MIRJAM SWANSON

Arthur sings in the bath time because Izzo does. He's an expert on all things Little Pony, because Izzo is. He falls asleep clutching storybooks instead of teddy bears because that's how she's been known to go out. Best of all, he's the only one around here who can effectively navigate Izzo's other worlds. Like, right now, they're flying somewhere together on a magic carpet -- "to Abba's house!," Arthur proclaims.

He might have one idea -- that that purple car is blue, say -- until Izzo corrects him, and then it's "Oh, oh yeah!" Like he knew it all along and just happened to misspeak. A real know-it-all, this one, he's great at the "Oh, oh yeah!" It's his jolly go-to response to any of life's little corrections: I totally knew that! 

Not that he agrees with his big sister on everything all of the time (I've started "mashing up" stories at bedtime because Arthur will NEVER relinquish that night's reading choice to Izzo).

And he has little tolerance for any of Izzo's radio requests in the car if they don't start with a Ga and end with a Ga (specifically, primarily, solely the "Applause" song that would make me and Izzo wanna jeer if Arthur wasn't so appreciative, and adorbs: "Thank youuuu.")

But even she'll tell you she didn't teach him to say "'struction site!"

So that reminds me: Izzo, one day a couple weeks back, was talking to me about one especially hyperactive kid in her class who was getting in all sorts of trouble with their two teachers. I didn't recognize his name, so I asked her to describe him. She mentioned that he had messy hair, that it was brown, that he has brown eyes, that he was tan. No, not Armenian! She continued to tell me he'd worn long sleeves that day, as if that would help. It didn't. I had no clue. Finally, the last distinguishing characteristic she could come up with: "He's African American."  (And who taught her to say that? "Mom, I know stuff, OK?")

She didn't think to mention his race until she'd exhausted every other possible description. Does that say something about kids today? About her? About Glenoaks Elementary School?

And then, of course, on what I feel like might've been the same day, that very evening, we spotted Tatik's neighbor, an 20-some-ish African American guy who sometimes sits on the building's front stoop and smokes his cigarette. If he's there, he opens the door for us and, for the record, is usually wearing basketball shorts. 

And so, on this night, as we pass, my son proclaims: "It's Kobe!"

"No, no, Arthur." (Not every black dude is Kobe, or looks anything like Kobe.)

"It IS Kobe!"

"Arthur, shh. No."

"IT IS KOBE! I SEE KOBE! THAT'S KOBE! HI KOBE!!!"

So, yeah. There's "I totally knew that" when he doesn't, and there's YOU BETTER RECOGNIZE!!! when he's sure he does know, even if he doesn't.

(By the way: Still trying to officially sell this place so we can finish buying a place in that complex, where we'll be neighbors of Tatik... and "Kobe.")

And I don't think Izzo'll take credit for Arthur's tough-guy act, either. She slept through this, of course, but there was a sudden explosion of fireworks at just before midnight last night (as the credits rolled on the free movie Hamlet and I finally watched, actually).

Mistimed nonsense immediately woke up Arthur, whom I found sitting up in bed, saucer-eyed and breathing like he'd just run the anchor leg on a 4 x 1, clearly shaken and telling me, in no uncertain terms, "I'm not scared, Mommy! I'm not scared of the fireworks. I heard the fireworks, but I'm not scared, Mommy. No, not scared. Not scared of fireworks. Fireworks not scary. I'm not scared!" 

"I know, Arthur; you're tough."

"Yeah. I know."

And sweet. Arthur never tells Izzo, quote-unquote, "I love you," but he's constantly, like, just now, telling her, unprompted and so sincerely: "Love you, TOO!" 

Yeah. He knows.

Love YOU, too.

Abba and Grandpa swinging through SoCal for a visit with "Kitlin" and some time with our little freaky family next week -- #WeLoveAbbaAndGrandpa 

So, nothing major in these parts, just some of the small details that make life so, so special.

The world, as Izzo's reading, can be tough. I read my papers, I listen to NPR, I follow as news breaks on Twitter; I'm cognizant of the worldwide struggle. But when I got the breaking news alert on my phone Thursday, I saw only three words: "Shooting. Oregon. College." My heart jumped into my throat. This one was especially close to home. Thought immediately of Klamath Falls, where Abba and Grandpa live and where I did too for most of the last two years of high school and, truthfully, the Southern Oregon town of Roseburg is pretty darn close. 

The initial reports of four dead, then 10, then 15 ... now, in fact, nine plus the shooter.

The Obama address. The polarizing debate about gun control. The discussion about mental health. The vigils. The memorial Facebook avatars. The victims' names. The conspiracy theories (these, I can't tolerate, I just can't.) The wall-to-wall media coverage. The Onion coverage. 

