This is Dedicated to the One I Love

It's Kelly's birthday today. I hope I'm not giving too much away (considering that she needlessly tells the kids that she's 29 year after year) by divulging that it's the 28th year we've been a couple on the big day. You'd never know it—or believe it—by looking at her, either. She's often mistaken for being...well, just a few years older than 29, let's just put it that way—before I really get myself into trouble.


I'm not one much for Hallmark-variety mushiness, nor do I have a knack for expressing my emotions in fancy words of my own. But I hope Kelly knows how much I love her after all these years and how lucky I feel to have her in my life. And, um, how much I appreciate that she still loves me in spite of the bad early 90's hair I was sporting in these photos.

Happy birthday, KJ. If I had a million dollars, I'd buy a gift worthy of you. But since I don't, I hope this will do...

And There Will Always Be a Place in My Heart for Her

If watching Zach develop signs of approaching adolescence is tough, then watching my baby girl start to grow up is even tougher. But hard as it was for me to believe, Zoë turned eight Friday, and signs that she's no longer a little kid are becoming apparent. And because things have always been more complicated with Zoë, that's left me dealing with a boatload of mixed emotions.

For nearly four years, Zach was an only child. He liked it that way, and I did, too—especially since he was a boy, and I loved doing boy stuff with him without the complications of girly stuff diluting our simple male experience. If Zach had been a girl, as I was convinced he would be when Kelly was carrying him, I don't know, as I discussed recently, how I'd have dealt with him—or her, rather—insecure, first-time father that I was. But fathering a boy was fairly instinctual, so I found it easy to parent Zach, just doing what came naturally. And yet, once we found out Kelly was pregnant again, I found myself hoping Z Number Two would be a girl. And Zach, once he'd gotten used to the idea of sharing me and Kelly with a sibling, surprised us by demanding that it be a girl.

Eight years later, I know Zach would write a different script if he had it to do over again. He loves his sister and will reach out to her emotionally, especially when she's in need, as well defend her. Fairly often, he'll even play with her or help her with this or that. But usually, they're not what you'd call best buddies. That makes it tough on Zoë, who is constantly looking for acceptance and companionship. And her struggle, along with not understanding why her older brother doesn't always want to be her playmate on call, makes things challenging for us, too.

Zoë is, without a doubt, much more difficult to parent than Zach. She's moody where Zach is even-keeled. She's quick to anger where Zach has a very long fuse. She's outspoken, even defiant, where Zach does his best to please. She's constantly bored where Zach is happy to waste his days away doing nothing. She's shy and afraid of new people and settings where Zach is everyone's best friend from the minute he meets them. And she's quick to take charge, to the point of overstepping her bounds and offending people, where Zach is happier being a diplomat. Sure, there are upsides to some of these traits. But for now, they're a lot to handle.

Still, when all is said and done, Zoë is Daddy's Girl beyond a shadow of a doubt. When it's just the two of us, she transforms completely, and our relationship moves to a different level. When we're with the rest of the family, Zoë is, nine times out of ten, the contrarian and the cause of tension and problems. But when we're alone, she's eager to please and easy to be with. I don't get it, especially since she had me essentially to herself for nearly four years after I quit my job to stay home full time. Or perhaps that's part of the problem. It's a riddle I'm constantly trying to solve.

Fortunately, Kelly and I think we're seeing light at the end of the tunnel with Zoë—more positive behavior, less defiance, and longer periods between outbursts. It's become much more evident since February, when we changed Zoë's class at school from one where she was horribly unhappy to one that was a much better fit. The results were dramatic, and we've done our best to capitalize on them. And as her rough edges soften, we see more of her sweet side. When she's not driving us up the walls, she's a charming kid—intelligent as can be, complex and charismatic, and caring to a fault. And knowing that side to her exists makes us want that Zoë even more.

If Zoë had been our first child, I'd have had an entirely different outlook on parenting. Little did I know what we were getting ourselves into as I laughed over Zach's happy dance in the waiting room after his sister's birth. But Zoë introduced me to another side of fatherhood—one requiring a lot more work than tending to a Mini-Me—and forced me to grow, both as a person and as a parent. On the tough days, I still feel I'm not up to the demands. But when I make it through those rough spots and bask in the loving glow of Daddy's Girl—or better yet, of Mommy and Daddy's girl, like we've been seeing more and more lately—it's all worth it.

Do I wish I could break through and have that kid 24x7? Of course I do. But given Zoë's complexity, I don't know if it will ever happen. So I'll take the baby steps of improvement and eat up the good times, doing my best, ill-equipped as I may be, to help my baby girl become the amazing young women I'll know she'll soon be.

And truth be told, I've actually come to enjoy the girly stuff. Zach's still not sold, but I'm thinking the male experience needed some diluting after all...

A gallery of photos from Zoë's birthday parties—one at a bowling party with her friends, and another informal one back at home on the actual date—can be viewed here.

It Rained On Our Parade—So We Threw a Party

The rollercoaster ride that was Zach's final season in Little League came to a crashing halt last Wednesday. After eight weeks of ups and (mostly) downs, it took a perilously steep and fast descent in the final week, jumping the track completely. But we weren't going to let it end that way, especially after Zach had braved its twists and turns so valiantly along the way.

So we threw a party. And we—the players, their families, and the coaches—had more fun than we'd had all season. Even when the clouds opened up and sent us all scurrying home.

For those who haven't been keeping up and/or prefer a Reader's Digest version, here's a recap of the season:

• In February, Zach's off-season preparations paid off big-time when he more than held his own in tryouts.


• A few weeks later, we learned Zach had been selected high in the draft by the Mariners, who came with a strong pedigree after giving Zach's old team, the Rockies, one of their toughest challenges last year.


• Early practices for the Mariners went well, and Zach's new coach showered him with praise. Scrimmages against other teams indicated the team had promise.


• When Zach was asked to try out at catcher, he jumped at the opportunity but then came home from practice with a sore, numb throwing arm—something we didn't grasp the severity of at the time.


• On Opening Day in April, Zach missed a play in left field, scrambled for the ball, threw it—sort of—and effectively wrapped up his season. Three days later, he was diagnosed with elbow tendonitis and a pinched ulnar nerve.


• Zach immediately began physical therapy with a former minor league pitcher. He bonded with the therapist, Mike, to such a degree that it really softened the blow of not playing.


• As the season progressed, the Mariners struggled horribly. Despite practicing relentlessly, they routinely fell victim to The Big Inning, allowing games to get out of reach.


• Meanwhile, Zach assumed the role of team cheerleader and stand-in bench coach, never wavering in his commitment—and recognized by his coaches, his teammates, and even his therapist.


• Zach set his sights on the season's final game, scheduled two days after his two-month follow-up appointment. But then we learned that due to a scheduling snafu, the game was cancelled. Zach was devastated, since it appeared his season was over.


• To our utter surprise, Zach was cleared to resume playing baseball just a day before an April 30 doubleheader. To say he was elated would be an understatement. He barely slept that night.


• Sadly, those games followed an all-too-familiar pattern, as the Mariners were blown out, on a very warm day, 5-19 and 0-11. Combined with the heat and only a short break between games, they left horribly dejected.


• With a record of 0-12, outscored by a combined 38-156 runs, the coach set his sights on the final game. Zach did the same, thankful for another chance to play.

And that, Gentle Reader, brings us up to date as we headed in to a game that would, for all intents and purposes, define the Mariner's season. Win, and they could say they pulled out at least one victory. Lose, and they'd say they never won a game.

Unfortunately, they'd never get the chance to do either. What they ended up with was a sacrifice win since the other team, the Pirates, who'd already been eliminated from the playoffs, failed to show up. It was better than another loss, perhaps, but bittersweet in its implied sense of "What if?"

Suspecting the Pirates were not likely to show, we'd hurriedly pulled together a party for the team, determined to go out on a positive note. We hauled in barbecues, food, and beverages, and once game time officially struck and the umpires announced us winners by default, we lit the briquettes, broke out the baseballs, and—for the first time in weeks—took a collective deep breath and relaxed. And it was wonderful.

Players, coaches, and fathers split up into teams and took part in a spirited, fun-filled final game, playing with more intensity and joy than they had in ages. And Zach, wound up on adrenaline and two months' worth of pent-up desire to be on the field, reveled in it, at last feeling like he was part of the team. He even got to play third base, which he'd been aching to do all season.

As luck would have it, we paused for dinner mere minutes before storms that weren't supposed to arrive until after midnight became unwelcome party guests. As sprinkles became a heavy downfall, families scrambled for their belongings and ran for their cars. It was a shame, really, leaving precious little opportunity for goodbyes. Or reflection. Or closure. And yet, maybe it was for the best. To come together, steal a win—even a cheap one—celebrate, and part ways was probably the best medicine for the emotional wounds inflicted by such a brutal season.

Most of the players will be back for another chance next year. But Zach won't have that opportunity since, based on his birth date, he's done with Little League, injury-shortened season or not. But as I said to his coach on Wednesday, I think Zach learned more sitting on the bench all those weeks than he would have on the field, even. About baseball. About challenges. About hope. And about life.

Not a bad season, when you look at it that way...

Welcome Home, Roxie

Her last name's not "Carmichael." She's far too young to be famous. And we chose to spell her name with an "ie" rather than a "y," simply because we thought it was cuter. Still, Roxie, the newest resident of The Hamilton Zone—all one and a half pounds of her—received one heck of welcome when she came home with us from the local animal shelter on Friday.

After losing our sixteen-year-old Himalayan, Belly, last Monday, I assumed we'd hold off a bit before welcoming another cat into our lives. The pain of her passing was still fresh in our hearts and minds, and to be honest, the challenges with which Belly had presented us in her final couple of years were things I wasn't exactly anxious to handle again: pooping and peeing all over the house, repeated and expensive vet visits and medications, emotional detachment one day and neediness the next. Yes, we were willing to accept those things in exchange for the positive aspects of pet ownership. But they'd been a lot to handle—as had her death. So while Kelly and I didn't specifically discuss how long we'd wait before taking on another animal companion, the tone of our conversations suggested that it wouldn't be right away.

But then, completely by coincidence, I read on Wednesday a tragic story in our local paper about a teen-aged girl who'd observed a kitten being thrown out the window of a moving vehicle, then nearly run over intentionally by the person who was driving it. Sadly, once she'd rescued the kitten, she couldn't find a shelter nearby that would take it because all of them were full to capacity. Worse, it came to light that because of the overcrowding, unwanted pets were being euthanized in as little as two to three weeks. Hearing that just days after having to consciously make that decision for Belly was a bit much to handle. We couldn't save them all of the animals, but we could certainly save one.

And, though they'd handled the news about Belly fairly well, the kids were in very short order asking about a new pet. Given that Belly had never been what you'd call sociable—and not at all with the kids—it was hard to fault them for seeing an opportunity to acquire something more kid-friendly with Belly gone and a "space" appearing to be open. And their pleas fell on sympathetic ears, as I was hurting more than I expected to be last week, feeling like there was a big, empty space in my heart—something I was reminded of every time I walked into our bathroom, where Belly had spent nearly all of her time.

By Thursday, I was perusing the shelter ads online and discussing the topic with Kelly. She seemed surprised at first, but she offered no resistance. She even started sending me ads for kittens she though showed particular promise. So by Friday, with Zoë out of school for the summer and me completely charged to put behind the sadness and start over again with a new ball of fur, we headed to the humane society where we'd adopted Zane.

It didn't take us long to find Roxie. In a room full of cats and kittens, all of them adorable, she just seemed to stand out. And she was the one who stole our hearts—all of them. Aside from being adorable, she immediately came to the front of her cage and begged us to pet her. Though we would have been happy with several other kittens with whom we interacted, once we'd held Roxie, heard her instantly—and loudly—purring, and felt her nestle without hesitation against our chests, it was a done deal. We took a poll, and although Zienna wanted to take "all the kitties" (And who didn't?), it was unanimous. Roxie was the one.

Arriving back home with Roxie in tow, I began to feel a bit guilty about adopting another cat so quickly, wondering if it was disrespectful to Belly to have done so. But thinking about the sadness we'd felt all week, it was obvious Roxie was offering some much-needed joy, as the kids argued about who would hold her next and for how long. Plus, while we'd purposely avoided any kitten that resembled Belly too closely—even though Kelly, Zoë, and I had really been drawn to one—Roxie had just enough in her coloring and, more importantly, in her eyes to remind us of Belly without appearing like a ghost of the friend we'd lost. And that seemed perfect.

So Belly's not been replaced, just supplemented. After all, it was she who, along with Bowie, taught this cat hater—or rather, former cat hater—how to love a feline in the first place. And by extension, every time we shower Roxie with affection, a bit of it will be indirectly headed Belly's way, too. After all, they say you never get over your first love. And I know I sure won't.

A gallery of photos from Roxie's homecoming can be viewed here.

No Easy Way to Say Goodbye

It's no secret that when Kelly and I got married, I didn't really want children. When she'd ask me, I'd say "Sure." But that was like, "Sure, I guess so," not, "Sure, you bet I do." I figured by the time Kelly got serious about the topic, it would be years later and I'd have come around. But the fact was, I thought of kids like I did cats and dogs: tolerable if they were someone else's but not something I wanted for myself.

Much to my surprise—and distress—it wasn't long after our wedding before Kelly started bringing up babies. This scared the heck out of me, made worse by the fact that her younger sister and, it seemed, every female friend close to her age was either having children or wanting to. Meanwhile, I was nowhere near ready to be a father, perfectly happy acting like the carefree and irresponsible mid-20's guy that I was. I lived for late nights, live music, and spontaneous road trips. How on earth would a kid fit into that lifestyle?

As the pressure mounted, Kelly started bringing up pets as well. In the back of my mind, I knew getting one would afford me some breathing room, at least temporarily. But she wanted a cat, and I wanted nothing to do with one. Cats were moody, cats shredded things, and cats needed litter boxes. Why on earth would I want a cat?

But then, just as Zach would change my mind about kids a few years later, Stardust Bosco Bowie changed my mind about cats. A neglected Persian we spotted at the local pet store, he'd come from a mill. And while normally, we'd not have bought such an animal, we felt as if we were rescuing him—and were told as much by a vet at his first visit.

Bowie stole my heart overnight. But very quickly, he developed health problems—serious ones. The vet suggested a friend might help him, and I immediately gave into the idea, assuming I'd misjudged cats and that any other we adopted would be as easy a fit as Bowie. So we located a breeder whose prices seemed too good to be true because...well, they were...and we ignored the fact that the kittens overrunning her house were not sociable at all, content to grab the only cat who'd actually let us catch it—especially since she was adorable.

Though we hoped she'd open up in time, Belly was reclusive and stayed that way. Even our closest friends found it hard to believe she existed, since Belly was seen in daylight about as often as your average Bigfoot. Usually, she showed herself around 3:00 a.m. Whining. Wanting attention. And parking herself on my chest, demanding it. Cute as she was, she made it hard to love her.

Meanwhile, Kelly's ploy had worked. I'd found a spot in my heart that wanted children, and we'd welcomed Zach into our world. The cats loved to linger about him, and even Belly became a bit more open. It was hard to believe, but photos from that era prove it.

And then, out of the blue, we lost Bowie. Struck by a thrombosis, Kelly and I had to deal with the grief of allowing the vet to euthanize him. It was a harrowing experience, and it brought out all the reasons I didn't want to allow myself to love any little dependent beings, human or otherwise. And yet, Belly suddenly became almost completely reclusive, just when I needed her most. Whether she was as affected by Bowie's disappearance as we were, I'm not sure. But from that day on, she became Invisicat. She seemed content with her phantom existence, and though it seemed odd to family and friends, it worked for her—and for us.

When we adopted Shack last year, our vet pointed out that despite Belly's apparent health, it was in both of their best interest—and Zane's—to be more attentive to her, just in case. As if on cue, Belly began showing signs of age. First, she started peeing wherever she wanted. Then pooping. And more troubling, she began losing weight, which she could hardly afford, and showing signs of kidney trouble. Finally, she was diagnosed with heart worms. Yet, every time we had "that" talk with the vet, she'd stabilize, and we'd go back to the way things had always been, letting her live quietly in our bathroom.

When we woke this morning, we found that Belly had apparently lost control of all her bodily functions. Between that and the lethargy she'd been exhibiting, showing no interest in grooming or otherwise caring for herself, arthritis that caused her to tiptoe as she walked, and the fact that she'd acquired heart worms, we knew she needed to see the vet. Kelly did the dirty work and took her. And once he learned she'd lost a quarter of her body weight since February, he told Kelly it was "time" and that we were doing the humane thing by letting her go.

Kelly brought home Belly's collar, and we shared a few tears. Then, I prepared myself to break the news to the kids. Zoë wasn't overly affected, but Zach certainly was, primarily because he had no warning and didn't get to say goodbye. I felt bad about that, but Kelly said there was no way she could have walked out and prolonged the process, either, which I understood.

Losing Belly closes a chapter in my and Kelly's life together. Caring for her and Bowie seemed like a Really Big Deal to me when we acquired them. Had I only known. But they helped me prepare for parenthood and with it, far greater demands. Fortunately, we've got a great dog, another cool cat, and three great kids to more than fill the void Belly leaves behind. But I'm an old pro at caretaking and nurturing now, and I have those two cats to thank for it.

Be at peace, my little friend. And know that any time I awake at 3:00 a.m., I'll be thinking about you. And that if it happens tonight, I'll no doubt be shedding a tear or two...

Three is a Magic Number

Oh, to be three again. To want nothing more from your birthday than a day at the park spent swinging, having some snacks, and frolicking with a few friends. To find as much joy in brightly-colored gift bags and birthday card envelopes as you do with what they hold inside. To be able to amuse yourself for hours after the party's over with a helium-filled balloon. And to take away so much glee from these things as to still be expressing days later how much fun you had and what a perfectly wonderful birthday it had been.

All Zienna wanted for her third birthday, as she began telling me and Kelly months ago, was a party like the one I just described. I went so far as to try and convince her to have her shindig at Chuck E. Cheese instead—an idea her big sister latched on to and would not let go of. But Zienna wanted nothing to do with it. Simplicity was all she desired. And so, armed with balloons, party hats and horns, and some kid-friendly beverages to ward off the heat, we descended upon the park down the hill—the one with an enclosed play area for preschoolers that Zienna loves—on Tuesday morning. There, we met up with Zienna's pals Faith (her playmate from two doors down), Sherilyn (daughter of our friends Ken and Lili), and Mali (son of the wonderful real estate agent who helped us buy our house, and his wife). To make the event extra special, Grandma and Grandpa Loop, who were in town visiting, tagged along as well.

If you're thinking clowns and music and party games—or even a piñata—think again. This was a party envisioned and planned to please an easy-going three-year-old, so there'd be none of those things, even though I offered them. Zienna was content to just hang out and play on the swings and slides as if it were any other day, with the added bonus that she had friends along to share the experience. And judging from the other kids' reaction, they were fine with it, too, swinging and running and laughing to their hearts' content.

At one point, we broke briefly for cupcakes, courtesy of Sherilyn's mom, Lili. Zienna opened her gifts and cards, too. And then she was off again, excited to be at one of her favorite places in the world—and thankful for the fact that unlike most visits to the park, which are typically squeezed between errands like picking up her siblings from school, I wasn't constantly eying the clock and warning her that it was almost time to leave.

Usually, when I do announce that it's time to go, I get massive flack from Zienna, who given her druthers, would move in to the park and live there full time. But not on this day. I'm not sure whether it was the heat, which was just starting to kick in, or whether she was beginning to tire, or whether she realized you can't mess with perfection and ought, at some point, leave it alone and walk away. But as the two-hour period set for the gathering drew to a close, Zienna actually asked to leave. And though goodbyes and thank yous dragged on a bit, there were smiles all around. I left feeling like this was what a birthday party was supposed to be like, free of the pre-packaged, superficial merrymaking marketed by businesses large and small these days.

Arriving home, Zienna was only too happy to play with her big, Mylar Tinkerbell balloon, having dispensed the latex ones to her guests as they'd left the park (with ribbon detangling help courtesy of Lili and Grandma, since the wind had whipped them about pretty brutally). After nearly a year of asking during each trip to the grocery store if she could have one of the big, shiny balloons for her birthday, Zienna finally had one. And like all the other simple pleasures of the day, she treasured it (a fact which made my heart sink a bit the following day when the balloon got tangled in her ceiling fan and lost much of its helium before I pulled it free).

Oh, to be three again. And so innocent. But at least I've got the next best thing: the ability to live vicariously through my amazing kid at an age when, though I could be a grandparent, I'm old enough to really appreciate her experiences—and mine right there beside her.

A gallery of photos from the party and Zienna's cake celebration back at home later on can be viewed here.

Food, (Not-So) Glorious Food!

"But daddy, I don't like food."

With that simple statement, uttered to me earlier this week, Zienna proved once and for all that Kelly and I must have brought the wrong kid home from the hospital. Because no one else in my family would ever say such a thing. Finicky about food? Maybe. But claiming to not like it? That just ain't Hamilton-like.

As a child, I was, to put it lightly, a very big boy. After buying me "husky" sized pants, my mother would still have to cut several inches off the legs to make them fit. Each year, I was the heaviest kid in my class, and I was tagged with awful nicknames like "Hamilbutt," "Hamil-weighs-a-ton," and "Scott, Scott, the Big Fat Pot." It was a pretty lousy way to spend a childhood.

Fortunately, about the time I entered my second decade, I began to slim down. Countless days spent biking and skating helped, as did a growing awareness of fitness and healthier eating as I entered my teens. Still, I loved my food and still do, and it's been a lifelong battle to keep my super-sized appetite from super-sizing the rest of me.

As for The Z Kids, I'm not sure if appetite is hereditary, but it must be if Zach and Zoë are any indication. Unlike me, they're pretty picky—each in their own way—about what they'll eat. But give them what they like, and they'll eat and eat, often beyond the point when they should stop. Zach is primarily a meal guy, while Zoë is my snacker. But they both love their food. Kelly and I often have to remind them to be reasonable about what they eat, and we do our best to teach them to make smart decisions for themselves.

Given Zach and Zoë's fondness for food, I expected Zienna to be the same. But so far, it's not been the case. Since shortly after birth, Zienna has been our thinnest child. And getting her to consume anything but milk, which she drinks way too much of, is a real challenge.

With Zach and Zoë, I try to make sure they have well-rounded, complete meals to ward off hunger between them. But with Zienna, I have to employ different tactics. For one thing, since I'm happy if she consumes even one healthy food at a sitting, I try to limit her choices, since it seems the more I put in front of her, the less she eats. And since she eats so little at mealtime, I try to offer healthy snacks throughout the day before she asks for anything. When I don't, she'll typically ask for milk when she finally feels hungry, refusing anything else.

And while Zach and Zoë would happily live on junk food if given the chance, Zienna's not even big on that. She still has most of her Easter candy, including the bunny, which Zoë begs for daily. She turned her nose up to most of a Burger King kids' meal just last night, then turned it down a second time this afternoon at lunch—including the fries. And even when she decides she's in the mood for dessert, she's usually satisfied with a few bites—or, maddeningly, changes her mind by the time we serve it to her.

All in all, I'm glad Zienna seems better at self-regulating her appetite than her older siblings or I. Fortunately, she's as likely to ask for fruit or vegetables as anything when she's hungry, and she'll often consume something in large quantities when she's in the mood—like the strawberries I brought home last weekend. And while her pediatrician is on my case about her overconsumption of (nonfat) milk, Zach has since weaning from the breast been the same way, and it sure hasn't seemed to hurt him—all 5' 4" of him.

My brother Steve, whose blog I've quoted here frequently, has faced his own challenges with a Kid Who Won't Eat. And while I laughed over his account of trying to get his son Grant to cut the Christmas Story routine—acting like Randy, the child in the movie who won't eat—I never thought I'd have such problems myself. Unlike Steve, I haven't resorted to "pretending" to get Zienna to eat, nor do we insist that she stay at the table. She's not wasting away, and I don't want her to eat for the sake of it, as children in my generation were brought up to do (to avoid the starvation supposedly suffered by Chinese children, who it turns out are much healthier and less overweight than us). My only real concern is that Zienna gets adequate nutrition, so I hedge our bets with a daily multivitamin, which she loves and even begs for—again breaking the mold of her siblings, who balk when I insist they take them.

Fortunately, we've been seeing what I hope is light at the end of the tunnel and perhaps even signs of a coming growth spurt (as if the three inches Zienna's grown since New Year's Day aren't spurt-y enough). Yesterday, in fact, she asked for food all morning long, literally one thing after the other. But if we're not out of the woods? I suppose since Zienna—like her cousin Grant—is a trash man fan, we could always try one of Steve's methods, telling Zienna she's a garbage truck and that the food is her refuse to be collected.

Come to think of it, that might actually work. Especially with—ahem—junk food...

Karma of Kindness (With Help from the Internet)

Woke up this morning
I suddenly realized
We're all in this together
I started smiling
Cos you were smiling
And we're all in this together
I'm made of atoms
You're made of atoms
And were all in this together
And long division
Just doesn't matter
Cos were all in this together

—"We're All in This Together," Ben Lee

Heading home from Zach's baseball game Saturday, I was down in the dumps. His team had imploded again, falling to 0-8 after a 2-14 drubbing. To make matters worse, Zach had headed off to the movies with a teammate's family, leaving me to drive alone with my thoughts rather than having him along to chat with. It was 106 degrees outside—well above our seasonal norm—and after sitting out in the heat for three hours, I was hot and cranky. And I had a hot, cranky and very tired Zienna along with me, as well as Kelly at home sick in bed, waiting for us. I wasn't feeling very weekend-y at all.

Spotting a local strawberry stand that sells fruit grown right on the spot, I stopped, desperate for something to lift my spirits. The aroma of the bright, red berries was like magic, as were the smile and broken English of the friendly merchant selling them. I purchased several basketsful and got back on the road feeling much more upbeat. Zienna was snoozing, finally through crying, and I had the air conditioner, the radio, and the sight and scent of that luscious produce to keep me company. The afternoon was definitely looking up.

Once home, however, I realized with some frustration that my wallet was missing. I immediately knew where I'd left it, since I'd only stopped once. But would it be at the fruit stand when I got there? Might someone have taken it? Or had I perhaps left it on the roof of my truck and driven off, meaning it might have fallen off anywhere along the way home—perhaps even the freeway? There was only one way to find out. So I headed back across town.

Back at the stand, I approached the gentleman from whom I'd purchased the berries and tried explaining why I was there. He shook his head and smiled. Trying a different tact, I motioned as if I were pulling out my wallet but finding it missing. That did the trick. He whisked it out from below the berries and thrust it into my hands, assuring me in broken English that he had not touched anything inside. I was elated. I thanked him and then headed back home with my resurrected afternoon still looking up.

Several hours later, as the sun was setting and I finally had dinner for myself on the stove, I realized I hadn't checked my email all day. Sitting down for a second to do so, I found there wasn't much except for a comment to post to my blog. Comments are always fun, so I was curious to read it, a bit surprised to see that rather than being from from a friend or family member, it was posted by "Anonymous."

Are you missing a wallet? It was found at a strawberry stand...the man at the strawberry stand is holding it for you...contact (email address deleted for privacy reasons) for more info, if needed. we don't want to put too much information on here in case we don't have the right person. we looked for your phone number but didn't find any...this is the best we could do.

I sat there, dumbfounded, staring at the computer screen. Granted, I'd already retrieved my wallet. But someone I'd never met had not only turned it in to the fruit stand, they'd spent their Saturday evening tracking me down so I'd know where to find it. I was so touched by the kindness of a stranger that suddenly, the challenges of the day—the brutal game, the intense heat, Kelly's illness, even leaving my wallet across town—didn't matter. All because someone I'd never met had done a kind act.

Quite tired, I decided to think about what to say before sending this thoughtful soul a thank you note in the morning. Then I sat down to have dinner, feeling very contented. I savored my meal and then cleaned up the kitchen before settling down for the evening. But a few minutes later, as I began dozing off in front of the TV, I decided to check my email one more time before turning off the computer for the night. And again, I found a message from the stranger. This time, they'd gone to the trouble to join a music-related web site I run and sent me a private message--two of them, in fact.

did you lose a wallet today....Saturday?

forgot to leave a contact (email address deleted), regarding the lost wallet

Now I was really blown away. And considering it was nearly 10:00—meaning this person had spent at least two hours looking for me online—I felt guilty that I hadn't responded earlier. I quickly did so, and then I sent a little something their way as a reward, feeling it was the right thing to do.

Since Saturday, I've been looking at strangers a bit differently since any of them could be my good Samaritan, or might be in the future. Or I could be theirs. We're all on this little planet together, and from time to time, we need to rely upon one another. So, if I've been just a tad more inclined to let a car into traffic or hold the door at the store or let someone with fewer items ahead of me in line—and felt good about doing so—I have the act of a stranger to thank for reminding me that a little effort goes a long way and pays huge dividends. And I'll do my best to keep that fact in mind the next time a dreary day has me in the dumps.

Oh, and in case you're wondering, the strawberries were really good, too...

Thank Heaven for Little Boys...and Girls

A couple of weeks ago, I conceded to my brother Steve, the father of three boys and no girls, that yes, it's definitely easier to raise the former than the latter. I'd just written about how much easier I found it to shop for and clothe my son than my daughters. Steve's reaction to what he'd read, which reinforced feelings he'd already held, was so strong that he reacted by saying, "Oh, what the heck: man, I'm glad I don't have girls. No offense."

No offense was taken, especially since, once upon a time, I never envisioned myself fathering girls. Even after giving in to Kelly and agreeing to take on parenthood, I could only picture myself as a boy-dad. Fathering a boy would be effortless, I reasoned. Toss a ball around. Watch sports together. Share a laugh over bodily noises and expulsions that would upset Mom. Teach him about all the stuff that interested you growing up and, in many cases, still did, merely drawing on your own experiences. And through it all, you'd basically be getting a second childhood and another chance to play with toys you'd left behind, watch movies you never thought you'd see again, and have an excuse to buy video game systems and other things people might question if you were buying them for yourself.

But to father a girl? After decades of trying to figure the female gender out, I felt horribly ill-prepared to even try raising one of its subjects myself. What on earth would we talk about, I wondered. What would we do? Having precious little experience in dressing dolls or ballet dancing or cheerleading or other stuff that seems to interest girls, how could I possibly pass myself off as a competent authority on such things? I couldn't. Nor did I really want to, if it means concerning one's self with ruffles and flowers and baby animals and perfume and diaries and all of that girly-girl stuff. And of course, right about the time that I'd finally figured out how to parent a girl, she'd start turning into a woman, and the ramifications of that—adolescence, boys, increased drama, boys, awkward situations too frightening to imagine, and boys—were WAY too much for me to even consider. Better to stick with what I knew, I figured.

And then we had Zoë. And even when she was swaddled in a blanket and wearing the same color and variety of hospital-issue cap Zach had worn when he was born, the minute I held that sweet little baby—and more significantly, that sweet little baby GIRL—in my arms, I knew, despite the generic appearance on the outside, that my world had been changed. And I realized that as much as I adored my son, I was going to love his sister on an entirely different level. Thank heaven for little girls, indeed—and daddy's girls at that. No dad without one can really understand what I'm saying. But we girl-dads do.

When Kelly was pregnant for the third time, I was fully realizing the, um, challenges of raising a girl, courtesy of Zoë. And partly for that reason, partly because Zach was starting to grow up and pull ever so gradually away from me, and partly because I felt I'd missed out on much of Zach's early childhood by working too much and not being involved enough, I was really hoping Zienna would be a boy. Kelly was, too—as was Zach—and I felt in my heart of hearts that she would be. We even had a name for her: Zane.

But then of course, Kelly and I decided to do something we'd not done in her previous two pregnancies by having a 3-D ultrasound. By doing so, we learned "Zane" would need a new name—a feminine one. And though I was crushed at first, I was fully back in girl-daddy frame of mind a few weeks later when Zienna decided to come on out and make it official that Zach and I would forever be outnumbered—and that I'd have to deal with all those icky girl things that frightened me so not just once, but twice.

As Zienna approaches her third birthday, coming at the end of this month, and Zoë loses more and more of the tomboyishness of her youth and asks to wear nail polish and frilly undergarments, the dynamics of our family are noticeably changing. Suddenly, it really does feel like Zach and I are outnumbered. And with increasing frequency, we have to give in to the feminine majority when deciding what to do, what to watch, or what to listen to. For now, it's OK. But I fear the day when a teen-aged Zach starts going off and doing his own thing, leaving me in a setting of Girls-3, Boys-1. I'm far from a macho guy, but the prospect of non-stop chick flicks and mani-pedis and Miley Cyrus music is definitely intimidating, especially with little or no son-shared Simpsons, video games, or punk rock to break it up. But it's a future I'd better prepare for, I suppose.

Meanwhile, I'll enjoy girl-daddying for its merits, like the head-over-heels love I felt upon seeing Zienna's first portraits in far too long, shot earlier today. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, and if I haven't managed to explain to boy-daddies why I adore my girls, hopefully the pictures of Zienna will do what I could not.

Boy-dads, if that sweet face doesn't sway you, then we'll just have to agree to disagree.

Note: If you're interested, a gallery of 25 portraits from Zienna's three-year-old photo shoot can be viewed here.

For Love of the Game

While the door on Zach's only season of Majors eligibility for Little League isn't shut yet, it's only open a crack at this point. But since Zach's not ready to give up hope on his being able to play again this year, neither am I.

If you haven't been following Zach's season, he was diagnosed five weeks ago with two forms of tendonitis and irritation of the ulnar nerve after "gapping" his elbow while overthrowing. At the time of the diagnosis, which came just a couple of days after Opening Day, Kelly and I never dreamed Zach would be out more than half of the season. But last week, he was told by his sports medicine specialist to hold off throwing for at least another four weeks. With his next appointment just two days before his final game, the entire season, save opening day, was suddenly in jeopardy.

A few years ago, this wouldn't have mattered much to Zach. Back then, I was coaching him in soccer, and he seemed to have no interest in baseball. He never played T-Ball, and after a useless season of quasi-instructional recreational baseball, he appeared to have left my favorite sport behind, despite attending summer camp with former San Francisco Giants players. Each year, I'd ask if he wanted to play Little League, and each year he'd say no. I began to lose hope he'd ever play.

But then we moved to Redding just as Zach was—unbeknownst to me—losing interest in soccer. And when Little League signups rolled around that winter, Zach said he wanted to give it a go. And in the uncompetitive, nurturing environment of "farm league," with its machine pitching and de-emphasis on scoring, Zach really took to baseball for the first time.

The following year, there was no question Zach would be playing. By that point, he was calling baseball "his" sport and making friends with other players. That was a season of huge growth for Zach under a very supportive coach, and in the end, his team, the Rockies, went all the way to the league's championship game. They lost, but it was a thrilling ride. And when he hung up his cleats for the year, Zach clearly had the bug. He was a baseball player, plain and simple.

Drafted the following season by the same coach—who had to broker a trade to get him. To my disbelief, Zach had initially been selected by a Majors team based on his performance at tryouts. But given his lack of experience, Kelly and I felt—and Zach agreed—that it would be more beneficial to spend another season in Minors. Returning to his old team, starting nearly every game, and developing on every level, Zach's performance started mattering to him more than pleasing his parents. And it showed. He earned a game ball, he became more consistent, and he fully contributed to his team's amazing performance, completely dominating the league before losing again in the championship game—ironically, to his former coach and the remnants of his farm team.

As this season dawned, everything was intensified. Because of his birth date, Zach was left with only one year of Majors eligibility, and this was it. He and I began preparing early for tryouts, and he did himself proud in them once again—well enough to be drafted third after the coaches' sons were chosen. I don't know who was more ecstatic over that news—him, or me and Kelly—even if we were collectively disappointed that his former coach, who had been so supportive, had not been chosen to move up to Majors. Regardless, all the pieces seemed to be falling into place for Zach's—and our—dream season.

But then, the walls of the proverbial house came tumbling down. After one early practice, when he was being evaluated at catcher—yes, catcher—Zach complained of excruciating pain and numbness in his arm. Then the same thing happened on Opening Day. And once the macho, overly-proud side of me gave in to the practical side, we it checked out—and got the bad news. Zach was left with a prescribed regimen of rest and thrice-weekly physical therapy, made slightly more bearable by the fact that his therapist, Mike, was a former minor-league pitcher who shared many common interests with Zach.

So that's where we stand. Bittersweet as it is, the moral of the story, should Zach not return before season's end, has already been written. When we got into the car after being told last week by his doctor that he wasn't ready to resume playing, I asked Zach how he was feeling. "I'm depressed on the inside, but I have to be positive on the outside," he said to me, matter-of-factly. What could I add to that? I'm sure the pride—and love—I was feeling for him was evident on my face, but I still complimented him on his level-headed thinking and great attitude. I mean, c'mon—the kid's only twelve years old!

In the end, all that's left is the hope that, through some small miracle, Mike clears Zach to resume playing ahead of schedule. With an 0-7 record and having been outscored 16-85, Zach's team is having a brutal season. It's been agonizing for Zach to just sit and watch, knowing he can't contribute. But as bad as it's been, he's conducted himself beyond admirably, staying upbeat and acting as a stand-in dugout coach and assistant. And his coaches have noticed and commended him for it.

And as for us? Kelly and I will just have to take things as they come, making sure that no matter what happens, we follow our wise-beyond-his-years son's advice and stay positive on the outside. Even if, yes, we're depressed on the inside...

Boys vs. Girls: The Wardrobe Edition

Zach is a kid—a male, mainly—after my own heart. Were it up to him, he'd never go clothes shopping, even if it meant wearing the same old garments until they were down to their last few threads and a sickly grayish-tan from being washed a million times. Problem is, he's still growing, rapidly, so they're often all that and breath-stealing tight to boot. And because of this, he occasionally needs to get new clothing.

Still, when the time comes, he shops the way I do: stake out a store, hit the racks and shelves in quick succession, grab whatever looks remotely appealing, try them on, dart for the register, pay, and then go. Mission accomplished, and who cares if you're not the end-all be-all of fashion plates? You've got clothes, and you're good to go.

If only it were so easy with Zoë. And if only pigs could sprout wings and fly.

When Zoë needs clothes—or even when she doesn't, since she often tires of what's in her drawers and decides she has "nothing to wear"—shopping for her is a job best reserved for someone with the fortune of a Rockefeller, the patience of a monk, and the fashion sense of Stacy London or Clinton Kelly. Unfortunately, I'm none of the above. And since Kelly often promises to go shopping with Zoë but rarely follows through for lack of time, patience, energy, or a combination of the three, the duty typically falls on my shoulders. And to put it simply, I'm not worthy.

