaire on my iPhone.

With my head aimed down and squarely at the small screen, from the corner of my eye, I see Michael look over and point two index fingers at me, thumbs skyward.

“Pew! Pew! Pew! Pew!” he zapped me, fingers alternately bouncing backwards in mock explosive recoil.

Somewhat annoyed but mostly wounded that he would decide that the best thing to do with me is to riddle me with imaginary gunfire, I turned toward him.

“Michael, why on earth are you shooting me?”

“I’m shooting you with love,” he said, without missing a beat.

“Alrighty then,” I said.

I guess if you’re going to get shot with something, love is probably the best projectile.

This weekend I was helping sister S prepare a stir-fry, one of the few dishes upon which we can all agree; it’s basically vegetarian, which sister S demands, but I can throw in optional meaty protein sources for the carnivores in the family.

She had come home from her dad’s not too long ago chirping brightly about how she knows how to cook tofu now, so she’ll cook some for dinner soon.

I called her bluff and bought some.

Her confident statement suddenly turned into a “well, I watched my dad, and it looked easy, and tasted good…”

Nonetheless, I had her come into the kitchen one evening and fry it up as per what she’d seen done before. The result looked like small, furry bricks slowly dying in an tar pit. With a balsamic vinegar note.

After finishing off the tofu and frying up the veggies, she announced dinner was ready.

Michael came into the kitchen and asked his mom if he could have chicken nuggets instead. She agreed and got them out.

“Thanks, mom. I’d eat whatever’s cooking, but it smells like poop. Only worse.”

They are definitely not including tact as part of the 1st grade curriculum.

About twelve seconds after I woke Michael up this morning, he burst into tears.

He had asked me where his mommy was, and I had to explain that his mom had already left for work, and that meant he’d missed his morning drive.

Michael likes to drive with his mom every morning. He’s been doing it for as many years as I can recall.* On those days when she has to go off to her meetings, her cardio rehab or to work, Michael follows her out to her car, and after she’s had a chance to sit down and get her lunch box and coffee situated, he clambers up on her lap – an increasingly awkward process, Michael being a big seven-and-a-half year old now – and holds on to the steering wheel while she buckles up and puts the car in reverse.

Slowly and carefully she’ll back the car out of the garage and down to the end of the driveway, as I walk along side.

Then she stops the car, and I open the door, scoop him out, and hold him up for one last kiss and hug before she heads off.

It’s a ritual. One that probably won’t last too much longer, for a couple of good reasons: 1) He’s getting to be a bigger and bigger boy. His legs won’t be able to tuck under the steering wheel much longer, and he head will start bumping the passenger compartment ceiling. 2) He’ll eventually reach the stage that all kids do, the one where they turn the corner from mommy-magnet to parentally indifferent, which is the street just before “don’t embarrass me, mom!”. Once he gets there, mom will be lucky if she gets a grunted “bye” from him in the morning. Assuming he’s awake when she goes.

And it’s because this time in his life is fleeting, here today and gone the next, that neither his mom nor I are insistent that he give up his habit, as inconvenient as it sometimes is to all involved (I’m content to give my wife a kiss and a wave from the comfort of the garage, and she is happy to not have to struggle with a 45 pound package of bony elbows and knees while negotiating an aging SUV).

This brings us to the inconsolable sobbing that Michael furnished for this particular morning’s story arc.

“Michael,” I said while selecting his outfit for the day, “I’m sorry you missed her, but she has to leave really early to get to work, and you needed the sleep because you were up so late last night.”

My reasoning, sound as it was, did nothing to mitigate his grief. In fact, it seemed to fuel it.

“Let’s see your Grandma. Maybe she can help,” I said, hoping that Grandma K could make things better. Grandmas are good with things like that.

We wailed our way down stairs to find Grandma in the kitchen, putting away dishes. (Grandmas implicitly take over the dish doing in our home whenever either of them visits. I cannot say I dislike this fact.)

“Michael! What’s wrong?” she asked.

“He missed his momma’s drive this morning,” I explained.

“Oh, that’s so sad.” She stopped what she was doing to give him her full attention. “But you were up so late last night! It’s not good for you to get up so early! And your momma has to go to work…”

She did her best. She gave her most soothing, consoling Grandma voice. Still he was not mollified.

