Stage Dad: A New Column

Note: In May 2012, I was asked to write a column for a Washington, D.C., theatre website (www.dcmetrotheaterarts.com) on being a "Stage Dad." I'm crossposting the columns to this blog as well after they are published.


"I saw my sis go pitter pat. Said I can do that. I can do that.”

Five and a half years ago, my little boy Ben was dancing in the basement of a woman’s house in Maryland, showing off his gymnastics moves, taps and splits. Afterward, he answered a few questions from the woman we arranged to meet and then we left, not knowing what would happen next.

Really, we had no clue how that audition would change all of our lives.

That little boy is now a teen, getting ready to fly back from Los Angeles to New York, where he will train for the role he’s pursued since 2008 – the title part on the national tour of “Billy Elliot.” And in a couple of weeks, he’ll flashback to that afternoon in the basement when he performs “I Can Do That” in a benefit called “Born for Broadway” at the American Airlines Theater in New York.

Things in his life – and the lives of our family – are coming full circle, the pieces of a long and winding path finally connecting. It’s a path that has featured numerous adventures (of the mis and grand variety), including six professional shows in Washington, D.C., two Broadway productions, one national tour, and one cameo in a TV series that was filmed before a two-show day. It also has involved countless auditions, stealth-like schlepping (planes, trains, and motor vehicle versions), two residences, long days, and sleepless nights.

At least it’s not travel soccer.

Looking back at those adventures, as well as the lessons learned, is the purpose of this blog/column that Joel Markowitz asked me to write. For the past three years, I’ve written a personal blog – http://lifeasarealityshow.blogspot.com – in an attempt to process what has taken place in our lives. Joel very graciously asked me to share some of those stories with his audience.

So let me set the scene for you.

My wife, Jill, and I have four teenagers – two boys and two girls, ranging in age from 14 to 19. My oldest, Nicholas, just was accepted into the BFA Acting program at Elon University in North Carolina. Katharine, the visual artist in the group, is finishing her freshman year in high school in Northern Virginia.

Emma, Ben’s twin sister, is in eighth grade at a different Northern Virginia school. Like her brother, she lives for dance. She also is forging, through hard work and good grades, her own path in life in a far more low-key way than her brother.

Now you can see why I like to say, with four kids in four schools in three states, “In our family, the only thing mellow is the drama.”

Over the next several months, I hope you will join us on this journey of what it is like to be a stage parent. We’ll chronicle the ups and downs, answer your questions, seek your thoughts and – I hope – provide you with some insight into the world in which we live.

What a world it is.

Joplin's 'Amazing' Year

Note: This essay was published this afternoon on NSBA's School Board News Today site to promote the Joplin Schools story I wrote for American School Board Journal. 

You never know who you’re going to bump into at the NSBA Annual Conference. But after a couple of days, I usually have a pretty good idea.

Each year, I meet a board member or superintendent early on, either on the shuttle bus or in line at the hotel. And over the course of the next several days, I seem to see that person everywhere.

Last year, that person was Randy Steele.

Randy is a school board member in Joplin, Mo., and justifiably, he was proud of the Magna Award grand prize that his district was receiving for a program called “Bright Futures.” Over the course of the three-day meeting, I saw him everywhere—in the hallway, in sessions, at the Magna luncheon. By the end of the week, it had become something of a running joke.

What happened in Joplin just six weeks later was no joke.

An EF-5 tornado cut a three-quarter mile path through the middle of this Missouri community, ultimately claiming 161 lives, causing $3 billion in damage, and destroying several of Joplin’s school buildings. Immediately, ASBJ’s staff reached out—via Facebook—to Steele and Superintendent C.J. Huff, asking if there was anything we could do.

This month’s cover story is the result.

Over the past year, we have followed a remarkable tale of resilience and recovery, of looking ahead when it is more tempting to look back. It’s a fascinating study of how tireless leaders—board members and administrators—turn crisis into opportunity as they work to protect students and staff and prevent them from having a lost year.

The first few paragraphs of this essay were taken from my editor’s note that appears in the print edition. Since we wrapped up the issue, which was distributed at this year’s annual conference, there are a number of things to update:

• Just after the issue went to press, voters narrowly passed a $62 million bond issue that will help in the district’s rebuilding effort. Joplin High School is the centerpiece of that effort; all of the pictures in the print edition are from the devastated building that is still being razed. (You also can find more pictures from the high school and the Joplin community that I took last year on ASBJ’s Facebook page — www.facebook.com/AmericanSchoolBoard.)