Were we still living in the Bay Area, the task would be difficult enough. But it'd be like panning for gold: visit a million stores, and you're bound to strike it rich now and then. But we live in Redding. And I can count the number of local stores where we effectively can shop for Zoë on...oh, about one hand. Add in that she's built athletically—not plump, not fat, but certainly not stick-thin, either—and the difficulty of the endeavor is complicated exponentially. Because, in case you've not shopped girls' clothes recently, everything is low-rise, slim-cut, and meant to fit the 21st-century version of Twiggy.

For a time, I dragged Zoë around, forcing her to try things on. This strategy was far from perfect for a variety of reasons:

• Too often, Zoë would, much like her mother, claim nothing fit right


• Too often, what Zoë liked most did not, by my estimation, fit


• Too often, what Zoë liked most was what I could not or did not want to afford


• And too often, what we thought fit perfectly at the store oddly did not fit at home

Fortunately, there was Plan B, which involved me shopping alone and throwing everything that a) I though Zoë might like and b) I was willing to buy into a cart. This involved buying things in various sizes, since, as the parent of any girl knows, no two brands cut identical sizes the same. The fatal flaw in this setup was that after buying several times over what I actually needed to clothe my daughter, I'd end up with many, many items needing to be returned—a monstrous and somewhat embarrassing job. And far too often, it never got done, resulting in boxes of even more hand-me-downs (and hope-they-fits) for Zienna.

Lately, I've resorted to Plan C: avoidance. And as a result, poor Zoë has ended up with an abundance of out-of-season, ill-fitting, threadbare clothes. Were she not a clothes horse, this might not be a problem. But since she is, it's been a disaster.

Given my struggles to clothe my daughter, is it any wonder I so value my son's flexibility? And perhaps the greatest beauty of his situation is that even as he begins to pay attention to his attire—fueled in part by his growing awareness of the opposite sex—he's still as easy as ever to shop with and for. That fact was proven to the Nth degree yesterday when we needed, with less than an hour on our hands, to buy clothes for his school's "Dress For Business" day. We hit one store, and in less than an hour, including trying things on and shopping clearance racks, we had him in and out the door. Witness the photo for evidence of what he chose to wear—and couldn't stop raving about.

Compare that to several hundred dollars' worth of clothes I bought last week for Zoë's summer wardrobe, and there's really nothing to talk about. What she liked didn't fit, and what we liked, she didn't. The majority of it is bagged up, ready to be returned, hopefully.

I'm doing my best not to take sides. But in this particular battle, it's clearly Boys-1, Girls-0. Even if my boy's happy to be a "wear what's there" slob like me.

Frightening Fare, Sickly Smells, and Rickety Rides

My children have betrayed me. Even the youngest one.

You see, I hate carnivals in a serious way. It goes back to when I was about five and my paternal grandmother took me to one along the marina in my hometown—Martinez, California. I have vivid memories of begging not to ride the Ferris wheel, then trying not to vomit as I viewed the city and its lovely oil refineries from a vantage point too high and unstable for my stomach's liking. The minute I got off the torturous contraption, I darted for nearby bushes, where I remained for some time, doubled over and heaving. That scene would be repeated many times over the years. And since I also get ill on boats, planes, mountain roads, and even spinning playground equipment, it's pretty clear I have motion sickness.

But motion sickness alone doesn't account for my extreme distaste for carnivals. The reasons run much deeper. For one thing, carnies scare me. Maybe I was overly affected by Gary Busey's disturbing portrayal of one in the movie of the same name. Perhaps it's because so many of them look like escaped mental patients, paroled felons, or both. And I suppose it could be because carnies typically don't seem to be the sharpest tools in the shed, yet you're putting your life in their hands every time you step on the rides they oversee. So sue me for being just a tad leery of them.

And then there's the rides themselves. I can bring myself to ride amusement park rides, except for the whip-you-every-which-way-then-upside-down-and-back-again-at-five-hundred-miles-per-hour variety, which will immediately induce me to vomit. But let's face it: those rides are run by established businesses, plus they’re built and maintained by engineers and other qualified professionals. Contrast that to rides which on a weekly basis are set up, torn down, dragged around on trailers, and then set up again. And don't forget that it's the aforementioned carnies doing the setting up. No wonder we hear about things like rides toppling over. How could we not?

Next, there's the overpriced crap they sell at carnivals. Why should it cost nearly as much for tickets to the handful of rides offered by the typical carnival as it does to visit a well-maintained, expansive, family-friendly amusement park? That it does makes no sense to me. And then there are those ever-popular suckers’ bets, the games. Even if I could fit the oversized basketball through the undersized hoop or knock all the milk bottles off the pedestal, I don't want a paper-thin, sawdust-filled Bart Simpson made in China or a goldfish that will die by the time we get home. But you can bet my kids do.

And last but not least—since there's no escaping it—there's the, um...for lack of a better term..."food." Who doesn't want a big blob of greasy, sugary, salty (insert "funnel cake," "cotton candy," or any item requiring a stick for deep frying)? Thanks, but I'll pass, even if there's no way to ignore the pervasive stench of the rancid, coronary-inducing oil it’s all fried in. And don't forget, all that yummy goodness is being prepared, cooked, and served by those same carnies. Gulp.

Yep, I loves me some carnival. And I actually do on one level: watching my kids enjoy them. From birth, Zach has gone into a frenzy every time he's spotted a carnival, and Zoë's even worse. Some of our happiest family memories have been made attending them. So despite my revulsion over the setting, I've gladly taken the kids to carnivals frequently over the years and done my best to focus on their glee while ignoring the horrors of the setting where they're having all that fun. And yet, I'll admit that I’ve held out hope that Zienna might not turn out to be carnival crazy like her siblings.

No dice.

A few weeks ago, when Zienna spotted the Ferris wheel being erected in our local mall parking lot—marking the arrival of our annual spring break carnival—she went absolutely berserk. Since we'd skipped the event last year and she'd been too young to attend the year before, she’d never been to a carnival. But based on her description of what she saw as we drove by, she obviously knew what one was—and how much fun they were supposed to be (no doubt brainwashed by her traitorous brother and sister). Kelly and I intended to take her, but we wanted to wait for the second weekend and he exodus of the crowds from Redding’s tourist-drawing Kool April Nights classic car rally, making for shorter lines and more opportunities to ride. But try explaining that logic to a two-year-old. She wasn’t buying it, and carnival hysteria made for a very long week.

When the big day finally arrived, Zach and I decided on the spur of the moment to head down to San Francisco for a Giants game, leaving the girls to venture out alone on Zienna's maiden carnival voyage. By Kelly's account, it was a huge, thrilling success, and Zienna chose the dragon roller coaster as her favorite ride, just as Zach and Zoë had when they were younger. The only damper on an otherwise perfect day was the fact that with few visitors left, the carnival closed early. And as it did, Zach and I rolled back into town, happy to help distract the girls and listen to their tales of rickety rides, frightening food, and memories made.

Sometimes, you just have to let kids be kids. Even when they’re traitors and there are carnies involved.

The Perfect Day

Two lower box seats at AT&T park: $93 I had no business spending

Veggie dogs, garlic fries, and Cokes for two: $37 I had no business spending

Gas, bridge tolls, and parking: $52.50 I had no business spending

A day at the ballpark with my son on a brilliant day for an awesome game: Priceless

Shortly after being woken Sunday morning by Zoë, at 6:10 after a very long week, with the kids home on vacation and Kelly traveling, I expressed in no uncertain terms a need for some alone time. Or family time. Or both. And shortly after that, completely by coincidence, I discovered that Randy Johnson, Zach's favorite pitcher, would later that day be going up against his former team—and just as importantly, the only team in the Major Leagues who he'd never beaten—the Arizona Diamondbacks. When Kelly heard this, her response was immediate: "Go!"

Since money is tight, I was hesitant. It didn't help that we'd promised Zoë that, on its final day, we'd take her to the annual Spring Break carnival. Perhaps even more significant, since she'd never yet attended one, Zienna was begging to go. But as Kelly egged me on, I realized I was long overdue for time with Zach, too. And alone time. And baseball.

So I did it.

Moments later, Zach and I were frantically packing essentials—caps, gloves, seeds, music for the three-plus-hour drive, and sunscreen—and heading out the door. It was roughly 9:30, and we didn't have a moment to spare.

Hitting Interstate 5, we quickly fell into a relaxed existence, as Zach has acquired from me not just a love of baseball but a shared appreciation for trance music. With the bass thumping from our favorite, DJ Doboy, we were soon barreling down the highway with hardly a care in the world. We'd headed out without breakfast, but our grumbling stomachs didn't matter much. We had a higher calling: GIANTS BASEBALL! And long overdue Giants baseball at that.

Though I did my best to push the speed limit a bit, we were up against numerous participants heading home from the weekend's Kool April Nights classic car rally held here in Redding. With some cars on the road and others on trailers, it seemed we were constantly behind someone not willing or unable to to go the speed limit. By the time we reached the outskirts of civilization—aka Vacaville—we were not as far along as we needed to be. And then we hit the Bay Bridge toll plaza, which showed us no mercy. Minutes ticked by as we sat in bumper-to-bumper traffic quickly remembering why, all things considered, we don't really miss the Bay Area.

By the time we got to the bridge, the traffic finally opened up, and we made our way across with the first inning of our game already in the history books. Fortunately, since I used to work a block from the stadium, I was able to navigate our way quickly to a reliable and cheap parking garage adjacent to the stadium before the end of the second inning. Then we dashed across King Street, intent on getting to the game.

Once inside, we grabbed some food, since we'd not yet eaten, and made our way to our seats, along the first base line and just six rows up from the Diamondback's bullpen mound. Then we relaxed, taking in the glorious stadium that for too many games to count—World Series and playoff games among them—we'd taken for granted when we lived in the Bay Area and owned a share of Giants season tickets. It was a glorious day, just over 80 degrees and with a slight breeze. One of the most historic pitchers in Major League history was pitching for my team. And I was with my son, who I'd promised would see this matchup before season's end. There wasn't much more I could ask for.

Oh, and said pitcher was on his game, despite pregame concerns he might not be. At 45 (Ahem!), he'd pitched two duds in a row to debut for his new team, and it was questionable whether he'd be in true form any time soon. But he was, throwing seven innings of spectacular, nail-biting no-hit ball. And the Giants offense, asleep since opening week, showed up to support him. Zach and I couldn't have been much more excited. When Randy left the game, we gave him a standing ovation. And for my part, it was as much a thank you for my son as much as anything. We might never again see this man, who I'd taken Zach years before to see face the Giants when he was almost too young to appreciate why people were giving him dirty looks for cheering the opposing pitcher, play again. So this was really, really special.

In the end, the Giants won the game 2-0. When they did, Zach and I cheered until we were hoarse, high-fived, and reveled in what had been a magnificent day. On the way out, I added to our "no business spending" total by purchasing Zach a Randy Johnson Giants shirt. I knew it meant a lot to him, and I knew he might never get one if I didn't buy it right then. And then we headed home, in indescribable father-son love and content beyond words, with trance music thumping to keep us awake.

Sometimes, life is almost too good to describe. Sunday falls into that category, and I doubt I've done it justice. But it doesn't really matter. Zach told me repeatedly on the way home how much fun he'd had, how much he loved me, and how much he'd appreciated the day. And those words are far more important than mine. In fact, I'd call them priceless.

I Know Somebunny Who Loved That Eggstravaganza

Though we never do all that much around our house for Easter anyway, the holiday really caught us off guard this year. Kelly was traveling in the weeks leading up to it, leaving me in single parent/just get through the day mode. Then we were preoccupied with trying to solve Zach's arm issue that threatened to derail his final season of Little League. Throw in Zoë's school's open house and various other commitments, and it wasn't until Saturday that we realized that—yikes—the springtime celebration of sugar consumption was almost upon us.

Considering that Zach and Zoë are too old to believe a rabbit enters our house and fills garishly-colored baskets with candy—and like me and Kelly, are not particularly keen on coloring eggs—we briefly considered blowing off all aspects of Easter except the "don't ask, don't tell" (for Zienna's sake) baskets. But then, early Saturday morning, the "don't rob the youngest kid of her childhood" part of my conscience took over, and I found myself scanning the paper for local egg hunts. Kelly agreed to take Zienna to one taking place across town, and in exchange for her sparing me from dealing with the crowds, I assumed my customary Easter roles—meal planner, shopper, cook, basket stuffer, and home-based egg hunt organizer.

Unfortunately, said hunt was a complete bust. Though it apparently wasn't as bad as another later that morning—where an estimated 2,500 people showed up to fight for 15,000 eggs dropped from a helicopter, with adults knocking down children and grabbing them from the kids’ hands—it was bad enough. Staged at a very large park, Kelly estimated there were at least 300 people and 150 eggs. Those eggs were snatched up—and in some cases, snatched from younger children—in less than 60 seconds. Zienna got a grand total of one, and that was only because Kelly positioned her directly over it and told her to dive as soon as she heard the word "go." Zienna didn't seem to mind. She got an egg, and she got to swing for a bit afterward. That was good enough for her.

Next stop, since they were out already, was a trip to the mall to see the Easter Bunny himself—or whoever they had posing as him, since we all know he was busy preparing for the big night. Most likely, it was some teenager making minimum wage inside of the cheesy costume, but Zienna didn't care. She'd spotted him weeks earlier and had been begging ever since to visit him (or her, since in fairness, we really had no idea what lurked inside the oversized costume of bad synthetic). That no one else was there when they arrived, even on the day before Easter, didn’t matter to Zienna. She jumped on his (or her) lap and enthusiastically posed for an overpriced photograph. And she got a bag of gummies. So far, so good, as far as Zienna was concerned.

The next morning, Kelly and I...er, the Easter Bunny…left what I'd deem practical but generous gifts in the baskets set out for the kids: See's bunnies, Jelly Belly beans, and appropriate non-candy gifts. For Zach, it was a Transformers shirt he'd been wanting badly—a traditional Easter gift if there ever was one. For Zoë, Ol' Floppy Ears left a Webkinz dragon (though not the exact one she’d wanted—oops!). And for Zienna, there was a DVD featuring Pocoyo, the latest object of her kid-video adoration. All three kids were pleased—especially Zienna.

Later in the day, I set up our traditional Easter egg hunt, with goodies and levels of difficulty specific to each Z Kid. Zienna's eggs, filled with M&M's (or "M's," as she refers to them) and a few coins, were simply strewn around the lawn so she could find them easily and—in part to make up for the fiasco the day before—in short order. Zoë's eggs, filled with money instead of more already-too-abundant candy, were hidden a bit more thoroughly. And because he'd mocked how openly I'd hid them last year, Zach's "stealth eggs"—in colors and textures resembling concrete, wood, and vegetation—were hidden in such difficult places around our yard that after an hour or so, I finally had to go out and help him locate them. By that time, Zienna was inside playing with her eggs, ridiculously happy as she emptied and re-filled them over and over.

The rest of the day was full of simple pleasures—hanging out, playing with friends, and eating an uncomplicated, barbecued veggie dinner. And no one was happier about it all than Zienna, who was thrilled to have an afternoon with nothing better to do than play with her pal from down the street, Faith. Kites were flown in the spring breeze. Conversations were had. And memories were made. And throughout it all, Zienna had a smile on her face, oblivious to everything but the fact that a pretend rabbit and a few pieces of candy had brought about such joy.

Oh, to be that innocent and carefree again. At least I can be, in a sense, as I experience such things vicariously through Zienna's eyes—and in this case, mouth.

Baseball Teaches This Fan a Lesson About Life

Being the baseball fan that I am, I was really excited heading into this season knowing Zach would be playing in the Majors division of his Little League. I was even more thrilled discovering that Zach's interest in the sport had grown even beyond what it had been last year. And I was ecstatic when he did himself beyond proud in tryouts when, on a cold, blustery day, with shifting, driving winds straight out of our beloved AT&T Park, he fielded like a pro. That performance led to his being selected early in the draft, setting the wheels in motion for what I expected would be his—and my—dream season.

I'm generally not one of those parents who live and die based on their kid's athletic performance. But as my hopes for what Zach could accomplish escalated, I started to feel like one. So when Zach told me after practice a few weeks ago that his arm was bothering him and that at one point, it had actually gone numb, I was concerned, but not terribly so. Blinded subconsciously by an unwillingness to accept that anything could derail how well he was playing, I told Zach to rest his arm when we got home and to let me know if it was still bothering him the next day. And then I basically forgot about it. Normally, I'd have worried. But I wasn't in that mode.

Finally, last Saturday, the big event arrived: Opening Day. Zach's team had practiced and scrimmaged Wednesday and Friday nights, then snuck in additional preparation during downtime that afternoon. Shortly before game time, Zach took a line drive from one of his coaches hard off his sternum. I wasn’t there and didn't know about it until later. But as I’d learn, it was going to impact him in a big way.

Minutes later, the game was underway. Right off the bat, it was clear Zach and his teammates were dragging. After going down in order in the top of the first, they took to the field, with Zach heading to left. He jogged out and was moving slowly, and I became frustrated, not aware that he’d been hurt earlier. But then things went from bad to worse when a ball hit to left went right by Zach, rolling to the fence. He trotted to the ball, bent down slowly to retrieve it, and then tossed it half-heartedly toward the infield. I was thoroughly confused, knowing how he'd been pumped up for days looking forward to this game.

When his team came off the field after giving up three runs, signs of the funk affecting them was etched on every one of the players' faces—particularly Zach's. The coach apparently noticed, and he made some changes pronto. After batting once—and striking out—Zach was pulled from the game. I couldn't blame the coach, given Zach's performance and the fact that they were trailing and playing lackadaisically. But I still wasn't happy. Suddenly, I was that hyper-competitive parent again, wishing I could snap my fingers and make my kid perform like Super Athlete.

A few innings later, Zach was reinserted in the lineup, and as fate would have it, he was left standing at the plate when a teammate tried unsuccessfully to steal in the final out of the game. Zach headed toward the dugout, dejected, and I knew we'd be having a heart to heart on the drive home. When we got to the car, he nearly started crying, telling me about the ball that had hit him and explaining that when he'd taken the field in the first inning, he could barely breathe, let alone bend over. Then, when he'd tried to throw the ball and salvage the play, the numb-elbow-and-pain-down-the-arm syndrome had struck again, only much worse this time. And, he said, by the time he'd made it back to the dugout, his hand was shaking and so weak that he could barely clutch a water bottle.

At that point, I did a complete emotional one-eighty. Here I'd been disappointed that he'd been giving less than 100% effort, yet he'd been pushing himself to perform and not admit that he was hurting, and hurting pretty badly. I felt so ashamed.

We iced Zach up when we got home, but it helped very little. By morning, he was worse. His arm had kept him up much of the night, and he had tenderness in his inner elbow and pain when he rotated his hand downward—classic signs of Little League Elbow, which affects a child's growth plates, as repetitive throwing causes soft, developing cartilage to crack and sometimes separate from the arm bone. Kelly and I talked, and after reading online that any boy Zach's age experiencing elbow pain after throwing should be evaluated immediately, we agreed he needed to see a sports medicine specialist.

So, two days later, Zach was x-rayed and evaluated. The good news was that he didn't have Little League Elbow. The bad news was that he had two forms of tendonitis, and he'd be spending at least four weeks in therapy, prohibited from throwing. When I heard the doctor say four weeks—and knowing that was the best-case scenario—the competitive dad started to surface again. But then I saw Zach's long face and obvious sadness, and I got over it. The consoling, supportive dad took over, and I heard myself telling Zach this was good news overall and that it could have been much worse. Finally, the realistic, pragmatic dad had arrived, and just in time.

Zach began his therapy the next day, and he loved the fact—as did I—that his therapist, hand-selected by his doctor, was a former minor league pitcher for the Oakland A's. And it was icing on top of the cake when later in the day, Kelly and I received a message from Zach’s coach telling us what a wonderful kid we have, how sorry he was to hear about the injury, and how badly he wanted Zach back on the team. Kelly and I shared the message with Zach and told him in no uncertain terms how proud we were of him and what he’s already accomplished regardless of whether he makes it back to the lineup this season. And watching his reaction—and sharing a group hug—I was reminded that as much as I love baseball, I love that kid a whole lot more.

Zach and I are both students of the game. But it’s pretty clear that this season, I’m the one who’s being taught the bigger—and ultimately, more valuable—lessons.

Welcome to My (Weird) World

Want first-hand evidence of the effects of staying home full time with no one to talk to most of the day other than a two-year-old (not that that's necessarily a bad thing)? Just watch the video below, at least until I get a cease and desist order from the copyright owner since I was naughty enough to post it here and provide them with free publicity (since neither its audio nor video is available commercially anywhere that I could find).

I get really excited when this comes on from time to time as Zienna's watching Sesame Street, arguably her favorite TV show. Really excited. In all reality, far too excited. And I got even more excited when I found a copy of it online this morning. Note that I don't even particularly like James Blunt, even if this version of his hit "You're Beautiful" sticks in my head every time I hear it and refuses to let go.

I won't say on this basis alone that my life is weird or anything. Just different. And on some days, really different. But I dare you to watch the video a few times through and see if you don't sing along. Laugh if you want to, but I know I do...

Daddy's Little Idol, Stage Fright and All

If you've ever spent time around Zoë, it probably hasn't taken you long to realize how much she loves to sing. Sometimes, it seems like all she ever does. Oh, sure, she sings in the shower. But she also sings in her room. And outside when she's playing. And in the car. And in front of the TV. She'd kill me for divulging this, but she even sings when she's sitting on the toilet. Believe me, if she ever wins American Idol, as she says she'd like to do, I'll be one of those parents they interview who reminisces about how much their kid loved to sing as a child.

Zoë even sings at school, apparently, or at least talks about doing so. When she was Star of the Week earlier this month and her classmates—who'd only known her a few weeks, since she'd just switched classes and joined theirs—wrote fictional stories about her, many wrote about her being on stage, including that big one on TV that draws 30 million viewers each week. They discussed the songs she'd sing (particularly those of Taylor Swift, her current idol). And they envisioned her winning. She's read the stories, bound into book form, over and over since bringing them home.

Problem is, much as my girl likes to work her pipes, she clams up when a big opportunity to do so comes along. She'll sing for an audience in a safe setting like our next door neighbor's living room, where she loves to give their karaoke machine a workout. But when asked to sing in a formal setting, Zoë's confidence disappears. And so, in four school plays over the past two years, Zoë has shied away from roles that would require her to sing as anything but part of a chorus. Oddly, she's readily accepted speaking parts. But faced with an opportunity to strut her musical stuff, she's cowered away, only too happy to avoid the spotlight.

I've explained to Zoë that if she wants to sing, she needs to get over her fear and take a chance. I've also reminded her that she's frequently complimented on her voice and technique. Even her teachers have encouraged her to try higher-profile roles. But it's all fallen on deaf ears. Frustration over wanting to sing but being too scared to do so has brought Zoë to tears a few times. But it's still not been enough to make her throw caution to the wind.

Kelly and I have, of course, been proud of Zoë's performances no matter what. Just last week, she took part in her new class' production entitled Child of the World. Though she joined the class weeks after the other students had begun memorizing lines and lyrics—and how to "sing" the songs in American Sign Language, which was part of the play—Zoë was one of the first students to learn the entire script. Yet, when a student with a featured role moved just days before the performance and the teachers scrambled to cover her part, Zoë wanted nothing to do with it. But no matter. Zoë, positioned in the middle of the ensemble and looking far too grown up in a wardrobe of her own choosing, did a great job, and we loved every minute of it. You can witness a bit of the magic for yourself in the video clip below.

Frankly, I suspect if Zoë had the talent to be an Idol contestant, we'd be seeing hints of brilliance by now. But there's no way I'm going to discourage her. Determination and desire can do wonders, and there's plenty of "singers" making comfortable livings on marginal talent. So you can bet I'm going to encourage Zoë, to sit through her performances, and to listen to my little song bird when she's in her own world, singing for herself and the shower head.

And if she finds a way out of her shell? Look out, world. With this kid's passion, I can only dream of what she might accomplish. Whether that meant Idol contestant or soloist in a school play, I'd be proud either way—and reminding everyone within earshot that I was her number one fan "way back when." And I'd mean every word of it, too.

Note: To view the video below in higher quality, click the "HD" button in the bottom right corner. Then, if you wish to view the video in full-screen mode, click the screen icon just to the left of the arrow.

Dog Bites Man

I know what you're thinking: surprise, surprise—Scott's had another lapse in blogging. And, I obviously realize this isn't the first time it's happened and that I've show up trying to explain why. But at least this time, there's a reason for it other than procrastination. Or rather, a few of them.

For starters, things headed downhill when I switched in mid-February, after nearly two years of flawless service, from Charter cable Internet to AT&T DSL. Lured by a 30% reduction in our monthly cost, guaranteed by a long-term contract and sweetened by some hefty rebates, I apparently forgot how much trouble we had with AT&T and all its numerous outages after we moved into our house in 2006. You think I'd remember the nights spent shivering outside with a phone test set plugged into our MPOE (minimum point of entry) jack, or the countless hours I spent on the phone arguing with script-reading tech support agents that finally prompted me to abandon AT&T, screaming and pulling out my hair, for an alternative. But I didn't. And since I didn't learn from history, it is, predictably, repeating itself, leaving our new service down as often as not—only weeks into what will be, if things don't improve soon, a very long two-year contract. It's hard to blog when you can't get online.

Next, as I was grappling with the connection issues and preparing to upload a couple of blog entries I'd written during the downtime, some very important people in my life were stricken with life-threatening health conditions. Given that I'd written about lighthearted, tongue-in-cheek topics—in part to veil my frustration with not being able to get online reliably—it just didn't feel right to post them with my head in an entirely different place, concerned as I was over those folks. And so, I began rewriting one and authoring another from scratch, only to have the service go down again—and this time much more severely, where it remained until (hopefully) yesterday. Ironically, I'd made a conscious decision just before these issues emerged to curtail my online time and focus more on home and family. Still, I wanted to be the one making the decisions about how, when, and why I'd be online, rather than being AT&T's stooge. Harumph.

And then finally, while battling the connection issues and propping myself up for hours on end on one elbow, under a desk, with a phone held to my ear with my shoulder, I began having severe pain in my neck that extended into my back and all the way down my arm and into my hand. As the pain grew worse, I took it seriously and decided that, stubborn or not, I was going to have to wait to address the Internet, my blog, and everything else related to the computer, since sitting at a desk had suddenly become very uncomfortable. But even with rest, the problem got worse, to the point that by last weekend, the pain had begun to rival that of the low-back problems I had in the 80's and 90's, when I had three herniated disks, endured multiple epidurals, and narrowly escaped surgery. I finally dragged myself to the doctor a few days ago, and while a diagnosis is pending (and the pain has mercifully subsided a bit, probably due to rest), it appears I may have ligament problems, tendinitis, and/or a neck injury—or some combination of the three. I miss being online, but if sitting is an issue, I don't know often I'll be there until this situation improves.

So, there's my attempt to check in and explain my absence, just in case anyone was wondering where I've been. In the grander scheme of things, not being able to check my email or grind out self-serving prose isn't really that big of a deal. You really come to realize that when the lives of people you care about are in danger. But I at least wanted to drop in and post something so it wouldn't seem like just another garden-variety gap in the history of Fatherhood.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to find a chalkboard so I can write some Bart Simpson-style lines on it. If Pennsylvania school officials meted out such a punishment to those who sold a $46,000 trailer on eBay for $1, it only seems fair I should face the same fate for not learning my lesson about AT&T's crappy broadband service. Repeat after me 500 times, "I will not fall for AT&T's lousy DSL service again." D'oh!

There She Goes Again

After missing Zoë's moment in the spotlight at her school's December awards ceremony, you can bet I took things much more seriously when she brought home another award notification letter earlier this week. There was no doubt I was going to be there for her this time. Neither flooded streets, forest fires, nor wild horses themselves could have kept me away from her campus yesterday, even though—once again—I had no idea how or for what she was to be recognized.

Good thing I'd learned my lesson. Because for the second time in four months, Zoë was, to my utter shock and surprise, named Student of the Month.

With schools turning increasingly to "each child gets a turn" faux awards in an era where everyone wins and youth sports teams don't keep score, Turtle Bay's Student of the Month is a legitimate award given to just one child per month from each class. With twenty students in each second-grade class and ten months in the school year, it's obvious not everyone's going to get one, let alone two. And yes, I'd have been happy and proud of Zoë had she received either of the other two awards presented at the ceremony—one for citizenship and one for embodying the school spirit. But I certainly wasn't going to complain about what actually happened, either. If I hadn't been videotaping the big moment, I'd have been jumping up and cheering like a madman.

That I'd not been present when Zoë received the same award in December made it that much sweeter that I was able to be there this time. And, the fact that we'd switched Zoë's teacher and classroom just three weeks ago made the latest award a bit more special, too. Though Zoë had seemed happy in her original class at the start of the school year, she'd quickly began to struggle. Kelly and I tried everything to make it right, including communicating frequently with her teacher and meeting with her very supportive principal, Mr. Woods. But as rides home from school continued to be crying sessions and Zoë's unhappiness affected her behavior and, increasingly, our family, we knew it was time for a change.

And so we did it. Zoë isn't big on change and was very nervous at first, begging over the weekend before the move to cancel everything and leave bad enough alone. But from the very first day in the new class, there was no doubt it was a better fit for her. Suddenly, Zoë was cheery instead of grumpy when I picked her up. She began showing confidence with her schoolwork again instead of self-doubt. She started getting ready for school before we'd even gone in to wake her, rather than fighting to stay in bed and skip school. And her behavior, thankfully, began to improve.

And then she made Student of the Month just three weeks later. That she'd settled in that quickly and made enough of an impression to warrant such recognition seemed a clear sign that we'd done the right thing. Mission accomplished.

Later in the day, Zoë was again singled out when her teacher deemed her the class' "Star of the Week." And while, yes, this is one of those "each child gets a turn" faux awards, I'm quite sure it was an even bigger deal to Zoë than the honor bestowed upon her earlier in the day. Because this time, she got to bring home the class' mascot, Blackie the bear, for the weekend. And as we all know, borrowing an over-loved and tattered stuffed animal is a lot more fun to a seven-year-old than actually getting to keep some silly old piece of paper—even one that says you're Student of the Month.

But that's OK, let the bear make Zoë happy. She's earned it, and besides, I've got the paper. And once I've smoothed out all the wrinkles it received after being crammed into Zoë's backpack, I'll be tucking it away alongside the other mementos that remind me how lucky I am to have such awesome kids calling me "Dad." And how proud I am of them—especially when they can bounce back from adversity.

Note: To view the video below in higher quality, click the arrow icon in the bottom right corner as it begins playing, then click "HD." Then, if you wish to view the video in full-screen mode, click the screen icon just to the left of the arrow. Enjoy!

The Big Switcheroo

Though we're old as dirt and have been together forever, I'm here to say that Kelly and I spent our twenty-eighth Valentine's Day in our bedrooms. Yes, bedrooms plural—as in Zach's, Zoë's, and Zienna's. Oh, sure, we made it to ours eventually. But by then, we were exhausted, sore, and ready to collapse. And why not? We'd engaged in vigorous physical activity all day. Because on that over-marketed Hallmark holiday, we shuffled all three kids' rooms, furniture and all.

For a few years now, Zoë has been experiencing major Bunk Bed Envy, since shortly after Zach's eighth birthday, we'd purchased him a loft-style bunk and she'd begun begging for one of her own. Her envy turned into unadulterated jealousy after we moved into the house, as three girls on the block had bunks of their own. It became routine that every time Zach went away for the night, Zoë would, despite boy sweat and dirty sheets, sleep in his bed. She loved it, and Kelly and I wondered, since we still struggled to get Zoë down at night, if having a bunk might motivate her to turn in with fewer hassles. I located a cute, feminine model at Bombay Kids—but then Bombay filed for bankruptcy and closed its doors, just as we hit some financial snags of our own. So, the topic was shelved.

Then a few weeks ago, Zach made an offhand remark about feeling like he was outgrowing his bed. Hearing his concerns, a light bulb went off above my head: Would he be interested in switching beds with Zoë? When he said yes, I told him to mull it over and that Kelly and I would do the same.

Talking it over, Kelly and I recalled that when we'd moved in, Zach had expressed an interest in the small bedroom at the front of the house. We'd vetoed him, convinced he should have the largest, quietest room. But with Zach facing baseball games ending at 10:00 pm this spring and 7:00 am band sessions next fall, didn't it now make sense for him to have the room next to the front door? He wholeheartedly agreed that it did. And since Zoë was a slam dunk, I knew the deal was done. Now all we had to do was pull it off.

So it was that on Saturday morning, I got an itch to be productive and decided to move the kids before we changed our minds. But to do so, I faced the daunting task of disassembling and reassembling the bunk bed, which is no small feat. Debating myself mentally, I felt another light bulb go off: Why not leave the bed where it was and move Zoë in there? Presented with the idea, Zoë went from excited to ecstatic. And thus, the move was on.

Though it took most of the day, we managed to clear the rooms one by one, relocate their contents, and toss a bunch of stuff out along the way to boot. And then, figuring that a change of scenery might be a good luck charm, I got really ambitious and dug the pieces to our toddler bed out of the garage, intent on giving it a try. I had to fight to keep Zienna off the bed as I assembled it, and when bedtime rolled around a short time later, she was only too glad to climb on and tuck herself in. Moments later, Zoë did the same in her bunk. Wow. I could hardly believe it.

So, the big move was a win all around. Zoë got her bed, Zach got his room, and Zienna got to ditch her crib. And as for me and Kelly, it appears that after years of nighttime battles, we finally have a smooth nighttime ritual for all three kids. It may not have been a candlelight dinner or a moonlit walk. But as fortysomething parents with three young children, we'll take it—especially since now, we can actually go to bed at a decent hour ourselves.

Talk about a gift that keeps on giving. At that point, who needs Hallmark, anyway?

It's Easy Not Being Green

I started hearing it the minute we had Zach: "Oh my gosh, what beautiful eyes!"

Typically the speaker would simultaneously be sneaking glances at my drab, grey orbs with a puzzled expression on his or her face.

"They're Mom's," I'd explain, as a look of relief mixed with apology greeted my words. "Hers are big, green, and really amazing."

This scenario has played out too many times to count during the past twelve years. Hearing the same sentiments so often, it's been tempting to take them for granted. But when I stop and really look at my kids' eyes, I appreciate them what they are: updated versions of what attracted me to my wife in the first place. And on that level, I can say without embarrassment that yeah, they are pretty gorgeous.

Before I met Kelly, I was, frankly, partial to blue-eyed blonds. But the moment I set eyes on her, those amazing, clover-colored peepers drew me in and wouldn't let go. They hypnotized me, and overnight, I became a green-eyed lady kind of guy.

So, when my first kid came issued with carbon copies of Mom's peepers, I was neither surprised nor disappointed. Hell, I was grateful. And overnight, I couldn't take Zach out of the house without receiving constant compliments on his eyes. Never mind that he had long, luscious lashes any model would die for. That only sweetened the deal. That they were the hue of fresh-cut grass reminded me every time I looked at him that I'd married the right girl.

When Zoë came along, she emerged the same big eyes and long lashes as Zach. Soon, I was getting compliments directed at her as often as I was about Zach, even if, for a time, it seemed Zoë's eyes might stay blue, as they had been at birth. But as she reached toddlerhood, they began to mimic her brother's. Blue became turquoise and then green, and that's where they stayed. The Middle Z's eyes are expressive beyond belief, and though I'm biased, I've got a feeling some lucky guy is going to fall as deeply into them one day as I did into her mom's.

With me outnumbered three to one, I wouldn't have been terribly disappointed if Zienna had joined me in a blue-eyed coalition of two. At birth, she did just that, though her eyes were as big and hard to miss as her siblings'. Of course, I knew that most Caucasian babies' eyes start out blue before gaining pigment that determines their ultimate color. Yet, as her second birthday came and went, Zienna's eye color had deepened, giving them a sapphire-like appearance. Fairer skinned than Zach or Zoë, it was looking as if she'd be the kid who most resembled me, tone-wise.

But it was not to be. It was Zach who, a couple of weeks ago, noticed quite out of the, um, blue that his younger sister's eyes had suddenly followed his and Zoe's lead, taking on what has by now become a Z Kid trademark: an emerald-like cast. I was startled when I saw that he was right, given how quickly—and late—they'd changed. But change they had, and it suddenly seemed well and right that the kids I adore should share the physical trait that had first attracted me to their mother. And overnight, people who knew us—neighbors, the checkers at the grocery store, and the like—were suddenly noticing Zienna's new look, often with surprise.

Early in my parenthood, I felt left out when people made comments about how much The Z Kids resembled Kelly. Over time, though, I've come to realize what a huge compliment it is. Yeah, I see a bit of me in each of them. But given the choice to look at mini mes or variations on my gorgeous wife's appearance? That's not a tough call. So, as I've said to Kelly so many times before for so many different reasons—and I'll say many times more before the story we're writing together is done—thanks, sweetie.

Oh, and Happy Valentine's Day, too.

Small But Mighty

Though she won't be three until the end of May, Zienna constantly amazes me with how quickly she's picking up basic preschool knowledge. For some time now, she's been reciting the ABCs and counting to ten. She's recently moved on to twenty and counting small groups of items. She's got basic colors and shapes down pat, and she's the first of our kids to master the classic Tupperware Shape O Ball—so much so that I gave it to a neighbor since Zienna could do it, like a rocket scientist doing a Rubik's Cube, in mere seconds.

Still, much of what's behind those feats is memorization. Taking things to the next step is another story. So, imagine my shock when Zienna began doing puzzles, including some labeled for ages three and up, out of the blue. After watching Zoë assemble a few, she'd asked to try some herself. But aside from the "put the pieces where they go" wooden type, she'd not had much luck—until last week, that is. Hanging out with me as I cleaned the garage, Zienna jumped when she saw a bin containing numerous puzzles Zach and Zoë had outgrown long ago. Since many were missing pieces anyway, I saw no harm in letting her play with them. I sorted out the pieces as best as I could and then left her to experiment.

A few minutes later, Zienna called out to me saying she'd completed one of the puzzles. Yeah, right, I thought, ready to praise her for trying. Except, she'd actually done it—and the one she'd put together was a picture of Reptar from Rugrats, a character and show she'd never seen, meaning she had no reference point from which to work. So, yeah, I praised her alright. And I did it again when she completed Barney, Dora, Blue, and a few others. It absolutely blew me away that she'd done them with no help at all.

