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Hey, Guys?

How about you NOT bicker for the rest of the trip ... or at least until we get to our first destination? OK? Whatdoyasay?


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OK. ... How about this:

How about you take your imaginary pencils and - silently - write your complaints on these here imaginary sheets of paper, which you will then insert into my imaginary suggestion box, which I store in the front of the car for just these occasions ...


BICKER-BICKER And then what? BICKER


And then I will pretend to read them tomorrow.

Scene: Morning Commute.

Cast of Characters: Ittybit, The Champ, A.M. Rider (Ittybit's BFF from way back to Kindergarten) and Yours Truly.

Destination: Various day camps.



ITTYBIT: MOM! Is that creepy crawly inside or outside.

YT: What? Where?

ITTYBIT: There, on the window.

YT: Oh, that's on the outside. Don't worry about it.

ITTYBIT: Don't worry! That green guy is hanging on like a crazy person. What if it gets in here?

YT: It won't get in here. I promise that is on the outside. See how the wind blows it around. ... Wow. That thing really is hanging on. ...

A.M. RIDER: What is that thing?

YT: It's the color of an aphid but it looks like a grasshopper. Maybe it's an adult aphid?

A.M. RIDER: Aren't aphids those tiny things that are really tasty snacks for Ladybugs?

YT: Yes. Yes. I don't know maybe it's just a mighty green grasshopper.

THE CHAMP: I frink its a squid. That's what it is, a squid.

A.M. RIDER: It's not a squid. They live in the water.

THE CHAMP: Not always.

ITTYBIT: Yes always!

THE CHAMP: Nuh, uh.

A.M. RIDER: Yes uh!

YT: What makes you think squid live out of water, bud?

THE CHAMP: Vector's squid launcher. Those squids weren't in water.

ITTYBIT: That's not real! That's a movie!

THE CHAMP: It is, too, real.

A.M. RIDER: Nuh uh!

ITTYBIT: Hey, where did the aphid/grasshopper/squid go?

YT: I let him inside. He wanted to hear this.

Instead of the usual craft time, our babysitter reported today, the story-hour librarian rolled up the reading rug and handed out big pieces of sidewalk chalk.

Her instructions were simple: Pick out an area of concrete (story time is in the basement of the village library) and draw a picture - Anything you want.

Guess who needed a space that would ensure his lines blurred into those of his each and every one of his neighbors?

"I need to make a stream. A gurgling, splashing, crashing stream ... with a waterfall ... that goes WHOOOOSH!"

Yeah ... that whole summer camp first-day jitters thing? She's sooooo over it.

"You know what was the best part of camp today?"

"No, what was the best part?"

"The best part was when the camp counselors told us things they probably shouldn't be telling us."

"Oh yeah, like what?"

"Like where they're getting tattoos."

She skulked into our room just as the blue-speckled morning light was breathing in pink from the sun, and started to howl.

"Your turn," I say to the mountain of covers to my left. "I already handled a squirrel, two chipmunks and what I can only presume was a bird this week. I'm taking the morning off."

Wordlessly, he pulls on a shirt and stalks downstairs passing Ittybit in the hallway.

"Where's he going?" she asks, scooping up the squalling mass of feline flesh as awkwardly as humanly possible. In Ittybit's arms, our black cat is more of a rag doll. She just limply hangs, catatonic.

I don't get a chance to answer before a stream of expletives and a few Lords'-Names-in-Vain come charging up the stairs.

"OH GOD! JESUS CHRIST! OHHHHH, FOR-FUGS-SAKE!"

"What did she kill?" I yell down in response.

"Nothing. It's still alive and its running around in the kitchen!"

When I reach the place where the coffee and toast are born, I find him standing by the coffeemaker. Perhaps he's willing it to become a Haveaheart trap, but I suspect he's more interested in getting a cup of caffeine to clear his mind.

"Coffee first. Then I'll think about what to do. It could be anywhere at this point."

He saw it scoot behind the dog food container and a case of bottled ice tea. All sorts of critters go back there, never to be seen again.

I moved the containers and saw the chipmunk all curled up in a ball. No head, no tail visible in the shadows. On the counter above it is a small movie popcorn box, saved for reuse because of its red-pin-stripe quaintness and lack of visible butter stains.

I grab it and bend to scoop up the cat's escaped snack.

In it goes to the bottom, scrabbling around for a second and then settling back into its protective orb.

I head for the great out of doors.

Ittybit wants to help release the varmint, but minds my urgent request and feeds the cat as a distraction. I tell I'll wait for her, and to meet me at the tree in front yard.

When she arrives, I pour out the popcorn box, kernels, critter and all.

For a long moment, it stands there all stretched out and close to the ground. I fan the box in its direction and it skitters up the tree trunk. Ittybit follows it, circling the tree, telling it all manner of helpful advice.

"Have a nice life."

"Be more careful."

"Stay away from cats."

