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.

Caught a mouse this morning. Humanely; I was able to release it into the wild later in the weeds near a pond some distance from our house. I’d heard this particular little guy Wednesday morning as I was making breakfast. He was scrabbling around under the stove, no doubt snacking on whatever little bits of food that had been inadvertently kicked underneath and missed by the vacuum.

Our lovely kitty cat, whom we’ve renamed “Fail”, sniffed around as I pulled the trap out, acting not unlike a state road construction supervisor: “Yeah, that’s the one. I knew he was there all along. I would have caught it myself, you know, but well, I’ve had a lot of napping to catch up on, and hairballs to hawk up and stuff.”

In a house full of kids, especially teenage girls, the option of a quick kill does not exist. So despite the myriad of “instant death” mouse traps at the local hardware store, I opted for the one that was designed for catch-and-release. A simple little device, really: bait at one end, opening at the other. Mouse walks in to get the bait, trap tips up, door shuts and locks. Voila.

I decided it would be neat to release said mouse into an old wastebasket so that we could see him before I let him go. Having read “The Mouse and the Motorcycle” fairly recently, I was confident that a wastebasket was a perfect place to keep a mouse awaiting transport to freedom.

Yeah… nobody told me how dang high those things can jump if they put their backs into it. First of all, this critter was HUGE – 8” from tip of nose to tip of tail. Second, he was very interested in not being in the wastebasket, despite the selection of nuts and grains I had deposited there for his enjoyment. Michael said I should have used cheese because all mice love cheese. Who started that myth, anyway?

I took the rodent-inhabited wastebasket outside quickly, in case he did actually make good on his attempts to leap out. Keying off of the energy level of the mouse, I hurried. And sensing my energy level, Michael screamed excitedly as did his sister who desperately wanted to get a picture of little Mr Mousy to send to her sisters, who would no doubt text back various sorts of delighted screams, coos and iconified mouse images. I’m sure the neighbors were impressed to see the fat guy in the orange Hawaiian shirt holding a wastebasket at arm’s length running into the street followed by two screaming kids.

Outside, in the back of the van, Sister S managed to find a makeshift lid and some duct tape, which I used to secure the top of the wastebasket. With his exit plan frustrated, the mouse quieted down.

And later, after dropping Michael off at school, I took little mousy to the pond at the bottom of the hill and let him scamper off into the weeds.

Goodbye, Mr. mouse. No more nocturnal nibbling in our house.

And as for you, Failcat, no wet kitty food for a week.

The part of each weekday morning that I dislike the most is, without question, assembling Michael’s lunch. I’ve mentioned this before.

Yesterday’s episode went like this:

Daddy: “Michael, what do you want for lunch?”

Michael: (no response whatsoever)

Daddy: “Sometime today, please.”

Mommy: “How about fish fingers?”

Michael: “Yeah, fish fingers. That sounds good.”

Daddy: “How many?”

Michael: “Five. Five is good.”

Daddy: “Five fish fingers it is.”

So I cooked them a bit to crisp them up, then sealed them in a travel container and packed them up next to another container filled with ketchup, and some cheez-its and grapes.

I figured he’d have a nice little lunch there, and I had successfully survived another morning of getting him ready for school.

Imagine my delight this morning when I went to find his lunchbox (I never know where it’s going to be left from one day to the next) and discovered all five fish fingers intact. Daddy was not pleased.

Daddy: “Michael! I’m not very happy with you! You didn’t eat those fish fingers at all!”

Michael: (no response whatsoever)

I did note that the cheez-its and grapes were gone. Well, he enjoyed that part. And most of the ketchup was gone too. So… he dipped the grapes and cheez-its in ketchup?

Hmmm.

Today he got slices of ham, grapes, pretzels and carrots. I put protein in his lunchbox, but I cannot force him to eat it. I can’t pack peanut butter, even though he loves that, because of the nut allergy there at his school. I can’t pack cheese, because he loathes it. Even when it’s being eaten by someone else, clear across the room. And I can’t just pack a baggie full of Cocoa Puffs because I’m sure someone would eventually report me to DCFS or something.

