I’ve been working to tame the ever-growing piles of paper on my desk. I have a file cabinet filled with hopelessly overstuffed, poorly organized file folders. They weren’t always poorly organized, but the organization scheme I had in 1987 probably isn’t the one I need now. For one thing, I need a scheme for the kids.

All three kids will go to summer camp starting in late June. The school (bless its heart) imposes a CYA paperwork penalty on everyone. For example, for the school year starting in August, there are Emergency Contacts and Payment Schedules and Physician Reports and Immunization Records and so on. I fill out all the forms online, print them, sign them, and then scan them so I can send them back to the school. (Why yes, Docusign would be far easier and provides tracking. But no, I’ll do it the old-fashioned way.) It took me over three hours to do the paperwork for William and Max. Once submitted, the paperwork has to be filed for future reference.

Another example is my own paperwork. For example, I have one current passport and five previous ones, each with stamps from countries I visited. I don’t want to throw that away but they can’t just be filed by stuffing them into unlabeled folders.

The solution is a trip to the stationery store. I adore paper and paper products and if there’s one thing I like, it’s imagining how my new filing system will be better and better looking. These things don’t just happen.

Matthew’s language capability has been evolving. One day, he just started saying “What da HECK?!” We are well aware that there are other forms of this question, such as the more widely used and infinitely more satisfying WTF. So we’re politely steering him away from this particular metaphor. He doesn’t hear the F-word at home (where’s my fucking parenting medal for that?) but it’s only a matter of time until one of his friends will correct him with the better used form.

Not too long after I heard the first What da HECK?!, he was fiddling with his Kindle on the bed and got frustrated with the interface.1 “God DAMmit!” he yelled. That is something he hears from Curtis. As you can imagine, I strongly disapprove of this kind of language due to my lifelong commitment to clean living and puritan values. And frankly, I’m relieved that any swearing comes from Curtis; we should all cast disappointing looks in his general direction. If this kid ever uses an F-word (ha ha ha, if), I think we all know that there were gateway cursewords before the F-word and really, how can that be my fault?2

We had a good dentist visit not too long ago. For the first time, Matthew let the hygienist clean his teeth.

To my great dismay, Matthew is clumsy—a trait he inherits from me. In my mind, my movements are balletic paeans to proprioceptive artistry; outside observers might describe me as wooden, spastic, that’ll-definitely-leave-a-mark, or OMG-how-is-he-still-alive?3 Matthew has no sense of where he is in the room or in relation to other room elements, so every day is a series of head bumps (countertops, refrigerator doors) and falls (stairs, steps, beds) and scratches and impacts.

Yesterday we were at a Sprouts Market, which bills itself as a community farmers’ market—if your farmers’ market were air conditioned, well-lighted, clean, and filled with no-dirt-affixed barcoded vegetables. It’s relatively expensive but has some beautiful fruit and vegetables. It caters to folks who prefer organic and possibly meat-free foods and are willing to pay more. It’s not cheap. There we were, minding our own business, when we happened upon aloe vera stalks, which are a type of succulent. The stalks have small spines on their edges. Matthew picked one up and promptly scratched his arm. “I don’t like this store. I need gummy worms.” (Everything is about acquiring toys or candy.) For the rest of the day, we had to examine and treat a tiny red scratch on his arm. To hear him complain, you would think it was advanced leprosy or perhaps a zombie-related infection. The whaaaambulance makes regular stops at our house.

Max and Will are going gangbusters. Will wears his glasses pretty well; he only tears them off when he’s tired. We have lost them about a zillion times but somehow they make their way back to us from whatever side-travels they take. Here’s a recent video from our local park.

As the weather warms, we’ve been having fun outdoors. Matthew still loves bubbles.

It’s been gray, cold, and occasionally wet here in southern California. It rained on and off this past weekend so we had to contend with a bored Matthew. A bored Matthew is an annoying Matthew.

Matthew lives in a state of general unhappiness:

• All the good toys are broken or need batteries or both.

• He’s cold but he doesn’t want to dress more warmly.

• He wants to talk, but I won’t let him.

• I’m boring.

• Why can’t he have more toys? Did you bring me one? It’s not fair!

• Where is Santa?