The next day, we were back in the garage, and I found a box containing more advanced puzzles. Among them was a Strawberry Shortcake model with fruit-shaped pieces for each number from one to ten. I gave it to Zienna, and it wasn't long before she'd matched the berries to their respective places even though they were all quite similar. Figuring she was up for a challenge, I removed the pieces and asked Zienna to find me the number three, which she did. Then I asked for five. No problem. And so forth. By the time we were done, she'd confused "1" and "7 " and "6" and "9," as well as not recognizing "10." But the rest of the numbers she'd identified without hesitation. We celebrated her success with a spirited round of high-fives, her favorite.

Then this morning, as I was holding her in my arms, I noticed Zienna was studying my shirt.

"Daddy, there's three A's on your shirt," she said, holding up the same number of fingers.

I looked down and, reading "JAMAICA," realized that yep, she was right.

"And there's a C," she added, pointing to it. Right again.

And though she called the "M" a "W," I was still mighty impressed.

When I made the decision in 2001 to stay home full time, I set a goal of having Zoë, who'd just turned one, reading before kindergarten. I'd spent ten years working for the company behind Hooked on Phonics, so I knew it was possible. I ultimately fell short on my goal, but just barely. Then again, I hadn't really start working with Zoë until she was three, and I'd had to curtail my efforts the final summer before school since Zienna needed my attention and was leaving me exhausted.

Given Zienna's early start, I'm even more determined to have her reading when she heads off to kindergarten. With sixth-grade Zach reading at a twelfth-grade level and second-grade Zoë devouring books from the middle-school section of the library, Zienna's got some big footsteps to walk in. But you know what? That's one kind of sibling rivalry I'll definitely encourage.

The Unwanted Houseguest

I love animals—really I do. I've been an ethical vegetarian going on 18 years. I give to animal rights and welfare groups when Kelly and I can afford to. And I struggle, living in an area where the average Joe lives to hunt and fish, not to get angry when pressured to "just give it a try."

Yep, I'm passionate about animals. But, that doesn't mean I care about them all equally. Insects don't get much concern from me. Spiders, unless I know for sure they're harmless, I kill on site without the slightest hint of shame. If snakes disappeared from the planet tomorrow, I'd be happier and calmer. And rodents? They're in a league of their own. For years, Zoë has been begging for a hamster—or a guinea pig, or even a mouse or a rat. But it isn't going to happen on my watch. No way, no how.

Mind you, when we've had problems with rodents, I've been compassionate in dealing with them. Rather than conventional mouse traps, which I liken to cruel leg-hold traps used for coyotes, I've relied upon ultrasonic devices and catch and release traps, much as I dread emptying the latter. Still, if forced to choose between my PETAesque leanings and my paranoia of the order Rodentia, I fall unequivocally on the side of survival. Cornered by a nasty, plague-carrying ball of fur, with no way out and a shovel in my hand, I guarantee you'd I'd be swinging steel with purpose in very short order. I'm not going to stomp my foot, since he's germ-covered and gross. But I'm not going to mess around, either.

It's a ridiculous understatement to say I'm no Willard. In that context, consider if you will the events that unfolded yesterday morning...

Stepping into our garage, I noticed there were hand washables in our utility sink which I'd started and forgotten about several days before. Since I'd done nothing but fill the sink and add detergent, I proceeded to scrub the clothes. And as I did, I noticed protruding from one of Zach's beanies something that looked like a rather thick band of elastic. Shoot, I thought, it must be coming unsewn. So, I pulled on it—and then nearly passed out. Because it wasn't a piece of elastic.

It was a rat's tail.

I must have shrieked rather loudly, girly-man that I am, because through two closed doors, Zane heard me and began barking like mad. Within seconds, Zienna was in the garage asking me what was wrong. Her presence snapped me back into reality, giving my stunned brain a much-needed jump start. And as my senses resumed functioning, I was able to see that this was no finger tip-sized pet store mouse. The hefty tail was connected to a body roughly five inches long—a body that had been floating in soapy water for who knows how long and was now bloated. And decomposing. And as I took all this in, I suddenly realized that the water had a foul stench about it and that brownish muck was clinging at its surface to the sides of the formerly white sink.

Then I remembered that I'd been sloshing my hands around in that foul brew for a good two or three minutes. Gulp.

That was it. My breakfast was now begging for release, leaving me doing what I could to hide the gagging from Zienna. Fearful she would peer into the sink, I distracted myself by hurriedly luring her into the house. Then, just wanting the experience to be over, I mustered up every ounce of courage inside me and snapped on some rubber gloves. Still shaking, I headed back in to the garage, disposed of the creepy little corpse, and then alternately flooded the sink with bleach, about a can's worth of Lysol, and gallons of hot water. And for good measure, I went over it—repeatedly—with disinfectant wipes. Finally, I tossed the stopper and what had once been laundry into the trash, where they belonged. There was no way I was keeping them, not considering where they'd been!

This weekend, I intend to hit the garage on poopy patrol. In our last residence in the Bay Area, a family of mice nested in the main heater duct, where they became trapped before rotting, filling every square inch of the house with the most gut-lurching stench imaginable. So, I want to be absolutely sure that the guy who committed hari-kari in our sink was alone, not hunting for a family.

But when I do, you can be darned sure I'll have a shovel in hand.

It's a Family Tradition (Apparently)

Let’s get one thing out in the open right away: I am not a scientist. However, since writing earlier this month about Zienna's fascination with waste collectors—and speculating that there must be a recessive gene responsible for such a quirk—I've learned enough to deduct, relying solely upon my rudimentary high school and college genetics instruction, that I was 100% on the mark. And when the science journals are writing this stuff up and you see it reported on Headline News, you, lucky reader, can say you heard about it first.

Just witness the staggering evidence pouring in from both sides of our family:

Case #1: My Nephews Aidan, Cole and Grant

In that previous entry, I discussed how my brother Steve's boys' appreciation for their garbage man is so deep-rooted and impassioned that it will one day be the stuff of legends—even if Walter, the man whose heroics turned them into Garbage Groupies, seems to have left the building.

"I'm afraid we haven't seen him lately," Steve commented on the entry. “We still have his Christmas card waiting, but every week since before the holiday, it's been a different driver.”

“We're left to wonder what's become of him."

Too bad about Walter, since he's the one who launched the boys' fanaticism. But it seems obvious that when any part of "we"—as in, your entire family—has a Christmas card waiting for one specific guy who humbly removed your rubbish, you're a true fan of the man.

Conclusion: Garbage Groupie gene present.

Case #2: Kelly's Nephew Adam

After reading about Zienna, Melissa, Kelly's father's sister, emailed to tell me that as a child, her son Adam exhibited signs of being a Garbage Groupie.

"When Adam was about two, he developed a thing for the garbage truck's arrival," she said. "He actually got to the point where he 'rode' the side of the playpen his younger siblings were in, holding a round block container that was his version of the garbage can."

Melissa and her then-husband, Howard, searched desperately for a toy garbage truck to supplement Adam's faux can. That by the time they did, Adam was four and "on to much bigger and better things" doesn't discount the fact that at Zienna's age, he’d had the bug. Riding a playpen and pretending it's a refuse rig? C'mon. Case closed.

Conclusion: Garbage Groupie gene present.

Pretty impressive, you say? Well, hold on tight, because you haven’t seen anything yet. Just take a look at this one…

Case #3: Me

That's right. Hard as I find it to believe, yours truly apparently carries the Garbage Groupie gene himself and, as a child, exhibited its presence. This stunning news comes from none other than my mother, whose email on the topic may have provided the clincher in my informal little study.

"I thought I’d told you of your fascination as a youngster with garbage men,” she said. “You were little, and it was the highlight of your week, seeing the guys come to collect our trash!"

Continuing, she said, "At that age (probably 2-1/2 or so), whenever your dad and I asked you what you wanted to be when you grew up, your reply was, 'A garbage man.'"

"This was cute to us, and we figured you would grow out of this idea one day," she added. "So, ugh, I think this fascination comes by our family naturally. You started, I think, by being the first in our family to have the fascination!"

Conclusion: Garbage Groupie gene present—unless you're gonna argue with my mom, that is!

So there you have it. Children on both sides of our family have, for more than 40 years, scrambled to their respective windows just to catch a glimpse of a guy tossing trash. And clearly, since the trait is now present in our daughter, there’s definite genetics at work. It’s as simple as that.

Rubbish, you say? Perhaps. But I'm afraid we'll have to shelve that debate and revisit it later. Right now, I've got to do some serious soul searching. Maybe even hunt down a regression therapist. Because to be honest, I'm reeling from the image of little me getting excited over a garden variety waste collector.

Me, a Garbage Groupie? Sheesh...

Taxi Tales: The Owie Maneuver

On too many days, I feel like a dad driving the bumper sticker-clichéd “Mom’s Taxi,” given how many short trips I take transporting Zach and Zoë to and from school and events around town. Arriving home from one outing just in time to leave on another gets old quickly, and it really wears on me. And yet, as I wallow in self-pity, I sometimes forget that Zienna is right there behind me, mile after mind-numbing mile, stoplight after drowse-inducing stoplight. Considering she's barely able to move or stretch when confined by the straightjacket-like straps of her car seat, is it any wonder that with increasing frequency, when I reach for my car keys, she protests? A play date for Zoë or a sports event for Zach means just one thing to Zienna: being stuck in the car for who knows how long, away from the toys and play she loves so much.

Simultaneously, Zienna has developed a habit—sometimes annoying, sometimes amusing—of parroting the symptoms of any malady expressed within her earshot. If Elmo develops a cold, within seconds Zienna says she has one, too. If Zach stubs his toe, Zienna claims to have done the same thing. And if a neighborhood friend complains of an upset stomach, Zienna immediately reports similar symptoms. And, she's discovered that she need not wait for an external cue, drumming up illnesses and injuries of her own making—some downright comical. “Daddy, I sick” in Twospeak can mean “I need a hug,” “I’m tired,” or a million other things.

I try not to laugh or dismiss her concerns. Instead, I look for their real cause and then dispense kisses, reassurance and distraction. And when there's even the slightest evidence of a real owie, I resort to the time-tested cure-all: the band-aid. We go through a lot of band-aids.

Still, I couldn't help but snicker over an exchange we had this morning. Zienna had woken up cranky and protested mightily about getting dressed. She’d complained more fiercely over leaving the house. And then, even though it was below freezing, she’d refused to get into the car without me. Since I was more concerned about Zoë getting a tardy, I allowed Zienna to stand beside me as I chiseled the rock-hard sheets of ice blanketing our windows. Finally realizing she was cold, Zienna was in no mood for the car seat by the time I loaded her into it.

Thankfully, she quieted down once we hit the road—at least until we headed back up the hill. Though Zienna hates our shuttle missions, once we’re out, she dislikes even more heading back home, where she was suddenly begging not to go. I reminded Zienna that her favorite TV show, Sesame Street, was about to start, but she claimed she didn't want to watch it. But at least her tantrum subsided—briefly, anyway. Seconds later, she began quasi-crying ("fake crying," as Kelly and I call it). What on earth could it be now, I wondered.

"Daddy?" she sobbed.

"Yes, sweetie?" I replied, with as much verbal sugar as I could pour on.

"My finger has a owie," she replied, no doubt referring to yet another ripped cuticle brought on by dry hands so common in our low-humidity climate.

"How did that happen?" I asked, with restrained concern.

"My finger got a owie from being in the car too much," she replied emphatically.

"How did that happen?" I asked again, fighting back laughter and not knowing what else to say.

"I dunno," she replied. "But my finger been in the car too much."

At that point, we turned onto our street, and I was left to ponder whether my girl had been working the mechanisms in her small but growing arsenal—my guilt over dragging her around so much, and her recognition that owies get you attention—or if this was just a spontaneous and accidental coupling of the two. But I tried not to smile, knowing that wouldn't help.

And I promised a band-aid as soon as we got home.

Giving Credit Where Credit is Due

Late last year when I was in Blogging Avoidance Mode, I let slip by a perfect excuse to sit down and bang out an entry when Zoë was named Student of the Month at her elementary school. Caught up with holiday distractions and full of excuses, I put the topic off until it was filed by my cluttered mind as "Too Old To Blog About." But last week, my actions—or lack of them—came back to bite me in the butt.

Much as I hate to admit it, I wasn't even present for the presentation of the award. Still trying to learn the routines at Zoë’s new school, Kelly and I hadn’t paid given much thought to the slip she brought home announcing that she was to be recognized at a morning ceremony. We assumed it was to acknowledge that she'd reached an Accelerated Reader milestone—something to be proud of but not worth dragging a potentially disruptive (and at the time, sick) Zienna in for. Kelly eats that sort of stuff up, so she attended for both of us.

Imagine my surprise and disappointment when Kelly called from the car to tell me what had happened. Massive parental guilt ensued. I apologized profusely to Zoë after school and assured her that had I known, I'd have been there with bells on—and that it would never happen again. I was frustrated that the announcement had been so vague, especially since nearly every kid in her class received one for the aforementioned AR certificates. But really, I had no one to blame but myself. I owned up to my mistake and asked for her forgiveness, and Zoë seemed OK. But if I’d blogged, she'd have known for sure how proud of her I was. Ahem.

Flash forward to week before last when Zach's school sent home a rather formal invitation requesting our presence at its awards ceremony. Having received his straight-A report card during vacation, we knew why, and we marked our calendars at home and at Kelly's work. There was never any doubt that we—all of us—would be in attendance.

And yet, upon arriving at Zach's school auditorium Wednesday night, we learned it was an even bigger deal than we'd imagined. Yes, he'd made honor roll, but then so did roughly two-thirds of his class. What we neither knew nor suspected was that his school breaks down its honor roll into three levels, and by attaining a 4.0 grade point average for the semester—one of just a handful of sixth graders to do so—he was lumped into the elite group bestowed with the title "Principal's Honor Roll." Wow.

The ceremony dragged as such things tend to do, and we high-tailed it out as quickly as possible afterward. Once in the car, we showered Zach with praise and made it a life lesson about hard work and sacrifice, especially since Zach had struggled after getting sick mid-term. By the time we got home, it was all satisfied smiles and euphoria—with one exception. Zoë was visibly upset. When I asked what was wrong, she reacted, as is her nature, by withdrawing and going silent.

Dropping to my knees, I begged her to open up. And on the verge of tears, Zoë looked me in the eye and asked why we hadn't made nearly such a big deal over her Student of the Month award. Oops. She was absolutely right. I accepted the well-deserved emotional sucker punch, but that didn't mean it hurt any less.

Acknowledgment and apologies were administered profusely, and by the time Zoë turned in, I felt confident that amends had been made. But my lesson had been learned. And you can be darned sure that the next time there's an awards ceremony—ANY awards ceremony—I'll be in the crowd cheering for her at the top of my lungs.

Trash Talk and Garbage Groupies

For some time, my brother Steve has been writing about his sons' fascination with their garbage man, Walter. Their obsession with his profession has made its way into their artwork, room décor and toy collection, which I’ve found peculiar but amusing since The Z Kids’ idols have typically been…oh, let’s just say more traditional. Firefighters. Cops. Soldiers. Athletes. Musicians. Actors. Even politicians, in some cases. But certainly not garbage men.

Cue whatever sound indicates irony since it’s looking like I may be forced to accept the possibility of a recessive Hamilton gene that causes otherwise normal kids to become garbage man groupies. Because unbelievably, it's not just my nephews who are jonesing for the junk man. It's Zienna, too.

It all started innocently enough. We moved into a partially-completed housing development before Zienna was three months old, so she’s only too accustomed to seeing big trucks outside our front windows. The older she's gotten, the more excited she's become about the spectacle, and it's a common sight to see her, face pressed to the window or even outside on the porch, taking it all in with wide-eyed wonder.

But, as the construction has started winding down, the daily rig rally has slowed to a mere trickle, much to Zienna’s dismay. Leave it to my smart little cookie to take note of the fact that if Daddy has the trash bins sitting at the curb when she rises, then it must be Friday morning. And that mean trucks are coming. And not just any trucks, but the ones with giant, mechanical claws that lift the bins high into the air before dumping their colorful contents. Wow.

Mind you, even though he's a boy, Zach has never paid much attention to garbage trucks or the men who drive them. Nor has Zoë. But one Friday a few months ago, Zienna heard one coming, ran to the window screaming "Garbage man! Garbage man!” She watched it do its deal and then, as best as I can tell, spontaneously developed the same fanaticism that afflicts her cousins.

Overnight, she began pointing out every truck around town, jumping frantically in her car seat and doing the Garbage Man Chant. And, she insisted that I look at whatever vehicle to which she was pointing (often not a garbage truck) and share in her excitement. On one such occasion, Zach and Zoë stared first at Zienna, then at me, with dumbfounded looks on their faces.

"She likes garbage trucks," I said matter-of-factly.

"That's dumb," Zoë replied, just as matter-of-factly, as only a seven-year-old can do.

“Not to a two-year-old,” I countered, momentarily buying into the hysteria and falling into a losing battle.

Still, even if Zienna’s siblings weren’t on board with her rubbish retriever rage, it was clear she was hooked. And then, with her admiration for garbage gurus already in place, it happened: Sitting on the porch with special guest Mommy on the Saturday (since it was a holiday week) after Christmas, our garbage man noticed Zienna waving. And he waved back. And honked, as only a big, semi-shiny garbage truck air horn can honk. And Zienna went nuts.

Unfortunately, that incident has created its own problem. Ever since, as it was today (and frankly, every garbage day since), if the garbage man has not waved or honked, Zienna has been horribly disappointed. And who can blame her? Once the man in that big, filthy truck has acknowledged you as a fan, you're going to want your fix every time you see him!

I said earlier this week that Zienna is prone to idiosyncrasies. So, am I worried about her one day riding off into the sunset with a garbage truck jockey? Eh, if he were a nice guy, I’d deal with it. But since my girl's a neat freak, washing her hands constantly and often bathing multiple times per day, I can’t see it happening.

But if he allowed her to honk the horn herself or—gasp—operate the big claw, even? Well, you never know…

Girl's Best Friend (aka Playdate at Zane's House!)

For about a year now, Zienna has been begging on a near-daily basis to attend school. She's a smart cookie, having mastered colors and shapes earlier than either Zach or Zoë, and she loves doing “homework.” She also sees the playground equipment at Zoë’s school—the “park,” as she calls it—and presumably thinks it comprises the bulk of the students’ curriculum. Throw in that she’s an absolute social butterfly, begging to tag along every time the older Z Kids head out to play with friends, and yeah, this girl is ready for more stimulation than I can offer her. And yet, preschool won't happen for another six months at least.

Good thing Zane's around.

Given that Zienna and Zane joined our family just four months apart, I suppose it was inevitable they'd be pals. They’ve spent countless hours at home together, and from the minute Zienna could crawl—around, over, and often on—Zane, they’ve been best buds. With Zienna starving for companionship and play, I’ve readily come to see Zane as “our" dog, especially since Zach, who begged to adopt him, hardly ever has a thing to do with the poor guy. No, Zienna can't feed Zane or clean up his poop, but she can pet, wrestle and throw a ball for him to fetch, and he seems to enjoy their time together.

But this week, things took a new—and rather odd—turn.

In the past, Zienna has occasionally crawled into Zane's crate, where she’s typically pretended to lock herself inside and then call for me to let her out—Attention-Getting 101. It was a harmless little game, even if I worried a bit about the fecal bacteria and whatnot that no doubt inhabits the floor of the structure. But then, Zienna spends half her life on the floor anyway, and I'll readily admit that ours is far from spotless.

It had been some time since Zienna had been in the crate until yesterday morning when, thoroughly engrossed in tending to my ailing PC, I semi-consciously heard its door slam. And then it got very quiet. And when the quiet continued, the little "better see what she's up to" alarm went off in my head. When I went to investigate, I heard giggling from inside the crate, where Zienna and Zane were sitting side by side, packed rather tightly, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

I tried to open the door, but Zienna immediately protested.

"We playing, Daddy," she explained. "Me and Zane like it in here."

Since they looked so contented, I resumed my work and again forgot about them until that alarm went off again and I found they were still "playing"—even though nearly an hour had gone by! By then, Zane was whimpering for escape, tired of the game. I convinced Zienna that Zane needed to go potty, so she let him out. But she didn’t budge for some time. And even after emerging, she returned repeatedly throughout the day, sometimes with Zane, sometimes without. It got to where I hardly even noticed.

This morning, bright and early, I heard the crate door slam shut once again. And there Zienna was, sitting happy as a clam next to Zane, who by this point was flashing me a look of "Yeah, it's sweet and all, but please, HELP ME!" But it was no use. Zienna insisted Zane wanted to be in the crate, and that was that. It's not like she was beating him, so I left him there to suffer for Zienna's happiness.

Zienna's a real character, and I suspect this will pass like the other myriad offbeat behaviors she's exhibited as she's found ways to amuse herself. And if not? Well heck, I've had my eye on her room as an office for some time now. And part of me wonders if she’d even care.

Oops! . . . I did it again (with no apologies to Britney)

Though opinions vary somewhat, most experts say it takes roughly six weeks to form a new habit— like the one I recently set out to form about blogging regularly. Considering I started up again in mid-September, I came darn close before farting out in early November. But like Britney Spears forgetting her undergarments, it’s obvious that—oops—I did it again. Mind you, I'd rather flake on my blog than be photographed with my privates on public display. But I still feel self-conscious about not following through for the umpteenth time on something so simple.

The irony is that since I last blogged, ideas for entries have popped up left and right. They've come so frequently, it's been all I could do just to jot them down. At the moment, I've got something like two dozen waiting to be developed. And yet, when I sit down and try to blog, it's reminiscent of the days when I wrote a newspaper column. It becomes work, and I sit there, uninspired and trying to force it. And the last thing I want to do is write when I'm uninspired. Nor do I want to churn out something for the sake of it.

Perhaps that’s why, despite often dreaming of doing so, I've always shied away from trying to write for a living. There have been brief forays in that direction—company newsletters I've launched and a column I once wrote for a friend's upstart magazine among them. But in all cases, the minute I was expected to produce anything on a consistent basis, my brain, my motivation, and—though I may be going out on a limb here, my creativity—shut down. And nothing, it seemed, would bring back the inspiration—and just as importantly, the joy—that prompted me to write in the first place.

And so it's been for most of the past month as I’ve tried to make myself blog, made worse by the fact that things have been hectic, unpredictable and, with the holidays here, busy beyond belief. And the longer I've waited to sit down and actually do this, despite having a list of ideas longer than all three Z Kids' wish lists for Santa combined, the stronger my avoidance has become. Much like speaking with a friend with whom you've lost touch, the longer I've waited, the more difficult it's felt to actually do it.

Consequently, when the urge to bang something out hit me this morning, I knew I had to act upon it immediately. Otherwise, I’d be headed down the road of déjà vu all over again: months' worth of topics scribbled down but never acted upon, excuses why not to bother, inner struggles to do it anyway, etc. Meh. Far better—and ultimately, easier—just to get it over with.

Granted, it's not like there aren’t a bazillion other things competing for my time right now, with Christmas all of three weeks away (Hang on a second, please. Must remember to breathe!). But the fact is, challenges to do so aside, these are the sort of times I most want to and—as my brother Steve, who’s got the regular blogging thing down to a science, often reminds me—should document. So, I've just got to make myself do it.

I'll be playing catch-up for a bit, as there were some pretty exciting (and hopefully interesting) developments around The Hamilton Zone over the past few weeks. And I'll do my best to make it as transparent as possible. But even if it’s obvious, so be it. As Steve has said repeatedly, I've got to do this for myself. Otherwise, what's the point?

And then, I'll do my best to keep it up. Because trust me, I'd rather not feel compelled to compare myself to Britney again any time soon, even if her career and personal life are on an upswing and it appears she finally understands what underwear are for. Yikes, I think I feel some inspiration coming on right now!

Woulda, coulda, shoulda

pro·cras·ti·na·tion (prō-kras-tə-ˈnā-shən) noun: the act of putting off intentionally the doing of something that should be done

It would have been so simple: I could have picked up the kids up from school. Headed to any of the numerous clinics in town. Ignored Zoë and her terrified protests. Paid the nominal fee and fill out the paperwork. Endured the tears and drama. Then headed out for ice cream, content in the knowledge that the kids were more than likely protected from influenza for the year.

Yeah, it should have been so simple. Too bad I didn't do it. If I had, maybe Zach would be outside enjoying our current blue skies and record temperatures in the 80s. Instead, he's spent the last couple days in bed, miserable, with a 103-degree fever. That'll teach me to procrastinate, hunh? Only problem is, Zach's paying the price for my "putting off intentionally the doing of something that should (have) be(en) done." And I'm feeling pretty guilty about it.

Once upon a time, I thought flu shots were for the elderly and the frail. But then I had a nasty case of it myself in late 2004, with complications and bronchitis that lasted for months. Zoë had it, too, meaning I had to care for her while sick. Doing so was such an ordeal that I vowed we'd all get annual flu shots going forward, no matter what.

And so we did, except for 2006, when Zoë missed two and a half weeks of school and left her teacher with just five healthy five students in class (though the local paper got it wrong). Again, we’d learned our lesson, and we dutifully lined up for shots last year—and made it through winter unscathed.

This year, I got vaccinated at the grocery store completely unplanned. Kelly did the same at an airport. Our pediatrician doesn't do flu shots, and this year, the clinic where we took the kids last year wasn’t vaccinating kids. So, weeks began to pass, and every time I thought about the subject, either there was something more pressing needing my attention or Zoë put up such a stink, so I put if off.

But then my bluff got called. Zach came home last Thursday with a runny nose and sore throat, and he spent the weekend taking it easy. By Monday, we were convinced that he was getting better. But when I picked him up Wednesday, he looked like death warmed over. And by nightfall, it was obvious that not getting vaccinated had done him in.

Yesterday afternoon, Zach actually asked to go to the doctor, so I obliged. Within seconds, we had confirmation that yep, he had the flu. The good news was that since we'd caught it in the first 24 hours, there was a "silver bullet" that might help. The bad news, as I was soon to learn, was that said silver bullet—a drug called Tamiflu—would run $88 even after our insurance was applied. Don’t think that as I paid, I wasn’t comparing that in my mind to the cost of a flu shot. I was.

There was more bad news—that Tamiflu's side effects include nausea and vomiting—which neither the doctor nor pharmacist mentioned. I learned this before dawn, when I woke to the sound of Zach losing the liquids I’d so carefully been nursing into him. But after half a dozen bedroom to bathroom sprints, Zach miraculously started feeling much better, just like the doctor had promised.

So, if we can keep the girls from catching this, we’ll have gotten off pretty easily. And if we can, I know where we'll be next Tuesday afternoon: at church—Redding First Church of the Nazarene, to be precise. See, they're having a flu vaccination clinic that day, and while I may be a procrastinator, I'm not stupid. And Zoë can protest all she wants. Because this time, I'm not listening.

Summer in Autumn: The Sequel

If you can get away with celebrating Fourth of July in late October, then surely you can pull off a water balloon fight in early November. Right? Apparently so, because that's just what we did a few days ago.

Saturday before last was Zach's school’s harvest festival, their biggest fundraiser of the year. As a member of the booster club, I’d volunteered to man a booth for the event. And when they said "man," they meant "man." With few dads willing to help, I was placed in charge of what the club's president felt was a man-ly selection, the Water Balloon Slingshot Toss. Despite my visions of nothing but unruly high school-aged boys with destruction on their minds as my patrons, I agreed.

As slingshot commandant, my duties included helping fill enough balloons to help keep the booth running for three hours. It's a good thing I wasn't expected to do it alone, since the goal was well over 1,000 liquid-filled grenades. Fearful they'd degrade and start exploding prematurely, I intended to hold off filling mine until the morning of the event. But by Friday night, a severe weather alert was forecasting heavy rain and wind right around opening time.

Concerned, I contacted the coordinator to make sure we were still on, since I was to be stationed in the open environs of the football field. She assured me we were. I wasn't terribly excited, so I held my breath and waited until morning, at which point the storm was moving in, before calling again. Given the same answer, I dutifully prepared to inflate my balloons, only to find that the small, brittle things they'd purchased were junk. Every time I tried to inflate one, it exploded immediately, splattering me with its intended contents.

Frantic and short on time, I called Kelly, who was running errands, and asked her to pick up better balloons. She did and then rushed them home, leaving me with just enough time to fill 150, with Zach's help, in record time. With minutes to spare, I showered, dressed, and rushed to the school.

And of course, when I arrived, I was told the booth was canceled.

It’s not like I was surprised. Feeling both frustrated and relieved, I wheeled the cooler containing the liquid globes back to the truck and as best as I could, fought off Zach and his friends, who managed to grab and toss a few at trees and other unsuspecting targets.

For days afterward, it either rained or we were occupied, and the balloons sat, ignored. Then finally, on Friday, the weather was warmish, Zoë’s and Zach’s friends were home, and it dawned on me that the balloons weren’t going to last much longer. So we went for it.

If you think 125 water balloons stand any chance against half a dozen kids fighting to toss them, guess again. I’d say they held out…oh, about five minutes, max—and that’s only because I insisted the kids take turns and grab one balloon at a time. Otherwise, they’d have been gone in seconds.

Once the artillery was expended, I pulled a Tom Sawyer and held a contest to see who could pick up the most balloon fragments. They negotiated for a group prize, and I obliged—and gave them more balloons. It worked like a charm, and the driveway was spotless.

So, the kids had a blast, I found productive use for the balloons, and no mess was left behind. Cancelled booth or not, everyone was happy—including me. And the timing was perfect, since the weather has turned significantly cooler since Friday. It’s almost like payback for the stress and sore fingers I endured on Saturday. And best of all? I didn’t have to deal with a single high school-aged boy. That’s a victory in itself—and it didn’t cost a penny to play.

Note: Photos courtesy of Zach, who was a good sport and let the younger kids have fun, and his new camera.

Z Gallery Updates: October 2008 Edition

Where the heck has this year gone? If you have any idea, would you please let me know? I'm having a hard time believing that we'll be celebrating Thanksgiving in just a couple of weeks. Sheesh.

Meanwhile, we've got a new gallery to wrap up October's goings-on around The Hamilton Zone. The Z Kids finished a very successful first quarter of school. And watched delayed Fourth of July fireworks. And played outside with friends as much as possible, knowing cold, wet weather was not far off. But mostly, they counted–daily–the days remaining until the kid version of The Fall Classic, Halloween, arrived. And when it arrived, they loved every minute of it.







To get your fill of The Z Kids, check out the gallery, download the high-resolution zip files, or view the photos on Shutterfly, where you can order prints, too.

But don't gorge yourself. After all, you've gotta leave some room for that ridiculously large meal coming up at the end of the month...

Boo who? Boo whomever!

It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents—except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in Redding that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the pumpkins that struggled against the darkness.

—Borrowed with liberties from Edward Bulwer-Lytton, Paul Clifford (1830)

And so began Halloween in The Hamilton Zone, 2008 edition. Though we'd expected the mood to be gloomy with Kelly en route from a speaking engagement at a conference in Southern California, the weather forecast, at least, had called for just a 30% chance of rain. And yet, as the sun set, the clouds opened up and the winds let loose. I begged the kids to stay home and watch a movie, offering an entire Costco-issue bag of candy as a bribe. But they wanted nothing to do with it.

And so we set out, with Zach and Zoë in recycled costumes since we'd scrambled at last minute to pull this Halloween together, with pumpkins uncarved, our traditional meal of pigs in a blanket uncooked, and our yard undecorated. Only Zienna sported her choice of attire, a Baby Bop costume purchased off eBay for the unbelievably low price of $10. The down side was its foam rubber construction, which absorbed the rain like a sponge.

The other complicating factor was that, living in Redding, trick-or-treating options are, to put it mildly, limited. When we moved here, we learned the hard way that due to religious beliefs, many families don't celebrate the holiday. With its arrival just two months after we settled into our house in August 2006, we attempted to introduce "booing"—a ghoulish version of May Day—to our new neighbors. We painstakingly hand-selected treats for the families we'd selected, then left the loot on their doorsteps, only to learn with some embarrassment that one of them didn't celebrate Halloween.

Undaunted, we persevered last year by choosing two different families. But again, we unknowingly chose a household that held Halloween heretical. Then it dawned on us that—duh—only one out of every five or six houses on our block had its lights on for the big event. If we'd doubted to that point that we were one of the few families on the block celebrating Halloween, the preponderance of dark dwellings was all the proof we needed.

Such was the scene as we set out Friday night. And yet, as if candy karma had delivered her, Kelly pulled into the driveway just as we headed out. Without bothering to change and just thankful to have arrived in time, she joined us, running from house to house as the kids collected candy. And almost magically, Zienna went from fearful about even approaching a door to demanding to ring the doorbell to doing the whole Halloween routine—boisterously shouting "Trick or treat," "Thank you," and "Happy Halloween." Zach and Zoë could barely keep up with her!

In the end, with the rain intensifying, we loaded the kids in the truck and shortened the distance between houses by driving. Though Zach had to ride in back with the tailgate open because of his costume, it worked wonderfully—park central to two or three houses with lights on, hit them, and move on. We drove quite a distance, but our method was so efficient that the kids' bags were soon hanging quite low, heavy with tooth-destroying treasure.

By the time we arrived home, Zienna was completely sold on the process and Zach and Zoë were proclaiming it their best Halloween ever. I had to agree that, all kids' interests considered, things had turned out very, very well. Despite the tricks—the rain and the numerous dark homes—the night—including Kelly's ability to join us—had definitely been a treat.

A set of photos from the night is available for viewing on Flickr.

A win-win-win

Truth be told, my 45th birthday turned out to be far from exciting by conventional standards—just hanging out with the family, mainly (minus Zach for much of the day, since he sold me out and attended what I perceived to be a junior chick flick, Beverly Hills Chihuahua, with his buddy Ben), with some shopping and errands tossed in for good measure. Still, I can't complain. Compared to what has traditionally been a routine of rain and rhinoviruses, this year's agenda was infinitely better.

With clear sinuses to complement my shorts and flip flops, my day played out something like this:

• The weather was gorgeous, with brilliant, blue skies and highs around 90—and not a hint of wet stuff (which mercifully held off until later in the week, when it's forecast to fall for seven straight days!).


• The colds of those afflicted (Zoë, Zienna, and to a lesser degree, Kelly and Zach) seemed to subside, and my symptoms played their hands and proved to be nothing more than allergies—meaning I was cold-free for a change on my birthday.


• I got to spend my birthday with those gorgeous kiddos in the photo, along with my gorgeous wife who shot it. And we had takeout Japanese food for dinner from my favorite local place, which included some extra goodies—yummy potato croquettes—as a gratis birthday extra.


• An online acquaintance who read Friday's blog entry posted a birthday greeting to me on a message board we frequent, and the resulting wishes that came in from all over the world were pretty neat.


• Oh, and finally, after more than 15 years of wishing for it, I got the entire 20-CD Rhino Records seventies soul collection, "Didn't It Blow Your Mind"—at a bargain price, off eBay. There's so much good music and by association, memories, on those disks, it will take me quite a while to digest it all. But I'll be loving every minute of it, I can assure you of that.

If there was a downside to the day—a minor one—it was discovering that the World Series game I'd DVRed so I could watch it in peace once the kids were tucked into their beds cut off early when the game ran long. But by that point, I was ready to turn in myself, and a quick check of ESPN's Baseball Tonight told me I'd not missed much, as the Phillies had drubbed the Rays 10-2.

I'll admit that spending the day lounging on the beach in Hawaii would have been lovely, as would have getting out of town, period—like the trip to San Francisco I'd originally planned but canceled, due to cost. Dining in a fancy restaurant—or even a not-so-fancy one—could have been relaxing, too, but then there'd have been the check to pay afterward, accompanied by buyer's remorse over an overpriced meal.

So, in light of the economy, the war, the divisive election campaign, and everything else going wrong in the world—and the price tag of anything more elaborate—my birthday wasn't all that bad. As I said last week, I'm coming to realize that overall, simple pleasures are the best. And perhaps best of all, they don't have that morning-after "Oh my gosh, would you look at that receipt!" effect. In my mind, that's a gift in itself.

Rain, rain, go away—and take the phlegm with you

Dating back to my childhood, when, as Republican vice presidential candidate Sarah Palin can attest, dinosaurs still roamed the earth, two things have traditionally happened each year before—or for some reason, more typically on—my birthday: It has rained, and I have been sick, usually with my first cold of the season.

Moving to Redding hasn't done much to help the precipitation predicament, since three of the 36 inches of rain we receive in an average year typically fall during October. But frankly, it's never seemed to matter where I've resided. Regardless of their location, the clouds have seemed determined each year to gift me with their liquid bounty. Even when Kelly and I lived in Southern California, we could be smack-dab in the middle of a mid-fall heat wave, and poof, it would rain completely out of the blue on my birthday. It’s been uncanny, really. As a result, I’ve just come to expect that I will get wet when venturing outside on any day when I'm turning a year older.

This birthday may be an exception. I selfishly hesitate to say so for fear of jinxing things, although the fact is, we desperately need the rainfall. Already in the midst of a severe, two-year drought, this season we're standing at a piddly 0.72 inches to date, while in an average year, we'd already have logged twice as much. Does it make me a bad person if I'm hoping, should the desire hit me, to extinguish the candles on my cake outdoors without nature's sprinklers dousing them for me? I hope not. I just want to be able to go outside and play on my big day. And with a forecast calling for a high of 89 and a zero percent chance of precipitation, it looks like I’ll get my wish.

By contrast, the recurring rhinovirus routine is looking far less promising. Since bringing home this week what is already our second family cold since school began just two months ago, Zoë has gone from bad to worse, waking up yesterday morning—perhaps in an empathetic effort to bond with her ailing cousin Aidan 669 miles away—with croup. Along the way, she's managed to share the love with Zienna, whose nose has been gushing green goo for a few days now, and, by the looks of things, Zach, who woke this morning clogged and sniffling.

And, though I'm hoping like heck that it's just allergies, I, too, began yesterday to recognize those all-too-familiar harbingers of the birthday bug—stuffy head, sore throat, and burning nostrils. I am presently popping Echinacea and knocking—no, pounding—on everything that even appears to have come from a tree in an effort to avoid my annual affliction. Heck, I'm just glad I got a flu shot several weeks ago, since the birthday I spent four years ago fighting influenza and a resulting partially-collapsed lung was, in a word, hell.

So, apparently able to forget about my umbrella, I'd also like to spend the first day of my forty-sixth year without a box of tissue at my side. Is that too much to ask? I guess I’ll know tomorrow.