The statistics telling us, plain as day, that mass killings are trending upward. The shooter, telling us why:  

“I have noticed that so many people like him are all alone and unknown, yet when they spill a little blood, the whole world knows who they are. A man who was known by no one, is now known by everyone. His face splashed across every screen, his name across the lips of every person on the planet, all in the course of one day. Seems the more people you kill, the more you’re in the limelight.”   

It's got me thinking, for the first time, that we, the media, ought to treat this particularly rotten stuff like we do some the world's other difficult stuff, when public well-being and responsibility outweighs the blanketed approach to informing. The media don't typically report on suicides, as recommended by the CDC, because of the potential for inspiring copycats. We don't re-broadcast terrorist beheadings because we don't want to encourage that as a tactic for spreading any group's horrific message. We also don't report rape victim's names, nor do we usually report the names of criminals younger than 18. Those aren't laws, but they're widely accepted ethical standards. I'm asking: Should this be like that? Seems I'm not alone. The LA Times published at least one article in all this where the shooter's name wasn't mentioned. CNN is reporting his name only rarely and isn't showing his face. So there's reporting without sensationalizing, without gifting an evil actor the infamy he sought -- and hoping that doing that might tell the next would-be evil actor that he's not gonna get his on any sort of grand scale, so just buzz off with all that... and then, maybe, hopefully ... our kids can go to school in peace.

How's that for a buzzkill of an update. Just the week that was, kids.

Love.

 #LOVE.

One of my favorite all-time writers, former Sports Illustrated maestro Gary Smith, he lives in Charleston. Apparently he'd recently spent a day sitting beside Rev. Pinckney at a workshop. "The man oozed integrity," is how Gary put it, which is such a Gary way to put it.

Sigh. Je suis Charleston. Because, really, we are.

***

So, Gary Smith. It's funny, of all the things he's written that I've loved -- he wrote these delicate, detailed, definitely drawn-out pieces in SI -- one of the things that stuck closest with me most is this single piece of line in the preface of his fist collection of stories: "My father recently admitted that he fell asleep on the first readings of my stories, but swore he loved the second go-rounds."

Dads. Another toast, a prost to Papas. Especially those keepin' it real for all of human history.

I remember my parents coming to visit me at college once during basketball season and my dad picking up a story of mine and teasing, always teasing (sound familiar Izzo?), about the lede, which I believe might have incorporated the word "mantra," a word that I would've been quite proud of using in a lede back then.

I remember not being offended, but not thinking my dad -- who might or, understandably, might not finish these winding, long-winded updates -- was so impressed with my sports editor gig or the women's hoops beat I was having so much fun with. At least not until that summer, when I went home to Klamath Falls, swung by his office at the library and saw his bulletin board covered with photos and clippings, a shrine to that team ... and to me. Apparently, he'd thought it was cool after all.

It's funny, what you remember, right?

I remember sitting beside him in the car one day -- was I really beside him? Izzo doesn't ride in the front seat yet, but this was the '80s -- when we lived in Apple Valley. I remember him asking me how I'd slept that night, and when I told him fine, swell, he asked whether I hadn't anything to worry about to keep me up. No, no worries. And he admonished me, I recall, and insisted that I should always have something worth worrying about.

He says that story's not true, but I also remember laying awake that night worrying about the peach pit that I'd planted in the backyard a few weeks before but never watered: I had killed a(n unborn) peach tree.

I also remember waking up early on summer mornings with him, eating cereal and then heading down to the big grass field next to the tennis courts to catch fly balls off his bat. I don't remember if he woke me up or if I woke him, or if my mom woke us both, but I remember the sessions never lasted long enough. And I remember they were a perfectly fun -- and perfectly tiring -- way to wake up.

I remember him coming home from work and heading back to the tennis courts to play there with me too. He'd have a glass of something, and if he drank enough of it, I might win a few points, but generally he kicked my butt. (I had no backhand to speak of.) I remember that was good fun, too.

It's funny, right, what you really appreciate only later? Like, it took me until now, now that I try to spend as much time as I can outside with my kids after work, delaying dinner so they can run and splash and shoot and scoot, to remember all those trips down to the end of the street with my dad. I never even thought then that he had the option of sitting down, kicking up his feet and relaxing after a long day.

Or those summer mid-mornings, when he'd leave work, pick us up, drop us at swim class, pick us up, drop us at home, drive back to work ... that is the definition of a hassle, even though, to me, then, it was just an interruption of my summertime freedom, these swim classes that our parents made us go to.