• A week after the construction referendum, former board chair Ashley Micklethwaite announced that she has accepted a job with Mercy Health Center in St. Louis and will leave Joplin later this year.

• The district has started working on plans for President Obama’s commencement speech on May 21 — the day before the first anniversary. The next day, ceremonial groundbreaking ceremonies will be held for the new schools.

C.J. Huff, who has done yeoman’s work in leading the district’s recovery efforts, told the Joplin Globe that he and other administrators know that May 22 will be a tough and emotional day for the community’s residents.

“Everybody is in a different place,” Huff said. “Those days will bring a lot of celebration and a lot of reflection. As we reflect on the past, we have to think about the future. It’s just another step in the healing process.”

The year has not been without its glitches. In fact, Joplin is facing a lawsuit from the out-of-state contractor hired to demolish the high school. People who remain unsettled by the storm were upset that their taxes would go up and voted against the referendum, which passed by a 57-43 margin.

But none of that should put a damper on the remarkable story that school leaders — anyone in a position of leadership really — can read in this month’s issue.

Just before the issue went to press, I asked Randy if I would see him at this year’s conference. The new board president said he wasn’t sure, and ultimately he did not go. The reason: The meeting conflicted with Joplin’s prom.

Two weeks ago, in Boston, I got onto a packed shuttle and headed toward the back. This time, I bumped into Ashley Mickelthwaite. She had been remarkably candid in our talks last November and again in March, talking about the loss of her home, the struggles of her community, the changes in her job — Joplin’s Mercy Hospital was destroyed in the storm — and the hard work going on in the district.

As we rode toward the convention center, she told me about her decision to resign from the board and leave her hometown (“It’s tough, but it’s time,” she said.) She also talked of the resilience — and the grind — that everyone continues to face.

“It’s been an amazing year,” she said.

Indeed.

To read the story, go to http://www.asbj.com/MainMenuCategory/Archive/2012/May/Restoring-Joplins-Future.html

To read my earlier essay, written right after the Joplin tornado, click here.

Living With Bipolar

This has been a passion project for our family, talking openly and honestly about the struggles, challenges and victories of Kate as she deals with bipolar disorder. We are very fortunate — Kate is the most open of all.

Look through this blog and you will see essays I have written about Kate over the past several years. The most recent, published in February, is from the period described in this video. In the middle of the worst period, Jill asked me to chronicle what we (and Kate) faced in photographs.

Again, the difference in storytelling between photography and writing emerges. The essays depict a father who wrestles — not always in the best ways — with a daughter who is just as stubborn as I am. They depict a family that is dealing with "It" — as we have dubbed the disorder — lurking in the background at times and taking center stage at others.

The photography, with minimal written narration to provide context and a beautiful John Hiatt song accompanying the images, provides an even more visceral point of view.

I hope you will watch, respond, comment, and share your thoughts.

Thank you for your support.

Phases and Stages

It’s hard for me to believe that all four kids are teenagers, although I have the gray hair — especially in my beard — to prove that they have been part of almost one-third of my life.

Reflecting on this — and seeing my reflection in the mirror — made me realize that parenting can be broken down into phases. For us, with three kids in 11½ months, it was the “Lift, tuck, and separate” phase of diapers, bottles, and all of the other assembly line tasks that new moms and dads face. At that point, parenting often feels like a series of inputs and outputs, with a few giggles and tears in between.

The elementary school years are another phase that, with occasional hiccups and surprises, tend to follow a familiar pattern. (You learn, for example, that “project” is actually a four-letter word.) Parents and children go through this wonderful evolution from discovery (everything has “first” attached to it) to exploration (dance classes, sports, hobbies), and eventually — you hope — start narrowing it down into career interests that match their abilities.

We are fortunate. Our kids found things they loved reasonably early and we have had the means and opportunities to help them pursue their passions. Of course, that meant we evolved early into the A1 Taxi Service phase, a virtual ballet of pickup and drop off that requires “Swan Lake”-style precision and the cooperation of the traffic gods on an almost-daily basis. And for the past three years, we added the “Planes, Buses, Trains, and Automobiles” value pack to our parenting.

Now, the kids officially have moved to the “all you can eat activity buffet” phase. Given where we live, the offerings are plentiful. Parenting, in between the pickups and drop offs, becomes a revolving checklist of “do you have this?” and “did you get that?”

The evolution is moving along — sometimes lurching — at a somewhat natural pace. As teens, they are at that familiar, restless place where they wish life would just hurry up. They want to drive. They want to spread their wings. They want economic freedom.

Don’t we all?