• He’s hungry but doesn’t like any food I make, and in fact, he doesn’t know what he wants—but not this.

I cannot tell you how much I don’t care about these problems. If I were to quantify my level of care of these problems, it would be in the range of low single-digit yoctograms per cubic astronomical unit (yg/AU³). Just sayin’.

On the other hand, when he tells me he needs “hugth and kitheth” then I’m all over that.

On Saturday, after way too much time together, we decided to go get a burger and fries. “Papa, I bored.” We found a robot—”Papa, take my picture!”—and a trampoline and an escalator and an elevator.

On Sunday, we went to the San Diego Natural History Museum. I was positive he would be captivated by the dinosaurs.

But once Matthew (our son, the academic) saw they had a cafeteria, we had to go there to get Nacho Cheese Doritos and a thoda. He has never had Nacho Cheese Doritos.

After that, we discovered they had an elevator and we went to the top floor and worked our way down. It took less than forty-five minutes to see the entire museum because 1) Matthew can’t read; 2) Matthew has a limited capacity to understand concepts like time, evolution, location, geography, and size; and 3) He was bored. At a museum. That we paid $40 to get into.

We drove to the local mall for errands and then stopped to get a burger and fries. He loves his soda.

He fell asleep on the ride home.

We’ve been having more than our usual share of unhappy meltdowns. When I pick him up at school, I also get his friend Charlie (from another class) and Charlie’s nanny. It’s 3:20 pm when I pick them up and both Charlie and Matthew are tired and hungry, which means they’re in nasty moods.

As I checked him out of class, someone walked up to his teacher and gave her a little bag of popcorn. Matthew immediately wanted a bag of popcorn and when I told him no, he burst into big tears. I finally got him into the car seat, but he kept asking about popcorn. I already know the trajectory of this ride: tears all the way home with whining and petty commentary (from him, not from me—my commentary is witty and scathing and petty). After the thirtieth time, we were still on the school driveway when I pulled over and turned around.

“Matthew, I already told you I don’t have popcorn. I’m not going to get popcorn. We have popcorn at home if you want it, but stop asking me about popcorn for this ride. And stop crying. You can have water and you can have whatever is in the snack box but if you ask me about popcorn again, I’m going to pull over and spank your bottom. Do you understand me?”

His eyes got big and he sniffled and nodded. And all I could think of is that I’ve become my mother—the only things missing are a Benson & Hedges Menthol 100 hanging from my lip, a wig that is ever-so-slightly askew, and the cloying smell of cigarette smoke, Estée Lauder, and AquaNet.

I think I need even more therapy.

The chicos and I have a nasty head cold. The worst is over for all of us, but I’m coughing up phlegm from 1987. A couple of nights ago I could hear both chicos coughing and I’m sure they could hear me—my bedroom is under theirs—and it occurs that this could be the soundtrack to a tuberculosis ward. And if I have to go out from tuberculosis, you can bet I’ll be Satine (Nicole Kidman) and I’ll do the entire Hindi Sad Diamonds scene right before I expire.

These things must be planned. And well-lighted.

There hasn’t been much new to report. Things are rolling along as best they can.

Today is Yom HaZikaron, a day of remembrance for Israeli soldiers and civilian victims of terrorism. The October 7 massacre and violent kidnappings are still in the minds of all who care. The school told us to send the kids to school in black pants and white shirts. I found the black pants, but it turns out that the shirt I put on him is pink, not white. Oops. There are disadvantages to being color-deficient.

Music…to Soothe the Savage Breast

I’ve been listening to Beethoven sonatas and have run across some recordings of Artur Rubinstein. It is a joy to listen to his recordings. My last piano teacher, Ms. Paugh, took me once to the Philadelphia Academy of Music to hear Artur Rubinstein perform. I don’t remember what he played, but I remember being transfixed by his attention to detail and to the artistry of performing. I wish I’d kept up my study of piano and music, but the truth is I have little talent. The world can heave a sigh of relief. It’s a good thing I dedicated my life to dance.

Birthday Party

Matthew got to go to a birthday party over the weekend. He still doesn’t like crowds very much, so I have to be in sight the whole time. But I got a chance to talk to other parents and I love that.

William Got Glasses

Yesterday we took William to the optician to pick up the glasses we’d ordered a couple of weeks ago. He looks great.