Oh, and how I hear myself in Izzo when she gets to complaining about the trip to the grocery store that we're dragging her along on... which really isn't so bad, and which, really, is your parents, you know, feeding you for the week, even allowing you some input on what goes in the cart, which, in retrospect, my dear daughter, will seem like a pretty good deal. Believe me.

And, Daaaad, teasing, always teasing. I don't understand how my mom can still fall for some of his stuff after 40-plus years... but then, there've been times when I decided I wasn't going to fall for it! Only to figure out really quickly that Daddy wasn't kidding, that poor person's house did burn down. But that's telling, right? Because it was mostly jokes. What a healthy way to be brought up, laughing.

I mean, the nonsense that's come out of my dad's mouth over the years. 

I mean, I get it. I tohhhhhtally understand why my 8-year-old and 2-year-old love talking to Grandpa on the phone more than anyone else, so much so that they pretend to do it when they're not actually on the phone with anyone.

He's retired and all now, he paints and writes and reads philosophy, and tells us stories he couldn't when we were little, and he's volunteered for this hellish (to me)-sounding budget-commission role with the county, which reminds me of his having taken a leadership position with our homeowner's association back in the day. That led to the time he just stood there and let that jerk Don yell at him about not doing more to force some neighbors to roll up their hoses properly, which I believe might be a crime against humanity. My dad, a library boss for all those years, sighed and told the dude with clearly definable anger issues that he was doing his best and that's all he could do. It was, for sure, the perfect response. Because he was doing his best, and ... really, hoses?

And, of course, the Angels games, the baseball card game seasons, the football-in-the-briefcase game and the foosball games; Deep Purple and Bob Marley and Aaron Copeland on the speakers, along with the Police and Country Joe and the Fish, Beethoven and Salt 'N Pepa, too, at least that one time I got home early from a softball tournament; "The Natural" playing Sunday mornings and "Ghostbusters" on New Years Eve; pancakes and waffles for weekend breakfasts... the sounds and smells and sights of our childhoods, eh, Kit and Ty?

Arthur reminds me of my dad a lot of the time; they do the same thing with their eyebrows, for one, when they're concerned, because they're both so sweet and sensitive and absorbent, even when they're teasing, teasing. Boy's just 2, but he's got it too. So when you ask the almost-naughty little dude, "Arthur! Do you think that's funny?" he'll smile successfully, as Grandpa probably would, "Yes!"

Cheers, Grandpa. Appreciate you.

Love each other.

 Love,

I remember when Izzo learned to read, how one night we were painstakingly stringing together the phonetic pronunciation of each word in a Faaaaa-nnnn-sssseeeeee Naaaa-nnnnn-ssssseee bookie and how the next night the same account of FancyNancy'snewclassmatefromParis (Texas) was effortless and automatic and like whoa, whoa, hold your horses, girl! 

Enter Arthur, with a small Playmobile piece: "Ice? Ice. I think so. Ice."

Perhaps, in reality, her learning to read wasn't exactly that fluid, but it was close, and it's been a similar ride with Izzo's brother's spoken words.

Enter Arthur: "I found it again. A different one. Blue!"

Like a light switch.

Enter Arthur: "Lego girl. Wrong box!" (Technically half a Lego girl, but he's right: wrong box.)

And there are times now when he's out-talking Izzo. Out-chirping the resident chatterbox, verbally boxing out our official family narrator, two streams-of-consciousness running together into rapids of not-yet-so-well-formed opinions.

Enter Arthur: "A (miniature Playmobile) bookie! A bookie! For reading. Read."

Wouldn't you be demanding of acknowledgement and attention if you were mastering this talking trick? Wouldn't you want confirmation and affirmation every time you correctly identified an object? And wouldn't you want to identify every single object if you'd just learned what every single object was called? 

Arthur, again: "A bookie! Bookie!"

In a way, Arthur had something to do with how well Izzo's birthday party went last weekend. 

Enter Arthur: (Playing scales on his harmonica.) (He just learned that bit of universal language yesterday, and, according to Hamlet, announced: "Me did it! Me did it!," which currently is a lovely and popular phrase in our home, along with "Sawwy, Izzo!," "Gotcha, Mama!," "need kiss," "watch bask!," and since our last long bedtime story finished, the big one: "Me, King Arthur." 

Yes, Izzo had a birthday party. 

Yes, Izzo had just celebrated eight years by taking over San Diego the weekend before. 

But 8 is not 38; 8 you've gotta share with other kids. 

Enter King Arthur, (waving): "Mirror. Hiiiii! Mirror."