I try, like most parents, to remind them of this absolute truth: You spend the first 25 years of your life hoping it will speed up, and the rest wishing it would slow down. Enjoy where you are now, and make progress toward tomorrow.

As you move from one phase to the next, parenting doesn’t really become harder or easier, just different. Each brings new challenges, new obstacles, and new opportunities.

Sounds a lot like the rest of our lives, doesn’t it?

The Morning Duty Spouse

This is another from my parenting archives, written in 2003. At the time, the kids did not go to school until later in the morning. Now, Emma and Kate get up before dawn. Jill, who still leaves early for work, now picks up the majority of the “morning duty” part (bless her) while I do a lot of the late night pick up. 

The moral of this update: Busy children = L-o-n-g days. But as you will see, this has always been the case.

When you are blessed with three smart, inquisitive and articulate pre-school and kindergarten children, mornings are like a presidential press conference:

“Yes, Pop Tarts are OK.”

“Middle Eastern policy? Can’t talk about that right now.”

“Milk? That’s too heavy to pour, I’ll do it.”

“New Hampshire primary? Can’t go there yet.”

“Socks. Your mother put them out last night.”

Like many couples with young kids, my wife and I both work. An early riser, she leaves around 7:15 for the office and picks up the kids in the afternoon. I’m the morning duty spouse, more often than not the greatest challenge I face all day.

What this means is I have the onerous task of getting Katharine, Emma, and Benjamin — ages 6, 5, and 5, respectively — out of the house and onto school so I can get to the train station in time to catch the 8:30 Virginia Rail Express. For me, “No Child Left Behind” means a daily head count in the van.

7 a.m.: The Wake-Up Call

Come 6:15 on a weekend morning, they’re internally caffeinated, dressed, brushed and ready to start banging on doors at the surrounding houses, just because it’s light outside. That’s made us real popular in the neighborhood.

But Monday through Friday, no matter how much sleep they’ve had, I get the same refrain:

“I’m tired…” Stretch. Yawn.

“Just a few more minutes…” Yawn. Stretch.

“Daddeeee…” On a good day, it’s four syllables.

And then, as if the opening bell has sounded, they’re up and running. Doors open and close. They kiss Mommy goodbye. Faucets turn on, then partially off, always leaving a drip. I listen for weather and traffic on the 8s, fearful of facing Beltway traffic if I miss the VRE.

7:22 a.m.: The Breakfast

The cereal is out. Cheerios surround the bowl, some soggy, some still dry. Milk dribbles onto the floor. It’s no wonder that walking through our kitchen is akin to tiptoeing barefoot to the middle row seat in a movie theater.

Television is verboten during the week, in large part because my wife and I feel guilty about being able to quote entire episodes of “The Brady Bunch,” “Partridge Family,” and “Gilligan’s Island” from memory. But without the tube for company, we have to talk, and so the conversations and questions begin.

Topics for discussion include:

• What does a specific bodily sound really mean?

• Why does the cereal box always have only one toy and not three?

• The inevitable weather question: Why is it raining again today?

We rarely discuss painting, unless it’s the picture on our refrigerator. We don’t talk politics, unless you include the intricacies of sibling rivalry. Our conversations about literature and art consist of Barbie books, the latest plastic “Bot,” and “Finding Nemo.”

It’s a decidedly upper middle class existence, and my wife and I constantly convey to our kids how lucky they -- and we -- are. We try to teach them manners, to subtly convey that it’s not OK to jam your mouth full of Pop Tart and recite the Pledge of Allegiance.

Sometimes it works. Sometimes I survive. Sometimes I think longingly of the 10-hour day ahead at work, knowing it will be my only chance to rest.

7:51: The checklist

Often, our most difficult transition is going from the eating breakfast-brushing teeth- combing hair stage to the getting buckled up in the van stage. Our well-intentioned and informative breakfast conversations end with the intrusion of the day-to-day reality of life, the checklist we face every morning.

“Book bag? Check…”

“Hair combed? Check…”

“Coffee spilled on tie? Check…”

“Teeth brushed? Check…”

“Three kids still? Check.”

My 5-year-old son hides contraband toys in his pockets to show to school friends. That is, unless he’s trying to ride his two-wheel bicycle — a source of pride — down the street and around the block “just one time.”

Ben’s twin, Emma, tries to decide which pair of the aforementioned socks to wear. My oldest daughter, Katharine, dashes across the street to see about a neighbor’s aging -- and infinitely patient -- dog.

So many distractions, so little time. And it’s ticking away.

8:16: A fond farewell

Time has become a recurring theme for my wife and me, especially as we delve deeply into this most challenging period as adults, spouses, and parents. It’s difficult to remember a day when we weren’t held captive by time.