I can’t wait until next year, and the thought of public school hot lunch saving me from this task. Packing cash for lunch is easy.

I really need to buy myself a sense of humor.

The fact that my wife laughed at my irritation this morning is a clue upon which I ought to ruminate at length.

You see, I was in a rush to get out the door. This is my normal operating mode on any given weekday.

I knew Michael was up, as I practically tripped over him as he lay there on the stairs, enrobed in every blanket he owns, like a giant, pulsating parasite drawing nutrients out of the carpeting.

“Not a good place to be, sport,” I said, stepping over the multi-hued mass and continuing on my way. I heard him bump down each tread on his way to the landing. He crawled over to the chair in front of the computer to watch the screensaver as I prepared a simple breakfast for his mom and myself. She was on her way out as well, having an early doctor’s appointment.

“I’m going back upstairs, Michael,” I said, but he remained at the computer.

My wife and I dined in our room while watching the news.

“Is Michael up?” she asked me.

“Yes. He wanted to hang around downstairs and look at the computer. He’s probably shutting it down or something,” I said.

We finished our breakfast and I took the breakfast tray downstairs, passing Michael as he came up.

“I need to get you dressed, little man. Then you can have breakfast so we can get you to school,” I told him. He did not say a word.

In the kitchen, as I took the dishes off the tray, I heard the bedroom door shut.

This is not a good sign. When Michael gets into our bedroom, he thinks he can set himself up to watch his favorite channel, Sprout, without restriction of any kind. He knows the rule on weekdays is that he has to be dressed and fed and completely ready to go to school before he can even look at the TV.

I went upstairs to investigate, and our bedroom door was locked. I heard Michael moving just on the other side of the door, followed by his quick retreating footsteps.

“Michael! You unlock this door!” I tried the knob a few times for emphasis.

“I’m watching Sprout, daddy!” he said, gleefully. He needed only add “neener, neener, neener” to complete his taunt.

Seething, I went to fetch the door lock pin from its secret hiding place (in Michael’s room – shhh, don’t tell him), and after trying it, remembered that the door lock to mommy & daddy’s bedroom doesn’t use that kind of lock. I’d need to go all the way to the garage to get the jeweler’s screwdrivers to open it.

I shouted again through the door: “Michael! Open this door!”

This time he answered, and unlocked it. I think he knew he wouldn’t ultimately win this battle.

I immediately turned off the TV.

“Get downstairs now, mister. No TV for you at all this morning,” I said.

From the bathroom I heard my wife say “I told you you’d get in trouble, Michael.”

She’d been in there the whole time.

It was only later when I explained that Michael had locked the door that she laughed.

I’m glad she found it humorous.

I’d hate to think my irritation was for no good purpose.

Vacation is officially over. It’s time to head back to work, school and other standard occupations.

After we’ve fully enjoyed the holidays, we are curtly shoved out into the dark, dour epoch that stretches on until the next official holiday. We must endure a cold, bleak existence until February, when we come skidding up to Valentine’s Day and collapse on its doorstep, thankful for an excuse to celebrate something.

That, and if the stores are any indication, we also spend this time packing stuff up in Rubbermaid containers and weighing ourselves.

Another rainy day in Portland – a redundancy if ever there was one – and it started with a bit of disagreement as to whether Sister S had school or not. The school district calendar didn’t state emphatically that there was school, but there wasn’t any indication that there wasn’t school. We decided to drive her there, thus if there wasn’t school we could just turn around and drive home.

There was. She wasn’t pleased.

