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My big man turned five last week. I feel a little guilty about writing a full blog post celebrating Nicholas turning two, then completely ignoring Owen’s fifth for a week. On the other hand, the number of photos and videos I have of Owen’s first two years makes it seem like I lost my camera when Nicholas was born, so maybe it evens out.

After cohosting (with the parents of one of Owen’s best friends) what was generally considered by all in attendance to be the best fifth birthday party of all time, we took Owen and his friend to the circus the next day. Not some new fangled Cirque du High Concept Performance Art, but the O.G. Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus. Yeah, I know, it’s not PC to keep elephants in train cars and make them do tricks. But whatever, it’s the circus, and it’s still pretty darn cool. Now, to be fair, they have made some changes since I last saw the greatest show on earth when I was a kid. They’ve taken a few elements from the Playbook du Soleil. They’ve mostly bailed on the three-ring format, and their costume designers have clearly been looking to make the spandex look a little more “now.” But despite the updates, some things are almost exactly as I remember them.

But this isn’t really a post about the circus. Or about Owen’s birthday. (Sorry, big man. You know I love you, and it’s crazy that you’re already five and starting Kindergarten. There will be more about that in other posts, I promise.). This post is about the circus as a metaphor for my life. Most of the circus wasn’t actually in three rings. It was one act at a time, allowing the audience to focus on that rather than splitting their focus trying to decide what to watch and not miss anything really good. But at a few points during the show, they did do more than one thing. There was some three-ring action. At one point there were FIVE acts at once. I tried to watch all five, but multitasking is a myth. You can only really pay attention to one thing at a time. I think I caught some good bits of at least the four performances closest to where we sat, but I’m sure I missed a lot, and I have almost no idea what that fifth act did.

Here’s the metaphor part. Sorry for the lack of slickness in the transition, but there are two or three other things I’m supposed to be doing at the moment, so the badass writer chops are not what they could be. A year ago I was jobless, overweight, drinking more than my share of margaritas, and trying to figure out what to do next. Oh, how things change. Now I have three jobs, of a sort, each of which I’m exceedingly grateful for, none of which yet pays enough to quit any of the others. Plus there are my kids, my marriage, and this obsession with running which I’d worry was a problem if it weren’t so beneficial to both my mental and physical health. Oh, and this blog. You may have noticed there haven’t been so many posts of late. And in case you’re curious, I’m off margaritas, but haven’t given up wine or chocolate.

I’m fairly certain none of these endeavors is getting what amounts to my best work. That said, I’m pretty darn good, so even with split focus I’m holding my own. But there are times I’m not sure which way to look. Which act to focus on. And sometimes I slip up. I suppose more than anything I hope it’s not my marriage or my family that suffers, though some days I know my fuse is shorter than it ought to be and my attention isn’t where I’d like it. But the occasional slip is to be expected. The dude on the trapeze didn’t manage to hit the quadruple somersault, and the missed attempt was actually pretty exciting. If I do miss one of these days, I just hope there’s a net down there.

Nicholas is two years old today! Our littlest boy. Our baby. Our amazing, adorable, irrepressible little dude, with an unrivaled enthusiasm for all things that makes the rest of us look like we’re phoning it in.

It’s hard to believe it was two years ago you were born. Two years ago last night I went to the opera to sit through opening night of La Rondine, because your mother was the calling stage manager, and despite having had regular contractions since around 3:30 that afternoon, she was pretty sure she could get through the show. So, with the show clock on one side and the contraction timer on the other, she called the show.

I went back at each intermission to check in, asking, “Uh, think maybe we should go to the hospital now?” But not until the curtain came down did she decide it was time to head out. Even then we didn’t go straight to Cedars, but stopped at Chris and Becky’s to make sure it was REALLY time to bother going to the hospital.

When we finally did get there, after waiting for a room, they had your mom lie down, which of course slowed the contractions. They were almost ready to send her home when the nurse convinced the OB on duty to check her. She was around seven cm, I think, so we weren’t going anywhere (thanks, nurse). About three hours later you were born.