Pre-school and elementary school children are not similarly encumbered. They wake up when the sun wakes up, and they go to sleep when the sun goes to sleep. Time management is not a factor. The passing of time is not either.

That will come soon enough, I think as I kiss them goodbye, the van idling. And it’s a thought I have daily as I rush to catch the train.

Trip Planning 101

Thanks to a dose of nostalgia, and a desire late at night to return to the days when I didn't have four teenagers, I’ve been going through old files and rereading essays I’ve written about the kids. When you have three in a single calendar year and a fourth who is just four years older, there is much to be observed and chronicled.

So much of those early years are such a blur that it’s been good to look at what I wrote then, largely because I have no idea how we survived.

Here is one from the summer of 1999:

Taking trips with my family makes me appreciate how the Allied leaders felt when they planned the invasion of Normandy.

My wife and I have an 18-month-old daughter and 6 1/2 month-old twins, making even the most innocuous of errands an exercise in organizational management. But after a full week of playing solo mom, my wife has such a bad case of cabin fever that she would do anything short of dropping napalm on the surrounding area to get out of the house.

So we take trips. Little trips. Long trips. Side jaunts. We even go out to dinner, leaving patrons to do the math — “Two and one, that poor mother” — and waitresses dreading our arrival at their stations.

Of course, this takes preparation. We need to rent a U-Haul so we can take half the house with us, but we can’t afford it. So we jam everything into the van and my wife goes over the checklist.

“Diapers — check.”

“Bottles — check.”

“Change of clothes for babies — check.”

“Two changes of clothes for mom and dad — check.”

“Toys — check.”

“12 pack of Valium — check.”

And so we go, hoping against hope that the children will fall asleep at the start of the trip, rather than waiting until we are almost at our destination before nodding off. My wife and I take bets on how many people will come up, shake their heads and say, “My, you’ve got your hands full.”

Most of these longer trips so far have involved holidays, which require modified planning because there are even more things to take along. At Easter, we drove 2 1/2 hours to Boone, and I am still finding plastic green grass in places that I never thought possible.

On the Fourth of July, we took the kids out to watch the fireworks.

The 5-year-old, who visits on alternate weekends, was fine. The 18-month-old jumped up and down and squealed with excitement. The twins just sat there, bug-eyed and thinking:

“OK, Mom and Dad have us up past our bedtime, and they’re forcing us to watch 2001: A Space Odyssey.”

As we returned home that night, children finally to sleep three hours past their bedtime, I took a minute to look at each of them and wondered if they were dreaming about their day.

Even though they won’t remember these excursions with mom and dad, we will. And our lives — though hectic — are greatly enriched by these gifts that are these children.

It makes me think of all the times we pass parents with one child in a stroller, seeing that look in their eyes that says, “Good grief, that could be us.”

And I strain to remember what it was like — just a few short months ago — to be them.

Sitter Instruction Manual

Recently, while digging through some old computer files, I found a list of instructions for our babysitter from 2000. As you can see below, they were detailed and explicit, in part because we were foisting a 3-year-old and two 2-year-olds on unsuspecting (but excellent) sitters.

The girls who worked for us, now remarkably married (time flies), were mostly recruited from the middle school where Jill was a counselor. It was a good deal for the sitters’ parents, too; we advertised ourselves as the Rockingham County Adolescent Pregnancy Prevention Coalition.

Tonight’s Routine

If they’re not moving yet, wake everyone around 5:30. You can play outside and neighborhood kids can play in our yard as well, but keep them in our yard.

Eat around 7. Frozen pizzas are out; will take 60 to 90 seconds to heat. Ben likes milk, Emma likes juice and Katharine water or juice. We have self-contained juices in the pantry; Ben needs a cup that has a lid if possible. They’re in the kitchen cabinets or dishwasher.

After everyone finishes eating, get them in their pajamas (Ben likes to wear his pants/blue jeans, and that’s fine). Wash their faces; give them a bath if you feel brave, but it’s not necessary. Then help them brush their teeth.

Don’t give Emma or Katharine anything to drink after dinner.

Let them watch a movie downstairs (probably Rugrats) and aim to get them to bed between 9 and 9:30. (NO LATER THAN 9:30). We have popcorn in the cabinet that already has been popped; they can eat that.

Bed: Read to Ben and Emma (two to three stories minimum), then work on getting them to bed. Ben and Emma will jaw over what they want to take to bed with them. Go ahead and put their books in the bed. Ben likes Buzz or Woody; Emma sometimes likes to sleep with a towel. That’s OK. Read, bed, and leave the light on that is on their dresser. Don’t close their door; they’ll scream.

