This weekend we were finally able to make a purchase that we’ve been planning and saving for quite a while: a big screen television.

When we brought it home, the kids’ eyes lit up with delight. We unpacked it, set it up, and the kids began enjoying it right away.

Were they amazed by the clarity? The contrast, the color, the viewing angle?

No.

They found fun where any kid would.

Five or fifteen, they’re all kids. Who cares about the TV, let’s play with the box! Makes me proud.

Michael: “What’s for dinner, daddy?”

Daddy: “Nachos.”

Michael: “Yummy! I love nachos! What are nachos?”

Daddy: “Taco meat, tortilla chips, salsa, other stuff if you like.”

Michael: “No cheese?”

Daddy: “Not for you. I know better than that.”

Michael: “It’s like a taco?”

Daddy: “Basically. It’s a taco in another form. A deconstruction.”

(brief pause)

Michael: “You know, ‘nacho’ is Spanish for ‘taco’.”

Daddy, laughing: “Oh, is that right? It’s Spanish?”

Michael: “Yes. Daddy, I’m really serious about this.”

Daddy: “All righty then.”

Michael’s currently enrolled in a private, in-home kindergarten. We decided against sending him to public school this year, and the decision was not made lightly.

We felt he wasn’t ready for public school yet. More accurately, it could be said that public school isn’t ready for Michael yet.

But whichever way you slice it, we’re looking for some signs that his maturity level is at the right point for the rigors of a public education system. Thus far, we haven’t seen them. His teachers assured us before this school year began that they’d have him prepared to enter first grade when the year was up. His mom and I aren’t so sure about that. But we figure if he doesn’t get into first grade next year, we may put him in public kindergarten.

To be fair, he has matured quite a bit. His use of words has greatly improved, he has a lot more control over his behavior, and he is quite a bit more focused than he was last year.

But we’re still not there yet.

Case in point: today, when I picked him up, I saw that placed in Michael’s cubby was “the book.”

In his school, all the kids that have exhibited chronic behavior issues have a little black notebook with their name on it, in which the teachers can write down notes about behavior problems that occurred during the day. The parents can read about these problems that evening, and work with the teachers to problem solve. This way they have one place for all of the teachers to communicate with the parents and each other regarding a particular child, rather than calling the parents at home or at work.

And by “all the kids” I mean the one kid who has behavior issues. And by “the parents” I mean my wife and me.

Because there is only one book, and it’s got Michael’s name on it.

His chapters have included such favorites as hiding in the play structure and refusing to come in for lunch, swiping things from other kids while they’re playing with them, hiding in the bathroom and not coming out when called, climbing on the back of the couch after being repeatedly told that this is not okay, hiding in the book reading clubhouse and refusing to line up for the next activity, etc.

In today’s chapter, I learned how Michael scratched another little kid because he wanted to see the book she had. And he brained still another with a toy because she called him a “bad boy.” He failed to see the irony in his action when I pointed it out.

But on the positive note, the last paragraph on the page said that they’d given him some better techniques to use when frustrated, and that he employed them during what would have been a third incident.

So, there’s that. And I should be proud of that, I think.

I reminded him that despite his success in the end, the bad behavior still warranted loss of TV privileges for the evening. He understood this. When we got home, we discussed Michael’s behavior issues with his mom, and she reinforced his need to make better choices when he’s frustrated or angry.

So naturally it follows that when I left briefly to go retrieve dinner, that I came home and was asked this question by my wife: “Did you tell Michael it was okay for him to watch TV tonight?”

“No. He knows he lost his privilege,” I said.

“You lied to me, Michael,” his mom said to him.

“So that means you lose tomorrow’s TV privilege too,” I added. His mom nodded her head in agreement.

After a brief pause, Michael looked down and said “I’m sorry I lied.”

I believe he is.

I just hope maybe he’s sorry enough to remember to make better choices for the rest of the school year.

I’d be happy to know there won’t be any more chapters in that book.

