As a bonus, my mother was visiting, basking in the utter chaos that generally swirls around our home at all times.

On one particular day, as his mom and I were scurrying about from one task to the next, Michael was entertaining his grandmother by demonstrating his ability to count money. He had a handful of various coins, and was proceeding to explain their worth in great detail, before inserting them into one of several favorite stashing places: the inside of a plastic Easter egg, a discarded bell, a sock, any of three wallets, or his toy candy vending machine bank. His actual savings bank, a wooden dog with a hollow plastic chamber and an open esophagus (down which the coin travels before ceremoniously plonking onto the coins already in the chamber below), sat nearby and utterly unfed. He prefers not to put his money in the dog bank since the dog keeps what he eats, unlike all his other repositories which are joyously yielding.

Later, on another trip through the house, probably moving from kitchen duty to vacuum duty, I noticed Michael was at it again with the coins. Only now his pile was bigger, and he had assembled a larger array of coffers to cram coins into.

After lunch, Michael was still going strong with coin counting and stashing. His pile seemed to be growing.

Mind you, the incongruity of his inexplicably multiplying coin piles did not strike me as odd. I have a remarkable ability to ignore or to simply accept as normal things at which others might furrow their brows. If one of my kids walked through the house holding a Zebra by the reins, I would likely not bat an eyelash. It is this ability that frustrates my wife terribly, because with this talent comes the open mindedness that allows me to hold two utterly opposing facts in my head simultaneously in complete harmony.

So it’s this that I claim as the reason for which I was not alerted to this sudden interest in counting and managing coins.

And why it didn’t even occur to me until later where he might have gotten them.

It is important to know what had happened the week before. Michael had been given a small box from his school, a box for collecting donations for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. The kids were all to gather coins from friends and relatives and bring back their boxes when they were full. The class with the most donations would win some sort of prize.

Michael’s mother thought it would be a nice idea if I took the box with me to work and ask my colleagues to donate.

Boy, did they ever! The box was stuffed to overflowing on the first day, and not just with coins, but paper money as well. On the second day, one of my co-workers politely set down two quart-sized Ziploc bags brimming with all sorts of coins. Including one very interesting Mexican coin: a center copper circle surrounded by a ring of nickel.

I brought the loot home to show Michael, and he was greatly impressed. He was even more thrilled when I handed him the Mexican coin.

Then I realized that getting the coins to school is going to be a challenge.  Hmmm… how’s he going to carry all of that weight without throwing out his back or toppling over?

“Michael,” I said, “the coins are going to be too heavy. And they won’t all fit in the donation box. I’m going to swap out some of the coins for paper money so you can pack it in your backpack.”

“Okay! Then do I get to keep the coins?”

“No, they’re not yours! This is a donation for your school!”

I don’t think he quite grasped the gist of the exchange. He had the box, the coins were collected into his box, I was going to put paper money into it instead, so naturally the coins would be liberated from any ownership. Right? Simple!

A few days later I took the bags of coins and gathered them into groups of quarters, dimes, nickels and pennies to make up even dollar denominations, with Michael looking on, longingly. He was transfixed by the glimmering display of shining metal circles that lay on the couch cushions. I was able to change out about $45 before I ran out of bills. The rest of the coins he’d collected that weren’t swapped out would fit in the box with the bills – but only just. A little duct tape wrapped around the box and it was ready to take back to school.

I sent him off to school packing his small fortune with explicit instructions that he was to take it straight to his teacher when he got there (and as you might have guessed, his class did win the contest).

Now I was left with a whole lot of coins, and an empty wallet. I found a nice, big plastic jar in the garage that I was saving for just such an occasion, and dumped the coins in that for safe keeping, thinking I would take the whole thing to the bank in the near future. I set the jar in what I believed to be a safe place in the living room, off the beaten path and away from prying eyes.

So I thought.

Which brings us back to Michael’s counting house.

I’m not sure what circuit breaker finally tripped within the sputtering recesses of my brain, but there came a moment when the connection was made: Michael + sudden, inexplicable surplus of coins.

I stopped in my tracks, and marched over to where Michael was.