As an excuse to reschedule fireworks, fire works

When the wildfire smoke that blanketed our area all summer prompted the cancellation of Redding’s annual "Lights of Liberty" Fourth of July fireworks, city officials immediately rescheduled them—for October. At the time, it seemed a fairly odd idea. But when the sky dimmed after last night’s out-of-season display, it had proven to be a welcome change of pace.

Fireworks are a big deal in these parts. While the North State has embarrassing riches of tourist-drawing natural beauty and recreational opportunities, Redding itself has by comparison very little to offer. There's Turtle Bay Exploration Park, the adjoining Sundial Bridge, and Big League Dreams Sports Park. That's about it.

With mid-priced hotels, restaurants, and gas stations situated along Interstate 5 and rundown motels inhabiting a downtown trying to reinvent itself, Redding is struggling to become more than a "gas station stop," as a well-traveled friend of mine referred to it shortly after we moved here. At that time, real estate was booming, businesses were arriving in droves, and the city was undergoing a transformation that hinted at a Renaissance. But when the housing market collapsed and new construction came to a screeching halt, the effects rippled through Redding like dominoes of doom.

Unemployment, at 9.5% last month, has skyrocketed. Underemployment has followed suit, with adults working in low-paying service and retail jobs out of desperation. Meanwhile, businesses are folding left and right, foreclosures and personal bankruptcies are epidemic, and the sales tax that is such an important component of the city's revenues has eroded horribly as a result of all this.

But like many mid-sized, economically-challenged cities, Redding, with an estimated population of 90,000 and a median household income around $40,000, is a proud community. High school sports make the evening news. Parades and other civic events are frequent and well-attended. And the fireworks—the largest display in Northern California—give the city bragging rights. Ask Reddingites what they like about living here, and fireworks inevitably make the short list.

Last night was typical of the event. Consisting of 3,500 shells with a price tag of $90,000—funded fully by the same non-profit foundation that paid for the bridge and the arboretum at Turtle Bay—the show, choreographed to patriotic music on the local college radio station, ran just under half an hour. If that doesn't sound big, it is. By the time the grand finale rolls around, you're left feeling impressed, satisfied, and in awe.

We seized upon the opportunity to throw together an impromptu block party, and while it wasn’t the success we’d hoped—in part because so many locals make plans far in advance for the event—the chance to set aside economic and political worries and just hang out was like a breath of fresh air. We ate, we talked, and we let the kids go wild. It was wonderful.

Perched on the hillside patio of neighbors who’d been kind enough to share their perfect view of the city, Kelly and I sat back and took it all in as soon as the explosions began, and the kids followed suit. Zach, normally indifferent about fireworks, reported having a great time. Zoë, wiped out by then, ignored her friends and cuddled next to me. And Zienna, for the first time seeing fireworks she was old enough to appreciate, repeatedly exclaimed, “Oh, how BOOTiful!”

These were simple pleasures and perfectly timed. As we parted, there were comments that this should be a new tradition. It was hard to argue. With earlier darkness, we were back home by 9:00 rather than 10:30. With temperatures in the 60s, we weren’t sweating or being devoured by mosquitoes. And without the pressure to celebrate an official holiday, things were a whole lot more relaxing.

Fourth of July in October? Yeah, I could go for that.

Z's are great, but I like A's, too

Kelly and I were shocked last week when we realized that Friday had marked the end of Zach's first quarter grading period. Hadn't the school year just started? It sure seemed as if it had, even if by then eight weeks--and a fourth of the school year--had already flown by.

Now that he's in middle school, Zach is on the traditional quarter/semester grading system, having left elementary school trimesters behind. With that change have come end-of-term projects and review tests, which have at times challenged Zach’s “work on what’s due tomorrow” approach to things. Still, Kelly and I have remained cautiously optimistic that Zach can step up his game and continue in this more challenging environment the sort of success he enjoyed in grade school. We’ve even hoped he would feel more ownership toward his grades and push a bit harder, since he's already on a college-preparatory tract and we want him to form good habits now, before he enters high school.

And yet, we were fully aware that University Preparatory ("U-Prep") was a whole new ball game and far more challenging than anything Zach had experienced academically before. The school has proven to be everything we'd hoped for and more. But on every level--subject matter, homework load, testing, and even band--it's threatened at times to bury Zach. Though he’s being taught management in his advisory period each day, his skills in the area aren't yet what they need to be.

Having online access with up-to-the-minute updates to Zach's assignments and grades via a service called "Aeries" has been both a blessing and a burden for Kelly and me. On the plus side, it's been a tremendous benefit in helping Zach stay on track, with only a few "oops"es along the way. But there have also been a few mistakes, scores not added properly, and assignments overlooked. Those have made for a bit of nail biting.

By Monday, Zach was as anxious to see his report card as we were. Granted, because of Aeries, we assumed we knew the results. But with assignments and tests yet to be posted and a few items still in dispute, we didn't want to assume until we saw the results.

Our patience was rewarded when Zach’s grades were posted today. Bad puns aside, they were simply A-mazing:

English/Reading: A+ ("Work is outstanding")
Ancient History: A+ ("Work is outstanding")
Prep Band: A
Earth Science: A+
Math: A+
PE/Health: A
Advisory/Tutorial: Pass

As far as I'm concerned, this is "Mission Accomplished" in terms of Zach's transition to middle school. I've stressed to him that the only thing harder than maintaining high grades quarter to quarter and semester to semester is getting them back up if they drop. And, he has a long way to go in terms of staying on top of his work and balance short- mid- and long-term assignments. But if he pulled straight A's in a system like U-Prep's, it ought to be just a matter of refinement from here on out, rather than trying to invent the wheel. He's got the basics down.

Perhaps most rewarding about Zach's grades is that he earned A+ marks in all of the academic classes. Still, I’m not overlooking the A in band, even if it doesn't surprise me, since Zach's enthusiasm for playing saxophone has really taken off now that he plays for an hour each day in a band setting. And for my kid to have earned an A in PE is just icing on the cake, especially since he had weekly fitness goals that had to be met.

I realize it's a very long journey we're on, with college as both a destination and a journey in itself. But with this report card as Zach's first dispatch from along the way, I can only dream of what lies ahead, convinced that he'll navigate it all with flying colors. And I'm just glad I'm along for the ride.

Living in the wild, wild west

Growing up in the San Francisco Bay Area, my concept of "wildlife" was pretty tame, along the lines of the neighbors' dog chasing me as I rode my bike. When Kelly and I moved to Orange County, I had to expand my definition, as oh-so-cuddly raccoons on our porch sometimes ended up as dinner for not-so-cuddly coyotes on the pool deck below us. And, after moving back to the Bay Area, our biggest animal concerns were squirrels stealing tomatoes from my garden and the mouse family that died in and stunk up our heater ducts.

So, when we moved to Redding, nothing had prepared me for the wildlife encounters we'd have here. At times, I've felt like Marlin Perkins on the episodes of Wild Kingdom I used to watch with my grandfather—only without his calm and cool.

Just a few months after we arrived, a bear was discovered in a backyard less than half of a mile from where we were living. For a city slicker like me, that was one heck of a wakeup call.

Just a few days later, I saw an honest-to-goodness bald eagle in front of our post office. How cute, I thought, even if its talons could easily rip my eyes out. I admired its majesty at a respectful distance, ever more aware that up here, nature knows no boundaries.

Just a few days after that, Fish and Game officials were summoned when a mountain lion was found in a backyard two miles from us. At that point, I was prepared to pack up and move to a high-rise in the city, even though I hate high-rises and cities

But then, things got relatively quiet. Yes, I discovered that Redding apparently holds claim to the largest black widow spiders on earth and that mice had invaded our garage. But living on the fringes of wilderness, it wasn't surprising we'd have such pests.

And, there have been attractive aspects to living among local wildlife. We've witnessed graceful deer wandering about with adorable fawns in tow. And huge flocks of wild turkeys offer an amusing delay as they dawdle and block the street.

But it wasn't long before we spotted our first rattlesnake. And on the scale of things I fear, spiders may be a nine, but snakes are a definite ten.

The first sighting came almost immediately—a baby near the mailboxes down the block. And though I wasn't sure if the legend that infant rattlers are more toxic—a fact I've since confirmed—I was plenty scared.

During the ensuing two years, we've spotted a few more rattlesnakes and heard of neighbors doing the same. Then last week, nature encroached a bit too much when Zach was playing on our driveway and came within inches of stepping on yet another baby rattler.

Too chicken to capture it, we watched until it slithered off. But doing so made me think twice about leaving our garage door open for hours on end when the kids are outside.

Having woken with a snake in my bed once before—though it was a harmless garter snake and this was years ago, shortly after Zach was born—I sometimes bolt awake, fearful the tag or whatever else rubbing against my foot is a rattler. And knowing Zane was bitten on the face by a gopher earlier this summer, I didn't hesitate to invest in a series of rattlesnake vaccines for him.

Scared as I am, I suppose I'll just have to be content with having my guard up and my fingers crossed. Because the fact is, while I’d prefer wildlife were a little more out in the wild, that’s pretty much where I find myself. And the reality is, I’m no Marlin Perkins.

Anyone happen to know of a high-rise apartment available in the city, cheap, by chance?

UPDATE: The day after I posted this entry, we had yet another wildlife encounter nearby—only this one wasn't quite so menacing, at least not initially. As the headline on our local paper's web site proclaimed, "Flaming squirrel started spot fire." It seems the critter chewed through a high-voltage line across the street from Zoë's school, ignited, and fell to the dry grass below. It ultimately took 18 firefighters and six engines to contain the blaze. I kid you not, even if it sounds like a deleted scene from Caddyshack.

Z Gallery Updates: September 2008 Edition

September was one busy month around The Hamilton Zone, and the latest additions to the gallery are here to prove it. From a visit from Grandma and Grandpa Loop, to Zach's first middle school dance, to our first and only Giants game of the season, to Zoë and Kelly's latest gymnastics road trip, there weren't a lot of dull moments to be had. And of course I've included plenty of Zienna just being herself, full of two-year-old wonderment.




With three cameras now capturing the goings-on around the Zone—mine, Zach's, and Kelly's brand new, purty pink one—there's even more photos to choose from at the end of the month. Throw in both of Zoë's cameras—a toy one and our half-dead hand-me-down—and there's no excuse for us missing pictures of anything anymore. That explains in part why this month's gallery, which you can view here, is a monster.

By the way, I've resumed uploading high-resolution zipped files in batches of 12 for anyone wishing to download them. If you're interested, you can find them here. Or, if you prefer to order prints and have them shipped to you, I've also uploaded high-resolution copies to their very own Shutterfly album here.

Enjoy!

Who says politics is an all-boys' club?

Around The Hamilton Zone, clear differences are emerging in the levels of political passion between seven-year-old Zoë and eleven-year-old Zach. And the way things are shaping up, we may have another Nancy Pelosi on our hands, with her brother content to work in the background as a campaign strategist.

Zach likes to identify himself in ultra-conservative Redding as an Obama supporter. We live in a blue state but in an extremely red county where it's great fun to rankle the masses. Zach recognizes that, so it didn’t surprise me when he asked for Obama stickers and buttons. He also expressed a desire for a shirt, but I declined his request, as fearful of his school's mega-restrictive dress code as the redneck bullies who wouldn’t take kindly to that sort of attire.

But it's easy to be a sloganeer and easier to don buttons and the like around election time. Neither demonstrates a true interest in politics. Try discussing the issues with Zach, and his eyes glaze over before he quickly changes the subject. He'll express opinions, but he typically just parrots back what he's heard from me. When it comes to conviction, Zoë’s clearly got Zach beat.

Yes, I said Zoë. Zach asks my and Kelly's opinion, while Zoë gives us hers. Zach asks if it's OK to do something, while Zoë just does it. And Zach tries hard to go with the flow, while Zoë’s not afraid--and even seems to relish--blazing her own trail. She's smart, determined, and quite comfortable in the role of contrarian--quite like her new-found hero, Hillary Clinton.

You may recall that during the Democratic National Convention, Zoë said point blank that the former first lady ought to be president. I figured she was merely intrigued seeing a woman within reach of the White House and that her interest would die down once Hillary was out of the picture. But that hasn't been the case.

First, Zoë watched bits and pieces of the Republican National Convention, including a decent chunk of Sarah Palin's speech. I thought the shots of her oh-too-cute family would sway Zoë over to the dark side, but I underestimated my daughter. Listening to her speak, Zoë said unapologetically, "I don't like this lady.”

Then, after learning Palin was John McCain's running mate, Zoë insisted we agree not to say "his" name again in our home. And she's called me on it every time I've slipped. She's even left me written reminders, one of which is sitting on my desk right now.

And the trend continued last week, when the vice presidential debates aired. On her own, Zoë sat down next to me, asking questions but mostly just watching, and booing at appropriate times against Palin. She didn't make it all the way through, but I was impressed that she even wanted to watch.

Contrast this to Friday night, when the senate was set to vote on the bailout bill and Zach was hanging out with Ben, his thirteen-year-old friend from down the street. As the vote approached, I suggested they ought to come out and watch. Zach's reply? "Maybe in a few minutes, Dad," he said. "We're checking out Ben's new Yu-Gi-Oh cards."

So much for priorities--and on Zach's part, any real interest in our political process. At this point, it's pretty clear upon which kid I should focus my "You, too, can be president" speeches. Although in light of recent events, I'm not sure if I even want to be making them. What a sad state of affairs when a parent has to second-guess even that dream, eh?

Reality is just a matter of perspective

When you're home full-time with a two-year-old, things that go on around you aren't always exactly as they appear, at least from her perspective. And often, it's easier and even wiser to give in to your child's view of the order of things and see them for what they otherwise might be.

As examples, witness the following conversations I had with Zienna during the past week (with grammar cleaned up ever so slightly for the sake of clarity):

Zi: Daddy, what your name?
Me: My name is "Scott."
Zi: Unh-uh. Name's Daddy.
Me: No, I AM your daddy, but my name is Scott.
Zi: Unh-uh. Name's Daddy.

OK, you win, Zienna. And I'm glad you want to call me "Daddy!"

Zi: Look, Daddy. Hot dog's all gone.
Me: Where did the hot dog go? Into your tummy?
Zi: No, hot dog went in my mouth.

Yeah, I guess it did, didn't it?

Zi: What you doing, Daddy?
Me: Checking to see if the milk in your cup is yucky.
Zi: What it smell like?
Me: It smells like milk.
Zi: Unh-uh. It smell like cup!

Well, yeah, but...

Realizing that from her perspective, Zienna was correct in each of these cases made me stop and appreciate her innocent, straightforward view of the world. It really is how you look at things that matters, after all. And when you avoid the adult tendency to overanalyze things—a bad habit I'll readily own up to—then suddenly, a remarkably refreshing simplicity takes over.

Lesson learned, courtesy of my two-year-old. Now if I can just remember it.

The Taming of the Two

Despite all the evidence anecdotal and otherwise suggesting that a child's third year is the toughest, Kelly and I have have never really bought into the hoopla about the so-called "Terrible Twos." Until now.

Zach was a mellow baby and mellow if active toddler. Yes, Kelly and I had a mildly rough time with him from about four through five. But that probably had as much to do with all the changes he was going through—the addition of a sibling, my decision to stay home full time, moving, and beginning kindergarten—as anything. And it mostly often manifested itself in begging for things at the store—another problem of our own making, since we spoiled him horribly back then—and whining, which is occasionally still a problem. All in all, we got off easy with Zach.

Zoë was, almost from birth, our challenging child. As I've said before, I was horribly ill-prepared to parent full time when I decided to start doing so right after her first birthday. And, there’s no denying that Zoë is headstrong, outspoken, opinionated and, at more times than we'd like, defiant. We've seen some major improvement recently, but I have to think that all the changes Zoë’s had to deal with—moving to Redding and then twice more after that, losing her statuses as the only girl and youngest child, and most recently, changing schools—have not helped her. But was her third year any tougher than the rest? Not by my recollection it wasn't.

So, when Zienna turned two in May, I wasn't overly concerned, especially since she seems to be more like Zach—goofy, easy-going, happy almost always—than Zoë. She's occasionally shown signs of defiance, but nothing too extreme.

That is, until a week or two ago.

Suddenly, my eager-to-please girl is not so eager. And her favorite phrases have quickly changed from "That's a good idea" and "I like that" to "I can't do that" and "I don't want to." Uh-oh.

At the same time, she’s developed a charming habit of bursting into the most pathetic, halfhearted fits of crying—with full-on booboo lip in effect—the instant we express even the slightest hint of disapproval of her behavior or denial of something she wants. If it wasn't so annoying and predictable, it would be downright comical (and I suppose it is anyway).

And, when Zienna is particularly tired and/or frustrated, she's even taking to hitting (things, people, and even Shack—once, before he taught her a lesson with his claws) and throwing things. But even these acts she carries out with so little commitment and so much drama that they become semi-amusing.

If she's going to pull Zoë’s hair, Zienna slowly and very obviously raises her hand toward her sister as she does so, looking out of the corner of her eye to see if anyone’s watching. And when she throws something—usually one of her favorite books or toys—she does so very deliberately, right at her feet, and then bursts into tears while complaining that said object is on the floor. And I try not to chuckle.

Still, if this is the extent to which Zienna will be a drama queen, then handling it should be a snap. And, if it's coming this early, then I'm confident we can control her defiance and hopefully even nip it in the bud. After all, we've had expert training maneuvering all of Zoë’s challenges. So, each time I'm laughing over one of Zienna's amateurish displays, I'll remind myself to breathe a sigh of relief, knowing it could be so much worse.

And as for "Terrible Twos?" I'd say I'm still not convinced, but maybe I'd better not tempt fate, eh?

Let's go, G.N.O.

Truth be told, we had no business spending money on the tickets. But yesterday, Kelly and Zoë were on the road again, headed to San Jose for their second gymnastics-junkie outings in as many summers. Yep, it was another gymnastics...er, girls' night out.

Compared to the three-day 2007 US Nationals tournament they attended last August, yesterday's event—The 2008 Tour of Gymnastics Superstars—was just a tad less formal. But according to Zoë, the chance to see gymnasts she's quickly come to idolize able to let their hair down while performing to choreographed musical numbers was still very exciting—and a lot of fun to boot.

It didn't hurt that Zoë was sitting on the floor, in the second row, just a few feet from the apparatus upon which the athletes were performing—even closer than the lower-section VIP seats she and Kelly had for the Nationals. Credit good luck and timing for that, as I'd been fortunate enough to be sitting at my computer in July when notification of ticket pre-sales had arrived in my e-mail.

Nor was Zoë going to complain that the organizers of the event had wisely teamed up with Radio Disney to cross-promote a new CD titled "Girlz Rock 2," featuring every last one of Zoë’s favorite female artists. To do so, they'd brought along hot new girl band K.S.M. and singer Jordan Pruitt to perform live on stage, also just a few feet from where Zoë was sitting.

So, for two hours, the Hamilton girls were treated to a flashy, fast-paced and sometimes comical show by reigning gymnastics royalty and Beijing Olympians, including All-Around Gold Medalist Nastia Liukin, All-Around Silver Medalist Shawn Johnson, Team Silver Medalist Chellsie Memmel, and US men’s Bronze-medal-winning team members Jonathan Horton, Kevin Tan, Joe Hagerty and Justin Spring. Former Olympic medalists Paul Hamm, Morgan Hamm, Shannon Miller and Blaine Wilson also took part.

Never mind that Zoë’s favorite part of the show involved gymnasts dressed up like The Jonas Brothers and their girlfriends and groupies. On a Sunday night, after driving all day to get there, I was relieved to hear that the show was lighthearted and kid-friendly, if not Gymnastics with a capital "G." From Zoë and Kelly's descriptions, it sounded like the gymnastics equivalent of "Stars on Ice," with a pop-rock soundtrack for good measure. That’s smart marketing, perfect for the tween audience, and perfect for a tired girl who unabashedly laps up Hannah Montana-style glitz.

Though Zoë was disappointed when Kelly refused to wait in the several-hundred-person-long line waiting for autographs from Jordan Pruitt, more concerned about the four-hour drive that awaited them on a school night, the trip home went far smoother than we'd hoped. Zoë dozed for a bit before waking at a gas stop, and then helped Kelly stay awake so that they arrived home, safely and in good spirits, just before midnight.

I’m sure that to some degree, Zoë’s getting spoiled by getting to see her high-flying heroes so often and so close—in last night’s case, close enough that the ushers warned Zoë and Kelly not to stand up during the performance. But in an era of lightning-speed childhoods and hard-to-find heroes—think Barry Bonds and how Zach’s idealism was crushed after years of idolizing him—gymnastics manages to a large part to remain wholesome and innocent. Just look at Shawn Johnson. What better role model could we hope for Zoë to have?

I know Kelly won’t argue. And, I'm betting she won't complain when the next opportunity arises for a G.N.O.—regardless of whether it's "Girls'," "Gymnastics," or both.

Where's Suzy Chapstick when you need her?

As you may have noticed in a few of the photos from August's gallery, Zienna's been struggling with a fairly major case of chapped lips. I'm not talking garden variety cracking and dryness, either. These poor things are ripped, raw and ragged. And they've been that way for about a month now, despite my and Kelly's efforts to moisturize them back to health.

Our pediatrician assures us this is pretty common and no cause for alarm. Still, it's hard not to get at least a bit concerned when every time you wake your two-year-old, there's blood smeared across her face, hands, chest and bed sheet. Zienna seems largely oblivious to it all, except for when she sees blood on her hands--especially fresh blood. Then, she either panics or gets frustrated (since, like her brother, she's a clean-hand freak), depending on her mood.

Both the doctor and a local pharmacist recommended Vaseline Lip Therapy, which is just fruit-flavored petroleum jelly. It did little to heal Zienna's lips, and despite the yummy, artificial cherry flavor, which I thought would be a sure selling point, Zienna did NOT want to wear it.

Part of the problem, confirmed by the doctor's nurse, is that the more uncomfortable Zienna's lips are, the more she licks, picks and otherwise fiddles with them. And the more she fiddles with them, the worse they get--which makes them even more uncomfortable. It's a vicious cycle.

So, while we haven’t resorted to $45-a-tube solutions from the “Lip Balm Smackdown," we have tried a succession of over-the-counter concoctions, every one a supposed miracle cure for even the most damaged lips. But so far, nothing's worked. And the more we smear goop of whatever flavor or consistency on Zienna's lips, the more she fights it.

Thus, our daily routine at the moment goes something like this:

• Retrieve Zienna from crib while assessing the level of overnight bleeding


• Distract her while stripping the crib’s sheet, if necessary


• Comfort her while wiping blood from her hands, cheeks and chest


• Apply balm as liberally as possible while avoiding flailing arms and hands


• Beg Zienna not to wipe balm off with the back of her hand


• Wipe excess from cheeks as a ploy to rub what remains into her lips


• Comfort her when bleeding caused by picking loose skin from her lips


• Apply balm as liberally as possible while avoiding flailing arms and hands


• Repeat steps as necessary until nap and, later, bedtime

Between this situation and the fact that until last night, Zienna had been constipated since Thursday, there’s been a distinct feeling of helplessness parenting around The Hamilton Zone lately. But darn it, if we got her to poop just as it looked like she might never do so again, we can mend her poor puss. At least I think we can.

One thing I’m betting on and thankful for: This ought to put an end to Zienna’s habit of sneaking into Zoë’s makeup and applying lip gloss in massive quantities, as she did last month. Heck, at this rate, she may not want to apply anything on her lips again, period.

Meanwhile, until the healing's complete, please don’t fault me if I favor Zienna's red crib sheet since it allows me to cheat on mouth maintenance when my conscience allows it. What she doesn’t see won’t disturb her, right? Right?

While we're on the topic of photos...

Yeah, I know--it's been (Yikes!) ten months since I posted new photos. What say we do something about that, eh? Believe it or not, August's gallery is up and ready for your viewing pleasure here.




August was an unpredictable month around The Hamilton Zone. It started off with one Z Kid (Zach) returning home from his second year at camp. It ended with another (Zoë) being evacuated from school due to a raging fire nearby. In between, it was hot--the hottest August on record in Redding, with an average afternoon temperature of 99 degrees and a high of 112. But at least the smoke from wildfires that blanketed our area through late June and all of July, which kept temperatures during those months below normal, had diminished considerably.

August also saw the reemergence of Shack, Zoë's kitten, from our half bathroom, where he'd been quarantined for six weeks with ringworm. It also marked the beginning of a new school year, with Zach starting sixth grade, Zoë starting second, and both kids at new schools closer to home. And August was the month I finally got a digital SLR camera after our old point and shoot gave up the ghost. Hopefully, you'll notice the improved photo quality, even if the change did nothing to improve my skills.

With the older Z Kids off at school, Zienna really came into her own last month, talking and singing up a storm, involved in increasingly imaginative play, and actively mimicking her siblings' academic activities. If you've not seen photos of her in a while, brace yourself. She's not a baby anymore!

Summer’s far from over and we’re still topping 100 degrees, but there’s a chill in the air each morning that tells us relief is in sight and changes are coming. What will they mean for The Hamilton Zone? That's hard to say. Better stay tuned!

Say "cheese!" (with no complications, please?)

School portrait day is always an odd sort of thing: Dress your kids up as best as you can. Comb their hair. Check their faces for stray toothpaste and debris. Send them off to school with checks large enough to buy a decent amount of groceries. Then, wait weeks to see the results, and when you do, feel lucky if curious hands or overcrowded backpacks haven’t mangled them. What an exercise in trust!

By my experience, the process is even more precarious when boys are involved. Boys typically don't care as much as girls about their appearance. Their hands are more curious and their backpacks more overcrowded than girls'. And, a boy can lose a check or an envelope of photos without batting an eye just as easily as he can get mud or food on his shirt because he’s just...well, being a boy. And if you're really lucky, he can make a goofy face when asked to smile simply because the feeling to do so struck him for no particular reason.

Historically, we've had pretty good luck with school photos. Granted, some have come out better than others. But overall, the results have all been decent or better. Still, that doesn't make me any less nervous each time we have to do the "write out a check, primp and prep, and cross your fingers" routine. Last month was no exception, when Zach had portraits taken on just the third day of school. At that point, we were still trying to figure out when to leave in the morning in order to arrive at the kids’ new schools on time. It was one extra hurdle we just didn’t need, and we basically left him to his own devices and plowed ahead.

Later that day, Zach said he felt confident the photo shoot had gone well. I hoped he was right, at least encouraged by the fact that, as the youngest students in the school, sixth graders had done their photos immediately after arriving on campus. I crossed my fingers and quickly forgot about the photos until today, when Zach surprised me by saying he'd received them. He said they'd come out well, like he always does. And then he seemed a bit disappointed when, upon arriving home and distracted by a very tired Zienna, I didn't immediately ask to see them.

Once home, he pulled the photos out of his backpack and thrust them into my hands. Judge for yourself, but I’m not going to lie--I was speechless. I know he's my kid and I'm just a tad biased, but I was blown away by how handsome--and grown up--was the face looking back at me from that expensive, glossy paper. And that’s even though I see his mug every single day!

Good thing the kid got Kelly's genes.

One down and one to go. Zoë’s still young enough that anything can happen before or during her portrait sitting. But she's got a good track record, and this year, she’s got shorter, harder-to-mess-up hair. If her portraits come out half as well as Zach's did, we'll have had nothing to worry about.

At least until next year.

Take me out to the ballgame

Yesterday was our first and likely only trip of the season to see our beloved (if largely by the point unrecognizable) Giants. With ticket, concession and gas prices being what they are, and given the challenges of driving three kids 450 miles in two segments in one day, we miss the days of shared season tickets and short train rides to the park. But, by the time we arrived home more than 14 hours after leaving, we were just happy it had all gone as smoothly as it had.

Doing most of our packing and prepping of the kids the night before definitely paid off, as we hit the road only a few minutes after our goal of 7:00 am. The drive was uneventful, Zienna actually managed to sneak in an early nap, and despite sharing the Bay Bridge with fans headed to the 49ers opener, we arrived at AT&T park in plenty of time so that the kids could be among the first 5,000, earning them a claim on a retro-style metal Giants and Looney Tunes lunch box.

As if things weren't already going well, Terry, who we were meeting along with his daughter Dana, his brother Kevin, and his mother, arrived at the park just as we were having our backpacks searched. Batting practice was still taking place as we entered the park, and we were able to leisurely wander around, grab some lunch, and settle into our seats without any hurry at all.

And, when we got to our seats, we essentially had rows to ourselves in the half-empty park. The kids were able to spread out and move around, and the adults were able to congregate as we pleased. Things were going almost too well--but then the Giants, who historically have had a miserable time against the Pirates--fell behind by five runs.

So, it was rally cap time. And fortunately, Zach's concerns that the game was over by the fourth inning were short-lived, as the Giants came up in the bottom of the inning and pounded out ten runs--the first time they'd done so since 2003. The Giants went on to win 11-6, and in doing so, combined with the Pirates to leave 19 men on base. That translated to a rather long game of nearly three and a half hours, leaving us plenty of time to enjoy a too-infrequent visit with Terry and his family, even as we regretted that his wife Rhonda and other daughter Emma were unable to be there with us.

By the time souvenirs had been purchased and we were headed back to the car, it was nearly 5:00, and we were in a bit of a panic knowing we had a long drive home on a school night. But, the traffic gods were with us again--as were contented and cooperative children--and by the time we rolled into our driveway having just completed a team game of "find the alphabet on street signs," it was only a few minutes after 9:00.

We unpacked quickly, got the kids to bed, and everyone crashed, having left just a bit of their hearts--and a big chunk of our wallets--in San Francisco. No, going to a game isn't as easy it used to be, and it's a heck of a lot more expensive. But to a person--including Zienna, who was packing her backpack this morning and telling me we should go "bye-bye for a baseball game"--we certainly appreciate it more.

Note: I've uploaded photos of the day's adventure on Flickr here. And, in case you aren't familiar with Flickr and want to download any, click the "All Sizes" link above the photo to access the download page.

Elvis has left the building (And so has Zach)!

Zach headed out the door a few minutes ago.

He was headed to a dance.

His first middle school dance.

With a date.

An, um, OLDER date—a seventh grader

Who asked him out.

I'm not sure why I feel uneasy, But I do, just a bit.

Sigh.

Guess he ain't our baby boy any longer...

UPDATE: Sadly, the girl who asked Zach out was not allowed into the dance until after the sixth graders had left. When I picked him up, Zach didn't seem too concerned. Disappointed, but not concerned. He was more interested in telling me about the girl with whom he did dance—with whom he SLOW DANCED. Ahem

I did my best not to react, other than telling him I was impressed that at 11, he'd had the courage to ask a girl to dance, period. But when the conversation turned to his reactions ("Dad, it felt really weird having my hands on her hips, you know?"), I nearly drove off the road.

Sigh. It's going to be a long adolescence. And then, of course, come the girls. Double ahem.

NOTE: In case you're wondering, it was a "Neon Dance"—hence the bright green shirt and brighter orange hair. They would have contrasted quite nicely, had I taken the photo once we'd arrived home after the dance, next to my still-in-shock, ghost-white face.

What will they call her husband? "First gentleman?"

Kelly's in Riverside this week, so I've been alone and without much hope of seeing the Democratic National Convention. But last night, I parked Zienna in front of a Barney DVD, determined to watch Hillary's speech. And then naturally, within seconds, Zoë wandered into the living room.

It was obvious she was still shaken after being evacuated earlier in the day by a large wildfire next to her school. Oh, well, I thought, my daughter's needs are more important than this. If she needs TLC, I'll skip the speech, knowing full well I'd not make the time watch it later even if I recorded it.

Zoë sat down next to me just as Chelsea took the podium. I waited to hear her ask if I could turn on Disney Channel. But instead, she became quiet.

"Is that Hillary?" Zoë asked.

"No, that's Chelsea," I said, explaining who she was and that like her mom, she was very intelligent. This segued to a few more questions about Bill Clinton and whether a woman could be president. Zoë even asked if she could be president. Of course I said yes.

By the time Hillary began speaking, Zoë was again quiet. And then she sat there, fully engaged, even shushing Zienna when she wandered into the room. I was caught completely off guard.

When the speech ended, Zoë asked why Hillary wasn't going to be president. I explained that she'd lost the primary and what that meant. But she wasn’t convinced.

"She should be president," Zoë said, matter-of-factly. And then, noticing I hadn't turned on the DVR, she added, "I wish you had taped Hillary's speech, because I'd watch it over and over."

I don't know if I could have been more surprised. Even the Olympics and the gymnastics team's high-flying heroics hadn't done much to hold Zoë’s interest. Plus, she typically gets bored quickly with anything too plodding or serious.

I apologized for not recording the speech, then tried to make amends by discussing the electoral processes and by talking with Zoë, as objectively as I could (which was tough), about Obama and McCain (the latter of whom's ads she was booing on her own, based on their content). Still confounding me, she showed genuine interest, asking so many questions that eventually I had to tell her it was bedtime.

But she wasn't through. Bringing up another subject she's been grappling with for some time, she threw one last zinger at me.

"You know what, Daddy?” she asked. "If I knew for sure that God was real, I'd pray to him and ask him to make Barack Obama president."

There, she'd done it—she'd completely floored me and left me speechless. I don't know if Zoë lost some innocence witnessing a 130-acre fire burn right up to her school's playground or what. But I do know my little girl grew up a bit, for whatever reason, right there before my eyes.

I'm just glad she didn't say she'd pray for a McCain victory. Agnostic though I may be, I can encourage her to explore religion on her own terms. I can even tell her she's free to try meat if she ever compelled to do so. But to try and sugar coat a conversation about that guy? No way.

So, president some day? At this rate, who knows? It's either that or American Idol. I guess we'll just have to wait and see. But after last night, I know more than ever that I'll be proud of Zoë no matter what.

The results are in, and Zach is a STAR

Expecting to find nothing but the standard issue of junk mail and bills awaiting me, I just opened up our mailbox and discovered buried among the paper destined for the trash or paper shredder Zach's Star Student Report (also known as the results of last year's California Standardized Testing And Reporting). I'll be honest and say that I opened it with some hesitation.

Zach's earned amazing grades the last couple of years, with straight As or close to them every report card. But he's typically not done as well on standardized tests. (Gee, he must get that from me. I hate standardized tests, whereas Kelly kicks butt on such things.) While that hasn't directly affected his grades, it has hurt him in other areas, such as nearly missing the chance to join his school's Odyssey of the Mind team. So, I was a bit nervous about what I'd see when I unfolded the report.

Did you hear my deep sigh? I'd be surprised if you didn't. And rest assured, it was most definitely a sigh of relief. Because this year, Zach proved that he can do well on those pesky standardized tests--and just in time for his move to his new school, University Preparatory, too!

Scores in each testing area (English/Language Arts, Mathematics, and Science) are broken down by range, from "Far Below Basic" to "Advanced." All students are expected to be in the "Proficient" or "Advanced" range, though many are not. Zach was "Advanced" in all areas, but check out these scores!

With 600 being the highest score possible in each area, Zach scored:

English/Language: 456 (Advanced was anything above 395; mean for his school and grade was 370)

Mathematics: 555 (Advanced was anything above 430; mean for his school and grade was 381)

Science: 481 (Advanced was anything above 410; mean for his school and grade was 362)

Most exciting of all of those was his math score, since that's traditionally been his weakest subject. It didn't help that his fourth- and fifth-grade teachers taught it basically when they got around to it, which is why I spoke with his new school's counseling department just yesterday, concerned whether he'd tested at minimum proficiency in math for incoming sixth graders!

Pardon me if I'm boasting, but yeah, I'm just a wee bit proud of my kid right now. As a parent, you do all you can to help your kid do his or her best. And on days like this, you know it's all worth it--and I don't know if there's any more satisfying feeling in the world.

My Three Fish

Judging by the wakes they leave behind them, missing a few swim lessons because of heavy smoke from our local fires hasn't had much of an effect on the older two Z fish...er, kids. In each case, they’ve returned to the pool without missing a stroke, easily keeping up with and even surpassing their peers. Lucky them. I guess when you're born to be in the water, you can get away with skipping a class or three.

As he and Zoë wrapped up their latest sessions of lessons at the YMCA this morning, Zach completed the highest-level class offered and was invited to join the Y's swim team. While I dread swimming a single lap, Zach finds doing them in quantity and at top speed a joy and a challenge. He's approached each new stroke with gusto, and he takes it personally if he's not the fastest swimmer not just in each class, but also on each lap.

Though he'll probably opt for the very strong city team over the Y's, that decision will wait until next summer since he's attending camp next week and starting school two weeks later. Given that he's expressed an interest in being a lifeguard, too--recognizing that it's a much better summer job than fast food or retail--I suspect this is just the start of things for Zach and swimming.

Zoë, meanwhile, who was absolutely terrified of water at the beginning of last summer and begging to drop out of lessons when this one began, today completed the second-highest class at the Y with the recommendation that she next move up to the class Zach just completed.

Though her backstroke needs some work, her confidence and form in the forward crawl have grown by leaps and bounds in the past few weeks, with Zoë following in the footsteps of her brother, literally flying by everyone else in her class. And she's become quite the diver, too, which is a major accomplishment for someone who just last summer was afraid to put her head under water.

As if it wasn’t enough to have two fish in the family—three if you count Kelly—it’s becoming obvious that Zienna will soon be hot on Zoë and Zach's caudal fins. With each passing day, Zienna has become less and less willing to "go play with the kids" in the Y's child watch room, realizing fully that she is missing out on swim time her siblings are enjoying. "I go swimming" quickly became her mantra to the childcare volunteers, and it has become more and more emphatic each day. She's then typically begged me for the same all afternoon. On the occasions that we've taken her to the pool after Kelly's come home from work, she's been as happy as if we'd given her a pony—and she's never wanted to leave.

Obviously and fortunately, the kids got Kelly's fish genes. And I'm having a blast watching them grow their gills.

Hair today, gone tomorrow

It was a tough decision, but after a tough couple of years trying to keep Zoë's ever-lengthening hair healthy and free of knots--which had us threatening to cut it one day and her begging us to the next, followed by brief periods of quiet (which recently became briefer and less quiet)--Kelly and I decided, with Zoë's agreement, that it was finally time to cut her hair. So, on Saturday afternoon, she went to the salon with Kelly, and an hour later, it was done.

Truth be told, neither Kelly nor I wanted it quite as short as it turned out. But once it was done, it was done. And Zoë's friends on the block, all of whom had gone through the same thing with their parents and some point, were incredibly supportive, rushing over as she arrived home to see the results and, across the board, compliment her (so enthusiastically that it really took me by surprise--but then I still don't have a complete understanding of the tween/pretween female psyche).

