Yesterday’s reports of an armed gunman in the woods behind the kids’ school? False alarm.
Here is what happened: Bellevue Community College did an emergency drill that involved loud announcements over their public PA system using language like “take cover” and “armed intruder.” The kids at Puesta del Sol elementary school were actually able to hear these announcements during their recess, reported it, and were called in from recess: the elementary school went into lockdown.
School officials looked into the cause of the announcements, realized it was a community college drill, and were about to cancel the lockdown, when Kennedy saw an “armed intruder” running in the woods behind the school. She reported it, and the police literally poured into the neighborhood.
Holly got there and called me just as the police were tearing down the barricades. In the background, I could hear Aaron exclaim with much gusto, “They had machine guns!” I couldn’t be sure if he was talking about the cops or the intruders Kennedy saw, but he seemed delighted.
Holly and I were driving to the movies last week and she gasped and whipped the car down a side street.
I was like, “What?”
“Hold on,” she said.
We went all the way around the block and then she pulled up to this monster, about a mile from our house. It’s higher than the guy’s roof, so it must be, what, 15 to 17 feet tall?
And this was after three or four days of rain.
The next morning was Sunday. I got up around eight and hustled the kids in the car. “Are we getting donuts?” Aaron wanted to know.
Three weeks ago, Holly took the kids to California. The plan was for me to get some work done and then follow on the weekend. But then Seattle got socked in with snow. I went to the airport three times and purchased five one way tickets before I finally made it down there with them. What an adventure! I am still fighting to get a refund from Virgin America, who took advantage of my plight and are only offering a credit. With the lousy economy, I hope they don’t go belly up before I can use the ticket.
I met up with Holly and the kids so late, I decided drive back with them instead of flying. I wouldn’t have been able to get much work done anyhow: the campus (as well as most of Seattle) was mostly shut down due to weather. Seattle grinds to a halt with an inch or two of snow. We had over a foot.
I enjoyed the time off. We took the kids to Disneyland, Hollywood, both of Holly’s parent’s house, Portland and numerous hotels between here and there.
Holly and the kids outside of our Long Beach hotel. Aaron is wearing his Haunted Mansion hat from Disneyland.
We went sightseeing in Hollywood. The kids were amazed that Hollywood was even real. Once they got a load of Hollywood and Vine, they were less so.
Holly’s Dad, Wild Bill.
The decorations on this house cracked me up. If you look closely, you can see Santa just kicked an extra point in the far goal (It’s good!). Around the corner (not shown) is a life-size nativity scene.
No trip to California is complete without a celebratory drop into Powell’s book store in Portland on the return leg. We can never get out of Powell’s without and armload of books.
This year Holly and I told the kids that Santa isn’t real, but then the kids didn’t believe us.
I didn’t want to burst their Christmas bubble, but it seemed like the right thing to do. Most of the other kids in their fifth grade class don’t believe in Santa anymore. Aaron has been pointedly asking me if Santa were real, and I’d been holding him off by shrugging my shoulders and telling him I believed in Santa. That’s not an entirely untrue statement either: I believe a little faith and imagination will take you places you can’t get on reason alone. I would have let the whole Santa business go right there, but then Kennedy started to draw some uncomfortable associations between religion and Santa. “Jews don’t believe in Santa,” she told my wife. The little kids celebrating Hanukkah were telling Kennedy that Santa isn’t real. She would drift toward her church friends on the playground and say things like “You’re Christian. You believe in Santa, right?” But this only elicited eye rolls and other reactions that Kennedy didn’t understand. Holly and I decided we probably ought to tell them Santa isn’t real.
A few weeks ago after dinner, Holly brought up Santa. The kids gave us their full attention. Holly said Santa was a legend, based on Saint Nicholas, who used to sneak around putting gifts into shoes that poor people left out at night. Holly talked about the Spirit of Giving. Generosity. The Meaning of Christmas. That sort of thing. The room got quiet as a funeral.
“No North Pole?” Aaron asked.
“Nope,” Holly said. “And no reindeer.”
“I knew it,” Aaron said. His voice was even, but disappointed.
Kennedy surprised us by asking a bunch of questions. She wanted to know who bought the Santa gifts. And why the tags on the Santa presents were in a different handwriting than the tags on the rest of the presents. “And who eats the cookies, who drinks the milk?” she asked.
We answered her questions and then started to clean up. I felt terrible. While Holly and I loaded the dishwasher, I wished we could go back in time and do the last ten minutes over. A few days later, I forgot all about it. But then the strangest thing happened: Kennedy said she didn’t believe us!
At first she thought Holly and I were just pulling her leg. She kept asking questions and disbelieving the answers. Soon she convinced herself that Holly and I were out of our minds. It’s probably just a sign of how things are going to go as they get older, but it couldn’t have happened at a better time. Kennedy was planning to prove her theory by writing a secret Santa letter and then asking for something only she and Santa could know about. Fortunately Holly talked her out of it.
Turns out, a little boy has been needling Kennedy about Santa since kindergarten. Her whole focus has been showing this kid up, proving to him that Santa is real. Holly suggested that Kennedy believe what she believes and let her little friend believe what he believes. A lesson that downplays proselytizing and promotes tolerance all rolled up in one. Can I get an amen?