And so Izzo told a few neighbor kids -- all of whom we've gotten to know through Arthur, honestly -- that we planned to bake some cupcakes Saturday morning and that we'd have them out by the pool around 1 p.m. and if they wanted a cupcake, they could come get one. No gifts (or so I hoped), no major cleaning, no major planning, no reserving tables at a fancy tea room for classmates who show up just as we're leaving or don't show up at all...

Enter Arthur, with two markers: "Two, two. Uh, baaack. And red!" 

The kids who she'd told came. Kids who she hadn't seen to tell came. Then Kit was there with Caitlyn and her sweet nieces, Emma and Zoey. And before you knew it, we had a raging neighborhood pool party going for a couple hours. It was organic. It was awesome. It was no planning, all fun and, perhaps, the recipe for success.

Exit Arthur, chased away after using those "baaaack" and "red!" markers to decorate Daddy's white computer chair.

And then we were off to another party, an Outlook staff baby shower for a colleague at another colleague's home, where Arthur and Izzo played with yet another colleague's almost-2-year-old daughter, Madison. 

Madison doesn't suffer fools, and so she didn't have much affection for Arthur and his immediate, in-your-face "HIIII, BABY!" introduction. But by the end of the night, she was constantly searching for him, asking everyone, "Where's baby? Where's baby?" and, before long, "Where's Arthur?" 

Madison's mommy told me that when Maddy went to bed that night, she kept on asking, "Where's Arthur?" "At home, sweetie, sleeping at his house." And then, the next morning, first thing, "Where's Arthur?" 

I told Hamlet that story and he laughed, "Arthur's gonna do that to a lot of girls."

Arthur listened to this exchange and piped in, no lie, "Me, King Arthur. Me have special girl."

Oh, Arthur. How do you say.... trouble?

Enter Arthur, "Mommy lap."

And how can I resist? 

 Love, 

A nearly 8-year-old's giggling fit ensued. Hamlet informed me, "We have a second-grader." 

When, at last, we were "there," when, at last, we found parking and actually exited ("Daddy car") and made our way down toward the very edge of this section of our continent, the sun warming the sand that was catching the cool, petite waves, then the drag of a drive was all worth it. Just to see our little boy, in his sandals and favorite old-man sunhat and suddenly too-short pants chasing seagulls across the pavement. Just wanting to say, "Hiiii, Birdie!," Arthur's smile unfading and unfadable even as he got shadow-bombed by a friend of the too-cool gull perched atop the trash can -- a scene captured in accidental but perfect slow-motion, like something out of a nature documentary. Don't believe, just watch: https://instagram.com/p/3PaxAMgbiw/?taken-by=mirjamswanson

The first of many restaurant meals, the first of many crayon-colored kids menus, the first of many public potties, the first and thankfully only time we (OK, I) opened a stall door on another woman, turning Izzo's bathroom humor a half-hour earlier most awkwardly prophetic.

Then onto the sand and then into the waves, our almost-8-year-old fairy, spritely and quick-footed and dramatically at peace, our white-bellied boy in a samurai stance, fists up like Pacquiao, all happy squeals ala Wilbur whenever he toppled into the water like a Lego tower. 

"gOOd, gOOd," Arthur says these days when you ask him how he is. I'da concurred entirely.

Bathing suits off, sand mostly off, buckled up and headed back to the scene of the birthday a year ago: The oh-so Grand Hyatt, gifted by Tatik and made possible by Nana, overlooking Downtown SD. This year we faced inland and got two beds instead of one; Arthur didn't miss the harbor view because he could see a basketball court from our "wow-wow, awesome!" 28th floor viewing window, nor did he miss some good bedtime squishing. Both nights started with a Boys Bed and a Girls Bed, but my boy inevitably awoke, asking aloud in the unfamiliar darkness, "Mommy, are you? Mommy, are you!?" And so we wound up with me, clinging, per usual, to my sliver of edge while my children spread their wings and chased their dreams beside me.

And then, the dream came true. SEAWORLD. 

There by 10 a.m., and on a ride by then, too, proceeding to bounce and climb before settling into the sun-bleached stands to see a baby Shamu, 6-month-old Amaya, whose only trick was to tail her mommy around and around, stealing the show as she did. Amusement-park-priced cafeteria pizza for lunch while Arthur napped in his stroller and Daddy slipped onto a roller coaster (Mommy retained his keys, because last year this coaster almost ate them). Sharks and ice cream and polar bears and beluga whales and turtles and penguins and a dolphin show and some $5 fishies to toss at the barking sea lions and, for Izzo and Daddy, a wildly delighting trip on the Wild Arctic Flight Simulator and then... a break, a breather, a grown-up power nap.