During the past few weeks, what had been a dry-and-knotted-hair problem became a dry-and-knotted-hair crisis, as chlorine from daily swimming and errant sunscreen took their toll on Zoë's waist-length, ultra-straight, moderately-fine locks. In essence, her hair started forming dreadlocks, and no amount of conditioning, brushing or pulling it back seemed to help. Knots removed returned in hours, and the result was more and more broken ends, which only aided the dreadlocks in their advance up the length of her hair.

I'll admit I was a bit overwhelmed when she first walked in the door Saturday, and I did my best not to show it in my facial expression, as it was clear that Zoë was watching my reaction and wanted my approval. But by Sunday morning, her new look had grown on me, and the fact that her hair was noticeably layered for the first time in ages didn't hurt. I found the cut framed her face very flattering. And whereas Zoë has always claimed she could not brush her own hair, given its length, she's now acquired a new hobby--hairstyling. On her own! And she's brushing it constantly, so my hope is that as it grows, this time, the hair will be--and stay--healthier.

The photos are evidence of the change--one taken a few days before the cut and the other minutes afterwards--so judge for yourself. I'd long hoped that when the day came for us to do this, we'd be able to donate Zoë's hair to Locks of Love. But it was in such bad shape, the topic didn't even come up. And to be honest, I don't know if Kelly, who brought the hair home and tucked it away, could have brought herself to donate it, anyway.

So, I'm still adjusting to my daughter's new look and trying to avoid doing double-takes whenever I walk by her. But I've got to tell you, it sure is nice not having to spend 10 minutes brushing out knots every time we want to go somewhere. Of that there is NO doubt!

Zoë's love, Shack

For the past couple of years, Zoë has begged almost constantly for a pet of her own. This intensified once we got Zane, since in theory at least, he was Zach's substitute for the little brother he didn't get (though it's not played out that way, and Zane and I are best buddies instead). But until recently, Kelly and I haven't thought Zoë was anywhere near mature enough to care for a pet. She has enough trouble keeping her room semi-clean, and she's still grappling with some little kid/big kid transition issues. Worse, the pets she's asked for--turtles and lizards one day, hamsters and guinea pigs the next--are not things I wanted to welcome in our home. Daddy doesn't do reptiles, and Daddy doesn't do rodents.

Still, Zoë had an absolutely remarkable school year, culminating in the first-grade equivalent of a straight-A report card. And, she's so full of love and so short on companions, given the playmate issues in our neighborhood, that there seemed to be some logic in providing her with something to which she could bond emotionally. And if she did, might it not follow that being responsible for something of her own might not help with the leap from little kid to big? Kelly and I thought and hoped so.

Visiting Petco on Saturday, Zoë asked, as she always does, if she could look at the animals that were up for adoption. I said yes, and minutes later, she came running back telling me there was a kitten that I just HAD to see. Not this again, I thought, making an excuse not to go look. She begged, and I gave in, hoping I could appease her by doing so.

When I saw the object of her interest, I'll admit I was smitten within seconds myself. A four-month-old, medium-haired male with a sleek build and black hair, with adorable white highlights and whiskers, "Shack" was described as the last of a rambunctious litter of four abandoned at a young age (and never mind that the adoption agency didn't know how to spell "Shaq," which was just as well). It was clear he had character to spare, and he soaked up all the attention we gave him.

As we played with Shack and the other cats through their cages, it was obvious he was by far the most playful of the bunch. The next thing I knew, I was jotting down the adoption contact's number. This didn't go unnoticed by Zoë, who immediately began asking why I was doing so. I tried brushing her off, but she wasn't biting. It was all I could do to get her to walk away from the cage and tell Shack goodbye--a clear case of love at first sight.

Flash forward to yesterday. After an agonizing 48-hour wait on the adoption agent who was busier than normal doing rescues in the fires, Zoë was climbing the walls. But once contact was made, it was only a matter of minutes before Kelly arrived home with Shack in tow. And once she did, it was all we could do to contain the kids' excitement--and ours, too, frankly--over our new little family member.

And, it would be all we could do to get Zoë to bed last night, as she begged to stay up and play with Shack all night. Watching her care for him, talk to him, cuddle him and play with him, I got the feeling that even if it began as love at first sight, this is a love that will last.

Let's try this again

I don't need to tell you that months have passed since I last posted to this blog. Six months, to be exact. And I don't need to tell you--especially if you're a grandparent or other doting relative--that in kids' lives, six months is an eternity. A heck of a lot happens to kids in six months' time. Teeth are lost. Teeth grow in. Hair grows. Hair is cut. Heck, sometimes hair even changes color (more about that later). Etc. And even more significant, perhaps, than physical changes are the intangible things that make up who the kids are, and the experiences that affect them.

Reading my brother Steve's blog, Hamiltonium, almost daily during my half-year hiatus has made me feel as if I know his kids, even though I've not seen the older two in nearly two years and have never met the youngest. At the same time, observing during their visit in August the reactions of my mother and stepfather to how much the older two Z Kids had changed since their last visit nearly a year and a half ago made me realize that I owe them and the others who care about but rarely see us the virtual window into the kids' lives that the blog provides. And, because I share Steve's view that the blog provides a living chronicle of their childhood, I also owe it to the kids. And to be honest, because I miss the days when my writing was actually published, I owe it to myself, too. If it's the outlet I have at this point, then so be it. I value it, and I appreciate the fact that you're sitting there reading it.

But, if I'm to return to blogging and actually make it work long-term, for you and for me, I realize that some things need to change. For one, I need to strive for shorter, more frequent entries. Once upon a time, I wanted to be a columnist, and for the short time I actually was one, I was in heaven. Getting to write essays once or twice a week about whatever struck my fancy was one heck of a mental and emotional dump. But, like longer blog entries, it was time-consuming, and it took a considerable amount of effort and commitment for me to maintain. The fact is, I don't always have that sort of time (or energy) these days. And, I'd be a fool if I didn't recognize that I was asking a lot of my readers--you, in this case--to read what I was writing, fascinating and amusing as I felt it might be. In the long run, that's a heck of a give-and-take to manage.

Still, I'm not as astute as Steve is at recognizing little tidbits of life that are ripe for 200-word (or less) nuggets of blogdom. I'm a big picture sort, and the subtleties of life sometimes escape me, unfortunately. But I understand that those are the exact sort of things that often make the best blog material, so I'm doing my best to filter for them and to snag them as they go flying by. Whether I'm successful remains to be seen. But I'm willing to give it a try if it means I can write about them and you can read about them in less time than it takes to consume a small meal.

Meanwhile, the kids are doing their part. They just keep growing and changing. As of this writing, Zach is essentially five feet tall, with blonde-streaked hair by his choosing. Zoë is suddenly a bookworm, foregoing TV to read material grade levels beyond what first-graders are supposed to be reading. And Zienna...aw, geez. At sixteen-and-a-half months, she's using words we can actually understand, developing a sense of humor, becoming independent, and has a head of long, curly locks you'd have to see in person to believe. So, I obviously have a lot of catching up to do.

If you're willing to give me another chance at this blog thing, I promise to be stimulating, mind-blowing, and otherwise worthy of every second you spend reading what I write. Sound good?

Ah, who am I fooling? How about if I commit to doing all I can to document the kids' lives, and our lives with them, in the best manner of which I'm capable. And if I'm occasionally funny, insightful or otherwise entertaining, we'll call it a draw. Fair enough?
Here's to hoping your answer is "yes." If it is, stay tuned...

Please note: Because of all the hassles involved with logging in just to read the blog, I've killed the whole login process. I'll deal with the spam comments through other means, and you can forget about all that silly login nonsense.

Too late, even for an April Fool's joke

After promising last month that I'd post more frequently, life in The Hamilton Zone got so ridiculously crazy that once again, I fell flat on my face. I'm sorry about that, but only to a degree. Because the thing is, I'll never apologize for making my family--and especially my kids--my top priority. So from here on out, I suppose the most I'd better promise is that I'll blog when I have, or can make, time. Honest, I'll do my best. But it's the best I can offer.

Anyway, given that it's April, I hope it's not too ridiculously late to finally post February's photo gallery. With all the time that's passed since I posted January's gallery, I've managed to update the format--significantly so--making it much prettier and more functional and stuff. I think you'll agree it's much-improved.

February's gallery highlights include:

• Zienna showing how independent she's becoming, from feeding herself to doing her darnedest to stand up


• Some pretty wild weather around Redding, from a storm with marble-sized hail one week to one bearing several hours of snow the next


• Zach's rather colorful participation in the regional Odyssey of the Mind competition, in which his team placed third and narrowly missed moving on to state level


• Zoë surviving nearly two weeks of missing school with the flu, finding creative ways to amuse herself (and the rest of us)

However, because this is new and untested, the first post is pretty much a beta test. And because it is, I am actively seeking your feedback. The new format is much easier to navigate, offering either a gallery or slide show view. And, you can choose to optimize it for either broadband (larger images) or dial-up (smaller ones), depending on your connection speed. (Note that just about everything on the screen, including text, is clickable and launches something!) So please, play with it, try to break it, and get back to me with your constructive criticism and opinions, whether related to the layout, the images sizes, the navigation, or whatever. This is a work in progress, and I want to make your experience with the gallery as good as it can be.

I will warn you--especially you grandparents--that print-worthy, larger images have been eliminated from the mix. I'd love to continue offering downloads via the gallery, but because it's now running through Flash, that's not possible (Someone correct me if I'm wrong about that, please!). So, until I find a better way to offer the larger images, in order to get to them, you'll need to add "/images" to the end of the URL for the month's gallery. For example, to get this month's images, you'd enter:

www.thehamiltonzone.com/gallery/g0702/images

As you view a gallery, take note of the numbers of the images you want to download--for example "1/44" would be Photo #1 of 44 in the gallery. Then, visit the month's "images" page as described above (where they're listed numerically), scroll to a file you're interested in, right-click/"Save As," and boom, you'll be downloading it (That's assuming you're a PC user. Sorry, Mac users, but you're on your own!). Repeat the process for each of the other files you want to save. If this is confusing or too much trouble, then let me know. I'm not crazy about it as a solution, but it's the best I can come up with for now. I'm all ears if you have a better idea!

Oh, and in case you hadn't figured it out by now, the gallery can be viewed here.

Enjoy the photos and get back to me with your feedback (Please!). And in return, I'll try to get March's gallery up quickly. Notice I said "try." It may still be April, but I'd prefer not to look like a fool twice in one month if I can help it!

Hello? Is this thing on?

Believe it or not, it is. And given how long it's been since there was any evidence of that fact, I figured that if you're reading this, I'd better throw you a bone before you give up on me and go away for good. So, how about a really big bone--like a HUGE January photo gallery?

Yes, it's long overdue, but it's big, given that January around The Hamilton Zone was jam-packed with photo opps. And, I think you'll agree that it's pretty good, too. At very least, I hope you enjoy it.






Things you'll see in January's gallery include:

• Zach's 10th birthday, including three separate celebrations and a run to Dunsmuir to play in the snow


• A family trip to the Bay Area to see the Harlem Globetrotters, as well as visits with the McCarthys, Aunt Cindy and Uncle Phil's family, and Grandpa Carl and Grandma Pam


• Zienna's first visit (accompanied by Mom) with Uncle Steve and Aunt Mary's family, at their house in San Diego


• And of course, plenty of Zienna cuteness, as she sheds her "baby" qualities and lunges forward into toddlerhood

To view January's gallery, either go here or to the finally-updated main gallery page here.

And, as an added bonus, I've also updated the gallery of Zienna's nine-month portraits from last month, which you can view here. Even if you've already seen her portraits, I've added new content not seen in the original gallery I publicized via email. And for what it's worth, we purchased the rights to this portrait sitting, so you can download--and print--at will without concerns over trivial things like copyrights.

All joking aside, please do accept my apologies for the lack of posts. I've written several entries since the last one was published, but a combination of factors--including computer problems, web site hosting issues, repeated bouts with sickness in the family (including the flu), and a plain old lack of time--prevented me from posting them.

The time issues won't go away--at least not for another 18 years or so (!)--but the computer and other technical issues are, I hope, at bay for the moment. So, I hope to publish more in the near future, because the fact is, a lot's been going on! Hopefully, you can read about it all before too long.

Now I'd better run, before something comes up and this thing ends up in the "Drafts" folder, too...DOH!

Should new Z photos be forgot?

I don't think so. And that's why, even though I had it posted and ready to share five days into the new year and it's now a week into February, I didn't want to let this big (and hopefully, charming and worth-your-while), year-end photo gallery slip by without notice. Problem is, I've almost waited too long to prevent that from happening--hopefully "almost" and not "too."

As I'm sure it was in your home, December was quite a busy month around The Hamilton Zone. There were lots of photo opps, and I'd like to think there was plenty of cream available from which to skim. Highlights include Zoë's first gymnastics exhibition, both Zach's and Zoë's school Christmas pageants, a visit to our house before bedtime from the fat guy in the red suit, Christmas at Grandma and Grandpa Loops', and of course, lots of pictures of that rapidly-growing (and cutening) Little Z.




To check out the gallery, go here.

And while you're at it, if you want to see some REALLY good Valentine's Day/early 9-month photos of Zienna (Trust me, these are special!), click here.



Enjoy!

The punks broke in, and I got the girl

Twenty years ago today, I won the lottery. My prize was beyond valuation, and I really can't compare it to the one I won ten years ago last Monday, when Zach was born, other than to say that without this one, the other one couldn't have happened. Twenty years ago today, I married my best friend, Kelly Jean Loop.

I'd always had a thing for cute, girl-next-door types (and still do), and Kelly was (and still is) that to the nth degree. Throw in her smarts, wit, warmth, and how fun she is to be around, and she’s more than I ever could have asked for. I was smitten from the moment I first set eyes on her, and that she was attracted to me was beyond my belief or comprehension. I still feel that way. And when I look back on our first two decades of marriage, it reminds me of how, in a twisted way, I'll forever be indebted to the punks who tried to burn my mom's house down.

In the early days of my childhood, I spent my life in boring but safe bedroom communities in the East San Francisco Bay Area. Shortly after my parents divorced, we found ourselves moving from one rental to another, and my mom, who was determined to purchase a house of her own, took a job in the growing Silicon Valley workforce.

Commuting from Newark made her long days even longer, so in 1976, she purchased a condominium in San Jose and moved me and my siblings south. As much as an achievement as home ownership was for a divorced mother with four kids, there was no denying that relocating us to the east side of San Jose involved major culture shock. I remember my mother asking her real estate agent if the neighborhood was a safe one, and despite some signs to the contrary, he assured her that it was. And initially, though the change was great, it seemed to be.

Still, with frequent police visits and word of break-ins and drug dealing, this clearly wasn't paradise. Many of the shady, teenaged punks I suspected were causing the trouble congregated regularly in a building next door to ours, which was far from comforting. My mom did her best to befriend the thugs, and for a time, that appeared to help, because they didn't pick on me as they did most of the other kids in the neighborhood. But as I entered high school the following year, racial tensions and gang fights on my campus were making the evening news, and these problems often spilled into the surrounding neighborhoods—including ours.

Months passed, and I did my best to avoid trouble and to find sanctuary at school. But before long, the warning signs around us reached their limit, and an event occurred that would forever change my life. Grounded and on strict orders to come straight home from school, I was gifted by our principal with an unannounced minimum day. Figuring my mom would never know about it so long as I was home by my normal time, I headed to my old junior high school to play basketball with some friends. Imagine my surprise—no, shock—when one of my buddies pointed to my mom, who was supposed to be at work, approaching us. As I started to make excuses for why I was there, I can only remember her saying one thing: "Get in the car."

We rode home in silence. Something was clearly wrong, and the minute we arrived home, I could see what. Police cars and fire trucks were gathered outside, and the men who'd driven them there were scurrying about everywhere. Walking inside, I couldn't believe what greeted me, as our house had been ransacked almost beyond recognition. Every cupboard, closet, dresser, and even the refrigerator and freezer had been emptied of its contents, which were strewn in piles across the floor.

The good news was that not much had been taken. The bad news was that when they were done, the crooks had taken the contents of our coat closet, thrown them on the stove, and turned all the burners on high. Only the presence of a detective investigating a burglary in the adjoining unit who heard our smoke alarms and called the fire department prevented the place from burning down. But the smoke had done its damage, as oily, black soot and a sickeningly sour odor permeated everything in the house.

Putting our lives back in order was a slow and painful process, and it dramatically increased the fear I felt each time I stepped outside our front door. If you've ever had a break-in, you know the feeling of violation you’re left with afterwards. And yet, when my mom announced that we'd be moving, I argued tooth and nail, especially once I learned that she was house hunting in the safer haven of the west side. By then, I'd adopted a street mentality that where we lived was "real" and that the parts across town were superficial and populated by spoiled, rich families. This was an exaggerated stereotype, of course, but it was what I'd been taught. That I had a kinda sorta girlfriend named Donna at my current school didn't help matters. And so it was that, once we'd made the move to a large detached house on a relatively quiet street not far from Campbell—an upgrade by any measure—I stubbornly insisted on riding the bus across town rather than transferring schools.

This was no small undertaking, as it involved several hours of travel, both by foot and on multiple buses, each day. So it was no surprise that once things cooled off completely with Donna, I was ready to begrudgingly switch schools. I told my friends goodbye, adding that I was sure I'd be back in short order after facing the horrors that surely awaited me. I can still remember the day I enrolled at Blackford High School, skeptical of everything I was told by my new counselor and quick to point out every shortcoming I could find at the much-smaller school. Once registration was completed, I plodded off to class to face my fate, determined not to fit in.

To my surprise, people were quite friendly at Blackford. A couple of girls who’d noticed that I spent my lunch periods sitting in the library reading took it upon themselves to get to know me, and to encourage me to get out and meet people. Taking their advice, and because I'd always had an interest in photography, I quickly fell in with some geeky guys who shot pictures for the yearbook who encouraged me to accompany them to one of the school's basketball games. While I knew the team couldn't hold a prayer to Silver Creek's division-winning one, I agreed, and a few nights later, found myself sitting in the bleachers with them, feeling uncomfortable, alone, and entirely out of place.

And then it happened. Just when I thought I might drop dead on the spot out of sheer boredom, I looked up and saw her. It goes without saying that for a teenaged boy, one of the attractions—often the main attraction—of attending a campus sports event is the cheerleaders. So, at a new school, not really knowing anyone, pretending to cheer for a team for which I didn't yet feel any spirit, I was soon busy surveying the new crop of short skirts and pompoms. And as I did, I spotted someone with the most amazing green eyes I'd ever seen and a smile that absolutely took my breath away. I asked my companions about her, and they told me that her name was Kelly Loop. I couldn't take my eyes off her and, acting completely out of my normally shy character, I told them I wanted to meet her. They seemed surprised by my bold behavior, but because they both knew her, they called her over.

As she bounded up the bleachers, I watched with the turbocharged hormones and easily-swayed heart of a sixteen-year-old in utter fascination as this adorable creature actually responded and approached us. This was like something out of a movie! If I managed to utter anything to her I really can't say, because I don't remember much, other than that she was bubbly, friendly, and even cuter (if that was possible) close up. Much to my new friends' amusement, I was completely smitten, and once she’d departed and taken her place back in line with her squadmates, I spent the rest of the game in a Kelly-induced fog, trying not to stare but finding it impossible not to do so.

And that’s how it all started. At some point, I'll tell the rest of the story of how Kelly and I got together, but suffice to say that it involved getting to know her as she dated friends and friends-of-friends of mine, a situation I'd have found torturesome aside from the fact that since I figured I didn't stand a chance of ever dating her myself, at least I could live vicariously through my buddies and spend time in Kelly’s presence. The concept of us ever marrying would have struck me as more than impossible during high school—and even once we’d begun dating—and I remind myself frequently of how lucky I am to have ever met her. I'm a romantic fool and have always pitied people I've watched endlessly trying to “find someone," and I pinch myself when I think about how easy it was for me to find my soul mate.

I realize it's not supposed to work out this way, but amazingly, it did. As Zach is fond of saying, "Yay, me!" And lucky me besides. And shame on me for not planning some big hurrah to celebrate two decades of partnership with this wonderful person I call my wife. I'd envisioned as long as two years ago repeating our cash-strapped-but-fun honeymoon through the coastal areas of Northern California and/or buying the upgraded diamond ring Kelly so richly deserves. But the the constraints caused by a still-nursing Zienna and the economics of purchasing our house put both of those on hold, at least for now. Dang, responsibility is a drag.

Years ago, when we first began dating, I gave Kelly (with much hesitation, because its contents scared me so badly at the time) a Valentine's Day card that said something about hoping we'd grow old and gray together. I'm pretty sure that's happening right now—in fact, looking in the mirror, I know it is. And I can only hope that Kelly is half as happy as I am.

Here's to twenty more years, and beyond.

A decade of daddiness

Ten years ago today, my life was changed forever in ways I never could have foreseen or, prior to that day, appreciated. Ten years ago today, Zach was born.

Zach (a.k.a. Superkid, Zacher, Bud-Bud, and, in a goofy song I sang to him as a baby, Zachary Wachary Doodah Boy) was the little bundle of joy I never knew I wanted. And as a result, I naively approached fathering him—and fatherhood in general—nonchalantly. But as anyone who's a parent knows, to say that kids change your life in profound ways is a gross understatement. And Zach definitely changed mine.

Sure, I still listen to punk, ska, reggae, and whatever else strikes my fancy (a quality which just yesterday, as we were playing the second-wave ska of The Specials in the truck, Zach said makes me a "cool dad"). And, when I can muster up the energy, considering it now involves at least a seven- to eight-hour round trip from Redding and the gas that goes with it to do so, I'll still stay out all hours of the night to catch my favorite musicians performing live. And when I'm feeling particularly bold or carefree, I can still be impulsive enough to take the occasional unplanned road trip.

But to say I'm the same person I was ten years ago? No way. The minute Zach was born, I became "Dad" (or at the time, "Daddy") first and all else second. Yet, if you'd have told me prior to 1997 that one day I'd be coaching kids’ sports teams, staying home full-time with my kid (or kids?!?!), or, without the slightest hint of self-consciousness, walking around town wearing a baby carrier, I'd have said you were nuts. Because even in the days leading up to my pending fatherhood, I rejected all the trappings of being a parent. And worse, I wasn’t even sure I wanted to be one.

Those of you who've known Kelly and me for any length of time are aware that we married quiet young. Not Romeo and Juliet young, but young enough, given that, if our wedding had been seven months earlier, Kelly would not have been able to legally partake in our champagne toast. Only a year and a half her senior, I wasn't much older, and I was horribly immature. Blinded by love, I didn't have a clue what I wanted out of life other than to be with her.

So, as we worked through pre-marital counseling with Reverend Thomas Kerr, the minister who would later perform our wedding ceremony, I pondered his questions about Major Life Issues just as I did the subjects I was still studying in college at the time—on an intellectual, rather than emotional, level. And when the discussion turned to parenthood, I considered the topic the same way I did all the others we covered: in the abstract. I did so instinctively, because frankly, the thought of reproduction was absolutely alien to me at the time.

Do you want to have children?

Yeah, I guess so.

Are you sure?

Yeah, I guess so.

When?

Um, I dunno. When the time is right.

When might that be?

Um, I dunno.

Surely my responses should have sent up red flags that shouted, "THIS KID IS NOT READY TO GET MARRIED," and I fully expected that at some point, Rev. Kerr would in fact pull the plug and tell us that sorry, while we were fully capable of driving to Tahoe and finding some shady, gold-lamé-wearing minister who'd marry us, he was not going to be a part of this fiasco. But to my surprise, he never did. And because he didn't, it was only a few short months before I walked down the aisle, said "I do," kissed the bride, and wandered off into the sunset with that Major Life Issue unresolved.

Given that Kelly, even at 21, had a biological clock that ticked as loudly as those old wind-up models with the big bells on top, I wasn't going to be able to avoid the issue of parenting for long. Oh, sure, she loved me, but there was no escaping the fact that SHE WANTED A BABY. And so, once I'd finished school, and particularly once we'd relocated to Southern California to spread our wings, my uncertainty about parenthood and plunging forward with a partner who didn't share that uncertainty came back to haunt me, big time. Because the fact of the matter was, as far as I could tell, I didn't want kids. At least not then. And maybe not ever.

Uh-oh.

I'll spare you the gorier aspects of what this little disconnect meant for our relationship during the first eight or nine years other than to say that I will be forever grateful and indebted to Kelly for her patience. Even as I stumbled into her—which of course was really "our"—first pregnancy, I still wasn't entirely sure I wanted to be a father. And being young, intelligent, charming, attractive, and poised to begin a second career as an attorney, Kelly easily could have dumped me and, in a heartbeat, found a guy who knew what he wanted, didn't dodge his way through pre-marital counseling, and was ready to pursue parenthood with gusto rather than uncertainty.

But fortunately for me, she didn't. And just as fortunately, ten years ago tonight, I was struck by an epiphany the moment Zach was born: I wanted this little person in my life more than I ever could have dreamed or believed. And yes, I wanted to be a parent. But admitting those things, even to myself, and giving in to them meant I also had to be willing to grow up and take on responsibility. And those were frightening concepts—even scarier than the questions Rev. Kerr had posed to me years before.

The fact that Kelly had a complicated pregnancy involving frequent doctor visits and bed rest helped ground me a bit in the months leading up to Zach's birth. But even as late as the week before he arrived, I still wasn't approaching the topic with complete seriousness. As our Christmas due date came and went, the days dragged by. To pass the time, I goofed around on the Internet, listened to music, watched college football games, and basically did everything possible to avoid reality. And when Kelly said she’d be receiving pre-induction medication on New Year’s Day so she could deliver Zach the following morning, I just mentally shrugged and said, “OK.” I was numb from waiting and from holding back my fears about what was about to happen to us, and to me.

In retrospect, it’s probably best that the nurse administering Kelly’s drugs was heavy-handed, since in doing so she surprised us with a New Year’s Day baby. Losing the last element of control I’d had over my destiny by knowing when Zach would arrive shocked me back into reality and forced me to give in to the feelings I’d been holding at bay. And, it made me more emotionally available to Kelly, who obviously needed me on the team. No, I wouldn’t have time for lunch from our favorite Mexican restaurant on the way home from the hospital, and no, I wouldn’t be able to sit around and watch college bowl games. Because the baby was coming today, and that was that.

At roughly 9:00 that night, when the obstetrician hurriedly handed off Zach, who wasn’t breathing, to the Intensive Care team without asking me if I wanted to cut the umbilical cord, I learned just how badly I wanted to be his father. Much as I hate to admit that I’d had feelings of indifference toward him before that moment, those feelings were shattered instantly when I thought I might never get the chance to meet him. Watching his birth video a few months ago, I cried all over again when I saw myself (albeit a younger and less gray-haired version of myself) asking Kelly’s sister, Shannon, to turn off the video camera. If my son was going to come and go in that manner, I didn’t want it preserved for posterity.

Thank goodness it didn’t come to that. Fortunately, Zach, in true Hamilton fashion, was only being stubborn, and within minutes he was breathing normally. That he would later again prove stubborn and refuse to nurse—for days—is another story and one without consequence, as evidenced by the fact that, as he turns 10, my once-little boy is a whopping 4-foot-10-and-1/2-inch, 100-plus-pound monster. From the moment I held him, I knew that this was the greatest gift I was ever going to receive and that Kelly had been right all along. And, I learned right then and there the meaning of the term “unconditional love.” Yes, my wonderful daughters would follow—children I'd love just as dearly—but coming first, it was Zach who taught me this lesson.

So, thank you, Zach, for helping me grow so much and for nudging me onto the wonderful journey of parenthood. I’ve told you repeatedly over the years that if I was allowed to shop for a son, you’re the one I’d have picked, hands down. Today, more than ever, I feel that way. And as you enter the world of “double digits”—something of which you’ve reminded me frequently in the past week just as I’ve tried to avoid it—I couldn’t be prouder of you, not just for who you are now, but for the person I know you’ll one day become. I love you with every ounce of my heart and soul, and I consider myself the luckiest man alive to be your father. And I always will.

Happy 10th birthday, buddy.

Happy holidayz to you!

Seeing as I finally sent out our Christmas cards, er, two days, you'll probably see this before you see one of those. So, before we miss the big day entirely, here's a little holiday flavor from The Hamilton Zone...

It's been a fantastic and exciting year for us, and we feel beyond fortunate looking back at all that's transpired. Thank you to those who played a part in our lives this year and to those who will in the new year. We hope the season is a happy and rewarding time for all of you.

From our house to yours, we wish you the happiest of holidays (insert virtual toast here). Merry Christmas!

They always want what they can't (or shouldn't) have

As I mentioned last week, Zienna and Zane have quickly become cross-species baby buddies. Clearly fascinated by one another, Zane shows his feelings for Zienna through countless “kisses” which Zienna not only doesn't mind, she encourages. Even before she could crawl, Zienna would reach through her play yard fence, extending her hands for Zane to lick. And now that she can get around, Zienna goes looking for Zane, even approaching his crate and reaching through its bars at times when he’s inside, as if to ask, “Wanna come outside and play?” More kissing ensues.

That Zane is so gentle with Zienna is really surprising. After roughly three and a half months since entering The Hamilton Zone, Zane is still learning his manners. He heels pretty well when it’s just me and him, but he's one excitable puppy who’ll jump at anyone who comes close. Since claws with 30+ pounds behind them and nipping teeth follow, he can be intimidating, good-natured or not. Just ask Zach, who's down half a dozen shirts, victims of Zane's overzealous affection.

During the past week, with non-stop rains reducing the number and duration of our walks, Zane has been even more enegetic than usual, doing periodic windsprints around the great room, pausing every few laps to say "hi" to Zienna. And then, after hosting Kelly's firm's party on Saturday night, we chose not to put Zienna's play yard back up, since we were trusting Zane more and because Zienna gets frustrated by confinement now that she can crawl. Between Zane's physical nature and Zienna's curiosity and mobility, a grand experiment was in the making.

Three days and counting without the protective fence, and all is going well—on most fronts. There’s not so much as a scratch on Zienna. True to what I'd observed to this point, she and Zane really do appear to have a special bond. Yes, Zane still terrorizes Zach (who won't stand up to him) and in the past week has left the back of one of my hands a bloody mess on three separate occasions over the excitement of going for a walk. But when he’s around Zienna, Zane’s demeanor instantly softens, as he nuzzles and threatens her with nothing more than that ever-present tongue.

But that isn't to say that the Little Z Mutual Admiration Society hasn't gotten into its share of mischief. Because it has.

Mid-morning on the first day that Zienna really got proficient at crawling, I was working in the kitchen when I heard a sound emanating from the corner of the breakfast nook. Hmmm, Zane must have decided to finish his breakfast, I thought. Only Zane was locked in his crate since I was in the other room. And Belly wouldn’t dare. Which could mean only one thing. Oops. Fortunately, I reacted quickly enough to fish the kibble out of Zienna's mouth before she choked. So much for her pristine, vegetarian state. But in the end, a lesson was learned and there was no real harm done.

Then on Monday, with Zienna's play yard gone and her toys free and unencumbered, I was again caught off guard when I heard—while Zienna was napping in her room—her electronic Winnie the Pooh toy emitting the digitized sounds of buzzing bees. Lately, Zane's been pretty good about leaving Zienna's toys alone, even when they're sitting right next to his. But I guess the temptation was too great with the fence gone and the bright, plastic pile of loot left unattended for the taking. Shooing him off, I corralled the toys safely into a corner next to my desk so I could watch and protect them.

A few more “grass is greener” encounters ensued, but by yesterday, I'd gotten things more or less back to normal, with Zane's food dish relocated to the laundry room, the door closed, and the Under One crowd back on track as to whose possessions were whose. Or so I thought.

Shortly after lunchtime, seated at my desk and deep in thought over something I desperately needed to complete for Christmas, my parental radar sent an alert indicating that Zienna was no longer viewable by my peripheral vision. Peering over the sofa, I saw her by the fireplace, smiling innocently as she sat playing with a toy. No worries, I thought. But as I sat down, I realized that her toys were all still neatly piled up next to me, and since Zienna has yet to figure out how to crawl with a toy in hand, that meant that...oh, yuck. Yep, she was chewing on a bright, red rubber doggie bone. Yikes.

Bounding across the room, I snatched the bone from Zienna’s hands as I placed her back on “her” side of the room. Then I ran back and scooped up the rest of Zane's toys and, along with the offending bone, threw the lot of them into a pile near his crate. Thinking I’d made the boundaries clear, I returned to my desk, only to find Zane chewing on one of Zienna's favorite rattles. Scolding Zane and anxious to get back to work, I tossed the rattle in the sink, then chased him back to his corner of the room for one last chance before a fast ticket to Crateville, or a quick reconstruction of the play yard fence.

As I sat down, Zane came sauntering around the corner of the sofa with his favorite chew toy—a crazy, UFO-like gold number covered in soft, green nubs (all the more inviting to babies!)—in his mouth. He plopped down a few feet from Zienna, who was banging two of her own playthings together, oblivious to the havoc. This is how it should be, I thought. Peaceful coexistence. Except that within seconds, Zane had jumped up, leaving behind his slobber-soaked treasure, for which Zienna immediately darted. I narrowly beat her to it, but by then, Zane was back with a squirrel-emblazoned cloth Frisbee, which Zienna found equally appealing and for which Zienna quickly grabbed—and at that point, enough was enough. Into the crate went Zane.

Today, we’re experimenting again, because we need to clear this hurdle. Obviously Zienna can't live full time in a play yard, just as Zane can't live full time in a crate. And besides, I realize that as a team, the Poopy Pals mean no harm. The way I'm figuring it, Zienna and Zane aren't misbehaving, they're sharing. Sort of like the Pilgrims and Native Americans, they're dividing territory and exchanging gifts (and things they can put into their mouths). Either that, or they're both smarter than any of us would believe and scheming to drive me batty. And for the record—even if that’s not their intent—they're doing a pretty good job of it!

Cousin Cole doesn't want to read this

Since reading a few months ago in my brother Steve's blog that one of his three-year-old twins, my nephew Cole, has . . . oh, let's just say "issues" . . . with Bard, the hand-puppet dragon from the popular series of Baby Einstein videos, I've chuckled every time I've caught sight of the scaley, green guy--Bard, that is, not Cole, who I see far too infrequently since he and his family live in San Diego. And since Zienna is at an age where images of Baby Einstein characters appear on age-appropriate clothing, toys, CDs and yes, videos we let her watch from time to time, I see Bard pretty often. And every time, I can't help but laugh or at least smile over the thought of an otherwise tough little boy being frightened of something so cartoonish and non-threatening.

It's not that I get some sort of sadistic pleasure over a child's fears, particularly those of a child whom I care about. Nor am I trying to single Cole out for ridicule, as my kids have fears of their own, rational and otherwise, and plenty of them. But Steve's description of the depth of Cole's Bardophobia was so amusing, as he likened Cole's impression of Bard to that of a classic movie monster and recounted how Cole admonished Bard "at least 50 times" not to appear in a Baby Einstein video, it even made Zach laugh out loud and at length.

So, with this image of Bard and his effect on children in mind, I had to also laugh when last week we brought home for Zienna a Baby Einstein Discover and Play Activity Center, only to find that one of its main features was a full-sized Bard hand puppet. How, I wondered, would Zienna react? Would she break out in terror-filled sobs and bury her head in fear? Would this spoil a fairly pricey and developmentally-important toy for her? And most importantly of all, would its effects saddle her parents with years of bills for expensive psychotherapy? These thoughts filled my mind as I brought Zienna over to the newly-constructed center and placed her in its stand-up seat.

Knowing full well that the mighty Bard had slayed the psyche of Zienna's much older and rough-and-tumble cousin, I watched with anticipation as Zienna spun the seat around, surveyed the impressive lineup of activities, and very quickly spotted Bard. As she did, her eyebrows raised noticeably, as she seemed to recognize Bard from the videos. And then, she reacted. How, exactly? The same way she does with everything she gets ahold of these days, of course. Completely fearless, Zienna grabbed hold of Bard, put his head in her mouth, and chewed on it. When you're six months old, the world is your teething ring, and aside from overly loud noises and a late feeding, you have very few fears.

Seeing Zienna's reaction--or lack of one--I broke out in hysterics, picturing how Cole would react if he saw Zienna not just in the presence of the dreaded beast, but actually handling it and placing it in her mouth. Never mind that he wouldn't realize Zienna wasn't old enough to be cerebral. He'd just see the act for what it was and in all likelihood, run from the room screaming in dread. (Aunt Kelly notes that in fairness, it's possible Zienna was scared to death but selflessly trying to consume the beast, sensing it had wrought mental anguish on her cousin in the past.)

For all I know, Zienna will one day share Cole's fear of Bard or for some other Baby Einstein character for that matter. Heck, I find those inane videos, let alone the ridiculous characters that inhabit them, scary myself! But for now, Zienna's my little dragon slayer, bold enough to bully a beast that can strike fear into the heart of a boy multiple times her age.

Then again, maybe my little tomboy needs to back off and soften up a bit. Zienna's bold, boisterous manner scared the heck out of a male friend her age during a playdate yesterday--another story alltogether--so perhaps it's time for a lesson in decorum and grooming one's self as a frail damsel, worthy and accepting of chivalry. Or not. You go get 'em, girl...

Keeping up with the Hamiltonses (new photos included)

Whew! Where the heck did November go? For that matter, where the heck did this year go? Granted, 2006 has been life at breakneck speed around The Hamilton Zone, but I thought things would slow down a bit once we were settled into the house. No such luck, unfortunately. Between daily life, all the activities at the kids' school, and the extracurriculars with which we've been involved, there's hardly been time to sit down, let alone blog.

Meanwhile, there have been some exciting developments in the kids' lives--and by extension, mine and Kelly's. And since my list of notes titled "Blogs I Need to Write" is growing out of control, I figured it made sense to stop and just do a roundup of what's been going on instead.

Oh, but first, if you can believe it (Hold your breath!), November's photos are posted. You can view them directly here, or via the gallery page, located as always at www.thehamiltonzone.com/gallery. For the record, I thought I had my brother Steve beat for once in posting photos this month, but by the time mine I'd uploaded mine this morning, his were already in place. Oh, well. And so much for all those public-service reasons I gave last month for holding off on posting photos, eh?

So, how about a little ketchup to go with those photos? (Warning: Uncontrolled parental boasting ahead!)