Life since then has been a bit of a blur. Watching you grow is a joy, if a maddening and stressful one. You aren’t the cautious child your brother is, slow to take any unnecessary risks. Instead, you hurl yourself into each new adventure with little concern for the inevitable facial bruises. People might think we abuse you if everyone you meet didn’t witness you whirling about, careening into any solid object slow or stupid enough to get in your way. You walked at 10 months, and ran at about 10 months and a week. You were a bit slower to talk, but now that you do you speak with the emphasis of a preacher. We believe, little man, we believe.

Bam Bam, you continue to live up to your nick name. We know you love us from the force with which you smash us with your fists, your toys, your head. It’s a good thing Owen adores you, since you make him cry far more than ever you get upset about anything he does to you. On the few occasions he does do something to upset you, it’s almost never intentional. You, on the other hand, whale on him as though he’s indestructible. I imagine in your mind, he is. As are we all. And you hug us with as much zeal as you beat on us, so we know there’s no lack of love.

If nothing else, your mother and I are certainly thankful you’ve survived your first two years. There were times we weren’t sure it would happen, the way you throw caution to the wind. I think it’s fair to say you’ve gotten a running start at the terrible twos, though I’m sure they’ll also be spectacularly awesome, in addition to terrible. You can be all four seasons in one day, little man. Who knows what you can accomplish in an entire year. We can’t wait to find out.

Happy Birthday, Nicholas. We love you so.

For the first time today, I really missed my old job. I got an email from a friend and former coworker about her visit to the office where we used to work, to have lunch with people we used to work with. Reading her note, the pang of remorse I felt came as a complete surprise to me. Remorse? Or is it grief? Wishing I still had the comfortable job, comfortable income, comfortable perception of stability. Obviously the comfort I felt wasn’t real, but you don’t know what you don’t know.

At the same time, Owen has been obsessed with earthquakes. I think it started with glimpses of Haiti coverage he saw while we were out of town a few weeks ago. Since returning home he asks almost every day about what would happen if we had a big earthquake. Would our roof fall in? Would things fall down? What about the pictures on his walls? Would they fall on him? On his brother?

We live in Southern California, so we can’t tell him we don’t have earthquakes. We talk to him about our sturdy old house, about the things we do to stay safe in an emergency. We hold him and we tell him not to worry.

Also this week, Nicholas started day care for the first time in his 20 months of life. He’s a trooper, and he’s doing well, but clearly he is not thrilled about this change. The first few days he was uncertain at drop-off. Now he knows what’s happening, and he is not happy being left. This will pass, I’m sure, but while it lasts it’s hard to walk away from our sad baby.

So, I find myself facing my fears alongside my young boys. Fear of the unknown. Fear of what we can’t control. Fear of the new. For them, I know, they will get through it. They will endure and eventually these fears will fade.

For me, I strongly believe the same will be true, but it’s harder to see it. Will the work I’m doing translate into income that will support us? If not, will I find something else that pays the bills and doesn’t eat my soul? I struggle with these questions. I take strength from my boys while trying to comfort them. One way or another, we’ll all get through this.

My grandma would yell “Don’t run!” whenever she spotted me moving at any pace faster than a stroll. I swear she said it every time I saw her. I thought she was being ridiculous. Clearly she didn’t want me to have any fun. Maybe I should blame her for my sedentary tendencies? But that’s another post.

When I watch my children playing — running, climbing, jumping, hurling heavy objects at each other — I can understand where she was coming from. It’s scary watching people you love do things that could harm them. But I try to remember the kid I was as I watch my own. Running is fun (which it’s taken me close to 30 years to rediscover). Risks are a part of learning about the world. So the question I keep coming back to is, when to intervene?

I suppose this is one of the essential questions of parenthood. It’s easy enough in the beginning, knowing when to get hands-on. With newborns, the answer to when to intervene is, pretty much always. They’re helpless. It’s all on you. One of the first tests of parenting is getting a baby to sleep. I’m watching good friends go through this again with their 4-month old. How long do you let her cry before you go in and do something? Every instinct says, “Go to the baby, pick up the baby, soothe the baby.” But at some point, the baby has to go to sleep on her own. This cycle plays out over and over for the rest of our children’s lives, with constantly evolving challenges, and steadily increasing consequences for failure.