The morning was warm, for January. Michael even said as much as I buckled him into his car seat for our trip to school.

That’s when we heard the geese flying overhead. A flock of maybe 40 Canadian geese were honking their way across the sky, heading vaguely eastward.

“That’s a good sign, Michael,” I started.

“Why?”

“It means spring is coming. Warmer weather,” I said.

We watched as the flock neared, flying not far over the treetops. Then, they stopped honking.

And in the complete silence of no more than fifteen seconds, Michael and I heard something we’d never heard before: the whistling of flapping wings. It was amazing.

“Do you hear that?” I asked in a hushed tone.

“Yes! What is it?”

“It’s their wings!”

Still it continued: a series of rhythmic whistles as the each goose’s wingtips whooshed through the air, propelling them forward.

In all of my 46 years I have never heard that sound. It was a magical moment, one to be savored. Joyful moments are like that. They happen, and then they’re done. And even though they’re gone forever, a part of them stays with you.

And then one began honking, then a couple more, and soon the whole flock was cheering on their leader as they sped on their way, and by that time the honking was all that could be heard.

“That was amazing!” I said, finally. Michael agreed, and I shut his door, got into the driver’s seat and backed out of the driveway.

As we drove to school, the conversation switched from the sound of geese’s wings to more important things like people waiting for buses, McDonald’s Chicken Nuggets, dogs and real estate signs festooned with balloons.

“I want my whole family to pick me up today,” Michael said out of the blue.

The day before, because I’d come home early, I went with my wife and stepdaughter to pick Michael up. Usually it’s just one of us going to get him, but that day it was both parents plus a sister. That was a huge deal for Michael, and he nearly exploded with joy when he saw us there.

“Wow, the whole family came to get you!” one of the teachers exclaimed (little did she know that if the whole family had come, there wouldn’t have been room for us all in the entryway). It made Michael very happy that he had so many loved ones to accept him and whisk him off.

“Michael, that was a one-time deal. We were all there to pick you up yesterday, but it won’t always be that way.”

“Awww….” He groaned, clearly disappointed.

I knew what he wanted, and why.

He’d had a moment of unbridled joy. When he saw us all there, when his teachers said “Look who’s here for you, Michael!” he was overjoyed.

And he wanted that joy again. And why not? It’s standard kid practice to try to replicate whatever situation or circumstance that led to a joyful moment.

But like with the geese, the moment of joy happens and then passes. It can’t be reproduced. Even if the same things happen exactly the same way, it won’t be the same. This is human nature at work.

What I hope to teach my children is that the trick is to recognize when you are in the midst of one of these joyful moments, and savor it to the fullest. I want them to learn how to be happy for the joy they’ve had, and to be hopeful for the joys to come.

VTBQCJMBYNK6

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.

“I don’t like food, I love it. And if I don’t love it, I don’t swallow.” – Anton Ego, Disney-Pixar’s “Ratatouille”

Continuing the foodie theme we seem to be exploring here at Being Michael’s Daddy, today I present to you – at the request of the illustrious WeaselMomma – my take on pizza.

Note: the simple recipe for pizza dough is at the bottom of the post, in case you wish to skip over my long-winded blathering.

First of all, let it be known that I love food (this should be fairly evident, given my recent proclamation concerning my extensive avoirdupois and antipathy thereof), and I like to cook. I consider myself to be fairly adept in the kitchen, having learned a range of skills over the years. Now I wouldn’t claim to be so tremendously talented as to think I could stand in a contest on the Food Network (my wife and I love the FN show “Chopped”, where they hand the chefs a basket full of truly strange ingredients and expect them to whip up a dish that’s creative and delicious: “Okay, chefs! Please open your baskets. We have sea urchin, whole cloves, the Sunday New York Times, and a bag of glass shards. You have thirty minutes, and the time starts now.”), but I do think I can put my own spin on an existing recipe and have it come out pretty good.

