Thankful

Some things for which I'm thankful:


Fall color:



Skies like this:



Distractions like these:



A partner in crime:



...who's just as fascinated by the world as I am:



...and, really, is a blast:



For my other partner in crime, who's a great husband and dad:



...and who puts up with me doing things like this:



...and for so many other things that I don't have in photos. We've had some rough times this year, but there's a lot of good stuff.

Have a wonderful Thanksgiving, everyone. I ♥ you guys.



See?

Interfaith conversation on the playground

Written yesterday; held off until I got my son's permission.

We had a loss in the family this week. My son found out just before going to school, and found himself explaining why he was crying at school. A brief conversation ensued. (Names changed, except for my son, David.)

He told me about it after school. It was a normal conversation to him. Everyone's conversations should go like this.


David: "I told Cody and Brandon about what happened."

Me: "And what did they say?"

David: "Cody said he was sorry for my loss, and that [insert religious belief here]."

Now, we talk about these things all the time, especially the last few days. David is enormously curious, compassionate, and opened-minded; which I think is a fantastic combination. He's changed his mind a million times on the Big Questions, which I also think is fantastic. I knew he did not believe this particular religious claim, at least today. He happens to think it's kind of silly. The Oh-no-what-did-you-say alarms started to go off in my head.

Me (in a deliberate, level voice): "Hmm. That's interesting."

David: "It is interesting! I think it's really interesting. But it's not true. At least, I'm pretty sure it's not true. I don't even know if I want it to be true, but it really doesn't make any sense to me. That's what I told Cody."

Me: "Oh? What exactly did you say to him?"

David: "Well, I just said 'Thank you. That is comforting. I don't really believe [religious belief] is true, but I think it's a nice story. Thanks for being so nice to me.'"

Me: "And what did he say to that?"

David: "He asked me why I thought that. I told him, and then I asked him if he was someone who thought anyone who has different opinions goes to Hell. He said, 'No; that's stupid. Everyone can have their own opinions.'"

Me: "I am really, really proud of both you and Cody. What happened next?"

David (shrugging): "Brandon told me a story about his dog dying. I think he was trying to be sympathetic, so I told him thank you. Then we all played kickball. Only WE use special rules..."

[Fifteen-minute soliloquy on special kickball rules omitted for brevity.]

Kids. They are freaking awesome.

Travel Tuesday: Rooster Cogburn Ostrich Ranch

The following review appears in this month's Times Publications.

"Ostrich bite." *

Truth in advertising at its best. Among things that were bitten at Rooster Cogburn Ostrich Ranch last weekend: My hand, my camera, my shirt, my hair, and my son.

We’re going back as soon as we can.

If you're not heading to Picacho Peak, you might not even slow down enough to see the farm, off Exit #219 on Interstate 10, but you should. Nestled at the base of historic Picacho Peak Mountain, it's the largest ostrich ranch in the country. Over a thousand black South African ostrich hens live at the ranch, laying eggs and roaming its 600 acres.

Visitors can buy ostrich eggs (fresh, hollow, or painted), ostrich jerky, ostrich feather dusters (the owners insist they're the only kind that pick up dust), several other products at the entrance gift shop. But the real draw is participation.

Entrance is $5 for “kids 6 to 106,” and this includes a huge cup of pellet feed for the ostriches; as well as deer, goats, and donkeys; which can also be hand fed. The fee also includes a cup of nectar, which visitors can feed to rainbow lorikeets in an enclosed forest.

The products offered were fine, but I don’t think my son, David, has ever bypassed a gift shop so quickly. This should be a compliment, though -- he simply couldn’t wait to get to the animals. As we parked, a pair of ostriches peered over the fence at us. He was hooked.

Owner Rooster Cogburn (his given name’s D.C. Cogburn, but he took on "Rooster" in Oklahoma), sensitive to the fact that most people aren’t used to birds topping out 350 to 400 pounds, provides three levels of ostrich feeding. To stay unpecked, you can pour feed into chutes through the fence, where the ostriches will come and eat, safely on their own side. If you're feeling brave, walk up a wooden ramp and place the food in pans. If you’re insane, or are my son (OK, or me), you go immediately for the “ultimate ostrich interaction,” and invite the ostriches to eat from your hand. David was up the ramp, hand outstretched, in about 30 seconds.