“Maybe you can drive with Sister S,” I suggested, without any seriousness. Sister S doesn’t have a car. And Sister S can’t drive yet.

But as she does sometimes, Sister S tuned into our conversation from the other room, and jumped in:

“Yeah! Michael, if you get ready fast, you can drive with me!” she said, excitedly.

He was hesitant, but started getting dressed.

“Wait a minute…” he said, stopping. “You can’t drive!”

“I know,” she said, “But I can give you a piggie back ride down the driveway!”

That was enough for Michael. He hurriedly dressed and ran over to her. I held her backpack as he jumped up on her back and she grabbed his legs.

“Okay, here we go!” she said, and headed out the door. “Vroom! Vroom! Screeeech!” She made over-the-top fake automobile noises and hustled down the walkway, down the driveway and around in a figure-8 before stopping at the mailbox at the property line.

“There you go! All done!”

“Yay!” he said, and hopped off. I handed his sister her backpack and she waved goodbye, trotting quickly down the sidewalk and off to meet up with her friends.

I scooped a sock-footed but shoeless Michael up and carried him into the house, a transformed boy: he who was recently steeped in regret and loss was now a satisfied, placated boy who was ready and eager to face his day. With a smile.

Some times, sisters can be really great.

* Rabid fans of this site (who, as of this writing have not made themselves known) may recall this story which states that Michael always rides in his car seat when in the car. And this is absolutely true… with the single exception of his morning drive ritual. See, I just don’t count that as “riding” in the normal sense of the word. I should be a politician.

Monday night’s swimming lesson did not go well. Michael spent most of his time goofing off with his classmates and making some very bad choices, his antics ultimately escalating into downright bad behavior.

I chided him after he toweled off and dressed.

“Michael, I am very disappointed in your behavior. You did not show kindness to your friends, and chose to misbehave. So when we get home, it’s going to be jammies and off to bed.”

Michael was contrite, and understandably glum on the trip home.

Eventually he broke his silence with one of his typical statements, which is a question that is couched in the form of a negative answer:

“Man. Now I can’t go through the ‘secret passage’.” (Editor’s note: the ‘secret passage’ is a route to our home that winds through an older section of the neighborhood, rather than taking the main roads. It seems mysterious and untraveled, thus he has labeled it as a secret passage.) Michael has this idea that if he states something negatively, his parents will see his plight and will swoop in and make things right. In this case, by saying that he can’t, he figures either his mom or I might say “Why, of course you can!” Thus avoiding the pain of actually making supplication to the higher authority and risking disappointment.

This was confirmed when I pointed out that I was wise to what he was doing.

“Michael, you don’t know unless you ask,” I said.

“Yeah…”

“So, are you going to ask me if we can go that way?”

“But you’ll say ‘no’.”

“How can you be sure if you don’t ask?”

“I’m worried…”

“What’s the worst thing he could say? You ask and you may get a ‘yes’ and you may get a ‘no’. The worst he can possibly say is ‘no’, right?” His mom said, jumping in to encourage him.

“Uh…”

“Michael, just ask,” I said.

“Could we go through the ‘secret passage?’” he asked, tentatively.

“Why, yes, we can!” I said, happily, and turned down the street into the seldom-used entrance to our neighborhood.

“See, Michael?” his mom asked.

“Yes!” he said.

“Any good parent is only going to say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to a question like that. That’s the worst they would do,” his mom continued.

He thought about that for a long time.

Then he provided this observation:

“You know what a really bad parent would do?”

“No, what?” we asked.

“If the kid asked to go through the ‘secret passage’, and the parent was mad, and he had a gun, then he’d turn around and shoot the kid. That would be a really bad parent,” he said.

“Yeah, that would be a bad parent, for sure,” I said.

He knows how to set the bar low. I must be an excellent parent.

“Mommy?”

“Yes?”

“Can I play with your iPod?”

“Yes, but please be careful with it.”

“I will.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I dunno, just stuff…”

My wife went back to work today.

Since her surgery in June, she’s been out on disability. Tearing into someone’s chest cavity to work on their heart is pretty traumatic to their muscles and bones, which need time to heal.

