We got a lot done this weekend, which always makes me feel wealthy.

The Oregon weather was very accommodating for outside work, even in this traditionally dismal time of year. It was downright warm on Saturday, and though the skies presented an ever-impending threat of rain, it never came. I was able to get the Christmas tree stripped and dragged out to the front curb, and tag it with the large green note for the Boy Scouts who come along and take used Christmas trees off to their final destination, whatever that might be.

Later I was able to take down the last of the outdoor Christmas lights. It was a snap, too, thanks to those marvelous cup hooks I’d installed up a few weeks ago.

Michael started a new sport this last Saturday, too: Basketball. He has been so excited to play. Luckily, we had a regulation-sized Junior basketball on hand. It needed a good pumping up but it had plenty of bounce. Michael learned how to dribble, pass and shoot in the space of an hour – and he’s quite good  at it. When we got home he wanted to practice more.

“Well, I have to get the car in the garage, which means I need to get it cleaned up and Christmas stuff put away…”

“Okay! You do that and I’ll help,” he said. And by help, he means that he’d pick up random objects and play with them in random ways and put them down in random places and then run off to watch SpongeBob after he gets bored.

So this gave me impetus to clean more, which I did. Got the garage almost completely cleared out on my side. Unfortunately time ran out, and other duties called.

Sunday was more of the same, with the added bonus of thoroughly cleaning the backyard and having home made pizza for dinner. Thrown in there was a walk for mom & dad and a bike ride for Michael, culminating with an impromptu playdate for Michael with his best friend J. All in all, a successful, productive weekend.

Michael starts swimming again tonight. With a regular swim schedule on weekdays and basketball on Saturday, this kid is going to have plenty of outlets for all that energy. At least, that’s our hope. He really enjoys swimming, and I am maintaining my Olympic dreams for him (Michael Phelps was said to be afraid of putting his head in the water at seven years old, so our little guy has already got a jump on him). 2020 maybe, 2024 for sure.

But maybe he’ll like basketball even more. There’s room for another Michael in the hoops world, I think. Although, he’s likely going to have a bit of a height disadvantage.

He needs these opportunities in sports to learn how to work in a team environment: how to lose or win gracefully, how to share, and how to function as a vital part of a greater whole. ADHD kids are generally challenged in the “plays well with others” area, but he’s made tremendous strides over the last few years, and we’re confident that his school environment, friendships and the extra-curricular activities of basketball and swimming this year will continue to help shape his social senses.

In any case, I’m very pleased that his competitive nature drives him to perform well in the water and on the court, and that he’s motivated to be physically active. It’ll serve him well no matter what his life’s ambitions are.

I have no doubt that 2012 will be an exciting year for us. Even if there aren’t Olympic tryouts for 7-year-olds.

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.

I always call when I’m on my way home from work. I call it the “Protocall”, because it would be a serious breach of protocol should I not call (words are my playdoh).

Wednesday night was no exception.

But instead of a delighted spouse, I reached a frustrated wife. A wife who was on her last gram of patience, because once again, the dishwasher quit.

Alert readers will instantly recall that just last year, this same dishwasher quit working, requiring two service calls and a nearly two-week period of hand washing dishes. A period that ended with the aforementioned wife declaring that she was most assuredly not seeing the positive side of the dishwasher’s hiatus, and that she was definitely not cut out for washing dishes by hand on a daily basis.

Also note that this dishwasher was in fact purchased last year.

Fortunately for us, though, I sprung the extra bucks to buy the extended warranty. Which means the repair jobs will be free for the next three years.

Buying that extra protection marks the third truly good decision I’ve made throughout my entire life (for most of the others, the jury’s still out).

The service guy was able to come out yesterday, and he had the replacement part on his truck. A miracle? Yes, I think so.

“So, this dishwasher isn’t that old. And it had this same thing happen just last year,” I pointed out, as “Ed” was wrapping up the job.

“Hmmm.” He said, thoughtfully.

“Is this a common problem with this model?” I asked, leading him to give me the dirt on it.

“No,” he said. “It’s just that it shouldn’t get wet. The water drops over the edge of the counter and gets into the front panel. Or if you squirt cleaner on it, the liquid seeps behind it and messes up the contacts.”

“Oh,” I said. “So, in short, we shouldn’t get the dishwasher wet.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Maybe I’m not seeing the big picture here, but isn’t kind of a sure thing that an appliance that actually flings hot, soapy water around and sits next to the sink in the middle of a kitchen working with food and cleaning supplies, might get a little moist from time to time?”

“Well, it’s not built to take it,” he said.

Ah.

I’ve learned something. Don’t get the dishwasher wet.

Now we know.

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.

Tuesday was an eventful day.

Michael was tested for a higher class level in his swimming lessons. During his normal class, the director (we kindly refer to her as “The Lunch Lady”* in regard to her booming voice, clipboard and constant patrolling around the edge of the pool during lessons) asked Michael’s instructor to let him go into the deep end to see if he can do the basic freestyle stroke (using his side-breathing skills) all the way across the length of the pool.

While the drill instructor shouted commands at him, he pushed himself all the way across, executing every arm stroke and head turn and leg kick with a precision that would rival that of any professional swimmer. It was one of my proudest moments. He reached the far end, and was drilled back again. His mom and I practically glowed with excitement and pride, seeing our little boy perform so amazingly.

