Tiger

0.002 seconds later, that whiffle ball shot a hole through the fence, crashed through the neighbors' bedroom window, and slammed into a feather pillow, which then burst into flames.

Crackling back

Every new outdoor campfire brings my mind crackling back to previous outdoor campfires.  All those experiences, the campfires light the way like ellipses.

One campfire when I was five or so, my mom or dad finally cut off my consumption of roasted marshmallows.  I asked whether I could keep making them but not eat them, and that is how I became the short order marshmallow cook, roasting them up for older relatives, for it wasn't so much the eating as the roasting that fed me.

Boy Scout camping meals, you threw some carrots and onions onto a sheet of aluminum foil and meat on top and then more vegetables, and it's not because you liked vegetables but because the vegetables kept the meat from burning, and you packed it all together with more foil and tossed it onto the coals.  Later you forked out (better yet, knifed out) that primitive food like some wild hunter/gatherer caveman.

First time taking Lyla camping, age three, along with her friend Maia and Maia's dad, Dave, past the girls' bedtimes, both girls huddled in blankets on lawn chairs, mesmerized by the flames.  Later the girls nestled in their sleeping bags, and Dave and I added logs to the fire and passed a flask of whiskey between us and wondered why we didn't do this more often.  I'm wondering now why we haven't done it since.

In the flames of tonight's fire, they're all there, those memories flickering back to me, those and others, and promises of what's to come.

Doesn't hurt to ask

"Daddy, can I have an iPhone for my birthday?"

"No."

"Why?"

"You're unemployed."

"Can I have an iPad?"

"No."

"Can I have my very own pen?

"Now you're talking."

Argumentation

Our neighbor stopped by with a bunch of vegetables from his garden.  This led to the unlikely scenario of having to tell Lyla to hang up the cucumber and wash up for dinner.

In other news, Julie and I were sitting and talking about our day when suddenly we noticed a lot of quiet coming from the kitchen.  We found Lyla and Rowan at the table with paintbrushes, glasses of water, and a stamp ink pad.  They were painting.

We had previously rejected Lyla's request to get out the paints.  "Too close to bedtime," we told her, and she sulked.  So seeing them there painting sort of represented a direct nose-thumbing at our parental authority.  Lyla got down from her chair and faced us, hands on hips.

"First," she began, raising an index finger at us, "we really wanted to paint."  Her middle finger joined her index finger.  "Second, the other paints are very messy, and these paints are not messy."

"Huh," I said.

"Okay then," Julie said.

Then Lyla turned on one heel and returned to the table.

T.A.?

Lyla recited/read to Rowan.  I could tell she only had parts of the book memorized because occasionally her pacing slowed way down, and she stopped a lot to ask for help.  Cool to see her actually reading.

"Daddy, what does R-E-T-U-R-N-I-N-G spell?"

Rowan did his best to follow along, but eventually his attention wavered.

I wonder where she'll be a year from now.  Think she'd help me grade papers?

Back to bed

"Daddy!  I wan my stuff!  Daddy!  I wan my stuff!"

I stand outside Rowan's room, ear to the door, and determine by his tone and volume that this isn't a let-him-settle-himself-back-to-sleep moment.  The dude requires intervention.  I enter and there he is, miserably sitting on the edge of his tiny big-boy bed, feet dangling, pillow and blanket on the floor and Grover doll across the room, the victim of a mighty launch.

"I wan my stuff!" he says again as I walk to him.  With the hallway light peeking into the room, I see his tears, his snot.  He's so new to the bed that he doesn't realize he could technically leave the bed to retrieve his stuff.  The idea of getting out of bed hasn't entered his mind, and Julie and I plan to keep it that way as long as possible, ideally through at least the first half of adolescence.

I put his pillow back, and he collapses his head onto it, practically bouncing from all that exhausted downward force.  I get him Grover, who half-disappears into the crook of his arm.  Cover him up with the blanket and say, "Have a good sleep, buddy."

"Have a dood sneep too, Daddy," he replies, and I edge my way out the door.  When you say something nice to Rowan, he often says it back to you with "too" added, which has its most profound effect when you tell him you love him.

1/20

Lyla's friend Anja just turned five, which reminds me that Lyla is going to turn five.  That's like half a decade.  That's like 1/20 of the way to 100.  Or 14 years from college.

The party was at Pump It Up.

Then to Anja's house for pizza and cake, and then home.  An hour or so past nap time, the kids were in fine form.

They love when we photograph them when they're pissed.