With our two boys, three years apart, we get to navigate two different sets of overlapping issues as we work out how to parent them. With the 18-month old, right now it’s mostly about keeping him from falling to his death, electrocuting or drowning himself, or destroying our house. Most recently he’s taken to whacking his brother in the head with anything he can get his hands on (see: bam bam). At his age, it’s still mostly black and white. You step in to prevent the kid doing harm to himself or others. There’s a little grey area around how high to let him climb or how quickly to jump to the bigger boy’s rescue, but not much.

With the 4-year old, it’s already getting more complicated. He’s clearly much more self-sufficient, and, in our case, a much more cautious child than his little brother. He rarely does things that are truly dangerous, and usually operates pretty well within his capabilities. Sometimes he actually needs to be pushed a little outside his comfort zone. (I mean, really, how hard should it be to get a kid to try PIZZA?). Lately, with him, the question of when to intervene comes up more in social situations. Owen has lots of friends his age. With a few of his best friends, particularly the boys, everything is suddenly a competition. Who gets to be first? Whose is better? Who’s smarter? Faster? Stronger? You name it, they’ll turn it into a contest. Sometimes it’s all fun and games, but sometimes it turns into real conflict, complete with tears and even hitting. So, again the question — when do we get involved?

Sometimes they make it clear they WANT you involved, by coming and “telling on” the other for something he did or said. But even this isn’t a clear indication that stepping in is the right move. Sometimes they just need to work it out. I find myself saying, “Why are you telling ME? Why don’t you tell HIM to stop hitting/teasing/rubbing-his-string-cheese-on you?”

It’s part of our job description as parents to protect our children from real danger as much as we can. But that’s not the same as making sure they never have a bad experience. “Life is pain, highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something.” (Bonus points to the first one to name that movie in the comments WITHOUT resorting to Google). Wise words, those, and something to remember as we decide how quickly to get involved in our children’s conflicts.

Now, I’ve seen parents who take the hands-off approach too far, in my opinion. I know it’s easy to judge how others parent their kids. It’s hard, and everybody’s got to make their choices. But, standing 10 feet away, completely oblivious as your child steals toys from other kids and proceeds to whale on them with said swiped toy? That, to me, is abdicating one’s parental responsibilities.

So I let my kids run, climb, and sometimes even reach out and touch the hot barbecue after I’ve told them 17 times it’s hot because nothing short of a little pain on the fingers is going to convince them it’s not a good idea to touch it. But I try not to allow them to do serious harm to themselves, or to those around them. This doesn’t always work. Sometimes they fall, sometimes they cry, and every day there’s a new challenge. A new question. I guess this is how it goes with parenting. Goodie for us.

We’ve never been really big on nicknames for our kids. I mean, we call our kids by pet names — Owen is often “O,” “Little Dude,” “Big Guy,” while Nicholas is “Baby,” “Little,” etc. But neither has really had an official nickname. Now one of them does. From this point forward, Nicholas shall officially be known as Bam Bam. You know, like Barney and Betty’s little cavekid on the Flintstones? Lisa came up with this, and it’s pretty much perfect for him. He’s small, cute, is a man of few words, and smashes the hell out of anything he can get his hands on.

As I wrote in a post back in September, our kids are so different from each other. They have stuff in common, too, but in some fundamental ways they are just very different people. Owen is curious, but cautious. Careful to avoid risks, he weighs unknown situations and challenges before trying anything new. This has been his M.O. pretty much forever. He wasn’t too quick to start walking, waiting till he was sure he could pull it off before getting up from the safety of all fours. Once he was up, he took it slow, measuring his steps, making sure there was was something or someone to grab if things got wonky. He’s the same with food, new activities, school, and just about everything else. Especially anything physical – he’ll try stuff, but he thinks about it first, analyzing the situation, and occasionally needing encouragement or help if he decides it’s not within his reach.