After jotting a few notes down on her clipboard, the director came over to us and suggested that we move him up to the level 3 class. After class, while his mom worked out the logistics for getting him into the higher level, I walked Michael to the showers and told him how proud we are of him. He chalked his performance up to the goggles they let him wear (up to now, we’ve avoided them).
“I can see, daddy! I can see everything! Now I know where to go!” He said, excitedly. Evidently it’s been his underwater myopia that’s been holding him back. Well if that’s all it takes for him to get a shot at the Olympic gold, then goggles he shall have.

He opted to ride home with his mom after class. We often take separate cars as his mom drives to swimming lessons straight from her work, while I am driving him there from home. It’s a necessary evil, but it allows us both to be there.

It was dark and rainy. I was hungry; we usually don’t have dinner before we go, since mom isn’t there and there isn’t enough time between when I get home from work and when we have to dash off to the pool.

Halfway home. I was following my wife’s car as best I could, allowing only one car between us. Slowing to a stop now. Boy that roast is going to taste —

WHAM!

Out of nowhere, a hard impact from behind. My car lunges forward as my glasses fly off my face and onto the floor, along with my hands-free phone speaker. After a moment, I gather my wits and turn on my hazard lights. The phone rings. From somewhere on the floor, my wife’s anxious voice cries out: “Honey? Are you okay? What happened?”

“I got hit. I don’t know. I think I’m okay…” I fumble around for the thing in the darkness, feeling the lenses of my glasses at my feet.

“Are you sure? Did you check? I’m pulling around and we’re going to park…”

“Okay. I have to call 911. I gotta go,” I said.

“Okay. Love you!”

I press the numbers into the phone and wait. Nothing happens. Oh yeah, the “talk” button…

“If this is an emergency, say ‘emergency’” the automated voice instructs.

“EMERGENCY!” I say, rather annoyed. Why else would I call? Weather forecast? Potato baking instructions? Maybe they do that to prevent the inadvertent butt-dial from causing havoc at the 911 dispatch. Still, it might prove troublesome if one was calling to report a home invasion or something.

Finally a human comes on the line, and I provide as much detail as I can, while exiting the car and looking around. My van’s back end is pushed in, the bumper torn, the rear quarter panels bulging slightly. The tail light lenses are intact, as is the rear window.

The car behind me is utterly devastated; crumpled like a cheap beer can. Glass, plastic and odd nuts and bolts and brackets are scattered around on the pavement. The hood is pancaked toward the passenger compartment, the engine is sitting on the ground. The front wheels are canted at different angles. His car will not drive again.

There’s no sign of the driver, though his airbag has already inflated and deflated. A passing motorist stops to set out flares. That done, she smiles and leaves. I’m still wrapping my brain around the whole incident.

Then, the other driver walks up. He’d been setting flares further back behind the scene.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“I think so. What happened?” I asked him.

“I just looked down for a second. I just didn’t see you there.”

“Not a good night for looking down. It’s dark, it’s rainy, it’s hard to see even when you are paying good attention,” I returned.

“Is there anyone else in the van?”

“No, just me.”

“When I saw the stickers on the back of your car, my heart just sunk.”

We have the little happy family stickers on the back window; they’re all wearing mouse ears. We were determined to have Disneyland “bling” for the car after our last trip. He probably assumed that I had my wife and four kids in the car with me.

Pretty soon Michael and his mom showed up on the other side of the street. The fire engines quickly appeared, followed by a police car. I carefully crossed traffic to stand by my wife.

“Are you okay?” she asked again.

“Yeah. Nothing broken I think. I feel all right.”

“Oooh, your head! You got cut!”

I only saw later that I had a nifty cut on my forehead. Evidently during the impact it was my skull that had knocked the Bluetooth device off the visor. There was just a bit of blood; enough to prove that trauma had occurred but not enough to qualify as “gore”.

The firemen checked out the car for leaking fluids and potential explosions, then started cleaning up the road. They suggested I pull my van into a parking lot nearby, which I did. My van was still drivable, and despite the fact that the rear end was pushed in and the bumper torn up, all the lights worked just fine.

They managed to push the other driver’s car into the same parking lot, and the police officer pulled in next to us.

I asked my wife “Are you sure you don’t want to just go? I’ll be okay. You both need to eat dinner.”
“No, I want to stay,” she said. Michael was not complaining. He was mesmerized by all of the flashing lights on the various emergency vehicles.

So the other driver and I stood in the rain. I opened up the van’s battered tail gate and offered the other driver a dry spot to sit.

He thanked me for being so kind.

“It’s okay. I’m sure you weren’t looking to run into any one tonight,” I said.

“True. This isn’t the best night.”

“But statistically speaking, you probably won’t be in any more accidents for a while,” I offered.

The officer took down our info, listened to our stories, and cited the other driver for inattentive driving.

“When there’s a crash – and we always call it a “crash” and not an accident; crashes are preventable – we have to issue a citation. It was clearly caused by your inattentive driving,” she said. “We all do it. But this time it caused a lot of damage. You’re lucky it wasn’t a lot worse,” she said, handing him the ticket.

I felt bad for the poor guy. His car was totaled, he probably will end up paying off a huge deductable while not driving for a while, and he has to appear in court to pay a fine.

It’s a lesson for him. A very hard lesson. How one little careless moment can have such an impact. One that could have a very lasting set of consequences.

Hopefully he’ll learn from it.

“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…”