As I pulled back onto the road amidst lines of buses and throngs of parents dropping their kids off, I remembered how much I dislike this particular stretch of road – especially in the dark, and even more so in the rain. It’s hard to see anything at all unless it’s emitting its own source of light, with the headlights stabbing the eyes and obliterating most objects, and the rain obscuring everything else. While looking one direction and just about ready to turn, I suddenly caught sight of a group of morose-looking teenagers shuffling along the sidewalk. I was glad they weren’t shuffling along in front of my car as I turned, or I would have squashed every one of them.

It’s the clothes they wear these days. Don’t get me wrong, I know every generation of teens clings to its own fashion code and ours was no better… except that our was visible. The goth/emo trend today sports dark colors which renders the wearer, as a pedestrian, nearly invisible. Say what you will about the garish, loud, tie-dyed fashion sense of the 1970’s, but you have to give it this: you couldn’t help but notice it.

I would wager big money that there is a direct correlation to fashion trends and pedestrian versus automobile accidents.

Michael of course went back to his school today, and was entirely ambivalent about it, to the point of being blasé. He was excited about the fact that his mom would be picking him up extra early today, to take him along with his Cousin A to the train station. Cousin A had been staying with us throughout the holiday season, and Michael greatly enjoyed having another boy in the house to help even the odds. His mom and I enjoyed having Cousin A in the house because he’s polite, helpful and grateful – three traits we hope will rub off on our kids.

So with Cousin A heading home, the kids going back to school and me going back to work, it’s life as usual again.

Not much to say about it other than it’s life, and I really can’t complain. I’m thankful we have a roof over our heads, food in the cupboard, solid employment and kids who get along well for the most part.

Wishing you all the best in 2010.

I’m sitting on the couch, trying to pretend I’m not awake yet.

Michael suddenly runs to the bathroom to grab a wet wipe, and quickly returns and starts scrubbing down his little plastic slide.

“Don’t worry, daddy. I’ll get the germs off.”

“What?”

“It’s on the slide, right there,” he points to a black smudge at the end of the slide.

“What is that?”

“It’s okay, daddy. I’m cleaning it off,” he says brightly.

“But what is it?”

“Well…. it’s black stuff from the ink.”

“Ink?”

“Yes, ink. From the paint.”

“What paint?”

“Well…. it’s from the floor.”

“What ink? What paint? Where?” Now I am alarmed, and can already see I’ve got a delightful morning in store.

“Uh… well, it was… I don’t know.”

“Yes you do. Tell me what happened,” I say, getting up to address him and follow him to the origin of the issue.

“Uh, it was paint from the pen,” he said, walking toward the table.

“What pen?”

“It was here,” he says, pointing at the floor by the closet.

“I don’t see a pen. Where is the paint?”

“I don’t remember.”

“When did you do this?”

“Well, I was drawing on the slide, and I cleaned it off.”

“I know that part. Where is this pen? What paint did you use?”

“It was this,” he says, and picks up a colored pencil from the table.

“You drew on the slide with this?”

He nods, sheepishly.

“Is this okay to do?”

He shakes his head.

“Drawing is to be done on paper, with your mommy or daddy watching. Understand?”

He nods again.

“Okay. Don’t draw on stuff again!”

If I allowed myself to do so, I could imagine all sorts of other things that he might have drawn on this morning during the 30 minutes he was out of his room while his mom and I were frantically trying to wrap presents in privacy. And I could probably also imagine what he really might have gotten into that would have left a dark smudge, and why he would have assumed it had germs.

I could do that… but I won’t.

This is one of those situations where you avert your eyes and walk away whistling.

Michael’s just gotten out of his shower, and his mom is applying the finishing touches: a few spritzes of hair stuff and a quick brush.

“What are you doing, mama?” he asks, annoyed.

“Trying to make you just like daddy,” she says, brightly, parting his hair the way I do.

“What? You mean I’m going to smell like him?” He points over at me.

“Yes! Won’t that be nice?”

“Ewww, gross!” he says. “I don’t want to stink like him!”

Just warms my heart, he does.

My poor, dear wife.

This morning, like so many others that have come before, she faced a dread responsibility. A wearying, nigh insurmountable task.