Also dinner across the street and over the water, another mojito for Mommy. A "poof! ew!" diaper change, and sweaters -- check; stamps-on-hands -- check; re-charged electronics -- check... and we were back in the elevator, just the four of us. One moment, it was three of us watching almost-8-year-old Izzo do her "zero gravity" thing, leaping upward as our elevator descended. The very next, four second-graders were bouncing together all the way down before bursting through the doors on the ground floor, laughing and laughing and ready to light up the night.

Before Sunday, Izzo, and thereby Arthur, had watched YouTube's version of the nighttime Shamu show -- "Light Up the Night" -- oh, 1,467 times, conservatively. They have it choreographed. Arthur has memorized these crappy songs. 

And so my favorite, favorite, favorite part of the whole amazing, epic, expensive weekend was the energy emanating from Izzo in the moments before the show began, as a pseudo DJ played pop hits from decades past. The intensity of her gaze; her game face. Her tight movements in our crowded spot on a bench to those pre-show songs. Her focus singular amongst a stadium full of orca revelers. Hamlet and I couldn't take our eyes off of her.

And when it began, a drowsing, exhausted Arthur woke up too, standing on my lap and raising his hands high to acknowledge the beautiful animals performing below. He knew what was up, his sister had made sure of it: The show that had squeezed onto a screen in our living room all those times had exploded into real life and you could feel it! He couldn't stop dancing or clapping and cheering "Shamu!" and the only bad thing about any of it was how quickly it went. 

Asked him first the next day to determine his favorite part and he didn't hesitate: "Shamu!" Asked Izzo and she concurred entirely ... except to add that the Wild Arctic Flight Simulator was a not-too-distant second.   

Izzo was 8.

Awoke to more presents than an already fancy-schmancy weekend trip to San Diego and SeaWorld warranted, but... you know, hey, you turn 8 only once? 

Marla's goodie box was a big hit on Monday Memorial Morning, as would be, in the coming days, Aunt Winnie's collection of collector books and Nana and Arka and Melo's amazing outfits (the most expensive and stylish of which may or may not have been worn backward to school Thursday), and Tatik's and Bobo's extra tonnage of toys... 

But this birthday morning, Izzo finally got to hug your American Girl doll, Abba. (She's called Starry, despite Hamlet's protests.) And there was even a surprise: A pair of Princess Royale Ponies!, having arrived via same-day Amazon delivery the day before we left. Izzo was thrilled, but seemingly not as much as Arthur, who turned to me, his little fists clenched and screaming like a maniacal WWE character, "PRINCESS PONIES!!!!!" 

Oh, to be "Zozo's" lil' bro.

Breakfast. Checkout. Balboa Park. 

Fair to say Mommy fell in love with Balboa Park, at least the sliver of edge that we experienced, wandering past many of the art and history and science museums (we'll be back, when we're not so cash-strapped), through a campus that felt itself like a museum, with equal inflections of San Diego and Europe, lush with vegetation and foreign tourists, all of it glittering in the mosaics that dotted the space. A fine, fine finale to the trip for me, an antidote to the previous days' sensation overload at SeaWorld. Not as exciting, no way no how, but lovely. I felt centered there for the first time in a long time, calm and cool and maybe it was the third day of vacation, of having escaped reality, finally finding me and chilling me out ... or maybe it was this place. We stumbled into the artist's square, a neighborhood of galleries, of sculpture and color everywhere, including below our feet, on the stones that stretched as far as eyes could see. And the kids ate it up. Izzo led me into a garden of sculptures so entertaining we stayed put for so long that we lost Daddy. I spent $10 -- all the cash I had -- on one woman's striking animal-themed postcards to justify our admission to this de-facto museum, and got all refreshed and inspired before putting us on the kiddie train and then the merry-go-round-and-round-and-round and I, at least, was glad we hadn't yet eaten. 

There were a few more French fries to be had before we walked slowly back to "Daddy Car," ready but not ready to hit the road, head the long way home to save time, per Google, through Temecula and Murrieta and Wildomar and Corona and all these places I used to spend my working days... the sun beating down on Arthur's side of the car, and because his parents failed to think of having a screen to block it, the tough little guy eventually caved and announced, "Head, boo-boo, Mommy, head, boo-boo."

And then we were home again, home again, greeted by a massive dragon fly guarding our front (and only) door, having grabbed a bird's milk cake from Karina's to lug upstairs along with all our sandy luggage and new presents, eight candles to blow out and a song to sing.

Happy Birthday to you, sweet Iz-zohhhhh, happy birthday to youuuu.

Thank you, everyone, for everything. 

 Love, 

So who knows what comes out of these adorably filthy little mouths this weekend? But I'm afraid I'll have to share. 