Then I saw the coin jar on the floor, lid off, not nearly as full as it had been. Michael was happily pouring coins from a trough he’d created out of Legos.

“Michael! Where did you get those coins?”

“Um…”

“Did you get this jar and take the coins from it?”

“Um…”

“Michael, these are not your coins! This is not your money! You don’t get to keep this, the money went to school. This is actually daddy’s money.”

“Oh…”

I could see he knew he was in trouble for something, but he didn’t quite make the connection. I believe that in his mind the coins really were his, and he was just reclaiming them.

A lot were gone. I had no idea how many.

“Where are the rest of them? Where have you put them all?”

“…”

“Michael! Tell me what you did with all the coins!”

“…”

Sigh.

“Okay, sport. Put away into the jar everything you can gather here. If you’ve put some in your dog bank then I’ll just have to forgive you that amount.”

“Okay, daddy.” He scoured his many caches and gathered a couple of handfuls of quarters, nickels, dimes and pennies.

I waited while he dropped the last of the loose change into the jar.

“Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“Do I still get to keep the Mexican dollar?”

“Yes, you can keep that,” I said.

“Thank you!”

“You’re welcome. And from now on, if you see money lying around, you need to ask before you just take it.”

“Okay,” he said.

He hasn’t touched the jar since, but just the same, I keep it hidden now.

Michael: “I know where they are! They’re on the floor under the table!”

Daddy: “Huh? Where?”

Michael: “Under the kitchen table. See? Right there! (pointing)”

Daddy: “That’s weird. I didn’t drop them. How did they get there?”

Michael: “Oh, because I accidentally… Because someone probably… they… uh… They fell.”

Daddy: “That explains it.”

We don’t know why.

His mom had “Gymbucks” to burn at Gymboree, so while selecting his summer wardrobe yesterday, she allowed him to choose a belt.

So now he sports a belt. Just like some of his friends in school.

If he ever gets over his distaste for button-up shirts, he’ll probably ask for a pocket square and a blazer.

Michael needed his tonsils out.

They had been giving him trouble for his entire life. They were huge, and never retreated. They made it hard for him to sleep, particularly when he had a cold.

Neither his mom nor I were proponents of having tonsils removed, even though in years past that was almost standard procedure for dealing with any kind of sickness. They’re there for a reason, so we should be trying to nurse them back to health, right?

Only Michael’s weren’t responding to being nursed. Despite our best efforts, his tonsils remained troublesome, large and potentially threatening.

It came down to the decision, and we finally went ahead with it.

Last Thursday we took him to the new section of the hospital, the children’s wing. As it turned out, this was more of a staging area – when it came time for the procedure we were whisked underground via tunnel to the old hospital’s children’s surgery unit. No matter – that’s where he had his ear tubes and adenoids done.

He was a real trooper, didn’t act even a bit scared. After the surgery, we stayed right there with him for two more hours while he watched a movie and simultaneously played on his DSi. He’s a multi-media kind of kid.

We had prepared him ahead of time that it would be a rough couple of weeks (which is partly why his mom scheduled the surgery for just before spring break – so he wouldn’t miss but a couple of days of school), so he was all set for sleeping in mommy & daddy’s room, eating Popsicles and sorbet and playing all the video games he wants.

We had one rough night. The first night home, after the hospital-administered pain medication wore off, he started thrashing about around 11:45. His method of dealing with this newly discovered and sleep-breaking pain was to kick me in the spine until I woke up and ran downstairs to get the prescription pain meds.

In his sleepy, pained condition he was not up for taking medicine, and he spat most of it out. “It tastes disgusting!” he cried.

“That’s all we have, sport,” I said. He was not comforted. Which means we had to wait until at least four more hours before we could try again.

Daddy got the bright idea to bring him some ice chips instead, which worked like a charm. Soothing but non-medicinal, they kept his throat pain managed while we rode out the wait until the next medication time.

I think we got about three hours of sleep that night, which upon reflection is actually pretty good.

The next day we presented him with a new Wii video game, which he played happily for the rest of the day.

Since last weekend he’s had a remarkable recovery, reporting pretty much no throat pain at all (we think he may be fudging a bit simply because he wants to eat real solid food now, as the charm of smoothies and Popsicles has worn off).