We didn’t make him wear them right away. The lady told us that he should not wear them in the car at first because he’s likely to get sick. So he wore stylish shades instead.

Later that afternoon, we put them on him so he could watch television. He seemed to like them.

When I’m out with Matthew, people naturally assume he is my grandson because we both look our ages. Sometimes I correct people, sometimes I don’t. The lady who cuts Matthew’s hair is probably in her fifties, and based on her strong Chinese accent, is probably an immigrant. No matter how many times I mention that he’s my son, she still tells me, “Your grandson looks just like you!” “Thanks.”

The cashier at the grocery store is so sweet.

“Isn’t it nice to take your grandchildren out?”
”Actually, he’s my son. And I love taking him out.”
”He looks just like you!”

Max looks nothing like me because his biology comes from Curtis. But honestly, unless I’m willing to have a conversation about IVF options and decision matrices for gay male couples, I just let it slide. Similarly, we just tell people that Max and Will are twins. We know that’s not true, but saying so shorthands some relatively unimportant conversations about definitional minutiae (which I normally love) and gets us back to how they look so like me, probably because of my deep blue eyes and luxurious blond curls.

I’m told that when I was a baby, I fussed a lot and wouldn’t sleep unless I had a long car drive (I have always loved driving!) or someone played Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5 in C Minor, op. 67. That’s the one that goes dit-dit-dit-DAHH, dit-dit-dit-DAHH. I still have the vinyl record set that my folks played.

The symphony has four movements. The first movement is the famous one and is called I. Allegro con brio (which is Italian for “at a brisk tempo with scouring pad”). I have listened to this movement over and over all my life.

It’s also been the case that for most of my adult life, a series of musical phrases has run through my head. I could never identify the melody or its origin.

And then one day, perhaps fifteen years ago, I played the entire symphony. The unidentified melody and phrasing come from the second movement, II. Andante con moto (Italian for “at a walking pace with motorcycle”). It was such a relief to hear and identify it, finally. Classical earworms are still earworms. I like the second movement a little better, especially when the conductor chooses to emphasize the contrasting melodies.

I now listen frequently to the entire symphony.

Lately, I’ve been comparing conductors. So far, my favorite is Herbert von Karajan, but Leonard Bernstein is surprisingly nuanced. I wish I knew more about music and music theory.

On an international flight a few years ago, I was watching one of the X-Men movies. The movie’s climactic scene had a familiar musical score, and after some cross-referencing, I identified it as the second movement of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 7 in A Major, op. 92: II. Allegretto. The Bernstein version of this is particularly nice.

Yesterday was Easter. We had an Easter basket for each kid, but they weren’t elaborate. Each had shredded green paper (i.e., grass) and six plastic eggs containing Peeps or jelly beans. Each basket also had a mini bubble machine and a Pez dispenser. That is plenty for three kids four years of age and under.

Matthew has been begging me for a chocolate bunny. He loves chocolate and the big chocolate bunnies have been his focus ever since they hit the stores. Honestly, you would think he had never seen anything like it.1 Unbeknownst to him, I got one.

Yesterday was the first warm, sunny day after a lengthy string of cool, foggy days. I was up early, as I have been every single day since the kids were born. I began to realize that once the chicos2 were downstairs, the Easter Bunny would have no time to hide eggs in the yard. So I hid them before Matthew got up. I don’t have to worry about Matthew: he likes to eat breakfast slowly while watching videos on his Kindle.

As he came down the stairs, he announced, “Papa, I want to go outside.”
”Sure, after breakfast.”
”I don’t want breakfast. I want to go outside and play with my escavator.”

Sigh. I finally had to explain that the Easter Bunny had come by and we had to wait until the boys were downstairs before we could go outside. Amazingly, this worked, although he went to the living room window and peered out (he can do that?!) and saw a couple of “hidden” eggs. He was beside himself.

By the time Curtis came down for breakfast and coffee and the chicos were downstairs, Matthew was at a fevered pitch of excitement.

In retrospect, I think we can count some successes and can identify areas for improvement next year.

• [ + ] It was smart to hide the eggs early. Matthew is my little shadow and I simply can’t go outside while he “does something else,” because his “something else” is being next to me every single waking hour of his day.