Here's the thing: Ostriches are huge. You think you realize that, but it's a whole other thing to stand beneath a herd (“flock” doesn’t cut it) of giant, panting birds. These modern-day dinosaurs have presence. They towered over us at seven or eight feet, their enormous clawed, two-toed feet kicked up dust, and they breathed heavily, beaks wide open, waiting for food. Occasionally they’d get impatient and launch their heads over the fence in search of stray food. Unwary photographers focusing in the distance, leaning against the fence, are also ripe for enthusiastic pecking (something I learned firsthand).

With hundreds of ostriches wandering around the enclosure, you’re ensured a stampede of panting visitors. The humans learn the drill too -- hold your hand flat, down low, raise it slowly, and don’t curl up a stray finger. No leaning against the fence. Start small if you’re nervous. Feed the birds through the chutes first, and work your way up.

All of this makes the experience sound harrowing, and it was. But mostly it was ridiculously fun. It’s like the animal-feeding equivalent of riding a roller coaster -- everyone approaches it with a sense of foreboding and false bravado, a few folks scream or laugh, and as everyone walks away laughing and bragging, several people get right back in line.

After the ostriches, we took our nectar cups to the Rainbow Lorikeet Forest. The lorikeets are Australian parrots, and are absurdly beautiful, hence their name. They’re loud, playful, and inquisitive. David and I made our way to the back of the 5,000 square-foot enclosure, opened our nectar cups, and held out our arms. We were swiftly covered in a cacophonous blur of green, blue, orange, and yellow, as the lorikeets perched on our arms and sipped the nectar with their specially adapted tongues.

Many travelers make the ranch a quick stop on their way to Phoenix or Tucson, but there is plenty to occupy visitors. After the lorikeets, we refilled our pellets and fed the fallow deer (soft, adorable, and gentle enough for toddlers), the donkeys (frisky, and there are usually babies), and goats (from our lips -- you've got to try it). The ranch even runs 40-minute monster truck tours through the ranch and desert on weekends, for an extra behind-the-scenes look.

So, yes. Ostrich bite. But don't let that scare you off.

*In the printed version, you'll notice it's been amended to "Ostriches bite," which is quite correct. In fact, my son and I immediately noticed the sign's wording, but were a little distracted by the ostriches, well, biting. I imagine if you're warning someone, efficiency is more important than grammar.

Hitting: Always wrong

A downer post today. Head to yesterday’s post for pretty nature pictures. I’m doing a post every day this month, so I’ll probably be back to my regular nonsense and/or pretty pictures tomorrow.

I had a post half-written (OK, half written in my head, anyway), but this distracted me, and then made me watch in disgust, and then sickened and saddened me until there wasn’t room for anything else.

It’s a “father” -- a judge, no less -- hitting his 16-year-old repeatedly with a belt. Go watch it if you want to see it for yourself. I’m not posting the video here. The upshot: seven years ago, a child downloaded some stuff onto the family computer. Her father decided this was a good reason to beat the crap out of her, humiliate her, and demean her. Apparently, he’s continued the harassment, and/or she’s in the process of dealing or needed some leverage against him, so she just now shared it.

It’s sick. He’s sick.

And you know what? It’s sick when anyone hits a kid. For any reason.

At all.

I know this is over the top, even for people who endorse corporal punishment. I know some people have “planned spankings” and go to great pains to never do it out of anger. I know we’ve done it that way for ages. Heck, I was spanked for lying. I turned out OK. Most parents, spanking parents included, mean well.

To which I say, so the hell what? Matters of degrees don’t make “only a little assault” or “a small burglary” OK. We’ve been doing all kinds of things for ages that we eventually come to realize are bad, and we often muster up the integrity to stop doing those things. And as for the parents who mean well -- every medical study, every psychological study, every kind of study or observation done by anyone who’s not a psychopath; has concluded that spanking never solves the problem (even disobedience), and often makes things worse. And hitting to any large degree at all is abuse.

The judge wasn’t disciplining his daughter; he was beating up a kid. Congratulations, asshole.

Hitting other adults isn’t OK. Hitting children in schools isn’t OK. Children hitting other children isn’t OK. We need to stop hitting our own kids. It’s reprehensible. This guy is way more reprehensible, sure, but it’s sickening any time it happens.

Today, my son frustrated me. He refused to listen. When he did listen, he did the exact opposite of what I requested. He downloaded forbidden games onto my work computer, right after I stood in front of him and told him not to, for one. And the brattiness continued. Throughout the evening, he ignored me, moped when I tried to make him happy, and generally acted like a punk.