Katharine needs to be read to as well in her bed. Two to three stories, then flip over her tape and turn it on. Light on her dresser can be on as well.

That’s it. Once you’ve gotten to this point, you’ve made it! Congratulations and we’ll be home soon.

If Sondheim Was A Parent...

My one attempt to channel Sondheim, badly and without remorse, in a pitiful attempt to discuss those last few days before parenting begins.

Husband’s Friends:

Is it born yet?

How’s your wife?

Wife’s Friends:

Want to hear my labor story?

Or the story of my life?

Friends (both):

Is there anything we can do

Before she comes?

You know who…

Wife:

I’m surrounded, distracted,

Contorted, not contracted.

People asking why?

Husband’s Friends:

Is it born yet?

How’s your wife?

Wife’s Friends:

Want to hear my labor story?

Or the story of my life?

Husband’s Friends:

It’ll be soon, I promise.

Tomorrow, I’ll bet.

Wife’s Friends:

Full moon coming.

Next week, no sweat.

Husband:

I’m swirling, toppling, twirling.

My stomach curling.

People asking why?

Husband’s Friends:

Is it born yet?

How’s your wife?

Want to hear my labor story?

Wife:

That’s the story of my life!

Wife’s Friends:

I’m sure you’re ready.

Got the room together?

I bought her a teddy.

When she comes home, I’ll come see.

We wouldn’t want to bother,

Would we?

Wife:

I’m tossing, turning, pillows overhead.

Not sleeping. Not yearning.

Learning to leave things unsaid.

Husband’s Friends:

Is it born yet?

How’s your wife?

Husband:

That’s the story of my life!

Wife:

Phone is ringing.

Husband:

People singing.

Friends Together:

Is it born yet?

How’s your wife?

Want to hear my labor story?

Or the story of my life?

Wife:

I wonder if I’ll ever sleep again.

Husband:

Me too.

Friends Together:

Never again

Not you two.

Especially after you know who.

When it's born

You'll wonder why.

Sometimes you'll sit.

Sometimes you'll cry.

Sometimes you'll wonder, 

"Why do I try?" 

But then it's born, and you will see

It doesn't matter
He or she
Because you will love

Un-con-dition-all-eeee

Time Marches On

It’s Sunday night. Spring break has started for the kids, except for Nicholas, who had his a couple of weeks ago. Jill is in Boone with the trio visiting her dad, and we’re all heading to Los Angeles next week before Ben starts training for the “Billy Elliot” tour. I stayed behind to work, given that it’s budget time at my office and I have to save the few days of vacation that I have left between now and the end of the fiscal year.

In our household, that means there’s not much to report. And that’s not a bad thing, I guess, even if it is the calm before the storm. If anything, it's a welcome change from the past several months.

That said, the last week of March is tough for me, one that I find myself dreading annually and one that I'm glad to see pass. The reason: What used to be a week of celebrations has taken a 180-degree turn in a few short years.

It starts with Jill’s birthday, not itself a bad thing. Two days later is my mom and dad’s anniversary and the anniversary of Bill’s death, then two days after that is Fran’s birthday. It’s hard to believe Bill has been gone eight years, and that it has been five years since the long summer that saw our family lose my dad and Fran.

Time marches on — in so many ways. And so quickly, too. Soon, we'll be so busy that there won't be much time to reflect, or so we think. Memories have a way of popping up and surprising you...

Maybe I'll even write a few of them down.

I Am A Child

This week marked my 11th anniversary at NSBA, amazing considering that I never worked in one job for more than 5 years prior to that. For some reason, it made me think back to our time in Rockingham County, N.C. – that period when our kids were little and just getting ready for work each day was an adventure. One morning, waiting to turn on to NC 14 after leaving our house on a particularly trying morning, this came to me fully formed. By the end of my 10 mile drive to my office, I could not wait to get inside, hoping that it would not leave my brain before I could write it down. It didn't, fortunately, and in scrounging through files today, I found it again. The words still apply...

I am a child.

I will push you (and sometimes my friends, too)

Poke you.

Prod you.

Run laps around you,

And sometimes through your legs.

If I want it bad enough, I’ll even beg.

I am a child.

I will laugh with you, and sometimes at you.

I will smile and giggle, too.

I am a child.

I will sing and act.

I’ll negotiate a bedtime story

With a sports agent’s savvy

And threaten a holdout if I don’t get my way.

But if you take some time, eventually I will settle down and pray.