Gonna be a happy birthday weekend, sweet Izzo. Deadline's up.

But, yo, EIGHT?! 

WTF, Izzo?!

 Love,

Skedaddled early from work, swooped up both kids, didn't let Arthur climb into his carseat himself because he was simply taking too damn long, and got an earful, pouty whimpers becoming full-fledged cries when Izzo was permitted to listen to HER music, which happened not to be Mini Gaga.

Parked three blocks away from the school, walked it in, and the "No"s started. "No, Arthur, you cannot roll around on that person's lawn." "No, Arthur, you may not run through those sprinklers (don't they know we're in a drought?)" "No, Arthur, you cannot pick those flowers." "No, Arthur, you will not run along the median separating these nice homes from the busy street and all the distracted drivers looking for Open House (can you hear LaFontaine saying it yet?) parking." 

And then, with Izzo, sweet, scholarly, sloppy Izzo proudly and confidently leading the way, we made it! A green sheet long-listing the activities that Izzo, dutiful, committed, all-out Izzo was determined to complete, in order.

We glanced through the portfolio on her desk.

We did the math assignment on the white board WITHOUT A CALCULATOR. (OK, this is totally judgy, but, really, parents? You and your child resort to your electronic device to figure out the teacher's age when it's presented as 48-12+1? ... hey, Mrs. Arntson and Mommy are the same age!)

We traipsed over to Mrs. Dau's class, guessed at the number of marshmallows in the jar (Izzo: 210; Sammy: 215; Mrs. Dau: 1,599).

Went back to Izzo's regular room, her home room, if you will, to take a gander at her ice cream cone money project, her stuffed dinosaur hanging from the ceiling, a "wordl" word cloud computing project ... and, of course, her dinosaur diorama.

Her display stationed (probably purposefully) at the far end of a long row of museum-ready depictions of prehistoric life. Hurried, literal, good-girl Izzo had turned in by far the goriest of the bunch, hers showing a sharp-toothed and very hungry T-Rex taking a big bite out of the midsection of the triceratops, on full display enjoying a mouthful of fresh meat. No wonder her homeboy Sammy loved it so much (as his mom confirmed.) Izzo's mom kind of did, too, though. It played like a hearty, low-budget action movie in a line of overproduced big-studio submissions.

Anyway, still, those other dioramas were a sight to behold -- but not touch. "Arthur, NO." "No, no, no, no, no... NO, NO, NO." 

So being a tiny boy, in a sweltering, bustling, overcrowded room, at dinnertime, and being told your least-favorite word continuously for a half-hour? Yeah, that sucks. 

Know what else sucks? Seeing a big bag of balls out in the hallway -- soccer balls! basketballs! tetherballs! And being told, again, "No." (Know that Arthur went old school this week, he's become so sports-obsessed, finding a broom handle and giving it to Tatik, instructing her to, "play Dodgers" with him, and proceeding to fire pitches at her.) "Sorry, Arthur, those balls aren't for you."

I listened to Father Greg Boyle speak a year and some months ago, and he told this joke about how the "homeboys" he works with text each other. "LOL. SMH. OHN." What's OHN? Oh hellllllll no.

Arthur was all like, OHN, Mommy.

He let it rip like I haven't heard in months. Some serious witching hour stuff. Kept it up all the way home, a tantrum that filling the backseat with tears and shaking the foundation of our parking structure, as though we'd arrived in a car with super-powerful subwoofers. 

Extracted the unhappy boy from the backseat and led him home, up the stairs and -- "JOSAH'S DAD! JOSAH'S DAD!" And that sighting, along with a few minutes of pushing a semi-terrified littler girl around the complex in her "motorcycle" stroller/bike all but snapped him out of it.

But still, yes, I enjoyed some of the Hornitos you left us last time, Grandpa. 

As a wise friend put it, it was, indeed, an evening "living the dream."

 Love,

Us 

p.s. Izzo and Arthur have just given their approval to this update, per usual. But Arthur has a request: "More Josah! More Josah!" So there you have it.

p.p.s. The diorama.

Mrs. Lau/Arntson's class field-tripped to the Izzo-approved architectural masterpiece that is the Disney concert hall last Tuesday, which meant that day's regular library session was rescheduled for Thursday, which meant that Mrs. Arntson accompanied her class to storytime and check-out for the first time this year. And so, for the first time this year, I got to talk with Arntson -- who I've now talked with more than I've talked all year to Mrs. Lau, Izzo's front-of-the-week teacher. 