To cook well, I believe you have to really love food. Even if a meal were prepared by a skilled Cordon Bleu chef, it’s easy to tell in the finished product whether the love is there.

Myself, I love a good pizza. Making them as well as eating them.

There were a number of pizza places in the town where I grew up, but only one of them readlly did pizza right, as far as I was concerned.

It was the crust that really did it for me: bready and soft, slightly crisp and well done on the bottom, soft in the middle, and having a lightly crunchy but large and fluffy edge. Since moving away, I found only one place that came close to having that kind of crust.

Nearly every place that makes pizza blows it on the crust: thin and waxy in some cases, floppy and insubstantial in others. Then there are the ones who make a pizza taste like they slapped pepperoni, cheese and spaghetti sauce on a huge Saltine cracker. And don’t get me started on the delivery chains.

In this vast pizza wasteland, I decided the only way to get a decent one was to make it myself.

At its heart, pizza dough is very simple. You really only need four ingredients: flour, water, yeast, salt.

Over the years I’ve perfected the recipe and added a few ingredients, and changed it from a scripted procedure into an artistic expression.

Before you begin, please understand that I let my dough rise for six hours. It takes time… but it makes all the difference. So for dinner at 6:00, I start in at noon.

Step one: the water
It’s important to provide a good foundation for your crust. The water is the thing. Filtered only. Not distilled, just filtered from the icky stuff and bad tastes. Put about four cups into a microwave-safe bowl and zap it on high for about five minutes, to get it to near boiling. Pour back and forth from one bowl to another. This removes nearly all of the chlorine; the heat and the agitation will let the chlorine escape from the water while letting air in.

Pour off all but two cups of water. Add a tablespoon of sugar. This gives the yeast something to nibble on while they’re waiting for the rest of the ingredients.

Step two: the yeast
When the water comes down to 116 degrees, add four and a half teaspoons of active dry yeast.

Let it sit there for seven to ten minutes. This is the “blooming” stage. Some say it’s not necessary, but I think it helps. In my experience, it gets the yeast good and ready to start going to town on the flour.

Step three: the flour and stuff
I use King Arthur White Bread Flour. Bread flour is a finer grain than all-purpose, and has a higher protein content. You can’t beat it for making pizza dough. Dump in about two cups of flour and stir. In truth, I don’t bother measuring anymore; once you’ve done this enough you can go by consistency (in all you’ll probably use about six cups). Now add three healthy pinches of salt, and about two tablespoons of olive oil.

Keep adding and stirring in flour about ½ cup at a time, until it turns into a loose dough ball. Now you’re ready for the real fun.

Step four: Kneading
This is where so-so dough becomes really good dough.

Kneading is the thing that releases the gluten from the wheat, and makes the dough springy. Without kneading, you end up with a big biscuit. Not tasty. At least, not if you’re aiming for pizza.

I like to knead on a silicone mat, because pretty much nothing sticks to it. But any floured board will do, you just gotta keep ahead of the dough so it doesn’t stick to the board.

With the dough ball on the floured board, press it down, fold it over and repeat. That’s really all there is to it. Oh, and put your back in to it. This is how I justify eating four slices instead of just three; I figure I’ve already burned off the calories just in the kneading.

I like to go for about ten minutes of this, pressing, folding, stretching, punching. Trust me: all that violence is therapeutic. Get your kids involved. It’ll keep them from punching each other for a little while.

Toss flour on to it from time to time to keep it from sticking. Be secure in the fact that you’ll go through quite a bit of added flour just doing this part.

After ten minutes, let the dough rest for a bit. You’ll be able to finish it off in round two.

While you’re waiting, wash out the mixing bowl you made the dough in. You’ll need it for the rising process.

With the bowl rinsed and dried, get back to beating that dough to a pulp kneading, for another five minutes or so.

Once it’s fully kneaded, form it into a ball, coat it well with olive oil spray (it comes in a handy spray can these days – better living through science!) and plop it in the bowl. Cover the bowl with a damp towel and let it sit on the counter for four hours.