I am a child.

It’s an innocent look.

I’ll never plead guilty to making a mess.

I was just playing, I guess.

I am a child.

I will inspire you.

Believe in you.

Sneeze, drip and cough on you.

Hug, kiss and hold onto you.

Never stop asking you why

Even when I cry.

I am a child.

I’ll refuse a home-cooked meal

And ask for spaghettios.

Look in my bowl and ask, “What are those?”

I am a child.

It is my job to test you,

And not in the standardized ways.

But every night and every day.

I am a child.

I will teach you.

Will you teach me, too?

My 100th Post: 50 Days in Our Lives

January 8: So, here we are, riding on a train to New York again. Ben is napping next to me, having finished a 13-hour, two show day only a few hours before, and we are going to see "Billy Elliot."

It's the final show on Broadway, a place we left behind three months before when Ben joined the “Billy” national tour. For the past four weeks, the tour has been at the Kennedy Center, a 20-mile drive from our house and one of the places where this journey began.

Immediately I flash back to our first train trip almost five years ago, when my little boy was trying to learn Gavroche's song. He didn't really know what he was doing, didn't really understand how the audition process worked, didn't really comprehend what was ultimately ahead.

Neither did we.

The "Les Miserables" audition was not a success, obviously. Nor was the first of many "Billy Elliot" auditions that started when he was 10. But there was progress; he kept getting calls to go back. And he kept going back.

At that point, we had no idea where all this would lead, just that we had a child who had found an all-consuming passion and managed to remain a kid at the same time.

That's our job as parents, striking the delicate balance between nurturing the passion and ensuring that he is a regular kid. The questions Jill and I receive most often are around this subject.

"Has this changed him?"


••••••


January 30: Three very long weeks have passed since I started writing this essay, and it’s been since last fall that I’ve contributed to this blog. That happens when you live in a Petri dish of puberty. Change is the constant in your life, and the weeks are long ones.

Today I’m driving to Pittsburgh to pick up Ben and Ginno, the fifth “child” in our household. Ginno, who cared for Ben for the last several months in New York, has been serving as his guardian on the road for the past two weeks. He truly cares for our son; we’ve been fortunate to have him in our lives, along with Brian, Jill’s cousin and another one of the masses that help take care of our little boy.

The 570-mile drive up and back is arduous and long, something I’ve gotten used to as a long-distance parent. For several years when my oldest, Nicholas, was in high school, I made the drive to North Carolina and back on the same, long day. Now Nick can come see us — a blessed development. He has matured so much and, at 19, is rapidly becoming the adult I always hoped.

For the longest time, I have said I’m interested in being friends with my kids when they are adults. With Nicholas, there is reason to be encouraged.

Ben has an Achilles tendon strain, which occurred in a ballet class in Cincinnati, and he’s out of the show for an undetermined period of time. Even though the injury is considered minor, it means he won’t play Michael, Billy’s best friend, because he’s supposed to be training for the show’s lead character.

Billy, the elusive Billy Elliot. A boy who has warmed the hearts of millions and changed a lot of people’s worlds since the 2000 movie and subsequent stage musical. Ben has pursued the part for almost four years now, his first audition coming just after he received his first professional gig in “A Christmas Carol” at Ford’s Theatre.

That seems so long ago.

••••••


February 11: It’s a stressful time, and we’ve become pros at handling stress.

Kate, our oldest daughter, is struggling. It’s something that seems to happen during this time each year, when the days become shorter and colder. She spent 18 days in an outpatient program over Christmas and New Year’s. Her freshman year in high school, which started so promisingly, has deteriorated.

Starting shortly after Thanksgiving, Kate became progressively more manic. Her chances for academic success, which are subject to the cycles that come with being a bipolar teen, seem to be deteriorating as well.

We are trying to transfer her to another school, one that is better equipped to serve students with emotional disabilities. One of her teachers — her case worker, no less — explains that if she would just turn in her work, her grades would be better.

Duh.

It’s become a familiar drill: Every time something new happens — new school, new meds, new teachers, new counselors — Jill and I have to recite again what has brought us to this point. Diagnoses, family histories, flaws, foibles — all are exposed yet again. Improvement, continuous though fragile, is the long-term goal.

Ten weeks into a hyper manic cycle, we are worried.

I had a chance to talk to Nicholas at length this week while waiting for the kids to get out from a movie. It was great to catch up, learn about his classes — he’s taking a buttload of hours and getting a new roommate — and hear about his upcoming audition. It’s a stressful time for him, too, but I’m proud of how he’s handling it all.