• [ + ] It was smart to do the egg hunt early in the morning.

• [ + ] We had eighteen plastic eggs. That’s plenty, especially for the chicos, who don’t know what to do with them anyway. Matthew loved finding them.

• [ + ] We had no chocolate candy. The chicos don’t know what chocolate is and there’s no sense letting them binge on it. That would be like giving them ten chocolate bars for Halloween and hoping they don’t get sick.

• [ + ] The plastic eggs have holes in them. It was not very smart to put sweet things in them (such as jelly beans and Peeps) and put them in the grass. Ants could easily have found and infested the eggs. They didn’t, but it would have been possible.

• [ - ] Peeps taste terrible. I had to have six of them to determine that.

• [ - ] The chicos dumped their bubble soap immediately all over themselves, the pavers, and the granite countertop. We had three complete costume changes for the two of them.

• [ - ] The chicos don’t like jelly beans or Peeps.

• [ - ] After he had eaten the chocolate bunny’s ears, face, and feet, Matthew announced that he hates chocolate bunnies. Because of course he does.

• [ - ] The chicos love running around outside. Running means falling and we had some spectacular face plants.

• [ + ] Toddlers love bubbles.

• [ - ] Matthew was sleepy all day long, possibly from the immense sugar intake.

• [ - ] We did not take good photos because we were wrangling the agents of chaos.

That was a lot of fun. It was also exhausting.

Our weather has returned to subarctic conditions, with highs in the low 60s. The skies are gray and overcast and there is a freezing breeze from the ocean. We don’t like it.

Over this past weekend, we stayed in on Saturday. Matthew likes to putter around with all his toys so that’s fine. But he was bored on Sunday, and bored Matthew is not fun Matthew. I asked him what he wanted to do.

“I want a burger and fries and some soda. We eat them. I starving.”

I took him to a local burger place with indoor seating. We have done this kind of thing a few times, but this time was the most fun I have ever had with him. He’s old enough to sit still and can express himself well enough to have interesting conversations. Better yet, he ate like a human instead of the mouse nibbles he normally uses.

After lunch we decided to walk around the outdoor mall a bit. We went down the escalator together, which was a lot of fun.

“Ok Matthew, with me: one…two…three…step!”
”Papa, I did it!”

This is not, however, my first time at the rodeo. He never saw the toy store just around the corner—the toy store is not only a time suck but also one of us almost always ends in tears.

“Matthew, let’s go back to the car.”
”Can we take the excalator?”
”Sure. Let’s go!”

When we got to the car, I told him we needed to stop at the grocery for three items.

“Three?”
”Yes, just three. It will be a short trip. Is that ok?”
”Yes. But we might need four.”
”Hmm. Noodles, eggs, bananas, and what else?”
[ Stage whispers ] “Toys.”
”I don’t think we need toys, do we?”
”Yes. We do.”

This does not bode well.

On Monday evening after dinner, Matthew went upstairs with Dada. He likes to hang out in Dada’s room while Dada brushes his teeth. They came downstairs fifteen minutes later.

“Um, Matthew is upset.”
”Why?”

Matthew burst into a sobbing mess. He put his arms around me and held me.

“What’s wrong, Matthew?”

Dada interrupted. “He found this old baby toy. He wants to invite all the children in the pictures to our house right now and he’s mad because I won’t let him.”

“Dada won’t let me invite them over.”
”Don’t be silly. Dada would love that. But it’s late and we don’t know where these kids are located.”
”But I want them.”

Poor guy.

I wrote last time that one of our dogs, Cooper, had stumbled on our slippery stairs and afterward refused to come down the stairs, which meant we had to carry him. We got some treads for the stairs and now he can gingerly walk down them. He won’t run down the stairs, even with the treads, because he’s still afraid. But at least i don’t have to carry him anymore.

I took Max to his first dental appointment this morning. He had the same bill of health that William had last week: everything is on track and looking good—be sure to brush and floss. The main difference is that Max doesn’t sit still: it was a struggle to keep him seated in my lap long enough to do the cleaning and exam. But he had a good time and he babbled constantly.

Back at the car, Max jumped into the car seat and grabbed Matthew’s sunglasses.

This one is trouble with a capital T.