I wasn’t angry.

I was frustrated, sure. I probably didn’t handle it as well as I could have. And OK, maybe I was a little angry, if you want to call it that. But if anger is lashing out -- even wanting to lash out -- then no. If anger is using your displeasure to bludgeon the other person, literally or figuratively, then no. Never.

I want to make him obey sometimes, sure, but mostly I want to make him happy. I want to make him learn, and make him see things, and make him happy, and make him a responsible, compassionate, smart, ambitious man. (If you follow 99 percent of what I write about him, you'll see that this is usually the direction he chooses.) But you know what? I can’t make him any of these things. I can guide him. I can love him. I can’t force him. And I’ll never try.

If you ever feel anger toward a child -- real anger -- then, well, I would feel sorry for you, if I wasn’t busy feeling sad as hell for the kid. If you actually hit your child, my would-be sympathy goes out the window. Let’s all quit it. It’s wrong.

Monday goodies: My kid, animal listener

Horse whisperer. Dog whisperer. Fill-in-the-blank whisperer. You hear it about people who have an affinity for a certain animal. I've even used it on my son before: lizard whisperer, bug whisperer. But really, the fundamental assumption seems to be that you can sort of tame the animal, at least for that instant -- that you fundamentally understand what's going on, from its point of view.

My son's not that kind of animal whisperer. For one, it's nearly all animals. For another thing, he doesn't tame them. He doesn't want to. "Whisperer" seems to imply that he's the one doing the talking, and he doesn't care about what he has to say with animals. He doesn't whisper. He listens. He seems to understand their otherness. If he truly bonds with an animal at all, it's in the sense that he knows they, he and the animal, are separate beings, that this is an Other -- and he loves that. He revels in it.

He doesn't pose with animals, except for once in a while when I ask him to. Usually I just catch him at it. He doesn't seem to understand that this is a special or uncommon gift.

Dr. Seuss books, one take each

In celebration of Dr. Seuss' birthday, my son filmed the following tomfoolery.

1. I look stupid. My face is stupid and my arms are fat and I slouch and bite my lip.
2. I sound really stupid. I have no idea why I read the title of On Beyond Zebra like some kind of fake cowgirl. I was getting tired.
3. The cats and kid were constantly trying to distract me. (Cat butts make periodic appearances -- see the first seconds of the bottom video.)
4 I used to be much better at this.
5. We had fun anyway.
6. Tell me how funny I am, rather than how my face and arms do too look fine. I'll only disagree with you otherwise.
7. No, you can tell me I look OK too. But really, I'd rather be fun. My son cracked up for half an hour straight, so I'll call it a win.

Of cockchafers and bushtits ... or my husband's sudden interest in nomenclature

How you know your wife is a little off:

(Wife, hunched in chair, thumbs through a stack of reference books and mutters to self): "No, not that. Aw, man. That's all there is. Cock... Cock... Let's see...Oh! Here's cock. Nope. Just 'chafer.' Cockchafer, cockchafer, cockchafer again. Cock-frickin'-chafer."

(Husband, snickering, stares at wife): "Good book?"

(Wife, not seeing anything particularly odd or funny): "What? Why?"

As many of you may know, I geek out for both critters and words. Entomology and etymology, I like to say. (By "like to say" I mean I've actually said it. I am indeed a scintillating conversationalist.) Recently, I've been meshing the two with a growing interest in and some research into the fascinating areas of taxonomy and binomial nomenclature.

Really. "Fascinating" wasn't supposed to be ironic.

My husband remains unconvinced, and is not as taken by the topic. And by "unconvinced" I mean "clearly ignorant of how right I am," and by "not as taken" I mean "bored, and also less interested than he would be in something that might pay the mortgage."

Besides, interest a topic in my husband's universe generally comes in two flavors. The first is in flashiness, explodeyness, behemothosity, dramatic mega-fauna ... if Jerry Bruckheimer, Micheal Bay, or J.J. Abrams wouldn't be interested, neither would he.

The second is innuendo and scatological humor. Happily for family time, he shares this affinity with my son. They could spend hours watching a baboon documentary, not because the primates are so fascinating, but because they have big red butts.

I tire of such diversions after about ten seconds. So naturally, my husband and son can subsist for weeks on absolutely nothing but booby/wiener/fart/balls/poop/sex puns, and the occasional intake of oxygen.