Then there’s Bam Bam. He started walking at 10 months — a full 4 months before his older brother. I think he crawled exclusively for about a week. Having mastered that, he was up on his feet, cruising around holding onto whatever he could get his hands on. Not long after that, he let go and went for it — look Ma, no hands! BAM! He’d fall down and bash his head/eye/nose/face/whatever. Short pause to cry, then up again. And while Owen walked slowly at first, Nicholas pretty much just fell forward until his legs couldn’t keep up anymore. He was a festival of bruises and scrapes, mostly on his face. I sometimes felt compelled to tell people, “Really, we don’t beat him, I swear,” but it never took long for them to see for themselves where all those little injuries were coming from. Now, at almost 18 months, he’s unstoppable. He runs almost as fast as his 4-year old brother, climbs almost as high, and is within inches of learning to really jump, which scares the shit out of his mother and me. To his credit, he’s amazingly strong and sturdy with great balance, so he does fall a lot less than he used to. Or at least, when he does, he falls well, catching himself with his hands, rolling on his shoulder, or plopping on his diaper-padded bottom instead of faceplanting into the concrete, hardwood, or wherever he happens to be. If there’s a natural athlete among us, it is Nicholas.

I have visions of who my kids will be later in life, and Bam Bam is so clearly going to be the trouble maker. While Owen stares up at the ball lost on the roof, working out whether there’s something he might throw at it or a stick long enough to knock it down, Nicholas will be dragging over the ladder, or whatever’s handy to give him enough of a leg up to climb up and get it. Since he’s three years younger and bound to be shorter than his brother for a while at least, I can also easily imagine him talking Owen into doing the climbing. “C’mon, dude, it’s not that high. I’d totally do it but I can’t reach. Dude, you’ll be FINE!” This will translate later in their lives to Bam Bam convincing Owen that “Mom and Dad TOTALLY won’t mind if we take the car out for just a minute to go pick up girls/get beer/drop in on a friend’s party. We’ll be back before they even know we’re gone. It’ll be totally cool.”

But we’ve got a few years until then, I hope. Meanwhile, it’s great to watch little Nicholas give his all to keep up with his brother. In addition to being the destructor, Nicholas is also the total clown. Owen’s funny in a verbal, occasionally mugging face kinda way. Nicholas is Charlie Chaplin. Well, maybe that’s crediting him with more finesse than he currently has. Maybe he’s more like a one-man Marx Brothers. He’s the total physical comedian, and loves to dance. Let’s take it out with a little video of Bam Bam rocking out with Ernie. If Bam Bam doesn’t stick, we can always just go with “Trouble.” And yes, that’s a wine refrigerator in the background. We almost always wait till the kids are asleep to unlock it. Almost always.

Seriously? Drawing? Star Wars? The video with the noise and the force and the I. WANT. THAT. Well, you got it, kid. Also, you're all clear.

It's Draw Star Wars: The Clone Wars and Atticus is beside himself. Zane would also enjoy it if his brother let him anywhere near it. This is something that will never happen. Ever.






Here's a rundown of what's inside (via Klutz) - ... filled with tips, techniques, practice space, and translucent overlays to make you a master of drawing. Start with stick figures, move onto basic shapes, and finish up with the details. Use the included double-tipped metallic-colored pencils and black marker to make 20 Clone Wars characters come to life.

Here's the part where you come in. I'm giving away five (5) of these bad boys. Just in time for whatever you do in December! Also, birthdays!

The contest is open to anyone in the United States with a mailbox. Everyone knows that only the dark side uses P.O. Boxes or lives outside of America. These rules are set by the PR company that is supplying the prize. If you live in a galaxy far, far away you can always have the prize sent to an American friend and work out the shipping from there. I know, it's not easy, but do you think blowing up the Death Star, twice, was easy? There is no try. Do. And all that.

To enter: Leave a comment with your favorite Star Wars story. It can be something from the movies, books, comics, rides or your life. Keep it short, people. On December 1st I will announce the winners, which will be picked at random.

May the force be with you. Always.

__________________________

Behind the curtain of the great and powerful Whit:

Compensation: No
Products Received: 1copy of "Draw Star Wars: The Clone Wars" for review. Prize copies will be sent from PR contact.

And he found them not where they were supposed to be and doing the things they shouldn't. He had left them alone among the molehills and found them perched upon the mountains.

They were laughing and full of fun and getting away with being young. They were silent and drained of joy and by all means busted.