She’s been doing physical therapy, walking every day, going to a special cardiac rehabilitation exercise course twice a week and otherwise being careful about what she picks up. She’s been working hard to prepare herself for her return to work, though for quite a while we basked in the luxury of knowing that it would be some time before she had to go back.

But time continued its relentless march, remorseless and indifferent, to drag us to this day. It was strange going through the old motions, getting up at 4:30 and helping her get ready, making breakfast and coffee and being sure she had her cell phone and work badge and everything. It was almost surreal waving goodbye as she drove off into the pinkness of the approaching dawn.

I got a message from her that she got to work on time, was able to park in a good spot, and managed to perform her first procedure without any difficulty.

Michael asked where his mommy was. I had to explain that she was at work. I don’t think he grasped what I meant, since Mommy hadn’t been to work for the whole summer. Just the same, he got his morning shower, got dressed, had breakfast and we played just a bit before I hauled him up to the bus stop.

I’m not sure why, but it’s almost like I have to drag him there. He shuffles his feet and hangs back four paces unless I have a good grip on his arm and can scoot him along.

We aren’t on great terms with the rest of the kids at the bus stop, the ones from the twin cul-de-sacs where Michael’s bike-riding friend lives. It feels a bit like we’re interlopers. And though there is no explicit exclusion, I can’t help but notice that they’ve all got little conversations going on amongst themselves, with their backs to Michael. And they seem to be very protective of “The Line”. This is the queue that forms for getting on the bus. The first to arrive at the stop in the morning begins the line, and each successive kid takes his or her place behind the last one. On our first visit to the bus stop this year, we made the grand faux pas of trying to place Michael at the front of the line, being utterly unfamiliar with the protocol. Eventually the bus arrives, and the kids get on. They all sit in the same seats every time, so the point of maintaining the sanctity of the line is lost as soon as they reach the first step of the bus. I explained to Michael that it doesn’t matter whether he’s first or last in line: he’ll get on the bus, and he’ll get the seat he likes either way.

From all points of the compass, the less punctual kids come running. One of these is Michael’s friend J. The bus driver is kind and waits, lights flashing and doors open, for the stragglers. Eventually the doors shut and the bus rumbles down the street, a grey cloud of half-spent Diesel wafting behind. Michael waves at me from inside, making sure to make eye contact.

As I head back home, I happen to glance down the street at another house, where Michael’s friend E lives. I smile a little thinking of his recent play date there. She had been in his class last year, and we only discovered at the end of the school year that she lives two doors down on the other side of the street. He had been clamoring to play with her all summer, but every time we stopped by, nobody was home. When we rang the bell on Sunday, though, it was a different story. E’s dad came to the door, and was delighted to see that E had a friend calling. He ushered us around the back of the house, where we discovered a small, lush forest glen, complete with tall trees and trailing vines, a verdant arbor covering a cozy patio and a two-story playhouse. Michael was instantly enchanted, and immediately entered the play house.

Then E came running out, a huge smile on her face. She ran into the play house and disappeared. Her dad said “Funny thing, she was so crabby a few minutes ago, but when I said Michael was here, her mood changed completely.”

Michael had established another neighborhood friendship. It only took all summer to get it started.

But summer is over, and we’re now fully back to the compulsory aspects of our life.

There’s still a bit more sunny and warm days ahead though… I hope we can make the best of them.

Summer.

For children, that delicious stretch of endless sunny days filled with adventure and glee.

Okay, maybe not all the time. Most of the time it seems to be ceaseless ennui smeared with thick clots of slack-jawed television viewing. One of the teenagers has practically worn her favorite spot on the couch clean through to the springs.

It’s rained a lot. While the rest of the country has been sweltering under the “Heat Dome” (something we Oregonians have heard of but haven’t experienced; we view it with a detached fascination, like what most people feel when they see a moon rock behind glass), we here in the great Pacific Northwest have been pelted with rain beyond even what we consider normal for the year.

The good news is that my water bill is way down. I’ve only had to water the lawn once this year. And we only turned the air conditioner on once this year too: yesterday afternoon.

Because yesterday, it got above 80. Heavens!