After four hours, lift the towel and punch it down once. Replace the towel. After two more hours, the dough is ready to use. It’ll make about five 12” pizzas.

To form the crust, grab a baseball-sized wad of the dough and form it into a ball. Coat it with flour so it doesn’t stick to everything. Put it on a flour-coated rolling board and roll it flat and stretch it out some.

You can toss if you like (that’s what I do) or you can just roll it out until it’s the size you like. Keep in mind that tossing is nicer for making that large, fluffy crust edge. You can roll it out thick or thin, it’s up to you.

Essentials
Another thing I like to use is a pizza peel. I have two of them; that way I can be working on one and scooting pies out of the oven with the other. It’s also handy to have a handle on your rolling board, since while you’re putting toppings on your pizza you want to give it the shake test to be sure it hasn’t stuck to the board; otherwise getting it off the board and into the oven is going to be a very frustrating adventure. Just give it a few back and forth shakes with each topping addition; the pizza should slide back and forth. If it doesn’t, carefully lift up one corner and toss a little bit of flour underneath. Repeat until it does slide. Keep doing that test until you’re ready to put the pizza in the oven.

The last essential for making pizzas is a good pizza stone. I have two of those as well. The best pizzas are baked hot and fast (no wisecracks, NukeDad), and to keep the heat up when you’re opening the oven door constantly there needs to be a decent thermal mass in the oven. Pizza stones are made for this. They’re large stone disks you can get at decent kitchen supply stores. They can pretty much live in your oven full time.

About half an hour before you intend to bake your first pie, set the oven to 475. It needs to take a good long time to reach full heat and get those pizza stones good and hot through and through.

Bake time for the average pie is about 8 minutes at 475. Your mileage may vary.

Toppings
I have not yet perfected my own sauce (though I did get a very good recipe from Darrin at Dad’s Dish), but the best sauce I’ve been able to find commercially is Contadina (in a can, not the squeeze bottle). Every time I find it on sale somewhere I snap up six or eight cans. It’s just the right level of sweet and savory for my taste.

Fresh mozzarella is the best, but it’s really hard to shred. If you can deal with big cheese wads on your pizza (making a Margherita pizza is done best this way), great – go for the fresh stuff. If you can find a way to dry it out sufficiently to make it shreddable without turning into a mass of cheese mache’, or if you don’t mind spending half your day cutting the cheese into little tiny individual strips, then good on you. Other than that, you can get by with the pre-shredded mozzarella in a bag at the store.

Beyond that, it’s all up to you. I like olives, pepperoni and green pepper myself. My wife and I have been happy with the Hormel turkey pepperoni, believe it or not. Don’t get me wrong: I don’t like turkey anywhere but on Thanksgiving and maybe as smoked sliced sandwich meat. Ground turkey is an abomination and has no place in my house. But the turkey pepperoni is actually pretty dang good, and a healthier substitute for the regular stuff.

When you pull the pie out, let it cool for about 90 seconds before you cut! Let the heat redistribute, and the cheese have a chance to firm up just a smidge, otherwise you’ll have naked crust and a pile of boiling hot toppings in your lap at first bite.

Bon Appétit, everyone!

———————————-

The basic recipe:
Put two cups of lukewarm water into a bowl.
Add one tablespoon of sugar, stir.
Sprinkle with four and a half teaspoons of active dry yeast, wait seven minutes.
Stir in two cups of flour.
Add three pinches of salt, and two tablespoons of olive oil.
Stir, and add two to three cups of flour.
Turn out onto a floured board and knead for ten minutes, adding flour as needed to keep it from sticking.
Let dough rest for two minutes.
Continue kneading for five minutes.
Form into a ball, spray with olive oil, place in bowl, cover with damp towel.
Let rise four hours.
Punch down.
Let rise two hours.
At this point, the dough is ready to be rolled, stretched and/or tossed into pizza crusts. With toppings added, bake at 475 degrees for eight minutes.