They want to include me, see, but I can be a little highbrow and cerebral. And by "highbrow" I mean "no fun," and by "cerebral" I mean "boring."

All of this to say, the cockchafer conversation was sort of the perfect storm.

Me: Well, I was looking for a certain passage on the cockroach, but all I can find is cockchafer.
Him: Really. Cockchafer.
Me: No, really, see? Apparently it's what we call a June bug. But this guy seems quite taken with the name cockchafer. He uses it an inordinate amount of times, like even if you're going to use that term. Seriously. "The cockchafer has... The cockchafer flies... The cockchafer usually appears... The cockchafer eats..." Hasn't the guy ever heard of pronouns?
Him: Well, maybe he's just a pervert who gets off on that sort of thing. Like that one guy with the clams. Is it the same guy?
Me: Linnaeus? No, I don't think so. And anyway, it's a different, um, anatomical feature than the ones Linnaeus seemed to favor.
Him: Right. He liked clams named after woman parts.
Me: Exactly. I guess the, er, fleshy part of one looked like the fleshy part of the other...
Him: Well, maybe to him.
Me: ...so he named them after things like the vulva, anus, labia, hymen and something about pubes. I'm not sure on the last one. But I think.
Him: Seriously.
Me: And flowers. He really only looked at what they did sexually. Apparently plant sexual reproduction was a new discovery, so a lot of people were pretty taken with it. He named plants by what he thought of their sex lives, pretty much. There's names meaning "promiscuous intercourse," "barren concubines," and "parted legs." And listen to what he wrote: "The flowers' leaves serve as bridal beds which the creator has so gloriously arranged, adorned with such noble bed curtains, and perfumed with so many soft scents that the bridegroom with his bride might there celebrate their nuptials with so much the greater solemnity."
Him: Wow. Just, wow.
Me: Yeah. I guess a lot of people were kind of bothered by that, especially in the 1700s, but he really was a genius.
Him: Yeah. I can see that.
Me: No, really! He made the basic system for classifying things. And we still use a lot of his names today. I know he named the Mammillaria genus, you know, the nipple cacti...
Him: Those ones you searched for at work?
Me: Yeah. I got pictures of something, but it wasn't cacti, needless to say.
Him: And why nipples?
Me: I guess he thought tubercles -- those things that stick out, with the spines -- looked like nipples.
Him: Not like any I've seen.
Me: And we still have his mollusk names. Look! Penicillus vaginiferus. Vaginiferous? It sounds like some kind of weird-ass compliment: "Your vagina looks vaginiferous tonight, m'dear."
Him: Ha; how about vaginificent. Or vagipendous.
Me: Oh, wait, never mind. Lamarck named that one. But Linnaeus named the whole genus Penicillus. And, apparently, penicillus is a rarely used term for penis.
Him: So that name means penis vagina?
Me: I guess. Oh, here's one Linneaus named. Penicillus penis.
Him: So ... penis penis?
Me: I guess maybe he wanted to make up for the gender bias in his other mollusk names.
Him: At least he had a heterosexual plant and clam fetish.
Me: Here's a biography. It says Linnaeus "loved nature deeply..."
Him: Yeah. A little too deeply.
Me: ...and that it was his job to make a "natural classification that would reveal God's order in the universe."
Him: So he thought God was overly fond of vaginas, then? So did Linnaeus name boobies?
Me: No, I don't think so. And anyway, that's not fair; that's just the common name. There are a bunch of animals with unfortunate common names. Boobies, titmouse, great tit, goatsucker, dik-dik, slippery dick... Some animals have pretty funny stories about where they got their names, but I don't know those ones.
Him: You're just making these up now.
Me: No, really. You're going to question me on an intersection of etymology and biology? I told you it's fun stuff. At least all we have out here is the horny toad, if people call it that; the wood pewee and dickcissel if you really want to push it; I think maybe goatsuckers; a booby was sighted in Arizona once I think but not in a while...
Him: Sounds familiar.
Me (ignoring): ...and the cockchafer obviously, and the nipple beehive cactus. Oh, and the bushtit.
Him: Hee. Bush. Tit. And I thought there was a whole group of nipple cacti.
Me: Genus. And maybe they made sure the other common names were less, um, distracting. Scientific names are pretty bad too. Enema pan, that's a beetle; there's some kind of snail called Fukuia something; ooh, and a solpugid, I love those, called Eremobates inyoanus. I love that one. A something fartus and a Fartulum something. And my favorite is Colon rectum. That's a beetle too.
Him: Scientists have a warped sense of humor, I guess.
Me: They do! Look; here's a story about a fungus named Phallus drewesii. Apparently, this guy named Drewes was on an expedition with a friend of his who's a mushroom expert, and he found this two-inch-long, crooked, phallic-shaped mushroom and jokingly named it after his friend.
Him: So the whole name comes from a your-penis-is-smaller joke.
Me: Yep.
Him: Well, just find more stories like this, and I might be more interested in this field.