Zach, who I've recently ignored horribly in blogland, has been one busy and productive dude already this school year. Coinciding with our move and the start of the fourth grade, Zach began his fourth year of soccer, not in AYSO (American Youth Soccer Organization), but in Redding's more competitive CYSA (California Youth Soccer Association) league. As a member of The Strikers, Zach quickly established himself once again as a defensive force to be reckoned with, and by mid-season, he was also playing goalkeeper roughly half of each game. Initially, I worried Zach might not click with CYSA after playing in the touchy-feely, "everyone plays" environment of AY. But he declared this his favorite season of soccer ever--in part because Dad wasn't coaching him--and I had to admit that I found it more enjoyable, too, watching from the sidelines and cheering him on.

Entering fourth grade, Zach was a bit nervous when he found out that his teacher would be not just a man (Mr. Ward), but a man with a reputation for being rather strict. But Zach quickly learned that while Mr. Ward is quick to punish for infractions--such as writing old-fashioned lines over and over--he also has a quirky sense of humor and rewards achievement with karaoke and video game parties. And apparently, it's a good mix for Zach. When report cards and conferences came due last month, Kelly and I couldn't have been prouder of him. In addition to receiving excellent citizenship marks and exceeding most of his year-end fourth grade benchmarks already, Zach came one B+ shy of earning straight As--including A-pluses in spelling and social studies.

Based partly on his early performance this year, Zach was invited to join his school's Odyssey of the Mind program, an honor reserved for top students involving creative problem-solving that can lead to state- and national-level competition. And when Zach's not trying to tackle Problem 4: Out of the Box Balsa, he'll be practicing his saxophone, an instrument that he began playing shortly after the school year began. Zach likes his music class and the concept of playing more than practicing (What kid doesn't?), and he seems to be picking up both the instrument and reading music quickly. Time will tell if his interest lasts, but for now, one thing's for sure: Zach has a shiny, new sax as a combination Christmas/birthday present.

Meanwhile, Zoë has changed so much since entering kindergarten, it's hard for me to believe. In three short months, she's gone from a shy, little girl who was afraid to enter her classroom alone--or even with me or Kelly--to a confident, big girl who throws on her backpack and nonchalantly waves over her shoulder as I drop her off at the school's curb in the morning. And that confidence is translating where it counts, too. Whereas last summer, I'd get a lot of "I don't know how" responses to the exercises in a kindergarten-prep book we worked through together, Zoë has quickly mastered all of her upper- and lower-case letters, her numbers, and most importantly, reading.

The rate at which Zoë has grown as a reader absolutely boggles my mind. Since she was old enough to talk, she's been fascinated by books, frequently "reading" aloud to dolls, classmates, or family members. But now she can actually do it. And not just monosyllabic picture books, either. Already, she's being sent home--based on her demonstrated ability in class--books with multiple "chapters" and some really challenging words. It tickles me to death to hear her read and to see how proud it makes her feel. And when first-term conferences were held, it wasn't just reading in which Zoë was excelling, either. Like Zach, she'd mastered the bulk of her year's benchmarks already.

And it's fortunate that Zoë can breeze through her homework, because it leaves time for her other favorite thing besides reading: art. Zoë absolutely loves to draw, paint, and as puts it, "do crafts." Overnight, her nondescript scribbling has taken on real character, and so far, I think she'll definitely be the artist in the family. Which is more than we can say for her future in soccer. After floundering through part of another season, struggling with cleats, socks and shin guards all the way--like Mom, the girl hates footwear--Zoë jumped ship to a sport where bare feet are welcome: gymnastics. After a month and a half of classes at Galaxy Gymnastics Academy, she's already showing more determination than she ever did in soccer, and she seems to welcome the challenges. And even though a trip to watch her cousin Kristin participate in a weekend-long cheerleading competition had Zoë ready to switch disciplines again, Mom convinced her that gymnastics will help when she's ready to cheer. So, for the moment, she's caught up in cartwheels, trampolines and balance beams. By way of Mom, it's definitely in her blood, and I'm glad to see her so passionate about physical activity.

And speaking of physical activity, Zienna's suddenly needing a lot more of it. Not in terms of carrying her, but in keeping up with her! As I wrote a few days ago, Zienna decided to skip rolling over and army-man-style crawling altogether and progress right to four-limbed locomotion. And since then, she's really taken off--literally. Turn your back, and she's gone, off to explore another room (at which point the open floor plan of our house, with its lack of separate, doored rooms at its core, becomes a real liability!). Combined with her ability to pull herself up on to her feet, the world is suddenly much smaller for Zienna and much larger for me and Kelly.

When she's not conquering the world or pushing the childproofing card--or kissing Zane, with whom she's established a mutual-admiration society--Zienna is still keeping us on our toes. In mid-November, she started eating solids, and since then, there's been no looking back. Just last night, I was busy in the garage and overlooked that the dinner hour had arrived--a fact that was not lost on Zienna. By the time she was in her high chair and eagerly chowing down on rice cereal and squash, she was screaming bloody murder that Mom shovel the spoonfulls in faster.

When she's not breastfeeding, Zienna's learned to more or less hold her own bottles (although she tends to play with them and hasn't figured out what to do when she drops one). And, proving that her sweet, little mouth is good for more than just eating, Zienna this week added a kinda-sorta word to her non-stop cooing: "Ma-ma-ma-ma." Kelly's convinced it's meant to be what it sounds like, and I'm content to let her believe that, even if I'm sure Zienna's first real word will be "Daddy." Or "Giants." Or at least "baseball."

Enough ketchup. I'm off to prepare the house for Kelly's office party, which will be wrapping up here for dessert on Saturday and hopefully will include a visit from a fat guy with a beard. And then we have guests on Sunday...a trip to San Francisco the following weekend to see Throwing Muses...the neighborhood cookie exchange...the school Christmas pageant...Christmas with Dale and Dede (Kelly's folks) and her sister, Shannon, and her family...more family portraits...Zach's birthday the following week...another trip south to see the Harlem Globetrotters...and then, who knows?

Geez, no wonder time flies. Good thing we're having fun!

Baby's got wheels

Shortly before noon PST today, life in The Hamilton Zone got a lot more complicated, as Zienna officially entered the Age of Crawling. As in, oops, I'd better not leave my shoes laying around on the floor any more. Or dog toys. Or plastic shopping bags I've brought in from the car. Because those are the things I found her chewing on shortly after she'd discovered her new-found talent. Oops.

Just a few days ago, it looked like Zienna might not crawl for a while yet. At her six-month check on Tuesday (Weight: 20 pounds, 9 ounces--97th percentile; Height: 27 inches--97th+ percentile), she was a mishmash of milestones. Any teeth yet? Nope, but drooling enough to convince Mom and Dad she's teething. Rolling over yet? Nope again, but starting to pull herself to and from a seated position. Crawling yet? Still nope, but pulling herself up into a full standing position and staying there for extended periods (even if it means occasionally banging her forhead as she did in the photo at left). Wait a minute--that's not supposed to happen until the nine-month checkup! Oh, well. Clearly, this girl is progressing on her own schedule, not anyone else's!

Our pediatrician, Dr. Braemer, wasn't concerned that Zienna wasn't rolling over, given the overall picture. Nor was he concerned about Zienna's weight--although, as he's pointed out in the past, she's obviously not starving. Which is probably why, when Kelly asked if we should be giving Zienna solids throughout the day instead of just for dinner, he told us to make the call ourselves. Indeed.

Oh, yeah, I'd forgotten up until now to mention that Zienna started solids, hadn't I? Yep, for almost three weeks now. See, I had video and pictures I was going to post, but when I went to, Blogger...oh, never mind. You don't want to hear it, and I don't want to say it. But suffice to say Z Baby is now using Stage 2 Diaper Genie refills and howling at dinnertime. All over a bit of flavorless rice cereal and near-flavorless pureed vegetables. Yummy.

Anyway, this morning, Zienna was in a particularly good mood, and I had her playing on the floor beside me as I did some things online. As she struggled to grasp a toy and looked to me for help, I decided to try an experiment. Lining up several of her favorite playthings, including the one she'd been reaching for, I placed them roughly four feet from her on the floor and then knelt behind them. At first, Zienna just looked at me, banged on the ground, and whined. Then she got down on her stomach. Then she floundered about a bit before starting to whine again, with no apparent signs of locomotion.

Just as I began to think I was asking for too much too soon, Zienna raised herself back up on all fours--way up--and began pumping those big legs of hers. And then she moved a hand. Then she looked at me, and as I cheered her on, she moved the other hand. And then she moved the first one again. And with a few rests mixed in, she continued, until she had reached the toys. Which I proceeded to move another few feet away. And she proceeded to crawl to again. At which point she deftly swooped into a sitting position, with no struggle involved, to claim her prizes. After such a performance, I had to let her claim her prize. At least for the moment.

Considering I'd not caught many of the other kids' "firsts," which tended to occur either at daycare or when I wasn't looking or around, I got pretty darned excited over this development. And then I made her do it a few more times, until her arms were showing signs of fatigue--which of course meant she couldn't repeat her feat when Mom came home for lunch. Oops again. But there'll be plenty of other opportunities, now that baby's got wheels.

Guess I've got a house to go childproof. Just in time for a Christmas tree--DOH!

Happy birthday to house...er, Zienna

As I began singing out loud a "birthday" wish to our house yesterday--because it marked three glorious months since we left the rental life behind--Kelly immediately jumped in as I finished and sang what I should have been singing, which was "Happy Birthday" to Zienna. Because yesterday, she turned six months old.

Six months. Yikes! As Zach and I were discussing last night, it's already getting a bit hard to remember what life was like before Zienna, given how involved we all are with her daily life (a BIG change from having a kid in full-time daycare, and a welcome one!). But still, six months is half a year, and I really find it hard to believe that much time has passed since Zienna's birth. Time may fly when you're having fun, but it really zips by when you're enjoying a new baby and super busy, as we have been since May.

Since it came as an afterthought that it was The Big 0.5 for Zienna, we really didn't do anything to mark the event. It was raining like crazy--and snowing in the foothills and mountains around us--but we ran a few errands anyway and, without even realizing it was a potential gift day, bought Zienna a "Taggie"--a blanket with numerous tags sewn to its border, intended to satisfy her compulsion to seek out the tag of any blanket, toy, or pillow she encounters. Other than that, it was a pretty routine day for our baby girl. A little attempted crawling, a bit of pulling herself up, and a yummy dinner of rice cereal and sweet potatoes (her current favorite, which is good, since they're what's currently up on the Wheel o' Food Introduction). Not much beyond that, aside from her first cold, courtesy of big sister, who brought it home from school.

Zienna's six-month checkup is later this week, so we'll have to see then how she's faring on the height/weight charts and development milestones. But as one who spends every day with her, I can already give you a preview (albeit one that's a bit biased): perfect.

Happy belated birthday, Zizi. You're already more a part of this family than you could ever understand!

I can't keep a secret

I never could, actually. And in this case, I definitely couldn't. Not after I saw what you're about to see.

Dede, aka Grandma Loop, aka Kelly's mom, requested one thing for her birthday, which was way back on Halloween: family portraits of the Hamilton nuclear unit. Not much to ask, you're likely thinking. But to say we're bad about family portraits is an understatement considering that, in really close to 20 years of marriage, Kelly and I have done portraits exactly three times--once at a PetSmart with our cats in the early 90s, once with Zach and Zoë in 1993, and...well, today. That's it.

It took us a couple weeks' worth of cancelled aappointments(too busy, cold feet, couldn't find anything to wear, etc.), but the planets finally aligned today and allowed us to muster the confidence to do the deed, the results of which are posted here.

Kelly and I went in figuring whatever happens, happens, particularly since our eldest daughter has a thing about being photographed, particularly by strangers. We'd left at least one portrait appointment in the past frustrated and photo-less. But fortunately, we got the same photographer who earlier did Zienna's first portraits, who was an absolute joy, and everything just fell into place, Zoe's apprehensions (or lack of them) included. And when we saw the results...well, we were just so pleased, we couldn't hold back from sharing. Not counting the pictures with the tired, old guy. But then, with kids as cute as this--personal biases aside, of course--who's counting?

We'd intended to use the photos for Christmas cards, and we still do. So when you get yours, do us a favor and just pretend you've never seen the included picture before, OK? And whatever you do, savor it, and thank Grandma Loop. Because at the rate we're going, it could be a looooooong time before you see an updated Hamilton family portrait!

Ooh, scary: Halloween photos are only two weeks late!

I'm through making excuses for my apparent photo-posting tardiness. In Jeff Goldblum, Big Chill fashion, I'm ready for a straight out rationalization or three. And you know what Mr. Goldblum's character, Michael, said about rationalizations, right? (If not, look it up!)

Anyway, from now on, don't think of my galleries as "late," think of them as...

...a public service. I recognize that we're all pretty busy around the first of the month, and I'm just trying to avoid adding one more thing to our collectively cluttered calendar.

...courteous. After all, my brother Steve is pretty darn consistent at posting his galleries during the first few days of the month. Why overwhelm everyone with too many photos and wrestle for attention? I politely let Steve have his glory first.

...a labor of love. Crafty captions like those found in the Hamilton Zone gallery don't just grow on trees. Nope. They take time and effort. And I usually remove red-eye, too! Just more value-added services for you, dear reader.

See? No tardiness here. Just delay by design. (Yeah, that's the ticket!) So without further bull...er, ado...I present to you October's gallery--Halloween included--viewable directly here, or as always, via the main gallery page here.








Oh, and by the way, my little experiment last month--removing the links to high-resolution, zipped files--proved what I thought it would, that no one was downloading the zips. At least no one did last month. Consequently, I've removed them, because their posting more than doubled the amount of time I was spending putting up the galleries each month.

Note to grandparents and others: If you want high-resolution files for printing, let me know. I can easily enough email you the files you're interested in. And if there's sufficient demand, I'll add the zips back in.

Oh, and if by some chance I happen to post November's photos early next month, don't think of it as hypocrisy, just think of it as an editorial decision intended to head off your last-minute demands on your hectic holiday schedule. Yeah, that's it...

September photos: I see a pattern here

You know the song and dance by now--busybusybusy, Blogger issues, photos are late, surprisesurprisesurprise--so I won't belabor the point. The part you care about is that September's photos are, at long last, posted. About time, hmmm?

September was a pretty exciting month around the Hamilton Zone, and we managed to take quite a few photos to document it. There's Zane settling into the house and getting to know the kids, Zach and Zoë starting soccer in their new (Redding, CYSA) league, the family settling into the house, Zienna growing by leaps and bounds, and Mommy and the girls visiting Grandma and Grandpa Loop's. Lots of good stuff.

(Imagine that there are adorable sample images here to entice you to visit the gallery. You'll have to use your imagination, because Blogger issues persisting since Saturday have prevented me from posting any samples. Grrr!!!)

You can view September's gallery directly here or via the gallery page, located here. Oh, and please note one big change: Zipped, high-resolution files now have their own page, located at www.thehamiltonzone.com/gallery/zips. Just note the page number and the month of the gallery you're interested in, head to the zips page, scroll to your file, and use right click/"Save As" to download it. For your convenience, I've provided a link to the download page on each gallery page.

I realize having to access a separate page for zips is a bit more cumbersome than the direct page links I used to provide, but it cut down considerably on my upload time, which should help me post upcoming galleries in a more timely fashion. And we all know that would be a welcome improvement, eh?

Enjoy!

Happy birthday (and everyday) to me

Today is my forty-third birthday. It’s just a number, really, especially since I consciously stopped paying attention to birthdays once I turned forty, to the point that I now have to think before responding when someone asks me how old I am. And it’s just a day, really, aside from the fact that the kids make a semi-big deal out of it, and Kelly with and for them, as kids are wont to do. And though Kelly and I long ago stopped exchanging birthday gifts, figuring we got whatever we wanted throughout the year and didn’t feel the need to prove we cared about one another by exchanging gifts, we began buying them again when the kids became old enough to be taught the joy of giving. So, this time of year inevitably brings up the question: What do you want for your birthday?

When Kelly posed it to me last week, she really caught me off guard. What do I want? I don’t know. Quite honestly, nothing. How could I? In a year when we happily settled into a wonderful new town, welcomed Zienna warmly into the family, moved into our dream house, and complemented an already-satisfying package with a long-awaited canine companion, what more could I want? I know this sounds clichéd and corny, but I sincerely mean it. As I sit here today considering my lot in life, I recognize how fortunate I really am. I feel foolish for so often getting caught up day-to-day on what should be minor annoyances. And when all is said and done, I feel like the richest man in the world. Because I am.

Consider my treasures…

Zach is exactly the child I’d have chosen if given the opportunity to do so, as I so often tell him. Not just the idealized first child and the son I’d so desperately hoped for, he is a true friend, someone I'd want to hang out with even if he wasn't my kid, even at his young age. Time spent just paling around with him is some of the most satisfying in my life. Constantly, he finds some way to make me feel proud of him, whether it’s stepping in to help with his baby sister without being asked to do so, rubbing my shoulders when I’m tired or stressed and telling me how much he appreciates what I do for him, or finding some new way to excel at school or extracurricular endeavors. I sometimes feel he is better than I deserve. And before my eyes, he grows closer each day to the person I always dreamed he’d be back when I didn’t know what to expect from a child. I really couldn’t ask for more of him, which is why, after his birth, I was never sure if Kelly and I should rock the boat and have more kids.

Zoë, however, proved those doubts were unfounded. My little firebrand, she definitely keeps me on my toes—and beyond—but makes up for it in ways Zach cannot, in large part due to her gender. Beautiful inside and out, her huge heart typically wins out over the little devil that shares her soul, as it did last weekend when, upon learning it was a new friend on the block’s birthday, Zoë raced inside to retrieve one of her newest drawings—one she’d spent a great deal of time on—as a gift for her. That my brooding middle child is so often my own little emotional mirror is as enlightening as it can be maddening, particularly since she was the experiment that broke me into at-home parenting. I am convinced that if she’d been the only child, or even the oldest one, her personality would be much different. Because when it’s just me and her, she is sweet, obedient, precious and loving—just like she can be any other day, but without the rough edges. And she’s sharp as a tack to boot.

Zienna, coming when she did, has been a complete surprise, although I’ve not yet figured out whether it’s her, or me, that’s been responsible. Kelly and I decided to conceive Zienna more or less on a lark—albeit a lark that would take much longer to act upon than we’d hoped. Given my frequent struggles the first couple of years parenting Zoë full time, I was rather nervous about once again being home with a baby. Without a boob to satisfy it or words with which to reason with it, a baby frightens me. And yet, the past five months (to the day, as it’s Zienna’s five-month birthday today, too) have been, for the most part, ridiculously easy. Yes, there have been some days when she’s cried uncontrollably and Kelly has walked in the door to find me with keys in my hand, anxious to escape. But those days have been the exceptions. Zienna is happy at all times unless she’s happy or hungry, and cute as a bug. Her constant smile and huge, deep eyes warm my heart and confirm that yes, she was a good idea.

Which brings me to my wonderful wife. I could go on and on about how fortunate I am to have Kelly in my life, but if you’re reading this, you probably know us, in which case I’d just be preaching to the choir. The odds that we could meet so young, fall so deeply in love, and grow up together while simultaneously giving each other space to develop as individuals and maintaining our relationship were ridiculously long. And yet, as we log twenty-four years together and approach our twentieth wedding anniversary, I love her more now than ever, because I know for a fact that this is not just the person I wanted to be with, but the person I want to be with, forever. Where else could I find someone so beautiful, so intelligent, so loving and charismatic, with interests and qualities so complementary to my own? The answer is nowhere. I won the lottery. I married the cute girl next door I long ago fell in love with at first sight. Lucky me.

With such wonderful people enriching my daily life—along with friends and extended family members, each of whom has become increasingly important in my life with each passing year—I’d be hard-pressed to ask for more. And yet, since moving to Redding and escaping the drudgery of metropolitan life, then finally getting a house—a marvelous house—in which to raise my family, I’ve felt like the final pieces of the puzzle that is our family’s life have been set in place. What’s left is to step back and enjoy the resulting beauty, and to nurture and care for it, to ensure that it lasts. Little things like being fortunate enough to stay home with the kids and finding a buddy in a dog that I didn’t think I wanted are just icing on the cake. And on a day like today, they’re just more things for me to stop and be thankful for. Because if I don’t appreciate them—like this wonderful bunch of people I call my family—then it’s all wasted. Roses only smell sweet if you stop to inhale their fragrance.

So, before I get too sappy (Too late!), and getting back to Kelly’s question, I think it’s pretty obvious why I didn’t know how to respond to her. Oh, sure, I sent her some things off my Amazon wish list, just so the kids could say they got me something I “wanted.” But the fact is, I felt pretty foolish doing so, because I really don’t want for much these days. After years of rampant consumerism and always wanting this, that and the other thing—and suffering the consequences of chasing too much that I didn’t really want or need—I’ve discovered at forty-three that—duh—buying stuff doesn’t buy you happiness. It took me quite a while to figure it out, but at least I finally did. And you can be darn sure I, along with Kelly, am trying to teach that lesson to the kids.

Yeah, I’ll still smile when I open whatever it is the kids end up giving me and make sure they know I appreciate it. Then I’ll hug them like there’s no tomorrow, and Kelly along with them. And in doing so, I’ll be claiming my real gift—the one I really want, every year.

Hey, where'd those nine and a half years go?

When it rains, it pours, and for the third straight week, we've got portraits of the kiddos to share. Or lament just a bit, if, like me, you're even the teensiest bit bummed over how quickly they're growing up--particularly my nine-and-a-half-year-old, four-foot-ten, one-hundred-plus pound son. Yikes.

Join me on a quick retrospective, won't you? And don't worry, the big fourth-grader portrait is there if you keep scrolling.














As you can see, Zach's appearance hasn't changed a whole lot in the last four years--aside from his continued efforts to exceed my height before middle school, which isn't readily apparent in the photos. And, as I said about Zoë last week, when I look at Zach, unless I'm paying attention, I don't really see that big fourth grader in the last photo. I see that little guy sitting on my lap in the first one. And I imagine I always will--as it should be.

All I know for sure is, big or small, how much I love my buddy, what a great kid he is, and how lucky I am to be his dad. Every single day.

Predictably late, but (hopefully) worth the wait

Oh, sure, leave it to my super-organized brother Steve to post September photos of his kids before the first week of October is even over. C'mon, anyone can do that. Besides, I always was the rebellious one in the family, and it takes some originality--and a bit (OK, lately, a lot) of disorganization--to post your kids' photos a month late, rather than right on time. Keeps people guessing and all that.

Um, yeah. No, I don't buy it, either. Nor the excuses about how busy I've been lately (Ahem!).

Without further ado (or BS), please accept my apologies for the late post as I present the Hamilton Zone September, er, August gallery, viewable in the main gallery or directly here.




If we're lucky, I just might get September posted before the end of the month. But we'll have to wait and see about that, now won't we?

Meanwhile, does anyone have a few spare minutes I can borrow? I'll give 'em back when things settle down, honest...

Hey! Where'd those five years go?

If ever I needed a reminder about the importance of spending quality time with each of the Z Kids every single day and to appreciate them along the way, I stumbled upon one today. I didn’t see it coming, and it caught me completely off guard. But man, was it a doozie.

This morning, while doing drop-off detail, Kelly picked up Zoë's first "real" school portraits, taken just days after she started kindergarten. Excited not only because they came out so well but also because she took them, period--this is the girl who, for the second year in a row, was too scared to take soccer pictures and stares at the ground any time we try to take a family portrait--Kelly scanned one of the pictures immediately upon her arrival at work so she could share it.

Once I'd received Kelly's email, I was really thrown for a loop when I opened the attachment. Being home with Zienna full time, and given the similarities between Daddy's two girls, I frequently find myself calling Zienna by Zoë's name. And almost as frequently, I have little flashbacks--surreal to the point of being déjà vu-like--where I see Zienna doing something and I nearly forget for a moment that it's not Zoë. I find these occurrences both eerie and amusing, even if it upsets Zoë when I mix up her and Zienna’s names. After all, I’ve been home with Zoë since shortly after her first birthday, and when I look at her, I still see my baby girl, not the big five-year-old kid she’s become.

But seeing Zoë's portrait, I was broadsided. Poring into the monitor for what must have been two or three minutes, with Zienna babbling at my feet, a ridiculously wide grin made its way across my face, even as a lump grew in my throat and I unsuccessfully fought back tears. Where had my baby gone? This gorgeous creature gazing back at me was a sight to behold, but she was also an inescapable reminder of the fleeting nature of time. (And don't think I'm not tearing up again, because I am.) All at once, I wanted to drive over to the school, pull her out of class and hug her as hard as I could while telling her over and over again how much I love her, and how I want to be the father she deserves, even on days when I'm not. And how I'll always love her, no matter what--even on the challenging days (and there are plenty with Zoë, believe me).

But of course I couldn't do that, at least not at the moment. So I picked up Zienna in her absence, held her in as tight a death grip as she’d allow me, and told her in words I knew she couldn’t understand all the things I wanted to tell Zoë. I also made a vow, to her and to myself, to tell her siblings later in the day what I was feeling in terms they could understand, and to vow my unconditional love to them, now and forever, explaining why they are so important to me. Zach and Zoë are both amazing kids in their own unique ways, and while I may tell them I love them daily, I don't always show it in my actions. And that's not good enough.

It's raining today--a slight drizzle, and the first time in months--so yes, I'm feeling a bit introspective, and even melancholy. But after a hot, hectic summer, it's a good, calming feeling. And if it's got me in a frame of mind to stop and smell the roses--the most important roses in my life--then all the better. Because even if I can't stop them from growing, I have an obligation to feed, water and nurture them, and an opportunity--an amazing opportunity that I too often take for granted--to take in their sweet fragrance every day. And if something as simple as seeing my daughter's smiling face can serve to remind me of that...well, that's the sort of wake-up call this dad could not only use, but would welcome, any time.

Postscript: After picking the kids up from school, I kept my promise and expressed the feelings I’d had earlier in the day to both kids in terms I hoped they could understand. I must have gotten my point across, because shortly after we arrived home, Zoë, completely out of the blue, asked if she and I could have “Daddy time” by snuggling on the couch. She didn't even mind that I was watching the baseball playoffs, content just to be with me. Feeling all warm and fuzzy, I quickly put Zienna down for a nap and curled up with my big girl, who promptly fell asleep in my arms. What a feeling that was, and it served as another reminder of the important things I need to tend to more often, busy or not!

She isn't just cute, she's big, too!

It's been one busy week for Zienna, what with her first portraits on Sunday and then yesterday, her four-month physical. She braved three shots without so much as a peep, even "helping" her new pediatrician, Dr. Braemer, push the plunger on the syringe (accidentally, of course). This was quite a change from our experience with the first two Zs and their shots, believe me! Sounds of their hysterical, shot-induced cries still haunt me from time to time.

Dr. B said everything about Zienna looks great and that she is progressing wonderfully. And no surprise, she is following in her siblings' footsteps, hovering near the pinnacles of the CDC growth charts in height and weight (26-1/2 inches and 17 lbs., 9 oz., respectively--both well above the 95th percentiles). No wonder my arms are tired all the time. Daddy's girl isn't just cute, she's big, too!

Meanwhile, Zienna's big week isn't over yet, as she'll venture a few hours south of here with Kelly and Zoë to attend a camping 40th birthday party for Uncle Greg (Kelly's sister Shannon's husband) while Zach, Zane and I have a "boy weekend" of quiet unpacking at home. To celebrate, I've posted the complete set of pictures from Zienna's portrait sitting for your viewing pleasure, available directly here, or as part of the Hamiltonzone photo gallery here.

Enjoy!

The truth is out there: Zienna is NOT a space alien!

As my sister, Cindy, was so kind to point out in response to one of my more recent blog entries, Zienna is, in the flesh, not the space-alien baby you'd think she was after looking at the sad excuses for pictures Kelly and (mostly) I have shot and posted of her. Still, if you've not seen her in person, especially lately (because she has cuted up quite a bit--honest!), you were probably skeptical. Fortunately, I've got real proof in hand, ready for your inspection.

A bit later than we'd hoped or planned, given that Zienna turned 17 weeks old on Friday, we finally got around to doing her first portraits today. Never mind that the mall where they were done lost all power just moments after the sitting was completed, leaving us with a disk of proofs, no way to order prints or pay, and the only customers to get their sitting before the mall was vacated for the day. Who cares? The pictures came out much better than we'd expected, as you can see from the samples below, any of which you can click on to see the full-sized image.






Not that I'm unbiased or anything, but it just goes to show that with good lighting, a decent camera, and a bit of photographic skill--all things Dad and Mom could use more of--our little girl is pretty darned cute and far from alien, even if the Gene Simmons tongue is in full effect, as always.

Yep, when I wait nearly a month to post an entry, I make sure it's a really good one...

And Zane makes six...

No, the timing wasn't great. And no, we're not trying to set a new one-year record for points on that scale that tallies them for stress-inducing events. But when a boy falls in love, sometimes you have to throw rationality out the window and follow his heart.

On Saturday afternoon, as I was doing the final cleanup at the apartment, Kelly ran with the kids to Petco to pick up a new litter box for Belly. While there, they stopped to look at the pets being offered for adoption through the local Humane Society shelter. As you may recall, we'd promised Zach a dog once we got a house not only because he'd always wanted one, but also to ease his disappointment over not getting the little brother he'd been wishing for. Between Zienna's birth, buying the house, and moving, I'd figured we might make good on our promise toward the end of this year at the earliest. But when Zach spotted a litter of Black Lab/Australian Shepherd pups at Petco, he was smitten.

Kelly was, too. And so, knowing the pups would be headed back to the shelter soon, she quickly herded the kids into the car and zipped up the street to the apartment, where she thought I'd be. Problem was, I'd left a short while earlier with a truckload of stuff to take to the house. Finding the apartment empty, Kelly flew across town, where she managed to catch me just as I was preparing to leave again. She hurriedly explained what was going on, and once I saw Zach's face, I skipped the rational part of the conversation ("No way! We haven't even unpacked yet, and we have a new baby, new carpets, no landscaping, etc.!") and, caught up in the excitement of the moment, told them to head over to the shelter as fast as they could.

When we first arrived, it appeared the entire litter of nine might have already been adopted. But unwilling to give up, we finally found seven adopted, two had not--including the one that had melted Zach's heart. Seeing other families heading for the cage and already having overheard another in the lobby adopting a pup from the litter, we literally ran to the front desk to check if the apple of Zach's eye was still available. And he was.

What else could I do at that point but say OK? Which is exactly what I did, based purely on heart, without a hint of intellect. Fact was, I'd gotten all warm and fuzzy when I'd seen him, too, as he'd squirted from between his siblings to greet us and immediately began dispensing affectionate licks. And I'd never considered myself a "dog person."

And so, a pile of paperwork, a background check, and a credit card transaction later, we were told Zane would be available for pickup in two days' time after being fixed. This wasn't exactly what Zach wanted to hear, but he did pretty well heading home without his new-found love, even if the only thing he'd be able to do for the next 48 hours was to repeatedly and enthusiastically express his feelings for his new buddy ("I know I just met him, but I already love him.")

By yesterday afternoon, Zach could no longer contain himself. He positively agonized over the length of the half-hour drive, and upon our arrival at the shelter, he sprinted across the parking lot and through the doors without bothering to wait for us. He nearly jumped over the counter upon seeing Zane, and scooped him into his arms with such a hug that the clerk had to remind Zach he'd just had surgery. And then, an hour later, Zach sunk into a deep funk when we insisted he not skip soccer practice--although we tried to soften the blow by allowing him to accompany me to Petco afterwards so he could help pick out Zane's crate and sleeping pad.

There were a few, um, soiled moments on the brand new great room carpet during the evening and overnight, but by this morning, not only Zach but the whole family was attached to our newest Z. Which only seems fitting. Because when you get right down to it, any new addition to this family worthy of a name starting with the letter "Z" is bound to be a fixture from day one!

Ch-ch-ch-changes

As if moving into our first home wasn't momentous enough, the older two Z kids managed to pack some other "firsts" into this week as well. Tuesday was Zoë's first day of soccer without the comfort of Mom coaching (She had no problems, as you'll see!). And Wednesday was Zach's first day of fourth grade and Zoë's first day of kindergarten. With Zach already practicing with his new soccer team, it's definitely made for a busy week!

As we headed off to school yesterday, there were more than a few digestive butterflies shared among us--by the kids because of the changes, and by me and Kelly because...well, there's no way in the world we could believe our baby boy and girl were starting fourth grade and kindergarten, respectively. But it was true.

Pictures of the week's events have been posted in a special gallery here. We've begun moving, so I didn't take the time to add links to the gallery page, but I'll try to get around to it ASAP. Meanwhile, enjoy the photos of our, um, babies.

Flutter, flutter. Sniff, sniff.

Ask (for baby pictures), and ye shall receive—at least when Dad has time!

Last week, a little bird told me that Aunt Mary (wife of my brother Steve, who maintains his own blog, Hamiltonium, was going through withdrawals since I'd decided to stop posting periodic updates in Zienna's gallery. Before getting that tip, I'd figured heck, once she'd reached the ripe, old age of two months, Zienna was old news, and her photos could wait to be posted monthly along with Zach's and Zoë's. Guess I was wrong.

Never mind that Mary and Steve have their own brood of cuties in the form of on-the-verge-of-turning-three twins, Aidan and Cole, and a still-in-diapers rugrat, "Mr. Grant." Who am I to disappoint the adoring family masses? Besides, I doubt that the grandparents and other aunts and uncles will argue with Mary about checking in on Zienna mid-month, eh?

So, by popular demand—in the calm before the storm that awaits me, Kelly, and the Z Kids later this week, comprised of moving, school starting, and soccer hitting full stride—I have posted a new addition to Zienna's gallery. Even if, in a week of packing and flying down to LA for a concert, it took me forever to complete the thing. Sorry, Mary.

Zienna's begun to smile endlessly, flirt, raise her head while on her tummy, and basically charm all who encounter her. See for yourself here. And once you have, just don't hold it against me if unpacking and shuttling kids back and forth all over town delays the next updates, too, OK? I'll do my best!

Just call it our "home" page

This afternoon, just one day after we got the keys to the house, Kelly got a call from one of the owners of the company that built it asking if they could borrow a key back and photograph the interior. Apparently, the project manager and others had raved about it as it came together, and this isn't the first time they've used it to show, to paraphrase her words, the potential of the house's design.

Kelly and I find this highly amusing, as we have zero design experience or confidence, and we bumbled our way through the process, mocking ourselves at each stop, convinced it would all look horrible when assembled.

But hey, if the builder thinks the house is worthy of being photographed, then who are we to not share the pictures we shot last night of the finished product? So, if you care to take a look, I've posted them in the gallery, also viewable by direct link here.

We hope you enjoy the pictures. Although, if by chance you come to the conclusion that the builder is having fun at our expense ("Oh my gosh, can you believe what a train wreck these people created?"), just be kind and let us live in our fantasy world. Please?

(By the way, remember that if you plan to view all of the pictures, the easiest way to do so is to click the first one to enlarge it, then use the right arrow key to scroll through the rest.)

It's official: (It's our) home, sweet home!

What a day it’s been. After signing title paperwork on Monday and assuming we'd hear something about the mortgage by today at the latest, we finally did this morning—but it wasn't what we'd hoped to hear. Unfortunately, one of the documents showed an incorrect interest rate, meaning we’d have to resign and resubmit it. Plus, the appraiser had either forgotten or not been reminded to go out and take final photos of the house, which he had to do before we could close. Learning all of this just before noon, we figured we'd have at least one more day to wait—another agonizing day. And with tomorrow being Friday, we were afraid that the loan probably wouldn't fund until next week...and Monday was the last day of our rate lock. Missing it meant paying points. So the day began with the clock ticking, and very loudly.

Upon receiving this news, my brilliantly intelligent wife took the bull by the horns and rushed the corrected version of the offending document home for me to sign, then rushed it over to our loan officer just before noon so she could fax it to the mortgage company before lunchtime. Returning home, the pressure got the best of Kelly, but by then, I was over my frustration and figuring heck, if nothing else, a few days' delay would save us some money. In a fashion typical of this entire process, one of us was the yin to the other's yang. We'd just traded places once again. This time, it was my turn to be the optimist.

Once Kelly finished feeding Zienna and headed back, we hunkered down to wait once again. So we waited. And waited. And waited. I had asked Kelly to call our realtor, John, to ask that he let us know immediately if he heard anything. When I found out she had misunderstood me and not called, I decided not to call either. Better just to be patient, I figured. But there was no denying that I was feeling restless, so I packed up the kids to get out of the house.

Almost automatically, I drove up to the house for the umpteen millionth time under the guise of checking whether the fence was finished. I got there and found that it was, and I was about to take pictures for Kelly when I spotted our project manager emerging from the house next door doing a final walkthrough with our hopefully-soon-to-be neighbors. Feeling self-conscious for sitting in front of the house yet again, I drove off, pictureless. I felt silly and petty, and I decided to go do something productive to keep my mind off things.

As I headed off to do so, my phone rang. It was Kelly. I answered, not knowing what to expect. When I did, she cut right to the chase: Running the document over had worked, and the loan had funded. Great, I said, but what did that mean in terms of what came next? She said she wasn’t sure. So in spite of this good news, we were still back to square one (or at very best, two), wondering when everything would be processed. Double ugh.

As the kids and I took care of some things that actually needed my attention, I began to feel a bit better. Being productive was helping. And it must have brought good karma, too, because just as we were headed home, my phone rang. It was Kelly again. Hearing the animation in her voice, I started jumping to conclusions, and they were correct: The deal was done. Signed, sealed and delivered. Head to the house, she told me, because she was meeting John there to get the keys. I couldn’t believe it, even as I rushed to meet her. The wait was finally over.

Ever since Zach could talk, we’d been telling him that we wanted to buy a house. Every time an overly-extravagant purchase request came up, we told him (and later Zoë) that it would have to wait, because we wanted to buy a house. And every time the kids complained about some aspect of rental life, we told them it would all get better if we could just buy a house. Finally, after years of waiting, we were delivering on our promise. And frankly, we were doing so in pretty grand fashion. We were buying that house. And we were buying one that we’d all be happy in for years to come, our own piece of clay to mold any way we wished to.

I did my best to express these sentiments to Zach on the way to the house, and I think he understood the gist of it. Later, I’d try to do the same to Zoë, who for the moment was still back at preschool. And as for Zienna, even if she could have understood, there was no need to explain to her, as this would be, mercifully, only her second home, a far cry from Zach’s tenth.