Today we have an article up over at Discovering Dad, about the benefits of having your kids help with the cooking.

Head on over there and take a look.

I read recently somewhere (forgive me for excluding the citation, I really don’t recall where it was I read it) about a woman who came up with the brilliant idea of pulling out the dishwasher rack and putting a mixing bowl there for her small daughter to stir. The height was exactly right for her, and if there was any slop out, the mess was contained and taken care of during the next dishwasher run.

Michael insists upon helping me every time I cook. “Can I make with you, daddy?” he’ll ask.

At one point I considered it a bother – it took extra time and effort to slow down enough to show them what to do and clean up after them.

But it makes them so happy. It’s such a little investment to make your kid really happy to do something grown-up, and to just spend time with you.

I’m really looking forward to the time when he (and/or one of his sisters) takes over on the pizza-making chore. Right now I end up eating last, and usually by myself. I smile to think that there will come a day when I can be relaxing outside on the deck in the warm evening, chatting with my wife and a few friends, and the kids will bring our pizza out to us. Maybe along with a couple of glasses of a 2003 Chianti.

Ah, those will be good days. Worth putting in the investment now.

I had a big to-do list this last weekend. I had every intention of taking down all of the Christmas decorations and packing them up. My wife and I had some shopping to do, as we both had gift cards on the verge of expiration. I had intended to make pizza dough, which requires getting an early start. I had a blog post that I was late putting up. Lots to do.

And as I lay there, staring up at the ceiling of room 43 in the emergency department of the hospital, I thought about how at this point I’d be happy just to be home.

My wife was right next to me, holding my hand, being soothing, but occasionally reminding me how much I’d scared her earlier.

It all began the week before. I’d called my doctor to schedule an appointment to follow up on my blood pressure medication. While I talked with him, I brought up another unpleasant medical issue, one that a lot of men face when they start getting on in years. While I did not relish the thought of the exam that would be necessary, I did hold out hope for a long term solution.

At the end of my exam my doctor prescribed a new medication.

“It’s an alpha blocker. Should help with your blood pressure too,” he said, cheerily. That’s good news, I thought. Anything that helps get my blood pressure down sounds good to me. Before I left he gave me the usual admonition to get out there and exercise, and check into the Mediterranean Diet for help with my nutritional intake. He’s very encouraging when it comes to being healthy, starting with diet and exercise. Gotta like that approach.

My wife picked up my new medicine on Friday. It’s a cute little periwinkle pill. “It might make him sleepy,” the pharmacist said, “so be sure he takes it at night before bed time.”

Sleepy. I always prefer sleepy when it’s bed time. They go together well.

After taking the aforementioned little periwinkle pill and climbing in to bed, I relaxed… but soon noticed that I wasn’t all that sleepy. In fact, my heart was pounding a little.

But I eventually drifted off, and slept well.

My wife and I woke at nearly seven-thirty Saturday morning. I felt great.

“We slept in!” My wife observed happily. “To some, seven-thirty is the crack of dawn. For us, it’s sleeping in,” she went on. We both laughed at the thought.

Our conversation turned to other topics, and I got up to use the bathroom. I was standing there, listening to my wife’s thoughts about the academic situation we’re facing with one of our teenagers, when suddenly things changed.

The world started getting dark. It was as if someone were lowering the shades on my eyes.

My heart gave a couple of plaintive skips, usually a precursor to arrhythmia.

“Oh, shoot,” I said. ”This isn’t good.” The thought of “I need to sit down” had almost finished crossing my mind…

Dreaming: something urgent and incomprehensible…

Now I hear a loud snore, one that I recognize as my own.

My wife is screaming. “I’m calling 9-1-1! Tom! Can you hear me?”

I realize that I’m waking up, but I’m not in bed. There is lots of pain. I am curled up against the bathtub, staring at the Easter Island Tiki head planter that’s now lying in the tub, along with every other tropical-themed knick-knack we had set up along the edge of the tub.