(Later)
Him: Say it again.
Me: Oh, come on.
Him: No, really. Is it "entomology?" I thought that was insects.
Me: Oh! Etymology. Study of word origins. Entomology is insects. Sorry. I thought you wanted me to say the stupid bug name again.
Him: Hey.
Me: What?
Him: Say it.
Me: Say what?
Him: You know.
Me: [Sigh.] Cockchafer.

Summertime and the living is easy (snapshots)

School's in -- around here, we start early, and his school starts earlier than most -- and I was afraid we'd squandered our vacation time. It flew by, and now it's back to work. Back to reality. Now we'll have even less time together. I was sad.

I was stupid. He thrives in school, as always. I'm almost eking out a routine that will actually produce some stuff. I'm getting stuff done around the house, and when I pick him up, we make sure to treasure our hours together. We're all getting into a routine, and it's far from drudgery. It's comforting.

Continuing another routine (hey, three times is good for me), here are the snapshots. His pictures, my words.

**He set up a notepad on the shelf of our backyard grill and took notes on everything: me ("Mom seems to enjoy taking pictures of the storm"), my husband ("Seems to have trouble telling boys from girls") (not what it sounds like), the cat ("Likes to smoosh his paw against the window and purr"), the birds ("Like to fly crazy in the clouds").**

**He wrote other stuff, but he said the rest is secret. He hunched over the tiny blue notepad, pencil scratching. The sun sank, casting bright platinum and gold strings, tracing his chin and upper lip, each fine hair along his arm, and the pencil in a glowing ribbon.**

**As I tried (in vain) to get work done in the afternoon, I heard "Hey. Hey! What's that spilling all over the coffee table?!" followed by the sound of pounding feet, frantic towel-fetching, and "Sorry! I'll get the carpet too. Sorry!" I drowned it out with the sound of fingers on keyboard.**

**A black cloud of some bird or other (we said doves, but they were so wild, so primal), now rippling along its ranks and now morphing and globbing like a giant amoeba, slowly made its erratic progress across a heavy slate gray sky. The three of us stood watching from our driveway as a fierce wind hurled dust and leaves into our eyes.**

**I dropped him off at school this morning, and instead of lining up he dawdled in a patch of tall grass. "I don't know what he's doing," I said, half-irritably, to no one in particular. "They're looking at spiderwebs in the grass," a neighboring mom told me. "Oh!" I replied. "Well that's fine then!" She looked at me as if I had said it was fine for them to poop in the hallways. My son glanced over, smiled, waved, and raced to line up.**

**After the spill in the living room, I continued to tune out my family as I heard the commencement of a raucous game of living room ball (the object of which appears to be to kick a ball about the living room until the cat is traumatized or something gets broken). My husband kicked the ball, which bounced off my son. "You hit me in the ASS!" he said. "Your what?" "My ass!" He replied, pointing, my husband later told me, to the front of himself. Discussion ensued. Some minutes later: "David! No one has one giant booby!" I snickered, gave it up and joined them.**

**I came in from working in the yard for an hour, dizzy and radiating heat. He ran to hug me. "You smell like the sun," he told me. "Thanks a lot," I said. Are you saying I smell sweaty?" He shook his head. "Nope. Just like the sun. It's beautiful."**

**He whined, groused, and dug in his heels about homework. Even counting to three in a threatening tone didn't work. "Fine," I said. "You can be grouchy alone."**

**Pink sunrise light streamed through his bedroom window. We moved getting-up time back ten minutes, and played with action figures on his bed.**

**Fifteen minutes after the homework confrontation, he crept into the office, walked silently up to me and kissed my cheek. "I'm sorry I was a grouch," he said. All his homework was done.**

**He brought me a curled brown leaf, probably left over from months ago and dislodged during yard clearing. It was wholly unremarkable. "Here," he said. "This one is special." I took it. I still have it.**

Harry situations

The world isn't divided into good people and Death Eaters. --Sirius Black to Harry Potter, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.

