“Should we tell them about The Bunny this year?” Tobin asked.
It was Saturday night and we were driving to my sister’s house for a Passover seder. It was also the night before Easter.
“Up to you,” I said. “You’re the Christian parent.”
The boys are 9 and 11 years old. Questions like this come up more frequently now: Santa, Bunny, Fairy.
“I’m worried if we tell them about The Bunny, other things will start to unravel,” Tobin said.
“What will unravel?” Theo asked from the back seat, looking up from his book about Norse mythology. “What does unravel mean?” Read more
“Want to play Life?” Theo asked.
“Ticket to Ride?” I asked.
Theo shook his head.
Othello? No. Sleeping Queens? No. Catan? No.
As we were setting up the game board with its brightly-colored track, and built-in spinner and plastic car tokens, Tobin and George came home.
“Want to play Life, Dad?” Theo asked.
Tobin shook his head. “I’m going to start dinner,” he said.
“Can I play?” George asked.
Behind George, Theo shook his head, vehemently. The last time we played a game with George, he got mad when he was losing — or maybe when he was caught cheating — and threw the dice so they bounced everyone’s players and pieces off their respective places on the board.
Still, it’s my job to believe — perhaps foolishly — that my children can make different choices than they have in the past. “Let’s include George,” I said to Theo.
“Then I’m not playing,” Theo said, crossing his arms.
But after we agreed that everyone would be respectful of the rules and the physical game and the other players and the other players’ bedrooms after the game, we put three car tokens at the start of the game and inserted one colored plastic peg in the driver’s seat of each car — blue for boys, pink for girls. Then we began spinning and drawing cards and moving spaces.
Theo was the first to get married. Read more
“Did you see the moon this morning?” I asked. I had seen it from the dining room table before the sun rose: enormous, butter-yellow, resting in the branches of the neighbor’s oak tree.
“It was a supermoon,” Josie (my niece) announced, looking up from the origami cat that Lauren (my sister) was folding for her. “It’s a super worm moon.”
“What’s a super worm moon?” George asked.
Josie shrugged. “We were talking about the supermoon today and someone said it was a super wolf moon and someone else said it was a super blue moon, so my teacher looked it up. She said it was a super worm moon.”
“So what is that?” George asked again.
“All over Madison,” Josie said. “Kids are asking that. That’s what my teacher said. That at every dinner table tonight, kids would be asking their parents, ‘What’s a super worm moon?’”
“Let’s look it up,” George said.
We were busy folding and cutting and talking.
“Later,” I said. “We can look it up later.”
At the end of the table, Theo was folding a series of irregular diamonds. He had a stack of them beside him. Read more
“Dad, if you could have three wishes, what would you wish for?” Theo asked Tobin.
It was bedtime. Theo was lying on our bed with Tobin and George. Juno was curled up next to them. I was brushing my teeth in the bathroom.
“And you can’t wish for more wishes,” Theo said. “That’s against the rules.”
“Can we wish for the wisdom to make good wishes?” I asked, mouth full of toothpaste.
“Also,” Theo said. “You can’t wish to be able to wish for more wishes. That’s also against the rules.”
“Can we wish that our wish would have no unintended consequences?” Tobin asked.
“Like what?” Theo asked.
“Like I wish for an end to world hunger,” Tobin said. “And then everyone lives and the population problem gets worse.”
“Dad,” George said. “You could wish for a Lamborghini. Or a Subaru. Subaru makes cool cars.” Read more
George wanted to know about Sleeping Beauty.
“How did that come up?” I asked. He shrugged. It was Wednesday after school. Or maybe Thursday.
“Can you tell me the story?” he asked.
“It’s a fairy tale,” I started. “The king and queen have a baby girl, a princess.”
George wrinkled his nose. “We don’t like princess stories.” He swept his arm to include Theo, who was making a snack in the kitchen. “We only like Frozen because of Olaf.”
And then he looked at me, expectantly. Read more
Last week, George started putting together a list of things he wants for his ninth birthday.
This is what is on it. Straight transcription.
George birthday list
- Beat’s head Phone
- Amulet Seires
- Minecraft Seires
- fernicher for room and stuff
- buck’s hat
- Minecraft lego
- football resever gloves
- waky takys
- bager gear
- Gizmo watch
- red panda
Lines 19 through 35 are numbered, but still blank.
“Are these in order?” my sister Nina asked. “Are the things you want most on top?”
“Mom,” George said. “Tell me a riddle. Or a joke.”
He was setting the dining room table. Napkin, fork, knife, spoon, repeat.
“I don’t think I have any new ones,” I said.
“That’s ok,” George said. “I don’t mind.”
And this is true. He doesn’t mind if you tell him a joke he already knows. Sometimes — though it’s rarer these days — if he likes a joke you’ve told him, he’ll repeat it back to you. Right away.
“I could tell you a froggy-in-the-well,” I offered. Read more
Wednesday night, Tobin stood in the kitchen chopping ginger. Lydia, home from college and standing beside him, was squeezing a lime.
“Does the tofu need to be flipped?” Tobin asked.
I had volunteered to take over the tofu part of the recipe and was doing a poor job remembering. Right now, it was marinating in a glass pan on the kitchen counter.
“I can’t find a cutting board,” George said from the dog bed where he was curled around Juno. George makes a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch every single day.
Theo looked up from his book. “What’s for dinner? Will I like it?”
“It’s vegetarian,” Tobin said. “It has peanut butter and tofu, two of your favorite things.”
“But will I like it?” Theo asked. He narrowed his eyes. “Tell me the truth.”
Tobin looked at me.
“You create a distraction,” I said. “Then we leave out the basement door.” Read more
Christmas night, after dinner, after Theo and George were tucked into bed, after Taylor and Jack and Lydia packed up their clothing and presents and hugged both of us and walked out the front door to go back to their own apartments or to their mom’s house, Tobin sat in the gray chair.
“I don’t know why I feel sad,” he said.
Through the reflection of the Christmas tree lights in the window, he watched the kids’ car headlights turn on and drive away.
“Did you have a good Christmas?” I asked. Read more
We all go, all four of us, every week.
Tobin comes right from work, still in a pressed shirt and pants, shoes shined. The boys and Juno and I come from home, carrying a giant bag of dog treats.
“Hold onto Juno’s leash,” Tobin reminds Theo, as we sit down in the big room with the rubber-tiled floor, the ring of plastic chairs, the door to the small fenced grass yard, the two instructors. The room fills with a dozen puppies in varied sizes and colors, and their people.
Half of the puppies have names we considered for our dog — or names of children in the neighborhood. Read more