He was tired. There were long days behind him and long nights ahead. His back, it burned with exhausted muscle and it erupted with spasms of stress and it resorted to a door frame to keep it remotely upward.

Ropes wind and they twirl and they roll nicely off the spool and one minute you're tying knots and making swings from trees and old tires and the next your hands are empty and your metaphor is at its end.

Then they are sorry and they cry and they've said it all before, for instance, last night when he stood propped against the same tired door frame grown weak and weary beneath the burden of his weight. And the waiting still grows heavy.

Words were said louder than they needed to be. Threats were made that were never meant. Little feet scurried to where they should have been and behind them they left a trail of guilt like so many bread crumbs. Sweet, innocent, beautiful guilt, and they cried loudly as he closed the door in hopes that doing so will save them all.

The hallway is long and lonely and it only need be examined a dozen or so times before it is ingrained firmly upon his brain. Every footstep has purpose. Every crack is considered. Life is bends that do not break and behind the door there is only the sound of their heavy slumber.

Their bread crumbs are soft and smooth and shaped like plush piles of imagination. He picks them up one by one, carefully, quietly, and he carries them into the room and places them where they are supposed to be, in the arms of his affections. And his whispers are for forgiveness

Kevin of Always Home and Uncool has asked me to post this as part of his effort to raise awareness in the blogosphere of juvenile myositis, a rare autoimmune disease his daughter was diagnosed with on this day seven years ago. The day also happens to be his wife's birthday.


Thanks for sharing, Kevin.


Our pediatrician admitted it early on.

The rash on our 2-year-old daughter's cheeks, joints and legs was something he'd never seen before.

The next doctor wouldn't admit to not knowing.

He rattled off the names of several skins conditions -- none of them seemingly worth his time or bedside manner -- then quickly prescribed antibiotics and showed us the door.

The third doctor admitted she didn't know much.

The biopsy of the chunk of skin she had removed from our daughter's knee showed signs of an "allergic reaction" even though we had ruled out every allergy source -- obvious and otherwise -- that we could.

The fourth doctor had barely closed the door behind her when, looking at the limp blond cherub in my lap, she admitted she had seen this before. At least one too many times before.

She brought in a gaggle of med students. She pointed out each of the physical symptoms in our daughter:

The rash across her face and temples resembling the silhouette of a butterfly.

The purple-brown spots and smears, called heliotrope, on her eyelids.

The reddish alligator-like skin, known as Gottron papules, covering the knuckles of her hands.

The onset of crippling muscle weakness in her legs and upper body.

She then had an assistant bring in a handful of pages photocopied from an old medical textbook. She handed them to my wife, whose birthday it happened to be that day.

This was her gift -- a diagnosis for her little girl.

That was seven years ago -- Oct. 2, 2002 -- the day our daughter was found to have juvenile dermatomyositis, one of a family of rare autoimmune diseases that can have debilitating and even fatal consequences when not treated quickly and effectively.

Our daughter's first year with the disease consisted of surgical procedures, intravenous infusions, staph infections, pulmonary treatments and worry. Her muscles were too weak for her to walk or swallow solid food for several months. When not in the hospital, she sat on our living room couch, propped up by pillows so she wouldn't tip over, as medicine or nourishment dripped from a bag into her body.

Our daughter, Thing 1, Megan, now age 9, remembers little of that today when she dances or sings or plays soccer. All that remain with her are scars, six to be exact, and the array of pills she takes twice a day to help keep the disease at bay.

What would have happened if it took us more than two months and four doctors before we lucked into someone who could piece all the symptoms together? I don't know.

I do know that the fourth doctor, the one who brought in others to see our daughter's condition so they could easily recognize it if they ever had the misfortune to be presented with it again, was a step toward making sure other parents also never have to find out.

That, too, is my purpose today.

It is also my birthday gift to my wife, My Love, Rhonda, for all you have done these past seven years to make others aware of juvenile myositis diseases and help find a cure for them once and for all.

To read more about children and families affected by juvenile myositis diseases, visit Cure JM Foundation at www.curejm.org.

To make a tax-deductible donation toward JM research, go to www.firstgiving.com/rhondaandkevinmckeever or www.curejm.com/team/donations.htm.