Kennedy even brought Aaron around to her way of thinking. Earlier this week as we were saying prayers, Aaron blissfully slipped into full blown Santa denial and expressed regret for asking Santa for a 14 karat gold plated portable gaming device. I was pleased. Not just because he was believing in Santa again, but because he was showing contrition for being greedy. What kind of kid needs a gold plated PSP?
I couldn’t be more happy with how this year’s Santa reveal turned out. My faith in the unknowable mystery of life has been renewed.
And I hope Aaron and Kennedy believe in Santa Claus until they’re a hundred and fifty.
Very soon now, my son, Timmy, is going to be a father all his own. Here is one of the first pictures of his little one.
And the tummy you’re looking into belongs to Carrie, who I have heard a lot about and can’t wait to meet. When I found out she was pregnant, I got so excited I made Timmy put her on the phone and chat with me, which was probably the wrong thing to do, because she sounded sleepy. But she was kind and sweet to me, and we made small talk. I can’t wait to meet her.
When I was growing up, colorful language was the rule. Aunt Polly loved to swear. Aunt Carol could hold her own. Mom seemed more reserved—she would say eff this or eff that. If her sisters got too vulgar, she would chide them to cool out. I would sit in the living room, pretending to watch TV but listening to every word.
No surprise, then, that as an adult I don’t have good boundaries when it comes to my kids and foul language. Case in point: Last weekend Holly and the kids were watching Spaceballs, an old comedy from the 80s with a surprising amount of cursing.
Holly has been exploring old movies and TV shows with the kids, but this was the first with a good amount of cussing. Aaron and Kennedy don’t curse. This is all due to Holly’s good home training, but the kids have really taken to it. I’m a little disappointed. In our house the D-word is dumb and the S-word is stupid.
“Stupid,” I say with mild scorn. “Stupid is a bad word? That’s retarded.” And Aaron slugs me in the arm.
Spaceballs’s Major Asshole scene nearly tipped the old time movie viewing scales in our house. Holly threatened to turn off the TV, but the kids protested. “We’ve already heard all these words,” Kennedy said.
“Where?” Holly asked.
Immediately both kids cried in unison, “DAD!” When Holly told me this story, I laughed. I love to curse.
Here is my favorite cussing story:
I joined the military when I was seventeen. This was back in the days when the Company Commander routinely cursed out the entire squad, just for good measure.
It was the first week and we were all—leaders and lambs—trying to feel out the situation. The Company Commander’s task was to break us down. He stormed up and down the barracks. We stood at attention at the end of our bunks. He was doing a pretty good job cussing us out. Something he said reminded me of sitting in the living room listening to my aunts swear in the kitchen. I snickered at in inopportune moment and he got right in my face.
“Are you amused, recruit!” he shouted.
I looked at my feet. I thought it was a retorical question, but he actually wanted an answer. He repeated his question, this time even louder and closer to my face.
“What’s so amusing, recruit!”
I was terrified. I didn’t know what to say, but decided honesty was my best apporach.
“SIR,” I shouted. “YOU SOUND LIKE MY AUNT POLLY, SIR!”
I said it with earnestness and enthusiasm. He just looked at his feet. Out the corner of my eye, I could tell he was trying to hide a grin. After a few seconds, he said, “Aunt Polly likes to curse, does she?”
Twenty years ago today I appeared on the steps of the building pictured above, 19-25 Saint Mark’s Place in New York City’s East Village. That morning I had traveled from my home in Pennsylvania to attend a rehab in the Bronx, but then I had been denied admittance to the rehab and had nowhere else to go. I was literally penniless.
I was also hungry. It was about 5pm and I hadn’t eaten anything that day. Dealing with the Bronx rehab’s admissions person, a Puerto Rican man named Americo, had been an epic fiasco, all of my own making. When he gave me the subway token and directions to the East Village, I felt terrified. Really scared. But by the time I got off the train, I had already acclimated to my new situation.
I asked the other homeless people at the shelter if there were any food. People looked to their left and right. Someone coughed into his hand, another person brushed lint from her shoulder. Food was tight. Finally a large black woman took pity on me and ladled a heap of plain macaroni noodles onto a paper plate. She waited for me to respond to her kindness. I looked at the plate in front of me.
“What, no tomato sauce?” I asked.
The black woman chuckled. “Aren’t you something,” she said. She was absolutely right. I certainly was something. And twenty years later, I hope I’m something else.
This afternoon we took a little holiday trip to Seattle to hang out in the market, laugh at the fish monger’s antics, and then ride the carousel.
Thursday we had dinner at a friend’s house.
It was a collaborative effort, but we got off easy. Tamara, our good friend, made the bird and a ton of delicious food. I made tabbouleh and Holly made a string bean dish, but somehow we managed to bring mostly sweets. We were responsible for those cupcakes pictured below and there were pumpkin pies.
I had an excellent time. Aaron said it was one of his favorite thanksgivings ever.
I invited Kennedy to go see the Hopper exhibit at the SAM (Seattle Art Museum) today.
She got more excited over this than I imagined she would. In anticipation of our date this afternoon, she woke up at 2 AM. Holly had to send her back to bed at 5:30 AM. Needless to say, when we finally got to the SAM this afternoon, she was low energy. They only had a few Hoppers on display and Nighthawks–my favorite–was not among them.
Kennedy and I enjoyed what was there. We also enjoyed the lobby of the SAM, which has some crazy sculpture of cars flipping through the air.
We had a snack in the restaurant. I tried to imagine Kennedy as a girl in a Hopper painting.
Present Tense 