Arntson beelined for me after the story ("Sky Tree") was through to, first, forgive me for Izzo forgetting her library book. Half of the class had forgotten, including the son of the room mom who'd sent out the email to remind everyone to bring back the books... and then Arntson asked how I was and thanked me for volunteering and said she wished she saw me more than her back-of-the-week schedule permits... and then she raved about Izzo's choral performance some weeks back, reminded me of how much Izzo'd shone that night and to told me how much fun she'd had watching Izzo light up like that. She asked if Izzo was doing more performing-type things, and when I told her she was doing the after-school-on-Monday-musical-theater class, she was effusive in her encouragement: This all would be so healthy for Izzo, build her confidence, and who knows, maybe this was her discovering her niche, because, really, she'd been "so alive on stage that night!"

"I like Mrs. Arntson, Izzo."

"Yeah, but Mrs. Lau is funnier."

"Funny!" Yeah, Arthur knows that one, too. When something spills, it's "trrble." When something breaks, ah, that's "funny!" 

Hey?

Hey! Good peeps, thank you! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!

Thank you for the texts and emails and spoil-me-dearly gifts and Facebook-official love all week.

I decided to try something new: 37, y'all. And don't ask me how that happened, but it's cool. I feel good. Still not grown up, exactly, but I tried to warm up for such a thing by hosting a little dinner party in our living room-turned-dining space last Friday. 

Uncle Kit aka Magic Chef delivered the finest damn vegan cuisine in culinary history (or something close to it) because I'm a dork and for my birthday what I wanted was to drink wine and eat well and enjoy conversation with Interesting People (who happened, in this concoction of characters, to mostly be veggie-only eaters from different compartments of my life.)

And I think it went well. At the end of the day, I felt, actually, kind of grown up.

And I hope that as she grows up that Izzo, who found the whole evening incredibly boring, might harbor some recollection of her Mommy loving to have smart people over to discuss smart-people stuff. So there was that, but there was also Arthur's mid-dinner visit to the "Thinking Step," a parenting ploy inspired by Abba's "Thinking Chair" that I know I've written about before only because Coach Santamaria wrote back suggesting we might turn the "Thinking Step" into a children's book. The premise: The world would be better if only everyone had a Thinking Step.

Truly, but as Izzo and I brainstormed on this for a while, we failed to figure out a way to tell it without it being overly heavy or macabre within the pages of a picture book -- the jails wouldn't be so full if there were more Thinking Steps? Wars would be avoided? Drunk-driving incidents?

But bless little Arthur and his punchy fist. A relatively rare sock to his sister put him on his seat, with an audience, to "Think." And he knows the deal (how cute he is), so he sat and he nodded vigorously to indicate he was, indeed, "Thinking," and that, yes, he'd "Thought about it," and that, no, he didn't "Think" he'd do that again, and, oh yeah, he "Thought" he was ready to get up and be nice and say sorry to his sister. Everyone tried and failed at not laughing that night, and then four days later, when a big appliance delivery got botched for one of my guests, and her husband uncharacteristically blew his top, well, he caught himself. And here's how:

"He said all he could do was thinking of Arthur sitting on the Thinking Step," was how I heard the story the next day. "And how he just needed to find a Thinking Step, get his bearings, calm down and everything would be fine. So that's what he did. He thought of Arthur on the Thinking Step."

I think we have a start. And another thing to write.

This update, though, is done for. 

Thank you, thank you, thank you all!!! 

 Love,

I guess he's cute, but it's something more, because he isn't the only super-duper-cute kid his size hovering in our courtyard. It's this little dude's 'tude; his can-do, will-do, let's-do charm, it's infectious and it's fun. One neighbor mom observing commented a couple weeks back, "He's popular. They all like him." And it's true. Also, I'm hovering not so far away. But even when I try to extract him from a game, after I've seen him tumble or almost tumble, they assure me, "It's OK! Arthur's OK! He can play!" One boy has come over to our place a few times specifically to play, "The Arthur Game," in which he and Izzo tear through our house (i.e. Arthur's pretend stomach?) m while Arthur chases them. (The one-mom commission on gameplay is seriously considering banning this game, however.) Another boy gave Arthur his old train set and was hurt when Arthur's mom encouraged Josiah (more on him in a few seconds) to keep it at his house with the other trains he and Arthur often play together. 

At the end of the day, when I do drag Arthur in, kicking and screaming and waving tearfully "Byeeee!," these kids are semi-gently training him to be one lean, mean, wrecking machine on the basketball court/soccer field/baseball diamond/wrestling mat/track oval/golf course/racetrack/wherever he lands. If he survives all this, he'll have to thank them.