Accio brain! --Ron Weasley to giant brain, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Also what some folks evidently need to say, provided they ever find theirs again.

[Warning: This post isn't intended to be spoilery, and it segues (very lamely and very briefly) to what this blog is meant to cover, but I'm not trying not to be spoilery. If you haven't read/watched through HP No. 6, be ye warned.]

Recently I've been receiving (or re-receiving, in most cases) a small mountain of correspondence in the form of forwarded e-mails ("FW: Fwd: FW: RE: FW: Re: Ur DESTROYING ur CHILDREN") relating to Harry Potter. It coincides with the theatrical release of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. But really? I thought we were over this.

Even so, I'd be slightly sympathetic to (though not in agreement with) claims that the movie/book in this case is too dark or morally ambiguous for children under, say, ten to handle. I'm sympathetic enough to these claims to clam up when says so in my presence, instead of pointing out that my seven-year-old son is currently part of the way through Half-Blood Prince, scary stuff, complexities and all. And I'd be in agreement with some claims against the movie, namely the baffling absence of two nearly made-for-the-screen scenes at the end of the book, severe abridgment of dialogue, the removal (again) of the Dursleys, heavy dilution of the titular aspect of the book/film, and other issues.

That's not what these e-mails are about, of course. They're all the same. Though they all go into considerable pseudo-depth, decked out with numbers, bullet points, emoticons, and glittering smiling Jesuses; the upshot of every single one is: Witchraft = evil doings. Harry Potter teaches witchcraft. Kids learn witchcraft, turn evil. (Or, at least, the potential is there for them to learn to mutter incantations and sacrifice Fluffy at the next equinox. Or it might just desensitize them to occultism and they'll blithely hand over Fluffy. And really, who wants to take that chance?)

I take exception right away. Witchcraft isn't real, people. It isn't. It makes me want to restate it with all caps and periods after every word, it's so frustrating. Also, that's not what the Harry Potter series is about, any more than The Jungle Book is about the ability of animals to act in an anthropomorphic manner.

But what if kids don't realize that? What if they turn evil in some misguided quest to be like Harry?

But you know what; I say who cares, because the occult issue distracts from the bigger theme. What if kids don't know? Know what? The difference between real and fake? Between moral and immoral? Good and evil?

Kids are smarter and more nuanced than we acknowledge. If we've done a halfway decent job as parents, they can identify friendship and greed, right and wrong, Mom smiling indulgently and Mom looking like she wants to chuck me out the window of a moving car if I don't stop whining. In fact, if there's anything I really love about the Potter books lesson-wise, it's maintaining an understanding of these things in the face of ambiguity, flaws, and the startling realization that no one (not parents, not authority figures) is perfect. I think that's what makes people uncomfortable, even more than all that evil potion brewing. (For those who haven't read the books, the classes are used far more to show character interaction than magic. Potions, for example, resembles nothing so much as the dictatorship that was my seventh-grade Home Economics class.) It's easier to just tell our kids this is allowed; this is not. This is evil; this is good. Bad people lack love; good parents never make mistakes; teachers and parents and cops never screw up.

It is easier, and I think it's necessary -- almost constantly when they're young, and to some extent throughout childhood. There is a threshold at which parents, teachers, and other authority figures have to have authority just because, a trust from kids that they do know what's best even when kids imagine adults to be far stupider than themselves. But what happens when the teacher is unable to protect you from bullies? What happens when you see Mom and Dad bellowing at each other, slamming doors unnecessarily? If your positive view of them hinged on their supposed perfection, and you've gotten old enough to realize adults are flawed, what then?

The characters in the Potter universe work through these realizations. It is our choices that define who we are, Dumbledore tells Harry. Love and protection and friendship and loyalty are hard won and diligently maintained. Almost all the parents love their children fiercely, even a bad-guy mom, and in all these people, love is to be admired. Bad guys turn out to be good. Good guys turn out to be bad, owing to poor choices. Look more closely, the whole series nearly shouts. Really get to know.