Seeing Kelly and John in front of the house as we approached, I could hardly contain myself. I still couldn’t believe what was happening, but I did my best to do so. Once inside the house, I walked through it in a fog, inspecting it as if it were my first time being there, which was particularly odd since I’d just gone over the place with a fine-toothed comb on Friday during our walkthrough. But this time, it was different. It was ours. Not a place that the bank might let us live in, but ours. And knowing that felt so good, I couldn’t believe it.

Knowing we had to pick up Zoë, we had to rush a bit, but after all, I could only open and close doors and run my hands over the tile so many times. We thanked John, of whom we’ve become very fond, and parted ways, then quickly headed home so we could pick up Zoë and head out for a celebratory dinner. Without much discussion, we agreed on Chevy’s for the event, where we dined in high spirits, still not entirely conscious of the day’s events. And then we headed back to the house with Zoë, the entire home-owning family, to take a tour and soak up the feeling one more time while it was still fresh. And what a fine feeling it was.

Heading back to the dreaded apartment, knowing we’d not be moving for another week, was bittersweet. But at least this time, we knew the end was in sight. The prize was ours. The Chinese water torture would end soon. And that house, the one we’d been dreaming about for months, was ours. Suddenly, the apartment and the awful neighborhood became more bearable. All of it, from the cramped quarters to the smashed booze bottles on the sidewalk. And we all breathed a sigh of relief—even the kids, who asked to turn in early.

It was a grand night for the Hamilton clan. The first of many, I suspect. Our shared goal attained, each of us realized in our own capacity that the risks and challenges of the past eight months had paid off and that from here on out, the rose-colored glass we’d been hoping for was about to take over our world.

Things that go barf in the night

Seventeen years ago, while living in Southern California, Kelly and I were jarred from sleep one night by a horrendous crash we were convinced was breaking glass. Creeping nervously through the dark, fearful of intruders, I was relieved to find that what we’d heard was a fluorescent light panel falling from our kitchen ceiling and shattering into a million pieces on the floor. Still, that was a pretty scary sound.

A few years later, still in Southern California, Kelly and I woke to the sound of our apartment creaking and squealing like a worn-out rocking chair as the Northridge earthquake ripped through the area. Even without the shaking, that was definitely a scary sound.

And then last year, while living in Foster City, I was just nodding off to sleep one night when our carbon monoxide detector pierced the darkness with its shrill cry. Because we'd had a series of what we believed were false alarms on another detector earlier in the week, hearing the new one go off was cause for concern. And it was another scary sound.

Yet, none of those sounds holds a prayer in the "scary" department to the one I heard last night. Exhausted and short on sleep after a very early morning departure by Kelly, and having been alone for the day while she’d met with her firm's other partners in Sacramento, I was enjoying some deep and overdue sleep when, at roughly 2:30, I heard Zoë, a foot or so from my face, whispering to me.

"Daddy, I just threw up all over my bed."

Now that was a scary sound.

You see, in our family, Zach is the "stomach" kid and Zoë is the "cold" one. Zach tends to come down with vomit-inducing bugs at least once or twice a year, and because he's been that way since a very young age, he's well versed in the "get to the bathroom and over the toilet" routine, even when struck during the night. Meanwhile, Zach seems immune to colds, and when he catches one, it passes quickly.

Zoë, on the other hand, brings home every cold that passes through town (or school or store or who knows where else), no doubt in part because she still sucks her thumb. Oddly, she’s rarely had stomach ailments, and vomiting is so foreign to her that when she became carsick a few months ago after a big breakfast followed by a mountain drive, it actually scared her when she threw up. In spite of being nearly five, she didn't understand what was happening.

So, needless to say, when Zoë woke up last night with a hankering to hurl, she had no idea what to do. And so she did...well, nothing. She just sat up and barfed all over herself and everything around her. And realizing this was probably the case, I leapt out of bed the instant I heard her, fearing the worst—but it was so much worse than that, as I was about to find out.

As Zoë and I approached her room in the dark, trying not to wake the rest of the family, I began to feel, well—there's no way of putting this delicately—dampness under my feet. And chunks. Accompanied by a horrible stench. And we weren't even to her bedroom yet. When we arrived there and turned on the light, it was not a pretty sight. In fact, it was downright scary, straight out of The Exorcist.

I'll skip most of the gory details and just say that Zoë had eaten quite a bit Saturday night, and every last bit of what she’d consumed was making its presence known. On her comforter, on her sheets, on her throw rug, on her toy box...on everything, basically. And it was about that time that I realized "it" was all over Zoë, too. And that she'd been dripping it as she'd walked around the house. And tracking it all over the carpet with her feet. Ick.

After getting Zoë into the bathroom to isolate the mess, I was relieved to see Kelly emerge from our room, because much as I wanted her to sleep, this was definitely a two-person job. So, while she took to cleaning up Zoë and pulling her hair back into a ponytail, I stripped the bed, wiped down everything else in her room, and spot-cleaned the carpet. Then I took the big Costco-sized carton of disinfecting wipes and, concerned for Zienna's health, attacked every surface with which I thought Zoë might have had contact, going over them twice to be sure. And then, as Kelly got Zoë dressed and ready to return to, um, sleeping bag (We are, after all, living out of boxes, and linens are in short supply!), I mopped the bathroom floor in a hurry so we could all get back to sleep.

Or so I thought. Because just as I finished mopping, Zoë called out to me, announcing she was about to throw up again. Poor kid, I thought, but no problem, really, because to head off any more messes, I'd placed at Zoë's side a ridiculously large plastic bowl. And it might well have helped, except that Zoë again proved she was a rookie at ralphing by sitting up, placing the bowl in her lap—with her ponytail dangling straight into it—and doing the deed. Of course the mess went into her hair, onto her nightgown, and onto the sleeping bag. Back to square one.

The rest of the early-morning hours passed slowly, as Zoë called out to me for assurance or to change a movie like clockwork each time I nodded off. And there was one other episode of vomiting shortly before dawn the nature of which was, believe it or not in light of what's been shared already, too graphic to tell here. But when Kelly and I finally gave up and crawled out of bed, it had been a very long night, and our bleary eyes were proof of that.

As for Zoë, after last getting sick around 6:30, it wasn't two hours later and she was asking for French toast. And shortly after that, she was dancing, singing, and asking to come out of her room. Now it's mid-day, and she's asking for lunch and to play a game. Go figure.

And me? I'm running on autopilot and looking forward to tonight so I can finally get some sleep. At least I hope I can. I’m still having flashbacks of the latest scary sound to wake me and reflecting on the saying, "People who say they sleep like a baby usually don't have one." Amen to that, brother.

Can't find anything to watch? Try ZTV!

If your house is like ours, you aren't finding much worth watching on TV right now. "America's Got Talent" is disappointing, and aside from the usual reruns and hopeless summer pilots and specials, what else is there? Don't despair. ZTV is here to help.

Following up on the redesign and expansion of the Hamiltonzone Photo Gallery, I'm trying in whatever spare time I can find to give the same treatment to the long-ignored video gallery. To kick it off, I've got a video shot yesterday of Zienna "talking" available for viewing here.

This first file is pretty large, because...well, I thought it was too cute to cut. Future additions will be smaller and/or of a larger variety of sizes to accommodate everyone's bandwidth, etc.

Shortly, I hope to being posting weekly installments of the "once-a-week" (or so) videos we've shot of each kid during their first couple years of life. As a family, we viewed the first hour or so of Zach's last weekend, and it was so much fun, it dawned on me that family and friends might want to view them, too. So it's our goal to share them.

One favor to ask, as noted on the video gallery page: Please DOWNLOAD any videos you wish to view. If you're a PC user, that means right click/save as/etc. Email me if you need help. Please refrain from simply clicking on the links, as doing so will in most cases cause the videos to stream in your browser, consuming bandwidth Kelly and I pay for. Downloading the files so you can view them repeatedly at your leisure offline saves us tons of bandwidth. Thanks for your cooperation.

Enjoy the videos, and as always, if you have any suggestions, complaints, or special requests, please let me know!

Straight out of Ripley's, July photos are up!

Perhaps it was the knowledge that if I didn't get July's photos up soon, they'd not be posted for some time, since we'll be moving shortly. But whatever the reason, they're already up and available for your viewing pleasure, believe it or not, either in the Hamiltonzone Gallery or directly here.

August promises to be an exciting month, with the start of the school year on the 22nd, a visit to Aunt Cindy and Uncle Phil's house at Lake Almanor, a weekend with Aunt Shannon and her family, and of course, our move. But July was no slouch itself, highlighted by a welcome visit from Terry, Rhonda and their girls, as well as a quick visit to Shasta by the girls, during which Zoë further shed her fear of water by riding on a personal watercraft with Uncle Greg (which in itself is worthy of Ripley's).



And of course, there are plenty of pictures of that other Z Kid--the youngest one, who until recently had her own gallery. Frequently with her brother or sister. Or just about anyone else who was in range of her and the camera. As you'll see.

Oddly and sadly, I failed to take so much as a single picture on Fourth of July, which we spent with the Leaches, Ken, Lili and Sherilyn. I suppose I was too relaxed and having too much fun, as I didn't realize my oversight until last night. Unfortunately, there's not much I can do about that now.

Enjoy!

Hey! Where'd those two months go?

Depending on how you're counting, Zienna turned two months old either last Friday or this past Wednesday. I opt for the first option, since it's four weeks from the day she was born and...well, four weeks is a month, basically. Kelly insists on using the latter method of calculation, since Zienna was born on the 26th day of the month. Since Moms tend to be more concerned about the minutiae surrounding births and weddings—heck, that's why the Lifetime cable network exists—we'll go with Wednesday.

Once we'd concluded that Zienna had indeed turned two months old—and agreed upon when—the realization that she'd reached that milestone already absolutely took me by surprise. Clichéd as it sounds, it really does seem like yesterday (or a few days ago at most) that we were at the hospital waiting for Zienna's arrival. Maybe it's the fact that I've been home every day since, and alone with her for going on three weeks—sort of like how you don't really notice how your children change, while others who see them only occasionally do—but the time's gone by really fast. Much faster than I remember with Zoë or even Zach, even though he was our firstborn.

Ultimately, this feeling that time has passed quickly is a good thing, because what it tells me is that I've experienced each day (or at least most of them) fully with Zienna and not given longer increments of time much thought—which, incidentally, has also helped while waiting for the house to be completed so we can move out of this dumpy apartment. And yet, I still really can't believe it it's been two months.

To mark the big event, Zienna got a little surprise on Thursday. If you're thinking birthday cake or maybe an Ovaltine-spiked baby bottle, guess again. Neither sugar nor gifts was involved. Nope. Instead, she got shots—four of them, to be exact—courtesy of her new pediatrician, who was at least civil enough to adorn her with some lovely Roadrunner-emblazoned bandages afterwards. Not quite the lollipop or stickers the older kids would have received, but then "treat" pickings are slim when you're two months old.

Everything went well at her checkup, and based on her new measurements, the Center for Disease Control's growth charts say she's not only getting taller but thinning out, too—although I'm not buying it. Yes, the increase in her height is noticeable, as the reach of both her arms and legs is quickly outgrowing the confines of her bassinet. But just as obvious is the change in her weight, both in the increased load when you carry her and also in her tummy and chin(s). Just look at that picture!

Since birth, Zienna's grown nearly four inches, going from from 20 inches (slightly below 75th percentile) to 23-3/4 inches (roughly 75th). Meanwhile, her weight has increased from 8 pounds, 10 ounces (90th percentile) to 12 pounds, 12 ounces (down to roughly 70th percentile). Mommy's obviously making some good milk, and plenty of it, even if Z Number Three may be the only one of our kids not destined to play basketball!

In the last couple of weeks, Zienna's acne cleared up, her eyes became much more expressive and curious, she's smiled constantly, and she's begun cooing, gurgling, and even, it seems, turn-taking, although that's not typical this early. This kid LOVES attention, and even upon waking up, all it takes is an attentive face brought close to hers to get her smiling, "talking" and so excited that she nearly bounces herself off the mattress. And her new thing, which I find absolutely adorable, is studying her hands—first one, then the other, and then the first one again—for seemingly endless periods of time. It's fascinating to watch, and right on schedule with what the "What to Expect" folks said to expect.

Sadly, I never really spent much quality time with Zach or Zoë at this stage—in part because of the hours I was working, but also out of my fear of infants—so I'm really loving this and finding myself amazed by it. In turn, I'm trying to share my joy with the older kids, and they appear to be enjoying it, too. They both adore Zienna, and they get jealous of one another if they feel they aren't getting enough holding, feeding, or play time with her. I'd worried that given their ages, they, and especially Zach, would want nothing to do with Zienna, or even resent her. Nothing could be further from the truth, which is wonderful.

I've yet to find so much as one other at-home dad in Redding (though I hear rumors they exist), and I'm going through several shirts a day because I've yet to master the "don't set the baby on your shoulder without a burp rag" routine. But other than that, things are going great from this outpost. I'm already looking forward to the special relationship Zienna and I will undoubtedly share. And while I regret that I let the other Z Kids' infancy slip by without more actively participating in it, I'm trying to use my newfound appreciation for parenting to make me a better dad not just for Zienna, but for all three kids. Perhaps for the first time since Kelly encouraged me to be a full-time parent, I'm recognizing truly what a privilege it is being able to do so, and an immensely rewarding one at that.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've gotta run. Because proving that real life is stranger than fiction, Zienna just barfed all over my shoulder. One of these days I'll remember the burp rag. Maybe. Or maybe not. After all, there are much more important things with which to concern one's self, as I'm learning.

June photos are up, just in time for July's...

If you're reading this, then obviously your power's on. If your keyboard's not too hot to touch–granted, a riskier assumption–then you might want to mosey on over to the new-and-improved Hamiltonzone photo gallery. There you'll find June 2006 pictures posted better late than never and ready for your viewing pleasure.

These aren't just retreads from Zienna's galleries of last month, either. No, siree. This collection features the other two Z Kids (Remember them?), along with Zienna's "greatest hits" from June as well. And remember, Hamiltonzone galleries now feature the new "page by page" zip files which ease your ability to download high-resolution copies for printing. Just part of the quality service we pledge to offer you, our viewing public.





I'll be trying to get video up in the near future, although it likely won't be until after our move–especially if temperatures up here stay above 110 or, heaven forbid, we lose power. But in the meantime, enjoy the pics, and if there's anything else you want to see or have suggestions to improve what's there, please let me know.

Stay cool, and beware of sizzling keyboards!

The waiting is the hardest part—but so worth it

After months of waiting, Kelly and I experienced something this morning I once thought we'd never get to do. We drove up to the house for about the millionth time, did a pre-move-in walkthrough with the project manager and our real estate agent, and learned—finally—the house's "official" completion date. The day we'll become homeowners, a status that seemed unattainable just several months ago.

Drum roll, please.

After initially being told the house would be finished in October, we found that it will be completed on August 12.

Gulp. That's, um, 23 days. Yikes.

Mind you, our mortgage approval is still pending, even if the bank is telling us it's down to pass the appraisal and we're good to go. And of course, we're living in an apartment, meaning we need to give at least thirty day's notice to our landlord. So even if we gave notice today, we'd have some overlap, and we're not going to give notice until we get word on the mortgage.

But it's getting so close we can smell it. And above all, there's the beauty that, after moving 14 times in the 19 years we've been married and twice in the last eight months, this should be our last move for the foreseeable future. Did I just type that? Somebody pinch me, please.

Still, it's a good thing I cut my nails this morning. I don't normally bite on them, but it's likely going to be a crazy few weeks ahead. Pack, unpack, try to decorate with our limited and beat-up furniture, get ready for the start of school a week or so later...wow. But it's all good. And long-awaited.

Standing in the kitchen today as we went over things, I struggled not to picture myself preparing food while gazing out into the great room, and beyond into the backyard, upon friends and family members gathered in the house. It was a lovely vision, and I easily could have become lost in it, except...

SNAP! Back to reality. Talk of escrow, rent backs, and other such things made me realize that, for a few more days at least, I have to hold back. At least a little. Kelly and I don't anticipate any problems, based on what we've been told by the bank. But until we get that stamp of approval—and the 360-payment obligation to go with it—I feel the need to resist attaching myself emotionally to the house. Because anything's possible, much as I hate to admit it or face up to it.

So, it'll be a welcome distraction when Terry, his wife, Rhonda, and their daughters, Dana and Emma, come into town this weekend for a visit. Yes, we'll take them to see the house, and yes, I'll undoubtedly slip into "can't wait until we can have them up for a visit here" mode. But in the back of my mind, there will be a little voice reminding me to hold on. Go slow. And hold back. Just in case.

And, I'm trying to figure out whether, once we're approved, things are going to go ridiculously fast ("Hurry! We need to pack so we can move again!"), or painfully slow ("Geez, can't we just get into the house already?"). I imagine it will be a little—or more likely, a lot—of both.

Those of you who own homes are probably laughing at me by now. But I don't care. C'mon, I've never been through this. And all I know is, it felt so good walking through that ever-closer-to-being-completed house this morning that, no matter how agonizing the wait, it's gonna be one heck of a glorious day when we finally put the key in the lock, turn it, and walk through a doorway we can call "ours."

Or, at least "ours and the bank's." But as my father-in-law, Dale, pointed out recently, it'll sure be nice to throw out the boxes we've moved so many times once and for all. In fact, I don't want to even see a box inside the house once we're settled in.

A box-less house? Now that is a glorious vision, indeed.

Take Two: How about some baby pictures?

Apologies for the incomplete email that went out a few minutes ago announcing this update. This one is complete. But my struggles with Blogger continue—grrr!). —Scott

I realize I haven't posted any baby pictures in awhile. Sorry about that, so here you go:



Wasn't exactly what you had in mind? I had a feeling. But I had to share it regardless. That poor kid! The faces say it all. Thanks to Kelly for bringing that priceless photo to my attention.

Anyway, I really do apologize for the time since I last posted photos. Zienna's presence has monopolized a good deal of time—some fun, some mundane (like diapers)—as have home-stretch commitments for the house purchase. And then, when Kelly returned to work last week...well, any "free" time I'd had before suddenly became anything but.

As a result, things like updating our web pages, posting photos and authoring blogs have become rather challenging. But I'm happy to say that through five-minute (and sometimes two-minute) increments of work, supplemented by a few late-night sessions, I've FINALLY completed the gallery page I'd been hoping to post for some time. If you'd care to take a look, you can view it here. Or, you can access the URL directly at:

http://www.thehamiltonzone.com/gallery/

What this means is that going forward, you'll no longer need to ask me or Kelly questions like, "What's that link again to see (insert description of photos you're looking for here)?" All you need to do is go to the gallery, locate the group of pictures you're looking for, and voila, you're in photo nirvana (especially if you're an grandparent, aunt, uncle or cousin).

I've tried to make the page as easy to navigate as possible by breaking it down in the following manner:

• Latest Updates: Located at the top of the page, this section provides direct links to the most-recently updated galleries.


• Gallery Sections Quick Links: Here you'll find quick links to the various main galleries (Zienna's Galleries, 2006 Galleries, etc.). Click on one, and you'll jump directly to that section without having to scroll manually down the page.


• Gallery Sections: These are the main galleries, broken down for easy navigation by topic. So far, there's Zienna, 2006, 2005, House, and Special Editions. Others will follow when time permits (or a new year starts—whichever comes first!).


• Sub-Galleries: Within each section, you'll see links to view the various galleries within it. For example, within the "2006" section, there are links to each month's galleries, including—as of today—May! (About time, hunh?)

Within the galleries themselves, I've made a major change that I hope will help those on dial-up connections who wish to download high-resolution photos for printing. Starting with the new galleries posted today (except for the house one, since I'm assuming no one will be downloading those), you'll see links on each page of each gallery providing direct download access to the larger, zipped versions of the photos.

For now, I've provided one download for an entire small gallery and page-by-page downloads for larger ones, such as May's. The latter solution is probably what I'll use for all downloads going forward. Please, if you're downloading zipped files, let me know what works for you—and what doesn't. Same goes for any of the changes made now or in the future!

Finally, with Zienna turning two months next month, I'll probably stop posting galleries dedicated entirely to her in the very near future. The other two Zs have been neglected enough—and been very good sports about it—so I want to focus on getting back to posting regular, timely galleries of the whole family. At the same time, I'll do my best to post shorter, more timely and topical blogs which will undoubtedly include updates on Zienna and how she's affecting our lives.

Between diapering, feeding and napping an infant, some occasional housecleaning, and uploading this stuff, it's a lot to juggle. And while I freely admit I'm not be the perfect baby-handler, I'll dare say that I'm a far cry better than that goof in the photo up above. That's for darned sure!

Lions and . . . bears are enough! Oh, my!

Let's just skip the tigers. Please? Read on...

When last I was caught bastardizing a "Wizard of Oz" quote from the wilderness outpost known as Redding, a bear had found its way into a tree in a backyard of a home half a mile from us. That event, which took place roughly two weeks ago, served as a reminder that while we may be living in a city of 80+ thousand, we're still pretty rural. So a bear climbed into a tree. Almost like dog bites man, right? Acknowledge it and get on with your day.

That would be fine advice I'd be only too happy to accept were it not for the fact that just a week later, on June 27, wild animals in local backyards were again making front-page news. In this go-round, the Department of Fish and Game was summoned after Lana Ferreira, a woman living two miles from us, reported that a mountain lion, pictured at right, was perched in a tree above her pool.

Ahem. A mountain lion. In her backyard. I was somewhat accustomed to this sort of thing back home, where it occurred with some regularity among the foothills, in neighborhoods where the yards were more or less chunks of wilderness--formerly the lions' stomping grounds--with fences thrown up around them. But this situation took place in a densely-populated subdivision, on flat land, some distance from the nearest hills. Perhaps someone forgot to remind Mr. Lion that his intended habitat is the mountains, and hence the reference to them in his name?

Officials initially doubted Mrs. Ferreira's story, stating that in these parts, mountain lion reports "often turn out to be from San Francisco Bay area transplants misidentifying bobcats or even large housecats." Large housecats, mountain lions...yeah, they pretty much look the same to us stupid Bay Area refugees. Give me a break. Regionalism in my very own adopted hometown paper--what nerve!

Fortunately--or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it--Mrs. Ferreira had snapped a picture of the cat while waiting for the arrival of the warden who, when faced with the evidence, had to admit that yes, this was in fact a mountain lion. Or a cougar. Or a puma. Or a panther. Or anything else you might want to call it. But most certainly not a large housecat.

That's somewhere between 150 and 250 pounds of wild, ferocious and no doubt hungry cat sitting in your backyard. And while mountain lions don't often attack humans, there have been, according to the paper, 13 verified attacks in the state since 1890, six of which were fatal. Which is exactly the reason I'd not have reacted in the manner of Mr. Ferreira, who, based on his actions, must have been caught up in the pre-release hoopla of Superman Returns. All he needed was a cape.

Unless Kelly tells me that, oh, by the way, one of the kids is out in the backyard with the mountain lion she spotted, I'm ducking from sight, grabbing her and the kids, and heading to the most remote part of the house. And I'm staying there until I know for sure that the cat is gone. But not Mr. Ferreira. As if to reward the couple's three-year-old Brittany Spaniel, Carson, whose barking first alerted the couple to the mountain lion's presence, this nut went outside to retrieve the dog. And as he did, the big cat leapt from the tree and departed. Good thing for Carson, a puny little forty-pound dog that wouldn't have stood a chance against a cat several times his weight. And for Mr. Ferreira, too, since he likely would have tried to protect the dog had the lion decided to pounce. Then things could have gotten really ugly.

So, another wildlife encounter is in the books, and I'm left for the second time in as many weeks pondering what might await us after we move next month. After all, we'll be in the hills, on the very edge of development, butting right up to wooded areas. Until now, plenty of animals have called our future home theirs. And they're likely to still, whether we like it or not.

And as we've seen, in these parts, anything seems possible. I mean, heck, first a bear, then a lion, and later the same week, a bald eagle, which was found right in front of our local post office. So what's next? Then again, maybe I'd better not tempt fate by asking. Unlikely as it seems, maybe that aforementioned tiger might find its way up here, too, hmmm? I shudder to think.

Meanwhile, now that I think about it, the ringleader of the band of cats that's been terrorizing our backyard every night is pretty big, from the glimpses I've caught of him. Maybe I'd better flip on the light tonight and see just how big he really is. Or not. Based on this news, I might not like what I find...

Z is for "Zach," "Zoë," "Zienna" . . . and "zits"

You'll have to accept my apologies for the lack of new Baby Z pictures over the past couple of weeks. Yes, we were quite busy, as we entered the "mortgage" phase of our home purchase (Yippee.). And yes, we encountered fairly major computer problems that sidelined me for a couple of days and, for a time, appeared to have destroyed a week's worth of pictures. But neither of those is the reason for the lack of photos. The reason is much simpler: It's zits.

No, Zach hasn't entered puberty early. Nor has Zoë suddenly suffered more than her occasional blemish. Surprisingly, the kid with the problematic papulae is Zienna. And that's why, in her best interest, you'll be seeing very few pictures from the fifth and sixth weeks of her life.

At birth, Zienna had, as many babies do, a few whiteheads scattered across her sweet face. I paid them little mind, assuming they'd clear up quickly, just as they had when Zach and Zoë were born with them. But as the weeks passed, red bumps joined the white ones, and then the mass of them began spreading to her chin, her neck, and even her ears. By last week, my sweet little girl's face resembled haphazardly-formed sandpaper.

Initially, I kept snapping pictures of Zienna in spite of the temporary challenge to her appearance. But I had to admit that these were pictures of a face that "only a mother (or father) could love." So I put the camera away, as visions of nightmare-inducing baby pictures in Zienna's senior yearbook filled my mind. In turn, that made me feel a bit guilty, but at least I knew my heart was in the right place.

When you see the pictures from the prior week, located here (from the batch that was nearly lost), you'll notice that Zienna's skin and hair were already taking on a rather oily sheen. Since birth, she'd had that staple of daytime-TV advertising, "combination skin"—part dry, part oily. But last week, oily won out. And as it did, so did baby acne, big-time.

According to online parenting resources, baby acne is very common and is defined as "a red pimply rash...(which) may break out on your baby's face during the third or fourth week of life. This rash seems to bother parents more than the baby. Usually no treatment is necessary other than gentle washing with a mild soap and water. It is caused by the stimulation of the baby's oil glands due to the increased hormones passed from the mother to baby at birth."

Knowing we—and Zienna—are not alone in our plight is only somewhat comforting. Yes, it will pass, but that doesn't take away the fear that strangers will see her face and either gasp in horror or assume that she's an escapee from a leper colony. But, I supposed that's what blankets were invented for.

In the end, I guess there's a bright side to all of this, as I've been showering Zienna with over-compensatory kisses—all over her face, including her rough cheeks—to prove this hasn't affected my feelings for her one bit. And, through the eyes of love, she is of course as beautiful as ever.

Still, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't looking forward to the day when the word "acne" was a thing of the past around our house. Then again, with one kid rocketing toward puberty and two others following behind him, I supposed that's not going to happen for quite a long time!

Redefining the words "hot" and "hardiness"

Take a look at this graphic, showing that Redding reached 116 degrees today, coming within two degrees of setting an all-time high-temperature record, and you'll know that we have officially arrived in the North State (The image will enlarge in a new window if you click on it, making it easier to read.):


Previously, the hottest temperature I'd ever experienced (at least to my knowledge) was 113, in Brea, shortly after Kelly and I moved to Southern California. I remember thinking I was going to die that day. But then, it was fairly muggy, too.

The heat really is dryer up here--I walked four miles a few days ago before discovering it was 104, and while I was a bit woozy, it wasn't nearly as bad as I'd have expected. As temperatures got close to 110 this week, then passed that mark, all you could think was, Yeah, it's hot, but how hot is hot? At some point, it's just hot, and you don't think about "how" hot--or at least I find that I'm not.

Locals warned us before we moved up here--and have continued to since--that of all the lifestyle changes we'd face, the climate would be the most challenging, especially during summer. But many also claimed we'd get used to the heat. Originally, I laughed at them. Yet, I went out a short while ago to run some errands, and I knew it was hot, but I didn't even realize it was this hot. Yes, I've been inside most of the day, but that's how you survive up here--from your air-conditioned house to your air-conditioned car, then back again. It seems I really am getting used to it, already, and Kelly and the kids seem to be, too.

Two hours later, I'm back home, and it's 109 at 7:23 pm. Wow. After Zienna's shower yesterday, I came home last night, and Kelly and the kids are due home shortly. Good thing the a/c is running, as my only real fear is a power outage.

Oh, and you might have also noticed on the graphic that tree pollens were "very high" today. No kidding. With my sensitivity to trees, that explains why my eyes and nose have been itching and running like crazy. Given the choice, I'd take the heat over that, any day! Poor Zach, whose allergies are much worse than mine, may be in for a rough week.

So anyway, after a fierce winter, with record lows and snow, we now have near-record highs the first week of summer. And I'm actually glad and relieved. Better to have an extreme year as soon as we move up here, so we know what to expect. Summer's just begun, but if this is as bad as it gets, I now know we can handle it. Hurray.

Now, could somebody pass me a cold drink? And while you're at it, would you mind letting Geedubya know that there might actually be something to this global warming thing? Please?

Kelly, I've got a feeling we're not in Foster City anymore

I've always been a cultural observer. When I travel, I like to get off the beaten tourist path to find the heart of a place, where locals congregate, so I can soak up the flavor of their lives. I'm fascinated by the unique aspects of communities--especially those that set them apart from one another. And so, in moving from Foster City to Redding, with such sharp contrasts on so many levels, I was handed a veritable playground for observation.

In the months since we moved, I've kept a pen and paper in the truck for jotting down notes about things I've spotted around town--things I'd likely not have seen back home, particularly those which have served as reminders that we're no longer living in a major metropolitan area. At some point, I hope to make a blog out of them. But for now, they'll have to wait. Because this morning, observations about cowboy hats and mud-covered four-by-fours were made mundane and insignificant by the headline splashed across our local paper, the Record Searchlight:

BEAR STRAYS INTO REDDING: Animal tranquilized in Shady Lane backyard

The prominent photo, shown at left, featured an adolescent male black bear being carried away after fire, police and animal control officers tranquilized the animal repeatedly and brought it down from the tree in which it had lodged itself in the backyard of a home near the intersection of Shady and Mistletoe Lanes.

Shady Lane. And Mistletoe. According to Yahoo Maps, that's...oh, about half a mile from us. And I'm not talking as the crow flies, either, in which case it's much closer. Sort of makes the incident we had in our own backyard yesterday, during which two teenage punks hopped our fence and burst through the gate as a shortcut for their skateboarding antics, look pretty mild, unsettling as it was at the time.

So, forget the harmless garden snake that crawled into bed with me one night when we lived in Southern California. Forget the pesky rats that used to steal tomatoes from my vines and, when the mood fit them, crawl into our heating ducts and die when we lived in Foster City. And forget the mountain lions we were constantly warned lurked in the foothills back home. Because here, we've got bears. Not Yogi, Baloo, or even Smokey, but real, tree-climbing, hibernating, honey-eating bears. The horrors! Where's Marlin Perkins when you need him?

Of course, as Kelly pointed out, there'd have been a bright side if the bear had chosen our backyard instead: At least it might have eliminated, either by fright or other means, the band of marauding cats that use our property nightly to fight, mate, and otherwise raise as much noise and ruckus as possible. Indeed.

A bear lodged in the tree in your backyard--now that's one I'll be pondering for awhile, especially since we're fairly rural at the moment compared to the hilltop location we'll be moving to soon. Butting right up to the chaparral, just minutes from the edge of civilization. Remote enough to be dependent upon the California Department of Forestry to do our firefighting. With our back fence on Quartz Hill Road. The same Quartz Hill Road that was also mentioned in today's paper, after local kids began finding glow worms in fields adjacent to it. Of course, the article also went on to quote a UC Davis entomologist, who said the reason more glow worms aren't found locally is because to see them, you have to go walking around at night with no lights. And doing that, he said, is a good way "to step on (a) rattlesnake." Oh, my.

So, if this city simpleton came up here looking for an education in the local flavor of life, I assure you he got one in a hurry this morning. Boy, did he. And while these latest territorial tidbits will settle in over time as surely as all the others I've encountered to date in the town I now call home, you'll have to forgive me if I occasionally check the branches of the trees near our new house--and avoid walking around after dark without a flashlight. Because knowing what I know now, you're not going to hear me apologizing for doing either one!

-----------------------------

Note: Text of the article about the bear follows, borrowed completely without permission--same as the above photo--from the 6/20/06 edition of the Record Searchlight.

Bear strays into Redding
Animal tranquilized in Shady Lane backyard

By Constance Dillon, Record Searchlight
June 20, 2006

Animal control officers Monday afternoon used a tranquilizer gun to knock out an adolescent black bear that had taken refuge in a large tree in the backyard of a home on Shady Lane at Mistletoe Lane in Redding.

It wasn't until two hours after the bear was tranquilized with three darts that officers were able to remove it from the tree, where it had wedged itself in the crook of two large branches.

Redding police and fire, state Department of Fish and Game and animal control officers were called to the east Redding neighborhood just south of the Dana Drive shopping area to investigate a bear sighting about 3 p.m.

Tracy Muncy and her son Chris, 16, saw the bear climb over the backyard fence of their home in the 1200 block of Mistletoe.

The bear then wandered up the block and into backyards on Shady Lane.

"Our dog was barking like crazy," said Jennifer Rodrigues, 14, who lives in a house next door to where the bear was finally caught.

"When I first saw it, I thought it was a big, black dog. Then I saw this big, black butt," she said.

Police and the state Fish and Game officers staked out an area surrounding the fenced yard while neighbors and passers-by began to gather across the street.

After the bear was tranquilized, firefighters brought out a large ladder, and a Fish and Game officer climbed up and tied a rope onto the bear's left hind leg.

The bear then was gently pushed from the fork in the tree and lowered safely to the ground.

Fish and Game officers said they will return the bear to a more appropriate habitat.

"They'll take the bear out pretty far from where he was found," said Redding police Sgt. Rich Nance. "I've heard Fish and Game say that once a bear finds his way into a residential area, they'll try to come back."

Many neighbors who gathered to watch were surprised that a bear could wander into such a developed area.

Fish and Game officers think the bear probably followed a natural drainage waterway that winds through the neighborhood, Nance said.

Separated at birth?

To cop a posting theme my brother Steve frequently employs on his blog, Hamiltonium, here are photos of two of the Z Kids in their respective hospital nurseries, shortly after birth. Without checking the properties of the images, can you tell who's pictured in each?

BUZZ! Time's up. Pencils down. Got your answers ready?

The photo on the left is Zienna. The one on the right is Zoë. While these photos don't do just justice to the striking resemblance my daughters bore to one another at birth, they were the best I could do, given the relatively small number of film pictures I snapped at Zoë's birth (as opposed to Zienna, who, thanks to digital photography, has been photographed several hundred times in her first two weeks of life!).

Zienna's features have softened since, her hair has lightened, and overall, she's more delicate in appearance. But there's still a definite similarity between the girls. Or, as Kelly's Aunt Missy put it on the baby book at Mercy Medical Center's Virtual Nursery, "She's definitely a Hamilton baby."

And please, refrain from posting wisecrack comments about what Missy meant, as she immediately went on to add, "She is just beautiful." So there.

Now I supposed I'd better change the subject from photos and Zienna's changes in appearance-quickly-before someone posts a fair comment. Something like, "WHY ON EARTH HAVEN'T YOU POSTED ANY OF THOSE 'HUNDREDS' OF PICTURES OF ZIENNA THIS WEEK?" Ahem.

Oops! Look at the time. Gotta run and prepare for Zoë's birthday party...

BREAKING NEWS: Zach takes third in a bee, see?

Over the past month, the Hamilton household could easily have been dubbed Excitement City, USA. As if moving, tending to the new house, and welcoming a new baby wasn't enough stimulation, Zach and Zoë's school has kept us jumping with an onslaught of activities, including field trips, conferences, an open house, parties, and as we learned last week, the school's annual spelling bee.

Since moving to Redding, we've been pleased to find that Boulder Creek Elementary is BIG on extra-curriculars, evidenced by the fact that the school's bi-weekly newsletter includes a list of upcoming events that typically fills an entire page. But as we've also learned, while many of them are well-publicized, others are less so, left to the buzz created by tradition-steeped students and parents. Heading into the month of Zienna’s birth, Kelly and I had tried to nail down every significant calendar item to ensure the existing Z Kids wouldn't get lost in the shuffle. But we were caught off-guard by a few—including the school’s bee.

Coinciding with the Scripps Howard National Spelling Bee, the local versions are a pretty big deal, making the front page of the local paper, the Record Searchlight, in a series dedicated before, during and after to "Bee Week." Pity the new transplants like us who weren't aware of them—or prepared for all the fanfare.

Between having no school on Labor Day and missing Tuesday with a stomach bug, Zach didn’t learn until Wednesday that—surprise—he apparently needed to be prepared by Friday for the class-level elimination rounds of Boulder Creek's bee. Kelly and I weren't overly concerned, given that Zach is an excellent speller with a vocabulary about his teacher can't stop raving—most likely the result of the challenging books he chooses to read. But when we learned that the words for the bee would run to 10th grade level, we planned a practice session for Thursday night.

When I arrived to pick Zach up from school Thursday, I was surprised to see a dejected look on his face, a sure sign that something was wrong. Sadly, he explained that he'd misunderstood the week's schedule and that qualifying rounds of the bee had actually begun that day. With zero preparation, he'd missed the cut on a technicality (Lesson One: Say the word after you spell it to signify you have finished.). As I said, they take their bees seriously up here. Back at home, Kelly and I assured Zach we were determined to help him succeed. We offered to sit down right there and then to practice, only to find out that—sigh—Zach had forgotten his word list at school. Heading back to school to retrieve it, we were left with less than 24 hours to get ready.

The next morning, Zach was nervous but reasonably well-prepared, and Kelly and I encouraged him to relax and do his best. Thinking about him throughout the day, I still figured he stood a decent chance of making the cut, and when he emerged from school that afternoon, it was clear that he had. With a broad smile and eyes aglow, he proudly reported that he'd be taking part in the bee—in the gym, before a crowd of his fellow students, with his very involved principal, Mr. Porter, residing over the ceremonies.

With attaboys and high fives properly dispensed, we laid out a plan for me and Kelly to drill Zach over the weekend to prepare for the big event. But with a new baby needing attention, a previously-scheduled gymnastics play date on the calendar, and other normal weekend stuff of which to take care, it was Sunday night before any of us knew it. Yes, Zach had carried his word list around with him and glanced at the words a bit, but he hadn’t studied them nearly as much as we'd hoped. As bedtime beckoned, we suddenly recognized our collective oversight, and Kelly promptly hustled Zach downstairs for an impromptu mock bee.