Arthur's grown an especially tough bond with 4-year-old Josiah, a dark-haired athletic child whose family emigrated from South Korea within the past few years and whose spastic, warp-speed movements Arthur must mimic, whose every joke he heehaws for, whose toy cars he trades for (temporarily), whose older sisters he flirts with and whose mom he greets like this, "Hi, Mom!" 

Josiah is Arthur's best bud, and Arthur is his. Early one Sunday morning between my last writing and this one, like sun-just-up early, I'm out on the balcony, digging into the New York Times and I'm startled to find a pair of eyes silently staring quietly at me over the page. 

"Josiah, hey. What's up?"

"Can Arthur play?"

"Arthur's still sleeping."

Josiah, unmoved and unmoving: "Why?"

I assure him we'd go get him when Arthur was up and ready to play. Josiah leaves and comes back four times until his mom comes for him, panicked that her 4-year-old has just up and wandered out of the house.

But Arthur would do the same, and likely will, when he learns to open our front door. I've grown to expect Arthur to pivot sharply when we're just getting home, to beeline for Josiah's first-floor sliding screen door, to leave me holding bags of groceries and work paperwork and kid paraphernalia at the foot our our steps while craning my head after my son, trying to decide whether I should dump everything right there on the concrete and give chase or just trust he'll find Josiah and stay put for the 15 seconds it'll take me to dump everything inside on the carpet.

Most mornings nowadays, Arthur asks, first and foremost, "Josah, play! Josah, play? Josah, play?!"

And when you tell him no, well then you have a problem. There are very few things that really upset Arthur, good-natured lad that he is, but being denied access to Josah is atop that list. 

The truly hard thing about having a best friend is when you "Josah, miss."

Of course, lucky Arthur is only actually Izzo's little brother. And she's still ridiculously patient with him, and tickled by him, too. A few times a week, she can't help herself, "You're cute, Arthur." I find them intertwined just as often, him resting his legs on her and her arms wrapped around him, reading together, watching "Minnie" or in Izzo's bed waiting for Mommy to get out of the shower. She's the ultimate example-setter, the one who's doing the heaviest lifting in terms of modeling How To Be, and she appreciates that big job, and she's doing a great job, and I appreciate THAT.

Appreciate, also, constantly, how different they are. Where Arthur thrives on his interaction with all the others, Izzo can do without the raucous play outside, without the conflicting, pushy personalities. She prefers to go at it solo upstairs, curled up on her bed or in her spot on the couch, re-reading a library book or, if it's sufficiently saturated her soul, acting it out. Shoot, even if I lure her outdoors amongst the Arthur's people, she's there only physically -- the rest of her is in some far-away place where her stories are unfolding. Hers is an imagination that you can't turn off.

Just as hers is a butt that you can't make hustle up.

The thing that sometimes irks me most about my daughter is also the thing that most astounds and impresses me: She doesn't hurry. She doesn't have it in her.

And so that does lead to some cross words on school-day mornings because Izzo hears hurry-up-put-your-socks-and-shoes-on-NOW as... let-me-finish-this-page-and-then-find-a-comfortable-place-to-sit-to-put-on-my-socks-so-they-line-up-perfectly-and-then-wait-over-there-is-that-the-book-I-was-looking-for-where-did-I-leave-off... 

And I tell her (well, yell), "NOW!" She says, incredulously, "I am!"

Arthur is in a big-fat-happy hurry (except when he's laboring over a drawing, tongue out, ala Air Jordan); Izzo simply moves slowly. 

But it's beautiful. I truly hope she never picks up her personal pace. Because when we get to school -- always just in time -- the other kids getting there just in time fly past her, sprinting like their lives are on the line, trying to beat the bell... and she saunters. She skips. She strolls. They're rat-racing, rip-roaring past her and she's the car that should be in the slow lane but isn't. She's taking her time and she's going to get there and she's going to enjoy her thoughts along the way and, wow, if we could all just do that.

In her mind, she's a princess, a fairy, a pop star... and she's MY kind of fairy princess pop star. The kind that checks out Pirateology or a science magazine about storms and then hunkers down on the carpet with her best friend, Sammy, a sweet Armenian boy whose real name is Sarkis, and they quietly talk adventure and science. "Sammy told me we have a lot in common," she relayed a few weeks back, like she's relayed something Sammy said every single day since. Like, yesterday, the song they made up together about that over-popular computer game, "Minecraft."

It goes a little something like this: "Each of us is an Emerald/And we're completely useless (in pocket edition)/We hope people will play in Xbox or com-pu-ter/So we can be mined and we can be haaaappy/Each of us is an Emerald/And we hope you pay the moneeeey/So you can mine us."

I love these kids.

And ... cut.

Breakfast.

Till next time, when they hopefully won't be grown all the way up: Love.