As she skips around the tree, a first-grade Ann Landers, it chitters at her, loudly.

Its charm delights her.

"You're welcome!"

Zombified, Ittybit sat staring at the T.V. watching an opera singer perform.

The little girl was tiny but her voice was bigger than life.

"I want to be like that girl," she said emphatically. "I want to be famous."

It wasn't for art's sake that Ittybit wanted to make her voice lift above the songs she hears on popular radios stations. Although the beauty of the music drew her in, it was the pretty little girl in a floor-length dress that held her transfixed. "She's only a kid ... and she's on TeeeeVeeee!"

"You don't want to be that girl," I say quickly, and just as quickly want to kick myself for saying it that way. Of course she wants to be just like that little girl. She wants the mental picture we all have about fame. How special it would be.

It's easy to fault with the logic, but more difficult to dismiss the feeling behind it. Don't we all have some degree of desire for acknowledgement and adoration? Only we want the well-deserved kind of fame that wipes its feet when we invite it in, doesn't snoop in our drawers when it uses our facilities, and never wears out its welcome.

"No. I do want to be like her. I want to sing on a stage in front of lots of people. Or I want to publish a book. Or I want to act in the movies."

I try a different approach.

"Well, I wouldn't want to be that girl. I was listening to an interview with her and she seemed extremely anxious for a little girl. She was worried about what would happen as an adult. Would she be able to keep the momentum? Would her voice change? Would it be as pretty when it did? I just think that's a lot of worry for a little girl to handle."

She shrugs her shoulders. She doesn't share my concern. The gun has fired and the stopwatch has started. The time to make your mark, she thinks, is now.

"She's already 11. Maybe that would be a problem if she were not yet 10," she says as if she's already decided it's all over once you reach the double digits.

I just smile and let her dream alone.

What does her old mother know about fame and what it's like, anyway?

We all have our dreams and anxieties no matter where we go or what we do. We all swim against tides. We walk down roads others travel and they're always new to us. The only thing I can really advise her to do is to follow what makes her happy until it makes her miserable. Then maybe she'll be ready to forge her own path.

We can only predict, we can't know for sure. Don't help. Don't hinder.

"When dad gets home I'm going ast him ta take off da little wheels what's on my bike."



"My bike is trained now."

He doesn't like walking on even slightly wet ground.

It makes his shoes squeak. He H-A-T-E-S for his shoes to squeak.

She thinks he's being ridiculous. And that he needs to grow up.

So she nudged him off his dry patch of curb, where they'd been balancing, onto the wet grass.

When he started to cry she felt sorry for him.

Until he punched her.

Now they're square.

I was shy and standoff-ish. Nothing like my children. Visits from family seemed to present only the best opportunity for failure. To be annoying and underfoot. Not these kids. They are confident and assured in ways I'm still struggling.

I learn a lot from my children.

They have no trouble sitting -- dripping wet and sunscreen slicked -- on the laps of distant relatives they'd only just met to pose for a picture.

They ask a thousand questions and get a thousand answers.

They had no trouble offering hugs and sad good-byes when it was time for the party to move onward.

They can't wait to visit them, where they live ... especially if it's near "Disney Channel World."

Strapped in his car seat, we were ready to roll ...

The radio was tuned to NPR, which was airing a story by Neda Ulaby about a publicity stunt by the Frito-Lay company. The company was hawking its products in a test kitchen on a Times Square billboard, arguing that as many as half of its snacks were by legal definition "All Natural."

I was kind-sorta-not-really listening, but The Champ was listening intently as Morning Edition's host Steve Inskeep said:

"The company was trying to send the message that Fritos, Cheetos and Doritos are healthy."

I could practically hear the grin cracking open the lower half of his little face.

"See, I tol' you."

Scene: Chance encounter with much beloved teacher of the Marilla Cuthbert Academy for Unspeakably Charming Children.

Excited to see his teacher walking a dog, he waves frantically at her and yells: "Hi!"

She returns the wave and replies: "Hey, Bud!"

Struggling against the leash and the excitement of the confection-colored canine in her care, she steers the charge away from her tiny student.

The boy deflates. His chin touches his chest as his shoulders slump.

"What's the matter? Why are you upset?"

"She called me 'BUTT'!"

"Mommy! Mommy! Guess what I found!"

I was afraid. She was gently cupping something in her dirt-ground hands.

I hope whatever it is it hasn't been dead long, I say to myself with complete disregard for the child who stood before me beaming.

"I can't guess."

"Try. It's not fun unless you guess."

"OK, let me think. ... It's not the neighbor's cat ..."

"MOM! The neighbor doesn't HAVE a cat!"

"Yeah ... that's why I've ruled that out. Smart, right?"

She squints in playful exasperation. "Really? OK ... I'll give you a hint: It starts with an E. What's your guess?"

"I dunno .. an earthworm."

Her mouth twists into the unmistakable expression of surprise deflated: "Oh-how-soon-yo-adult-types-cop-out-of-this-very-fun-game."