And yesterday, Michael’s mommy and I decided that it was high time Michael got up on his bicycle and practiced riding. I took off his training wheels last year, and informed him that he’d be riding on two wheels before the summer is up, even if it killed us both. And of course I mean that figuratively.

In order to make things a little easier on him, we decided to haul him up to one of the cul-de-sacs toward the top of the hill in our neighborhood, since our own street is too steep and too busy for a wobbly little boy to get any good practice on.

Lucky us, when we got there, who should drive by but the mother of one of Michael’s kindergarten buddies. With said buddy riding in the back seat. She leaned her head out and shouted a greeting, and after pulling into her driveway hurried her little boy into the garage to fetch his own bike.

So for the next half hour, it was bicycle training day for Michael and his friend.

“The only thing J can’t seem to figure out is how to get back up on his bike after he rides a little. I always have to help him on,” Michael’s friend’s mother said to us, watching the little guy pedal down the street.

“The curb! Have him bring his bike over to the curb and stand on that, then lift his leg over and push off. It always worked for me,” I said.

“That’s a great idea!” She hurried over to J to show him this new technique. Meanwhile, I plopped Michael on his seat for the thousandth time.

“Okay, little man. Let’s try for ten seconds this time.”

“Daddy… I’m too heavy for this. I scraped my leg. I’ll never get this.”

“Don’t say that. Look, J is up and riding just fine! If he can do it, so can you. Just find your balance.”

“I don’t have any balance.”

“Yes you do. I saw you pull yourself back upright before you crashed last time, so I know you can do it.”

I tried to be as encouraging as I could as I ran along side him and got him up to speed.

“Okay, sport. I’m going to let go. It’s all you!” I let him go, and he pedaled briefly, got scared, braked and instantly crashed.

“See? I can’t do it!” he cried.

“Yes, you can. You just have to not be scared of it, and don’t stop pedaling. When you stop, you fall. You can’t stay balanced if you stop. Just don’t be afraid.”

“Okay…”

We tried it once more. I ran along side him and pushed him forward. He pedaled… and stayed up!

Seven, eight, nine, ten… he was doing it! Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen seconds of riding on his own!

Then he rammed the curb at the end of the cul-de-sac.

“You did it! You rode! You can do it!”

“Yeah! I’m going to go by mommy now…” and he turned his bike around, got up and had me roll him past his mother, who was getting the whole thing on video.

He didn’t last but nine seconds this time… but he knows he can do it. He’s past the tipping point; it’ll just be a matter of a few more practices, hopefully with J, to get him really riding strong.

It’ll be then that he’ll discover the joy and freedom of riding his bike, going where the wind takes him (with all safety in mind, of course).

His friend came running over to congratulate him on staying up, then invited him over to play. Michael gave us a look and we said yes, then he and J dashed across the street and into his house. His mom exchanged phone numbers with us, and after a brief discussion about the impromptu playdate, my wife and I bid them goodbye and walked on down the street and around the corner to our own house.

Michael was on his first playdate, after having really ridden his two-wheeler for the first time.

Summer has officially begun for one little boy.

Michael came into the kitchen where I was cooking breakfast. He noticed that his stuffed “Angry Bird” was no longer on top of the refrigerator, where it had been incarcerated for the duration of Michael’s penance (for having, the night previous, recklessly and unabashedly launched it onto a kitchen table laden with breakables and full drinking glasses).

“Where’s my angry bird?”

“It’s on the couch,” I said.

“Oh. How did you do that?”

“How did I do what?”

“How did you do it?”

“How? Maybe you can figure out how,” I challenged, hoping to prompt his critical thinking skills.

“Because I’m not in trouble any more?”

“Well, that’s more of the reason why. You asked how I did it, not why.”

“Uh, because it’s tomorrow and I can play with it?”

“That’s true, but that’s not how I did it.”

“How?”

“Are you asking how I did it or why?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Which is it?”

“How to why.”

“How to why what?”

“Yes.”

“Are you asking me how or asking me why?”

“How you did why.”

I took my eyes off the pot on the stove for just a minute to see if I could discern the essence of his question in his face.

He just beamed at me with smiling blue eyes.

“I think SpongeBob is on,” I said.

“Okay!” and he trotted off, happily.