I could see it plainly in her posture as she mentally prepared herself, gathering her inner strength. She slowly closed her eyes, said a silent prayer, took a deep breath, and began:

“Michael, what would you like for lunch at Ms S’s today?” It came out in near monotone. At once she braced for his reply.

“Well,” he began, tilting his head back to ponder the ceiling while he stroked his beardless chin, “something… like… Cheez-its… and… something else… that I like…”

My wife emitted an audible groan and her already slumped shoulders shrunk down even more. I could see the life energy drain from her as our son dragged his menu selection on ad infinitum.

Michael’s enjoying his new school, and aside from one particularly horrific episode, has exhibited exemplary behavior. He’s eager to go in the morning, has learned some new skills in reading and writing, brings home artwork nearly every day, and enjoys the songs he learns there. His manners at home have even improved to a degree, and his maturity level has increased as well, which is a wonderful thing to see.

But lunch time continues to present a problem.

They’re peanut-free over at Ms S’s, thus eliminating peanut butter as an option. For most American kids, PB&J is a boilerplate staple, and it would constitute half if not three-fourths of Michael’s yearly lunch entrées were it allowed. And then there’s the other widely-hailed favorite, cheese. But Michael hates cheese. The exclusion of those two leaves us in a barren wasteland of a sparse few known-acceptable items.

He tried almond butter, and he nearly retched.

He tried their hot lunch a few times, but it’s most often a cheese-fest so that’s out as well.

We’ve given him dinosaur-shaped ham sandwiches, but they’ve come back uneaten: whole and nearly as fossilized as their reptilian cousins.

His favorite food is Campbell’s Chunky Sirloin burger soup. Unfortunately this is also his oldest sister’s favorite food, so despite our nuclear-fallout-shelter-sized stock of this product, we cannot sustain our reserves. He also likes chicken and stars, but it’s not as substantial; there isn’t nearly enough protein in that to keep an active little guy like Michael warmed and filled for the remainder of the day.

Which brings us to Michael’s Mommy’s plight.

She has to ask him what he’s willing to eat.

He is unable to simply state what he wants in 25 words or less. Instead, he must take us on a literary journey, a culinary quest in which we must unravel the deeper meaning behind his unending comestible ruminations.

When the question of what to have for lunch is asked, rather than just saying something like “I want a turkey sandwich,” he instead begins to spin a yarn in much the same way the Ancient Mariner recounted his Rime.

“I would like…. something yummy… that isn’t cheese… and has… blue…. aaaaaaaaand… not peaches…” I usually pass out around part seven or so.

His mother pleads with him, faintly: “Please, Michael. Please. I’m begging you. Just tell me what you want.”

“Uh…. maybeeeeeee… a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”

“You can’t have peanut butter at Ms S’s, Michael.”

“Oh… okay… then uh……. maybeeeeeeee a …. like……. something that’s yummy….” I hear my wife gasp her last and succumb, while Michael continues to verbally peruse his imaginary grocery store, chin firmly ensconced in his fist.

On those days when Michael’s mommy works, it’s my job to pack his lunch. I’m not nearly as accommodating as my wife; whatever I pack for Michael’s lunch, that’s what he eats. I skip the questioning and just put in what I think sounds good. I figure, if he’s hungry enough, he’ll eat it, whatever it is.

Next year he’s packing his own lunch. If that means he has Lucky Charms for his main course every day, I guess I’ll have to learn to live with it.

It was one of those mornings.

Michael was tired. He’d had a busy and exciting weekend at Grandma’s, had a long journey home yesterday with no nap, and he was in no mood to get back into the routine.

He didn’t want to go to school, and daddy was late as it was.

“C’mon, Michael. We have to hurry,” I said, gathering my stuff turning off lights.

“I want to eat something,” he said, quietly, as he sat down at the table.