Ben and I went out to take pictures today. It was bitterly cold, and the wind made things that much worse, but it was good to get out for a while. The boy has been housebound largely since he got home, although the PT has gone well and he seems to be feeling better. Ginno has returned to New York; we still don’t know what Ben’s training will look like.

The sunset, however, is beautiful.

••••••


February 17: I’m in Houston, visiting my mom for the first time on her home turf in two years, attending a conference related to my work. The weather stinks, but I manage to sneak out and take some pictures. Photography is a source of comfort, especially when I’m having such trouble writing.

We’ve decided to send Ben back to New York, still not knowing with certainty what will happen with Billy and the tour. He needs to be away, to get back to some semblance of the life he has lived for 2+ years, and we know that. We’re still not sure what the next few months will bring. Even though things seem to be taking shape, we still have questions.

Ben is not used to long periods of inactivity, not surprising given that he has worked steadily for the past three years. He is bored and restless, trying to make the best of the first major injury he has had as a performer. New York seems to be the perfect temporary antidote.

As parents, that can be tough to accept, to realize your child — at the tender age of 14 — belongs in a place so far removed from the nuclear family life. And yet Ben has done the three things we’ve asked of him — stayed engaged in school, acted and worked professionally in a professional environment, and yet somehow remained a kid who still loves and needs his family.

Once he plays Billy, Ben will be only the second child in North America to play the show’s three young male roles (Kylend Hetherington, one of the current Billys on tour, is the other.) That speaks to Ben’s versatility and, ultimately, his will.

I don’t know how he does it. I’m not sure I understand how we do it, either.

The doctor has changed Kate’s meds, but getting her into another school has been slowed by yet another bureaucratic hurdle, as has the process for getting Emma into her high school of choice. Emma has done everything right; she has good grades and exhibits patience at home and school that are beyond her years. But red tape threatens her ability to attend the school where she has thrived.

In Houston, I call an official at the school that both my daughters — for completely different reasons — want to leave behind. Because a long holiday weekend is coming, we won’t get a call back until Tuesday.

••••••


February 21: Things are starting to take shape. A plan is moving into place for Ben, who will resume his formal Billy training in Los Angeles in April, then return to New York in May for five weeks before rejoining the tour in June. If we’ve learned anything about life with “Billy Elliot,” it’s that patience is required.

The school official calls. No word on Emma’s placement, but we have a transfer meeting set up for later in the week for Kate. I’m back in Virginia for three days before we head to New York to see the boy and Ginno. The bigger task: moving out of the apartment we’ve had for 2½ years.

One problem: I left my wallet on the airplane when I came back from Houston.

Fortunately, I don’t have a pile of credit cards to cancel, but it’s still painful. And it’s really no surprise, given everything that has taken place over the past couple of months, that I would do something so stupid.

Almost two months before, driving in D.C. with Ben and a very volatile Kate, I had a minor fender bender. No one was injured, but I struck a car that was being driven by a member of the District of Columbia’s law enforcement community. And the car I was driving — a 2002 Volvo with 150,000 miles on it — decided it was time to hang it up.

Things have to get better.

••••••


February 27: Today is Kate’s last day at her old school. Later in the week she will start fresh in a new program. She is more stable than she has been since before Thanksgiving, and for that we are thankful.

Jill and I drove up to New York the day before, to start packing the little apartment we moved into when this adventure began with “Ragtime.” It’s a day we’ve dreaded, in part because we’re leaving our son and some wonderful friends and memories there, and because it represents the end of a tremendously significant era in our lives.

One reason Ben is on the tour is because it gives him a chance to play Billy. Another is because he could play Michael, a principal role, when the show was at the Kennedy Center over the holidays. Sadly, the show’s closing on Broadway meant that he made the right move in leaving New York when he did. Happily, going on tour gave him a chance to perform in front of friends and acquaintances that otherwise would not have seen why we do what we do.

Now all we have to do is finish packing.

We’ve decided to let Ben stay in New York for the next month, return to school during that time, and see how things go until he resumes training. Friends that we’ve made because of this experience — Ginno, Carol, Bernadette, Katie, Ruby, Todd, and Carole — are helping us with the transition.

Last night the Oscars were on, and we sat on the couch and watched as they marched predictably to form. Cheers went up when Meryl Streep won in what proved to be the night’s only surprise.

Today, Jill left to help Kate get ready for her new school, and found a surprise — a letter informing us that Emma will get into her school of choice as well. Ginno, Ben, and I continue packing. As day progresses into night, I go to my neighborhood bar with a friend.