We've used the series to spark a number of conversations, and none of them about wand waving. We do miss people who are gone. Parents aren't perfect, but the good ones never stop trying to be. They'd do anything for their kids, they just don't always do the right things. However, they usually do, and you'd better listen to them if you ever want to receive another Bakugan toy. I think he respects me for being honest. I know it makes him more honest. And it makes him want know more about us. He's taken to keeping notes on us, and it has nothing to do with what we give him or what we won't let him do. He cares about us, as people and as parents.

I wish the e-mail forwarders would look more closely, or at least modify their write-it-off-automatically policy. It's like how David looks at the natural world. Did you know cockroaches spread disease rampantly? That daddy-longlegs have the most potent venom? David knows otherwise, because these things aren't true. I'll keep him away from actual bad influence, as well as disease and deadly venoms, but he has an overwhelming desire to see what's really up with just about everything. To branch out. To discover nuances, freak out about them, make the wrong assumptions, and come around to an understanding about life he didn't previously have. To challenge himself. To question. I'll never keep him from that.

Oh, Snap.

In college, like all students, I procrastinated like hell. So the hours directly preceding my advanced writing courses usually found me stuffing an entire muffin down my gullet while I raced to the computer lab, hoping one of the dinosaurs that still accepted my floppy disc was open so I could glance over my woefully inadequate notes and pump out some writing that at least appeared to be advanced.

One such day, I was accosted down the sidewalk from the computer lab by a screeching nerve bundle of a man who wore a sandwich board proclaiming all the groups he thought were on their way to hell ("pencil-necked men" was my favorite, but "rebellious women" got bigger play). Like all right-thinking human beings, I was compelled to spend the next twenty minutes trying to disabuse him of his psychotic assholery mistaken ideas, all the while resisting the urge to employ his sandwich board and a whistle he repeatedly blew in some decidedly more creative manners.

That, most definitely, is a story for another time. But the upshot that day was that once I arrived at the computer lab, I had ten minutes to crank out a masterpiece, and the line for PCs wrapped around to the drinking fountain that always smelled like ass. So I hightailed it to the front of the Mac line, which was always a couple of students long, plunked down, typed from the top of my head, and printed it off. I called it "Snapshots of My Family," and chronicled moments of my family from the last ten years. That essay got the best grade of the semester.

The moral here is definitely not to blow off writing. I have learned my lesson the hard way about that, as has, I suspect, anyone who has ever put pen to paper or finger to keyboard (or put off doing so to put mouth to beer bottle or ... well, never mind). The moral that I should have immediately gleaned from this is to get the hell over myself and just write. I plan, and plan, and plan. And think about writing. And plan some more.

As before, my son shows me how it's done. He just does.

It always goes the same. I'm neck-deep in some Important Stuff drudgery.

"Mom, come on! The clouds are glowing!"

"I'm coming!" I lie.

"Just come on."

And I do.

Here, then, starting with that awesome cloud shot, are some of his snapshots. And in words, some of mine. I think maybe I'll do this once a week. You know, just because.

**He sat down in the office chair, still in his pajamas, and wanted to know about the big bang and human evolution. I told him. He understood.**

**He ran in and needed his camera right now to capture the sunset. He was right. It was almost neon, it was so bright.**

**He held back tears as we searched the house for the stupid cat, who had been missing for hours. The cat eventually wandered down the stairs nonchalantly, whereupon he was ambushed by a strangle hug and a teary seven-year-old who wanted nothing more than to bury his face in cat fur. The cat actually seemed to like it.**

**My husband found a huge toad in our driveway after the recent rain, and we all sneaked outside to watch it eat crickets. The cat darted outside. We collected him, deposited him in the house, and went back outside to stalk the toad with a flashlight. My son's still talking about how its fat legs trailed behind it when it hopped.**

**He took my side, but managed not to be a know-it-all, as my husband claimed that the Harry Potter actors pronounce Voldemort "Vahldemart."**

**He hung a notebook-paper sign -- "Seacrit Headquarters" -- on the unusued spare bathroom upstairs. The inside is plastered with more paper: "artwork painting" drawings of us, control panel buttons, a menu, and a drawing of every pet he's ever loved, living and deceased.**

**He riffed off some background music in a cartoon last night, and made a song and beat that was totally unique, but had real cadence and rhythm.**

**My husband and I stalked a dragonfly together the other day, hiding from our son because, technically, I had my feet a couple of inches in the water when I wasn't supposed to. Minnows nibbled my heels.**