“I offered you breakfast half an hour ago. It’s too late to sit down and eat. Let me get you some cereal and a banana and you can take it in the car.” I quickly poured some Froot Loops into a baggie, poured some juice into a sippy cup, snapped a banana off the bunch and grabbed Michael’s hand.

“I want my blue blankie!” he said.

“Then go get it!” I barked. He scrambled up the stairs, fumbled around in his room and came down the stairs only partway, then sat down where he was.

“I don’t wanna go!” He cried, tired tears rolling down his flushed cheeks.

“Michael, look. Mommy already went to work. Daddy has to go. You can’t be home alone. You always have fun at school. Now, come on. It’s time to go.”

I led him out to the car, buckled him in and handed him his breakfast.

“I don’t want the banana,” he told me, taking the cereal and juice and holding them in his lap, on top of his blankie.

“You don’t want this?”

“No,” he confirmed.

“Okay, I’ll keep it,” I said, and tossed it in the front seat.

Off we went. I could hear Michael’s soft sniffling in the back seat. He was clearly not pleased at the thought of being shuffled off to school on the heels of his exhausting adventure the week before.

Several minutes passed, the sounds of sniffling giving way to the sounds of munching on cereal.

I decided to eat the banana myself, since he didn’t want it.

Several more minutes passed.

“I want the banana now,” he said, softly.

“Sorry, kiddo. I already ate it.”

Silence.

Then, a low wailing began to rise from the back seat.

“Please!” he cried.

“Michael, you said no. You said you didn’t want it.”

“I’m saying yes now!” he bawled.

“I’m really sorry, Michael. It’s gone. See?” I held up the empty banana peel and wiggled it around for his inspection. This only increased the severity of his cry.

“But I wanted it!”

He wept bitter tears over the loss of the banana.

I tried to explain that this is an important life lesson: Sometimes, an opportunity presents itself only for a short time and is gone.

I’m not sure if he got the message this time, but I’m sure he will eventually.

Carpe Diem.

This morning Michael’s Mommy left early for a dentist appointment, leaving me with Michael and two of his sisters snoozing away.

The plan was that one or both sisters would be in charge of Michael in between the time I left for work and his mom got home.

Luckily for his sisters, the little guy defied his normal routine by not arising until just about 8 o’clock, while I was making coffee. Ordinarily, if mom & dad have an opportunity to sleep in, he’s up at 6:00. But since we got up early, he slept in. But of course.

He came bumping down the stairs dragging a couple of blankies as I’m steaming milk for my coffee.

“So, you finally decided to wake up, I see…” I said, cheerily.

“Where’s mommy?” he asked, dismissing my observation entirely.

“She’s at the dentist, and she’ll be home in a little while.”

“Are you going to work?”

“Yes. Are you in a hurry for me to leave?”

He said nothing.

Moments later, as I’m screwing the lid on my travel mug, I hear him locking the baby gate on the stairs (why we still have that thing comes down to the fact that I’m both lazy and forgetful).

“I’m locked in! I can’t get out!” he says. “You have to help me get out,” he orders me.

“No, you can do it. If you got yourself in, you can get yourself out. Just squeeze and pull.” He struggles, and can’t undo the gate.

“I can’t do it!”

“Look, Michael, I’ve got to go to work, and so-”

“Okay, go.”

“No… I was going to say you need to have a sister awake and watching you.”

“Okay: you go, and then I’ll wake sister S up.”

“No, you go get her up now, and then I’ll go.”

“allllll riiiiiiight….” he says begrudgingly, and slumps up the stairs. He opens her door and chimes “Good morning, sister!” I hear a muffled sort of groan emerge from the dark cave that is her bedroom.

Just then the phone rings. It’s my wife, telling me she’s on her way back. I explain the situation at home so she knows what she can expect when she arrives.

Michael calls down: “You can go now!”

“Okay, bye everyone! Be good for your momma!”

“Go!” Michael shouts.

Sheesh. So much for separation anxiety.

I think if he had been able to open the baby gate, he probably would have kicked me in the kiester and dead-bolted the door.