With the poor kid ready for bed and tired from a long weekend, it didn't help that, seeing the attention Zach's mastery of words was drawing, Zoë decided that she, too, wanted to "spell" them. Occasional squawks from Zienna and echoed "spellings" by Zoë aside, Zach plowed through the list of words, missing only a few. We focused on the troublesome ones, did all we could to boost his confidence, and taught him mnemonics we hoped would help (including the "R sepaRates the As" trick to help with that word, which had tripped him up earlier in the week—ironically, one of my old nemeses). He went to bed sounding a bit nervous but believing he could do well. So far, so good.

Unfortunately, Sunday night was our first really rough one with Zienna. She had us up most of the night, and as a result, Monday morning went NOTHING like I'd hoped. I finally crashed on the sofa at about 6:00 am with Zienna on my chest, and it wasn't until well after 7:00—with us needing to head for school no later than 7:40—that Zach woke me up. YIKES! The next few minutes were a blur of rushing around trying to get everyone out of the house, especially since I hadn't packed Zach's lunch and Zoë was slated to bring cupcakes—not yet purchased—for a class birthday celebration. With everyone working together, we somehow made it on time, preserving Zach's four-year record of never having been tardy. Still, it was a far cry from the calm, relaxing morning I'd planned for Zach’s benefit.

Seven hours later, when I arrived to pick him up from school, I knew immediately that it had all turned out OK. The minute Zach saw me, he hoisted his fist triumphantly into the air, clutching a ribbon, trophy and t-shirt—his booty for a job well done. Still, as he jumped into the truck, he was somewhat apologetic in announcing that he’d placed third. Apparently, with the bee running long and the kids in the audience departing for recess, the participants had struggled to hear Mr. Porter in the late rounds. When Zach’s turn had come, he’d misunderstood the word he was to spell, and rather than asking to have it repeated, he guessed—and guessed incorrectly. Based on our practice Sunday night, I firmly believe Zach could have won the bee hands down. But in the end, it didn't matter. He'd learned another lesson (Lesson Two: Ask to have the word repeated if you have ANY doubt about it.), and by doing so, sealed his fate.

Careless mistake or not, I couldn't have cared less. I was so excited that I could barely contain myself. Jumping up and down in my seat, I tried to express to Zach how proud of him I was and why he had no need to apologize. And as I did so, the look on his face changed. To my relief, it was clear that he was proud, too. Realizing I wasn't disappointed, he explained what had happened and added that while he'd initially been upset, he'd realized a few minutes later that it was OK, and he felt good about what he’d accomplished.

Most important lesson learned (Lesson Three: Do your best, and don’t have any regrets.). Hurray.

Of more than 150 kids to whom this whole thing wasn't a new experience—and who'd had time to prepare mentally and otherwise—Zach, the new kid who’d had only a couple days' preparation, not only qualified for the bee but come in third. So you're darn right he had reason to be proud. As Kelly and I would discuss later in the evening, if something academic-related could mean this much to Zach, then for all our miscues as parents, we were clearly getting across the right priorities to him—including a healthy desire to excel.

On our way home, Zach and I took a detour to grab some celebratory frozen yogurt, a fitting award given the 95-degree temperature. Even though the yogurt melted quickly in the mid-afernoon heat, I was in no hurry. Tired as I was, I knew this would go down as a day to remember, and I wanted to relish it. My son had made himself and his parents proud, learned some important life lessons, and given me even more reasons to love him for the very cool kid that he is—no matter how you spelled it.

If you'd like to send Zach a congratulatory e-mail, I'm sure he'd love it. You can reach Zach at his personal e-mail address here.

Third time's a charm(er)

This entry was originally written in shorter form mere hours after Zienna's birth, but my latest Blogger crash, as I was scrambling to post before heading back to the hospital, caused me to lose everything. In the much busier days since then, I've tried to recreate what I'd written, adding additional details and impressions, along with an overdue account of the weeks’ events. I apologize for the delay--but not for choosing to spend time with Zienna and Kelly over sitting in front of the computer!

— Scott

Having had a bit more than a week to reflect, I'm still marveling over how witnessing firsthand the birth of your child is without a doubt the biggest E-ticket ride going in life. I can't imagine any other experience that could leave one so in awe of the mighty forces of God, Mother Nature, or whoever or whatever it is that controls this big old ball we're living on. For a close second, I'd go with the power of a major earthquake or weather system, or perhaps the grandeur of a Grand Canyon or Mt. Everest. But for my money, plain old childbirth—something we so often take for granted when we're not witnessing it firsthand—wins hands down.

If you're reading this, you probably already know that the final installment of the Z Kid trilogy debuted last Friday, May 26, when Zienna Ione ("eye-OH-knee," in memory of Kelly's paternal grandmother, although she pronounced it differently) Hamilton took her first breath at 9:46 am Pacific Time. Weighing in at 8 pounds, 10 ounces, and measuring 20 inches, she bore from the get-go a striking resemblance to her siblings—especially her sister—right down to the tuft of brown hair and, um, prominent nose. But in contrast to her siblings, she took to the breast instantly, and despite being passed from one relative to another in her first moments of life, she was calm and quiet, content to rest in the arms of whoever was holding her. Maybe this will be the mellow Z Kid—or at least we can hope.

Zienna's arrival came quickly once, like Zach and Zoë, she overshot her due date. At Kelly's checkup last Thursday, her obstetrician, Dr. Laura Davidson—a Wonder Woman of a doctor if there ever was one, with a beaming smile and infectious, positive energy—initially expressed reservations about inducing, given the lack of complications and apparent normal size of the baby—a new concept for us, to be sure! But when Kelly explained that pain in her ribcage was limiting her sleep to a few hours each night, Dr. D quickly changed her mind and scheduled an induction for that evening. So, after a nice, relaxed dinner with the kids, Grandma and Grandpa Loop (Kelly’s folks, Dede and Dale), and Kelly’s sister, Shannon, I drove Kelly to the hospital and helped her settle in before heading home so we could both get a good night's sleep. The plan was for me to drop the kids off at school the next morning and then leisurely head back to the hospital.

Suffice to say those plans were altered just a bit when, at 6:30 the next morning, Kelly called and asked that I get to the hospital as quickly as possible, as her contractions were already increasing in intensity and frequency—roughly four minutes apart at that point. I showered in record time and jostled the kids from sleep, and they dressed like champs, getting us out the door in record time. Once Zoë’s preschool teachers caught wind of what was going on, they pushed me out the door before I'd even signed her in, and I zipped across town, thankful for the absence of traffic in our new hometown.

When I arrived just after 8:00, Dr. D had just departed after determining that Kelly's cervix was roughly 6-7 centimeters dilated. After settling in, I did all I could to support Kelly and make her feel comfortable. An hour later, there’d been little progress, and our nurse suggested that Kelly roll onto her side. This turned out to be a great suggestion, because a half hour later, Kelly’s cervix had cooperated, and she was ready to push.

This is, of course, my version of things, and I was not the one feeling as if my body were being turned inside out by a watermelon emerging through an orifice. With so much progress in dilation and effacement in such a short time, the pain took its toll, and Kelly finally gave in and asked for an epidural. So, the anesthesiologist was called, but he was tied up with another patient. In the meantime, Dr. D showed up and announced that—sorry, no epidural—it was time to push. Looking down, I was shocked to see that Zienna was already beginning to crown!

So, with the nurse grasping one leg and I the other, Kelly attacked the heavy lifting portion of things. One push, and I was looking at Zienna's head. Two pushes, and I was looking at her shoulders. One more, and our beautiful baby girl was secure in Dr. D's steady hands, with all eyes in the room gazing upon her. After taking in that sight, I grasped Kelly’s hand and squeezed it tightly, in complete awe of what she’d just done and how relatively effortless she’d made it seem.

This is where the E-ticket ride really kicked in. At Zach’s birth, I was so overwhelmed that felt like I might pass out, and my tears promptly turned from joy to panic when the nurses whisked him away because he wasn't breathing. With Zoë, I knew what to expect and was more relaxed, but if you ask me to describe the experience, I can't, because it was still so overwhelming. This time, things were no less surreal—I couldn't hear or see anything but Zienna for several seconds after first laying eyes upon that little face and body—but it was a warm, comfortable feeling that enveloped me. I’d gladly have remained in that state longer if it had been possible to do so. It was like baby nirvana.

Alas, the feel of tears streaming down my cheeks and Dr. D's voice asking me to cut the umbilical cord snapped me back to reality all too soon. At least my baby girl was there to greet me, gulping in her first breaths while proving that miracles really do happen.

At Zach and Zoë’s births, Kelly had to endure torturously long waits before spending any significant amount of time with them, as each had been whisked away for cleanup and tests in the nursery, with me at their side. But this time, once she'd been wiped off and given a quick once-over, Zienna was promptly plopped onto Kelly's chest, a fitting reward for her efforts. Though Zienna would be passed around to waiting arms over the next couple of hours—when Daddy’s nursery time would finally come—she spent a good amount of them in Kelly's.

Knowing everyone else wanted to meet Zienna, and wanting Kelly to have quality time with her, too, I decided to pick up Zoë myself. The drive across town is mostly a blur, although I remember the horde of teachers, parents and students crowding around me when I offered to show them pictures less than an hour old. And then, with my big girl on board, I again headed back to the hospital. By the time I arrived, the fact that yes, the birth really had taken place, had begun to set in. And as it did, that warm feeling of satisfaction started to come back, too, where it would stay until...well, until now, as it still hasn't worn off entirely. Back in the delivery room, I sat down and laid claim to my first decent share of snuggle time with Zienna, a feeling that any parent knows really can't be described in words.

When Zach arrived several hours later, shuttled over by Grandma and Grandpa Loop, it was like a wonderful homecoming, as our newly-augmented family finally felt complete. Upon first seeing Zienna, Zach stated quite matter-of-factly that he was "skeptical" about her. After all, this is the boy who cried when he learned he'd not be having a brother. But within minutes, he was cuddling her like an old pro and whispering into her ear sweet nothings that only an adoring big brother can whisper. And shortly afterwards, he was arguing with his sister—and she with him—over who would get to hold Zienna next, and for how long. So much for worries about them accepting her!

Fortunately, even though the labor and delivery had progressed so quickly, Kelly had much less tearing than she had with the previous births. Still, when Dr. D examined her on Saturday, she agreed to extend Kelly's stay until Sunday so she could rest adequately before heading home. When we arrived Saturday afternoon for a visit, Kelly looked, as she had when we'd left her Friday, tired but otherwise fabulous. With the grandparents anxious for Z-time and the three of us tired and emotionally drained—and conscious of Kelly's need for rest—Zach, Zoë, and I headed home and laid low for the rest of the day.

By Sunday, we a bit more rested, yet I could sense I wasn't the only one feeling that, while the last-chance-ever two-on-one Z Kid quality time had been nice, there was something missing. And with that something waiting for us at the hospital, the kids literally ran to the car when I announced it was time to pick up Kelly and Zienna. Arriving home a few hours later didn't quite have the dramatic "crossing the threshold" feel I recall from Zach’s (and to a slightly lesser extent, Zoë’s) homecoming, but it definitely felt right. At some point during the day, the phrase "the five of us" was uttered—I can't recall by whom—and I almost corrected whoever said it. But aside from that, once Grandma and Grandpa left for the day, and we were left alone—the five of us—there was no doubt that our new family was gelling just fine, thank you.

Monday was a typical Hamilton holiday—barbecue, baseball, and lots of relaxing—and Grandma and Grandpa came over to share Memorial Day and steal some more snuggle time with their granddaughter. By Tuesday morning, they’d headed home, and while we'd enjoyed their visit and help, it was time for our nuclear unit to get on with the business of establishing ourselves as a family—which we promptly did. In fact, it might have felt like just another routine day if Zach hadn't woken up with another stomach bug—and were it not for the sweet little baby altering and, yes, complicating our routine just a bit.

Not that any of us was complaining, mind you. Concerns about “one more” and “it’s a girl” were clearly things of the past, and we all agreed—the four of us—that Zienna’s a keeper.

Notes from The Zone, 04/22/06: Clouds May Be Lingering, But There Are Silver Linings

In an effort to provide more frequent (and digestible) posts pertaining to what most of you really want to read about anyway—The Z Kids—I'm adding a sorta-weekly "notes" format focusing on what's going on around our home and in our lives.

While I'll still post formal blog entries when inspired to do so—which I fully admit are essentially for me, though shared with you—the notes will keep the blog alive during periods between them, while offering updates about the kids and our interactions with them.

Incidentally, I've only heard from a few of you regarding the blog, so please, if you have feedback, comments, suggestions, (constructive) criticism, lay it on me! That goes for the photos and anything else you’d like to see, too.

As always, thanks for reading!

—Scott

I'm a WHAT? — As anyone who's spent much time around Zoë knows, the girl LOVES to sing. She also loves making up her own songs, typically ballad-y and epic-like, with lyrics that are cryptic in a four-year-old kind of way. So, while I usually listen to the melodies and ignore the words, I was unable to do the latter when sometime last week, she took on a more poppy style and began singing loudly and clearly (in the “Since You Been Gone” style of her current favorite, American Idol Season One winner Kelly Clarkson), “I'm a hottie. Ooh-ooh, I'm a hottie.” The accompanying booty-shaking dance and her delivery were rather cute, but this is NOT, if given a choice, what a father wants to hear his preschool-aged daughter singing. Good thing Zoë still does the classics, too, like her current favorite, “This Old Man,” or I'd be worried. And anyway, a Clarksonesque “I’m a Hottie” is undoubtedly more wholesome than whatever Brittany “Oops, I Did it Again" (and again and again and again) Spears would have had her imitating a few years ago.

We'll still be having a “Zane” — Yes, it's true . . . except this Zane will have a cold nose, a floppy tongue, droopy ears, and the need to be housebroken. In other words, Zach's been promised a dog once we're settled into the house. It didn't take much to talk Kelly and me into the idea, given that we'd long ago promised the kids a canine companion as incentive to help us reign in our budget. (“But if we go out to dinner, we won't be able to get a house, so we won’t be able to get a dog. You do want a dog, right?”) But given how depressed Zach remained days after learning he'd not be getting a little brother, we reintroduced the idea in an effort to divert his attention and lift his spirits. It appears to have worked—so well, in fact, that he now has a picture taped to the foot of his bed of the breed he wants (a Golden Retriever, even if Kelly and I aren’t so sure about all that hair). He’s gone so far as to deem that the dog will be "his" (fine by me if it means he'll clean up the poop!), and he’s asking—no, begging—for a male so can name it "Zane." Suddenly, he's almost forgotten that he even wanted a brother. Time will tell if it’ll stick. But as annoyed as he’s been getting lately with Zoë pillaging through his stuff at every opportunity and otherwise annoying him, I think it might.

A silver lining, and then some — Crushed as I was upon learning we’d not be having another boy, at this point it’s almost become a non-issue for me. It’s helped that since the news broke, Zoë and I have enjoyed some major quality time and bonding experiences, including shopping together for clothes and other essentials for the baby. I’ve also been talking with her a lot about assuming the role of “big kid” and being a good role model and helper with her sister. Whether as a response or otherwise, she’s been a real sweetheart lately and is suddenly behaving much more maturely. She’s showered me with frequent hugs and “tick-tock kisses” (something she came up with—think Eskimo kisses with a back-and-forth twist), which has suited me just fine. As if all this hadn’t convinced me that another round of daughter daddying was OK, then a recent realization certainly has: We could have had twins! As in “two for the price of one.” As in “two kids simultaenously (crying, needing diaper changes, running a fever, etc.).” As in, "Um, honey? We bargained for three and got four." Man, I’d never really given that possibility much thought before, and it obviously could have happened to us, especially since twins are quite prevalent on Kelly's side of the family. Much as I was enthusiastic about adding a third kiddo to the brood, adore my adorable twin nephews, Aidan and Cole, and respect my brother Steve and sister-in-law Mary for their ability to do it...to add two at the same time, especially when it would have brought our Z tally to four? Fuggetaboutit! Just one more reason that another girl will be just fine, thank you. (Phew!)

Memories—and visions—of home — Since moving to Redding, Kelly and I have been pleasantly surprised not only by how quickly and effortlessly we’ve adapted to our new hometown, but how we’ve come to embrace it. Granted, we have yet to survive a summer of 100-degree temperatures, but we’re confident that the benefits we enjoy by living here will make even that bearable. Still, even though we’ve left the traffic and other craziness of the Bay Area behind, it was with much excitement last week that we welcomed for a visit our friends and former Foster City neighbors, the Mahs—Kevin, Christina, Jarod and Lauren. If you were fortunate enough to meet them at Kelly’s 40th birthday party last June, then you know what friendly, easy-going people they are. We’d known for weeks they were coming, and of course our kids were ecstatic about seeing theirs for the first time since January. But once they’d arrived, with Kelly playing hooky, a blessing of perfect weather, and nothing to do but enjoy their company, it made for a perfect afternoon. While the Mahs could only stay for a few hours as they traveled home from a 10-day vacation to Seattle, it was a side trip we very much appreciated. And on one hand, their visit made me a tad homesick, as our interactions with the Mahs before moving were too often rushed and purposeful (“Are you picking up the boys from school, or am I? OK, gotta run.”). But on the other, seeing them left me full of anticipation about building such relationships with the neighbors we’ll soon have in our new home—yet glad that existing friends can always stop by.

Did somebody say “weather”? — With nearly 45 inches of rain to date and precipitation on more than three quarters of the days between February and mid-April, weather has been on everyone’s mind up here, as it has been throughout the state. It’s forced the cancellation of sporting events (including Zach’s Little League games), slowed down construction (Grrr!), and of course, kept everyone cooped up inside for days on end. For transplants like us, dealing with the endlessly gloomy skies has sparked a bit of cabin fever, sapping our energy and leaving us with a decent case of the doldrums. Zoë’s gone so far as to alter the lyrics to a popular children’s song to “Rain, rain, go away. Don’t come back another day.” It’s hard to blame her. So, you can imagine how we relished the sudden and dramatic change this week, as brilliant sunshine and eighty-degree temperatures brought everyone, including us, darting out of their houses. Flowers and trees had long been in bloom after early-season teases of mildness, and shorts and sandals followed their lead. Thus, the stage was set, and in a few short days, we went from hiding under blankets to drown out the interminable racket of rainfall to feeling the effects of full-blown Spring Fever. It even affected the kids, as Zoë dragged a chair, some music, and a cold drink onto the front lawn and proceeded to kick back under a tree, as if by instinct, with a look of complete satisfaction on her face. Wet stuff and clouds may be back in the forecast today—and maybe even some thunderstorms—but we’ve tasted spring, and we’re not looking back.

Making way—and room—for baby — With weeks leading up to the arrival of Z Kid Three (still unnamed) flying by, and with our short-term move just two weeks off, we’ve seized the opportunity to sort the numerous boxes of papoose paraphernalia we’ve accumulated over the past 10 years. One advantage to knowing the bambino’s gender is that it allows us to discard a veritable mountain of hand-me-down clothing. So, unless they hold special meaning (such as the outfit from his first Christmas), Zach’s old duds are history. Same goes for a bunch of towels, burp rags, and other fabric items that have over time developed that magical “Where’d that nasty stain come from?” effect. For Kelly and me, the activity has been one of purging and organization. But for Zoë, who’s enthusiastically offered to help, it’s been akin to an archaeological dig. What are throwaways to us are undiscovered treasures to her, since she has no recollection of most of them. If her “help” has slowed my work considerably—and it most certainly has—it’s also been frequently amusing. If I had a dollar for each time I’ve heard “Oh, how cuuuuute!” in the past week, I’d probably have enough cash to pay outright for the new house. And while she’s been quick to grab things from the “toss” pile—presumably “for the baby” (or so she says)—she’s just as frequently snuck off to (re)claim them for her own, as you can see from the picture. Firebrand though she may be at times, when all’s said and done, she’s still our little baby, and we’re glad—but don’t tell her we said so.

Sometimes a hunch is just a hunch

If predicting the gender of your children were a stock, I’d be the poorest soul on Wall Street. Because frankly, my hunches have been horrible. I’m 0 for 3, and given that this is my and Kelly’s final trip down the Reproductive Highway, I’m retiring with a dismal record.

For those who have yet to hear, we decided rather spontaneously last week to break tradition and find out the sex of Z Kid Three. Without further ado, it is…(Drum roll, please!)…a girl.

Two princesses under one roof? That’ll be, um, interesting. As a defensive measure, Zach and I are already stockpiling baseball cards, punk rock mp3s, and Beavis and Butthead DVDs, and once we move into our new house, we’re looking to establish an exclusive Men's Room in hopes that we might actually be able to use a restroom when we want to.

Joking aside, that we’re having another girl was not the news I’d been hoping for. Kelly was primarily wishing for a boy, too, and Zach was downright insisting on one—a stark contrast to last time, when he told us to leave any boy baby at the hospital. But temporary disappointment aside, we will of course unconditionally love (Insert unchosen name here, which will now obviously not be “Zane.”). And, as the last kid in the nest, she will probably work the “Daddy’s Girl” thing to the hilt as time goes by. Undoubtedly it will work, even as I fight the urge to turn her into a tomboy.

Still, I was shocked when we got the news, and to a degree, I still am. Just ask my mother, who was in attendance during the 3-D ultrasound (video to follow shortly), the occasion during which we decided to peer through the oven door and check on the sex of our nearly-cooked bun. I was the first to see it, and while I didn’t fall over, I felt as if I might. I’m absolutely sure my head was spinning a full 360 degrees on my shoulders, saliva flying every which way as my jawbone fell faster than the president’s approval ratings. Never having gone through the experience before Delivery Day, I was not prepared for what I’d feel—especially since I was sure it was a boy.

But as I said, my instincts in this realm are apparently very weak. And that fact has set up an interesting dynamic for meeting one’s child—or in the latest case, taking a pre-meeting peek.

During each of Kelly’s pregnancies, I’ve had strong intuitive feelings about the sex of the baby. Maybe every expectant parent does—I don’t know. But for someone like me who embarked on the Goodship Parenthood with more than a bit of trepidation to have such strong visions of who and what they’d be has been almost surreal. I’ve dreamt about each of them, felt compelled to begin gender-specific shopping for them, and almost felt like I could see right into Kelly’s belly and know that yes, this is what we’d be having. And of course, in each case I’ve been wrong, paving the way for a broad range of emotions—and adjustments—when I’ve met the little suckers.

When Kelly finally talked me into having a baby, I, like most guys, just new it meant one thing (with apologies to the grandparents): lots of whoopee. No problem so far! But when it came time to pay the piper and I found out Kelly was pregnant, all mental and emotional hell broke loose inside of me. Up until then, when asked, I’d always said, “Oh, sure, I want to have kids.” But the realization that it was really going to happen convinced me that this was the ball and chain that would force me to abandon all spontaneity in my life and basically become (Gasp!) a Grownup. The horror.

From the moment I found out, I was absolutely convinced that the little demon who would lead to my demise was a girl. I don’t know why, but I knew in my heart of hearts that it would be. Much as I tried to envision—and wanted—a boy to pal around with, play ball and “pull my finger” jokes with, etc., it just wasn’t going to happen. And Kelly must have felt it, too, because we quickly settled on a girl’s name (“Peyton”), oohed and aahed over frilly pink dresses as we shopped, and otherwise prepared to parent a daughter.

But then it was a Zach. And I literally did not believe it until I saw the appendage dangling between his legs. We had a boy. Wow. That the doctors and nurses had to whisk him away first to an incubator and then to ICU only delayed the onset of reality that in spite of my expectations, I’d gotten what I’d wanted all along. And that I had seemed very odd. Here I’d been prepared to accept a girl into my heart, and I got a boy. Maybe it was guilt over hoping for one—or maybe it was just being a first-time parent—but given the situation, it was a few days before I could say out loud “I have a son,” believe it, and not feel ashamed for being glad.

Flash forward a few years, and Kelly was pushing me to give Zach a brother or sister. I was apprehensive, figuring we had it good, and believing no kid could top Zach. But a part of me felt that if we could have a girl, things would be perfect—symmetrical, socially harmonious, with a Daddy’s Girl to spoil on top of it all. It sounded like paradise. Yet, once Kelly was pregnant, I once again “knew” what we’d be having, and it sure wasn’t a girl. Of course, I was off the mark again, and the instant she made her debut, all I could say in disbelief to Kelly was, “We have a Zoë.” I was elated, even if parenting a girl frightened me to no end.

Given my track record, you can understand why, once the womb-illuminating sound waves had quieted last week, I really wasn’t surprised that I’d been off base again. However, the difference this time was that, for a change, I was expecting what I wanted but got something else, rather than vice versa. At least initially, that was hard to handle, and it made my “wants” seem insignificant and me feel powerless. Maybe it’s payback for wanting a boy so badly. Or maybe it’s that I ignored what I think was working for me in the past—simple Freudian defense mechanisms, in which I subconsciously denied what I wanted so I’d accept what I didn’t. I’m not really sure. But in the end, the “whys” didn’t really matter.

So did I really want a boy this time? You betcha. But that’s a large part of why I wanted to know what the stork was bringing ahead of time this go-round. Knowing the kiddo’s gender before it’s lying in my arms allows me to forget about my trivial wants and reminds me that this is about him...er, her...not me. Freed from the anxiety of delivery room gender surprises, I’m able to await her arrival simply as my child, regardless of her sex. And aware of what’s coming, I’m even able to get excited about it.

And it seems to have worked. Within a couple of days of getting the news, I was at the store with Kelly, happily thumbing through the frillier blankets, sleepers, and car seats—all pink. And, in those rare moments I have to daydream (technically nightdream, since it’s typically at 3 a.m.), I imagine myself meeting her prom date and, if I really push, dancing that first dance every father dreams about at her wedding reception, just as I have with Zoë. No boy? So be it. Be healthy and happy, Z Girl Two. I’m going to love you like only your daddy can.

Now if we could just solve that name thing. In the end, that may be the toughest hurdle of all to clear. But hey, if I can handle the prospect of sharing bathrooms with three females, I can handle anything!

Stopping to smell the roses

I have a confession to make: I’ve been neglecting one of my children—and horribly so.

It hasn’t been intentional, but it’s definitely been the case. Periodically, I’ve all but forgotten about one of the Z Kids. No interaction. No affection. No attention, period. Nary a parental thought, even. As pathetic as it sounds, I’ve gone days at a time without paying the child any mind. And the sad fact is, I’ve done the same thing to Kelly’s present condition, and she’s carrying the darned thing.

Yes, it’s true: With all that’s gone on during the last few months, I really have forgotten at times that Kelly’s even pregnant—and about the kid inside her. As Kelly’s finally begun to show, I’ve done it less frequently. But given how great she looks even at seven months, it’s still happening.

Until very recently, if someone asked me how Kelly was doing, I’d blurt out, “Hunh?” Then I’d realize what they meant and, fighting my embarrassment over the confusion, give a generic, “Oh, great, thanks.” But you know what? In a twisted way, this is a good thing. After the first two pregnancies, which were relatively problematic, this one has—thankfully—been comparatively easy to forget about.

At least for me, that is. I’m not the one carrying a beach ball in my belly! Yet, Kelly’s seemed to need very little than me, and she’s been an even bigger trouper than she was with Zach and Zoe. I don’t know if it’s the lack of complications or just that she’s become an (old) pro, but aside from an occasional comment about being tired or not wanting the extra-garlicky stir-fry—and particularly since the 24-hour-a-day morning sickness, which was new this time, passed—she’s hardly lost a step. This leaves me in utter awe, because if it was up to me to carry the kids, we’d be childless. Period.

While initially I was saddened by the routine-ness of this pregnancy, the more I thought about it, I realized that in this case, low-key is definitely a positive. Clearly, we’ve learned through experience that most pregnancies go smoothly and that worrying is not going to help. Plus, with the way the first two pregnancies played out, we’ve definitely earned the right to take one in stride.

With Zach, we were the typical deer-in-the-headlights first-time parents, reaching for What to Expect When You’re Expecting at every turn and calling the OB/GYN with questions almost as often. We attended birthing classes and hung on their every word like they were sermons by the Dalai Lama himself. And we fretted more than enough. Rookie parents or not, it was hard not to, given that early on, the high alpha-fetoprotein levels in Kelly’s blood necessitated genetic screening and weekly, intensive ultrasounds for much of the pregnancy. Plus, she had mild preeclempsia. Zach overshot his due date, his induction was rocky, and he came out not breathing. Hardly an idyllic experience.

With the problems of his delivery behind us, and Zach a thriving preschooler, we thought and hoped things would go easier with Zoë. But when we learned she’d implanted in Kelly’s uterus with partial placenta previa, our hopes for a non-eventful pregnancy went out the window. Fortunately, even though Zoë was another monster baby who required induction, Kelly was still able to deliver her vaginally, though with a fair amount of bleeding. Still, we assumed we were done having children and were thankful that things had gone as well as they had, giving us two wonderful, healthy kids.

So, who’d have guessed that I, the guy who initially didn’t want children and put it off for as long as Kelly would let me, would have broached the topic of trying one more time? Certainly not me, that’s for sure! But I did, and Kelly certainly didn’t argue. So, without a word to anyone, we again began trying to conceive. And trying. And trying. And trying. None of the pregnancies had come easily, and this time, it seemed often that our efforts were going to be in vain. Several times, I suggested giving up, particularly after tests on both of us indicated we shouldn’t be having so much trouble. But Kelly had me agreeing to try again, and she wasn’t going to give up so easily. So we persevered.

When Kelly’s 40th birthday came and went, I really thought we ought to throw in the towel. With concerns over increased genetic risks, we talked about it. But whether out of stubbornness or determination, we kept trying anyway. And then, as conception had been with the first two, it just happened. The night Kelly came home with yet another pregnancy test, I prepared to comfort her again as she headed for the bathroom. But when she didn’t emerge right away, I kept playing with the kids, wondering what was taking her so long. And then, when she emerged and told me there was something waiting for me inside, I knew right away. Yet, as long as it had taken us, I could hardly believe it—it seemed downright surreal.

For the first few months, I didn’t allow myself to accept that the pregnancy was really happening. Given Kelly’s age and that we were pretty sure we’d lost a few along the way, I held back my emotions just in case. I was tired of the monthly ritual, though, and wanted it to happen now, if it was going to. And then, as weeks passed and with everything going smoothly, we just sort of kicked into autopilot. This was nice, a welcome deviation from what had happened in the past. Periodically, Kelly would call me after a doctor’s appointment to tell me that, once again, things were fine. I’d take it in stride and go about my business. It just felt right. And with no need to worry, I started doing what I’ve already admitted to—taking the pregnancy for granted.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate that things are going well. I certainly do. There were definitely some tense moments, hours, and weeks surrounding the amniocentesis. That was our biggest concern, aside from getting pregnant in the first place. But once the doctor called to say everything was fine—a joyous day indeed—I fell back into autopilot.

Had we not been so busy with our relocation, I’d like to think I’d have paid more attention to the minutiae of the pregnancy. But the fact is, I’m really not sure. There’s just been a comfort level this time that has brought with it optimism that everything will be OK. Even going into the amnio, I felt in my heart that it would be. Same thing for the pregnancy in general, once we’d confirmed it was happening. Whether that’s experience or what, I don’t know, but it definitely beats fretting.

So, with reality setting in and weeks before the grand event counting down, I’ve been trying to play catch up. I’ve owned up to Kelly about not doing enough or paying enough attention, and I’ve tried to make it clear that I’m available for anything she wants or needs. She still hasn’t asked for much, and neither of us has felt compelled to invest as we did in the past on many of the doodads and gizmos marketed to pregnant people. We know what’s happening, we know what to expect, and we are, I believe, just enjoying it, having learned to take in stride what is still an amazing journey, cheapened none by the fact that we aren’t spoiling it in overkill.

We realized last weekend that, admittedly, we are a bit behind. We still haven’t settled on names, nor have we figured out which baby items we still have on hand. But we’re not overly concerned. The baby is what matters—as do the two with which we’ve already been blessed, even if they’re not exactly babies anymore! And so collectively, they are our focus as we enter this exciting new chapter in our lives. And if we’ve forgotten to treat the pregnancy as “special,” well, there’ll soon be a little person crying out loudly to remind us—and me in particular—that yes, he or she is definitely real and worthy of our awe. And doodads or not, his or her arrival will have been no less special than that of the other Z Kids.

Lessons in loss--and love

Zach cried his eyes out Saturday night. Not with baby tears, either, but with deep, body-wracking sobs brought on by real emotion. It was the type of crying you can’t just turn off by trying—which is why it went on for almost an hour.

It started slowly, just some red eyes and sniffles. As it increased, Kelly and I suggested he take a shower, hoping it would help him relax. But it didn’t. Even with the water cascading down, the bathroom fan running and the door closed, we could still hear the poor guy all the way out in the living room. And the saddest part was, there wasn’t much we could to cure the heartache he was feeling. He’d suffered a loss, and he was just going to have to struggle through it.

That day, the Toys R Us in town had closed its doors for good. Worse, it had closed them early.

It’s not that Zach hadn’t known this was coming. We’d learned in January that, along with 74 other TRU stores in the country, ours would be closing as part of the company’s massive restructuring plan. But it wasn’t supposed to happen until Sunday. Here it was only Saturday, and—as if the dark TRU sign and dimmed lights weren’t enough—the sad, handwritten note scribbled on a piece of scratch paper and taped to what had been the entrance door said it all: “Store Closed.”

We’d driven by the store out of curiosity after grabbing a bite to eat. For weeks, bright, picket-style signs held by hard-to-employ types at every major intersection within a mile of the store had served as depressing omens that the end was indeed near. First, they proclaimed that everything in the store was 30 to 40 percent off. Then it was 40 to 50. Then 50 to 60. And so forth, until the day before, when they’d read “80 to 80” percent off. Yikes. Granted, there wasn’t much left in the store—just a bunch of things no one had wanted last Christmas, really. But for the kids in town, that didn’t matter a whole lot.

So, not having seen the sign-holders all day and knowing that the banner in the store’s window, which had been updated daily, would read “Only (hand-written sign reading ‘1’) Days Left,” we headed over to let Zach walk through one more time, just so he could offer a proper good-bye. But he never got the chance. They’d stopped the bleeding by closing a day early. And the minute Zach realized what had happened, the funk hit him instantly, like a sucker punch to the solar plexus.

We tried happy-talking him on the way home, but our words fell on deaf ears. No, he wasn’t the only kid who’d lament the closing. But for Zach, it was a BIG deal. Here’s a kid who, when he was only four years old, announced that when he grew up, he wanted to be a toy designer for Toys R Us. And he was serious. Mind you, he envisioned himself sitting in some back room of the store with an army of toy builders ready to construct his creations—a far cry from the reality of overseas factories manufacturing the stuff. But we encouraged him anyway, knowing that with his Love—with a capital “L”—of toys, he’d be the greatest toy designer ever if he set his mind on it.

When he’d started getting an allowance a year or so later, a whole new chapter in Zach’s love affair with TRU began. Every chance he got—which would have been every time we drove by, if he’d has his way—Zach would scour the aisles until he'd targeted his next conquest. Typically, it was an ambitious one. And then he’d save. And save. And save. I’ll never forget the first time when, with great pride, he paid for something at TRU himself, with money he’d saved for months. He could hardly contain himself, boasting to the cashier about what he’d accomplished. And then, as now, he asked for the receipt. Tucked into his wallet, it served as a memento of his triumph.

In November, when we announced to the kids that we’d be moving to Redding, Kelly and I expected a struggle. But to our surprise, when we told Zach, he had only three questions.

“Is there a Toys R Us in Redding?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Is there a Target in Redding?” he asked. (Target is his fallback when TRU is either out of stock or doesn’t carry something, and having both in his arsenal has taught him to comparison shop, too.)

“Yes,” I replied again.

“Is there a Red Robin in Redding?”

“Yes,” I replied a final time, adding that they were all within a mile of each other, too.

“Then I can live in Redding,” he said, matter-of-factly, and that was that. No struggle at all.

So, it was harsh news that we shared with Zach when just two short weeks after Christmas we learned of the store's fate. Apparently, the closures had been in the news for months. But we had no idea until the story was splashed across the front page of the Redding Searchlight. Zach didn’t seem too upset initially, as the markdowns allowed him to stretch his Christmas and birthday dollars and gift cards. He even complained about the reduced selection in the store and, for a time, seemed to be favoring Target for his shopping outings, perhaps as a defense mechanism to fend off reality. But as weeks passed and the closing date approached, and even I ventured over to TRU to scoop up some bargains, he again became curious about his beloved store.

When we ventured inside last week, Zach was more noticeably shaken. Most of the shelves and fixtures were gone, and the shopping space had been reduced to a small taped-off area near the checkstands cluttered with a mishmash of things no one really wanted. The last of the bargain hunters mulled about, but few bought anything. Even Zach, who can find a reason to like just about any toy, admitted there was nothing worthwhile left. He walked out looking rather sullen, and in hindsight, I think it was then that the emotional turmoil that was to hit him full bore on Saturday took hold.

A week later, as we listened to his agonizing sobs, Kelly finally ventured into the bathroom to offer some support and TLC. When she and Zach emerged a few minutes later, Zoë first tried to latch on to the situation as an attention-getting device (“I’m sad, too!”), then used it as an opportunity to take a sibling-rivalry dig (“I’m sad, but I’m not crying!”), and finally came around to comfort her sibling, as both kids are wont to do. That’s one of the things I love most about them: Though they’ll fight like a cat and dog over nothing, in the end, they hate to see one another upset, and they’re both quick to offer comfort. So, it tickled my heart when, after whispering in my ear that she wished she could do something to make Zach feel better, Zoë darted from the room and then reappeared carrying Zach’s favorite stuffed animal, a teddy bear named TJ, and nestled it into his arms as she hugged him. "It's OK, buddy," she said, patting his shoulder. It was classic.

And, it may have been just what Zach needed, because about that time, his tears began to dry up. A few minutes later, he even started to become somewhat philosophical about TRU’s closure, offering high-minded reasons about why it was OK and how there were positive aspects to the situation. Inside, I questioned his sincerity, but I admired his effort. And I made careful mental notes about what we’d just been through. Because much as I hate to see the kids cry, I knew that if this was Zach’s introductory lesson in life about loss, it was a fairly benign one. And I knew it was something that, in the end, would strengthen his character and help him understand what was really important in life—the people around him—and what was less so.

I tucked that one away as a reminder to myself, too. Ah, the things you can learn from your kids...