“Wha?” I slur.

“YOU PASSED OUT! I’M CALLING 9-1-1!”

“I did? Why? Where am I?” Stupid question, and so cliché. But honestly, I couldn’t be sure of much at the moment.

Little by little I did regain my faculties and with her help clambered to my feet. She helped me out of the bathroom and to the bed.

“We’re going to the hospital. Let me get S up so she can take care of Michael,” she said. While she was gone I reconstructed what must have happened: when I stood up to go to the bathroom, I must have fainted.

Ladies and gentlemen, this guy does not faint. I have never fainted in my life. I have been through three births and two weddings. My entryway into sleep has always been one of choice and comfort.

So… off to the hospital we go. My wife is concerned that there may be more going on that just a reaction to the medication, and because I’d struck my head a good one, she was more than a little worried that I might have a brain bleed or something.

The scans and tests and everything came back fine; no clots, no brain bleeds, no abnormal med levels, normal sinus heart rhythm, all that. Doc handed down a diagnosis of “vasovagal syncope” – which is a fancy way of saying that I fainted. He added something else that was news to me: when you urinate, your blood pressure drops. In my case, it was fast and severe – enough for me to lose consciousness.

Didn’t know that. Would have been nice to have read that on the medication fact sheet, had that little tidbit been there.

I had plenty of time to ruminate while we waited for the “all clear to leave.”

I’ve been a guest of this hospital too many times. For heart arrhythmia episodes, back surgeries, and now this. I shouldn’t be a frequent flyer here, I’m only 46. Inside I still feel like a dorky kid, one who’s been around for a few years.

But most of the time my body feels like that of an old man: tired, pale, weak. I remind myself of a doddering codger, ashen grey and scarcely able to stand, let alone walk.

I know it shouldn’t be this way.

And I know that the one thing that contributes to all of these problems, and so many others, is something I have full control over: my weight.

I am too fat.

It’s that simple.

And I have had enough of it.

What makes it worse is that I know better. My wife had a heart attack just a little over a year ago, but apparently I haven’t absorbed that fact deeply enough to truly change my own behavior, which largely consists of too much junk food and not enough healthy; too much sitting and not enough moving.

It is up to me to change. I have to, because my wife and kids need me. I have the will, and I have the motivation right now. I pray to God that it’ll stick this time.

That old saying “Today is the first day of the rest of your life” always bugged me. But it’s suitable, and I’ll claim it. Today is the first day of turning the ship around, heading toward “health” and ordering all engines full.

On our way to school and work, Michael and I step out of the front door and onto the porch. A bitter chill greets us as the wind whips along the walkway.

“Brrrr!” Michael says, pulling his coat close around him.

“Yes, it’s chilly! It’s the cold front from the east seeping over this way,” I explain as I lock the door.

“What’s ‘east’, daddy?” he asks.

“East is a direction. It’s the way we’re facing.”

“I want to see east.”

“It’s that way.”

“Can we go there?”

“You can’t ever really go there, Michael. It’s just that direction.”

“It’s where Easter is?”

“No, that’s something else,” I explain, as I buckle him into his car seat and slide the van door shut.

“I want to have Easter,” he said.

“It’s coming. It’ll be here in the spring.”

“It’s spring now?”

“No, it’s still winter.”

“Is spring in the east?”

“No, it’s winter all over the country.”

“Where’s Easter?”

“Easter isn’t in a place, it’s a holiday. Like Christmas and Thanksgiving. It’s a time.”

“With Easter eggs, and chocolate bunnies,” he added.

“Right!”

“I want to see east.”

“We’re going east,” I said as we drove down the road.

“To Easter?”

“Michael, Easter isn’t a place! It has nothing to do with east!”

“What’s east is?”

“It’s the direction we’re going.”

“Can we see Easter?”

“Sure. We’ll be there in just a minute,” I say, finally.

I try, I really do. But he’s just got more questions in him than I have answers.

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.