By the time school is back in session, he should be right as rain. The same little boy, sans tonsils.

“And behold, I saw a new heaven and a new Earth, for the first heaven and the first Earth had passed away…” (Revelation 21:1-3)

“Daddy?”

“Yes, Michael?”

“I wish if God would let me keep my blankets when we go to the new Earth, because they’re really important to me.”

“Hmmm… well, Michael, I think God will probably let you sneak those in. Just keep praying about it.”

“Good.”

“Daddy?” he asks. “What’s that big tall metal thing with wires on that house?”

“Oh, that is an antenna,” I started, ready to launch into a lengthy diatribe about ham radio and the fascinating hobby that it is.

“Oh, okay! So there’s no kids at that house,” he concludes.

“Kids? What’s the antenna got to do with kids?”

“Well, that’s for seeing things on TV that kids don’t like. If you have kids then you can’t have an antenna like that because then you’d watch things that kids don’t like,” he explains, displaying a complete understanding.

“So if there’s no antenna, then they have kids there?”

“Yes, because that means they have cable and can see things like Mickey Mouse Clubhouse and Phineas and Ferb and SpongeBob. Those are the things that kids like to watch.”

“What if they have that antenna and cable?”

“That would be illegal.”

“Okay. So I must forget about ever getting an antenna like that, right?”

“Maybe when I’m all grown up you can,” he suggests.

Only eleven some-odd years to go, and then I am clear to set up my antenna.

(Michael, getting ready to brush his teeth, noticing a stink bug on the edge of the bathtub): “Daddy! A bug! Get rid of it! But don’t squish it, just take it outside!”

I guess if it isn’t preventing you from rescuing Princess Peach, there’s no point in hurting it.

This cool!

That’s Michael, sitting courtside, with a Globetrotter named “Hi lite”.

A week or so ago, his mom signed Michael up for a contest held by a local news channel. It was in all the papers, on the news, on the web, on Facebook: win a chance to be the official Ball Boy (or girl) for the Harlem Globetrotters when they play at the Portland Rose Garden Arena on February 25th.

Last Wednesday, they called her back – Michael had won!

We were both stunned – and elated. We couldn’t wait to tell Michael about it.

Of course, he took the news in stride. Mostly because he’d never heard of the Globetrotters and had no idea what an incredible honor this would be. But his mom and I knew and were beyond thrilled for him. We knew this was life-changing kind of cool.

So without further ado, I present the highlights from Michael’s experience with the Harlem Globetrotters!

In retrospect, despite the fact that we were given four tickets to the show and had very good seats, I would have liked to have sat just a little bit closer, just for the sake of better video shots.

We hope that Michael never forgets this wonderful time. We also hope we can eventually get “Sweet Georgia Brown” out of our heads.

I remember seeing them in 1974 (I think?) in Sacramento. They were amazing to watch – the things they could do with the ball, the moves they had, the way they ran circles around the Washington Generals and made them look like amateurs. It was great fun.

Michael will be seeing them himself, in person on Saturday. Does it get any cooler than that for a little boy?

Yes, yes it does.

Stay tuned.

His mom was going to take him and his sister to the dentist, so I needed to be sure he was properly fed and ready to go.

His sister came down stairs.

“What can I have that has iron in it?” she asked me, out of the blue.

“Uh… nails?” I said, stirring Michael’s eggs.

“No, I mean for my blood. We have a blood drive this morning and I’m donating, and I don’t want to pass out or anything.”

“Hmmm… well, you could have a big steak,” I joked, knowing full well she would recoil in horror at the thought.

“Ewww! I won’t do that!”

“Why not?” Michael asked.

“Because it’s meat! I don’t eat meat,” she said, firmly.

“It’s too bad you’re allergic to meat,” he said.

“She’s not allergic, Michael. She’s a vegetarian. She chooses not to eat meat,” I added.

“How come?”

“Because! I feel bad for the poor little animals!” she whined.

“I know!” Michael chimed, not missing a beat. “You could just eat the big animals, like cows!”

That’s my boy. Always ready with an answer.