"So you give up then?"

"I give up."

Her hands open like a flower and inside is a tiny porcelain elephant.

"I found it buried in the garden."

"Wow. That's amazing," I said as I plucked the tiny treasure from her hands for inspection. "And my guess was so close, too."

"You said earthworm. That's not close at all."

"Yes ... but it begins with an E."

"Not to be picky, but this isn't really accurate, is it? I mean ... Where's the mess? ... and where's your brother's bed? It's missing, and yet he sleeps there, too."

"What? You want for everyone to laugh at me?"

"Mom ... If you quit your job you could write a book."

"That's a surprising suggestion coming from you. You never like my stories."

"What do you mean? I LOVE your stories."

"As I recall you said, and I quote: 'they have a beginning and end, but no plot'."

"That's true ... but if you didn't have a job you could work on the middle."

"I'm thinking maybe YOU should write the book."

Mostly I don't like thinking about the lowest point you can reach as a parent. It's a dark place that doesn't often take kindly to humor. It can also be like poking an injured creature with a stick.

It is neither nice nor necessary.

Although this parent's more respectable cousin (also known as Mother Of The Year) has witnessed her lowest points at dental practices all across America. It is here that we find out how much damage we've done with our permissive ways.

"Oh. What? ... How many cavities? Does she even have that many teeth?"

The dentists always tell you not to take it personally. It's not an indictment of your parenting abilities. It could be genetics. But we know by their wide-eyed smiles that THEIR kids have perfect choppers.

But that initial defeated feeling isn't the lowest point you can reach.

You shrug, accept and then you resolve to do better. You've tried to get them to brush properly. You've employed timers and flossers and toothpastes of all flavors, but it's not enough. You've tried to be diligent, but you fall just short of trying your best. You know there's always room for improvement. At least that's what you've been telling the kids.

Disappointment fades to forgotten.

No, you hit the low when your kid ... happily sitting in the examining chair watching a movie ... asks the dentist the most important question of all:

"Will you adopt me?"

And as you fail to translate what he really meant by the word "adopt" you succeed in feeling the sharpest truth of what was said: If she did adopt him, at least he'd have better teeth.

"Hey look! It's a JOURNAL!"

Let me set the scene:
It's the morning commute on a gray, rain-threatening day. The landscape, still crisp with fall colors though it is spring, rolls past our windows at 45 miles-per-hour. The boy is in his car seat talking non-stop about the things he sees - asking and often answering his own questions.

"Ders a guy with wandry. Where's he going? Maybe to da wandrymat."

"Can we go the wong way? I yike the wong way. It's faster than the short way."

The long way it is. Past school buildings and playgrounds. Past apple orchards and cattle ranches. Past miles and miles of fields.

"Is that a farm?" He asks as we drive past acres of wide open fields.

"Yes. That's a farm," I answer absently, momentarily wondering to myself if there will be a train at the crossing up ahead.

"What do they grow there?"

"Oh, I don't know," I say, trying to focus on his conversation. "It's a pretty big field. It could be hay or corn, or something like that."

"Don't they grow zombies there? I bet they grow zombies there."

I start to laugh. Of course he'd wonder about whether an iPhone app offered a window into the agricultural practices of the undead.

"That's just a computer game. There's no such thing as zombies."

"Well ... I think it would be fun if they did grow zombies. Because if they grew zombies I could keep one for a pet."

"If zombies were real," I tell him (as if this is the most natural conversation in the world to be having with a three-year-old) you most definitely would NOT want one for a pet."

"I would. I would keep him in a cage and feed him every day. I would!"

"What would you feed him?"

"I don't know. Zombie food. It costs five dollars and you can buy it at the store."

"I don't know how to break it to you bud, but zombies - which are not real anyway so don't go chasing nightmares - eat humans. And that makes it completely unsafe to own a zombie."

"Well ... If I had a zombie I would train him not to eat humans. That's what I would do."

"Is he a good guy or a bad guy?"

Truly, I don't know. I don't even know who HE is other than a plastic man who shoots plastic ice in the general direction of down.

But if he's anything like a person in the mortal world, he's probably a little of both.

"Maybe he's a good guy who has bad days."

singing , originally uploaded by toyfoto.

A singing fireman.

Really?

Not really.

No really? What DID you want to be?

I don't know. I guess I never really had a clear plan. I suppose I just never wanted to grow up.

It's probably a good thing. Because you didn't really grow ... I'm probably going to be taller than you.

"Let's have a race.

"Ready. Set. Gooooooooooooooooo!"

"Whoa, hold y'er horses there Lightening McQueen. What race?"

"Who can eat the fastest ... ooooh yeah! Race! Race! Race!"

"Not a good idea, bud. You could choke if you eat too fast. You have to take your time, enjoy your food. You have to chew carefully and then maybe take a drink of water and then ... "

"I win!"