While there, I get a message I never expected. Ben is nominated for an award for playing Michael in Washington, D.C. On our last night in New York, he gets recognized in his adopted hometown.

Things indeed have come full circle, tying us in knots at times in the process as we go through the extreme highs and the equally tough lows. These past 50 days have been one of the roughest periods we’ve experienced as parents and as a family.

Fortunately the pebbles we stumble across slowly fill the potholes along the way.

Home Movies

Another writer's stretch: I've always admired songwriters who could tell stories in song. As someone with little to no rhythm — I lip-synch "Happy Birthday" — songwriting is not something in my skill set. But again, when you are writing based on observation, or something you know, sometimes things come out OK.

The little girl’s eyes flashed in the light

Head tilted to the right.

I wondered what she was thinking when

The camera turned back again.

The little boy laughed at his daddy’s smile.

Wondering all the while

Why his daddy was pointing at him

The red light growing dim.

It was just another day

Not much happening anyway

Who knew way back then

That it would mean something again.

Taking those home movies

Dancing on the video

Ready for the silver screen

Tell me what it really means.

The little boy stands in the living room

His father fumbles for the zoom.

The tassle sticks out and covers his face.

He’s embarrassed by the place.

Her mother sits nearby,

Looks at her teenage son and starts to cry

It’s time for some home movies

Dancing on the DVD

Ready for the silver screen

Wondering what it really means

The little girl in her dress

Standing all of four foot eight

Really mom, is it really great?

Her blue eyes shining through the lens

An older soul from within.

Twenty years pass and the film starts to fade.

Reds become pinks and blues are now jade.

Is it worth it now, the parents ask?

Are these memories something that will always last?

Watching those home movies.

Dancing on the big TV.

Ready for the silver screen.

It’s time for some home movies

Dancing on the video

Ready for the silver screen

Wondering what it really means

Family Stories, Part I

When I was growing up, my parents were storytellers. And sadly, I gave them no shortage of material.

Because they were both teachers, they loved to note how I mangled grammar and pronunciation. Of course, reminding them that I was a toddler at the time didn’t help.

“Garwhineits” was Weingartens. “Maimee Farceame” was Mainland Pharmacy. And there were others. But the biggest story — and I think one of my mom’s proudest moments — was when she learned I could read.

“Ford,” I said as the drove past the local car dealership. I was just 10 months old, and at that point, my academic career had nowhere to go but down.

I never understood why I heard these stories over and over again, except that I knew they found them funny and interesting. Now I realize that they were reliving a time that was not terribly complicated, a period from the first few years of marriage before my dad got sick and before life became a series of doctor’s visits and medical bills.

The Commuter

Editor’s note: This is my attempt at a short story. It came from watching and observing different people on the train and fictionalizing their lives. This person’s story stuck with me for some reason, probably due to its resemblance to my own. I would love to know what you think…

He ran.

His loafers rubbed at the already thin socks on his feet, adding to the calluses on his little toes and pushing on his heels. His suit jacket flapped out, pants drooping under his belly a little more.

Thirty feet to go, then the 22 stairs. The whistle blew. He had to make it, or sit and wait for another hour.

Tie slung over his shoulder, he turned the corner and took the stairs two at a time — 2, 4, 6, 8 … 18, 20, 22. He waved to the man in the funny little hat and shouted for him to hold the train. The conductor nodded, silently telling him to hurry.

••••••

He started testing time a few months ago, more than anything to add some excitement back into his life. The commute into his office held little to no mystery, so pushed back when he left the house for the train station.

He regretted that now.

He punched his ticket, took the steps up to the car marked “Coach Class,” noticed theother man’s funny little tie clip on the third button of his shirt, and started looking for a seat.

His feet throbbed. He couldn’t stand the whole way. “Please let there be a seat,” he thought, almost aloud.

A ball of sweat rolled down his nose, even though it was just January. His skin turned splotchy red from the desperate run.

There was a place six rows up. And remarkably, someone wasn’t slouching in it, snoring away. He had the entire row of two all to himself. He sat, pulling up his pants as the train pulled away. He was exhausted.

•••••••

But he couldn’t sleep. That often happened on days like this. Mornings that started way too early and ran deep into the evening. He was lucky, and he knew it, because the man with the funny little hat and tie clip had recognized him and held things up. He wondered how, in the sea of faceless people, the man had remembered.

The train jerked slightly to the right, then straightened. It did this every time it pulled away from the station, allowing him to tell the veterans from the rookies. Regular train riders hardly noticed; newbies cocked a half smile and made an offhand comment to the person sitting next to them. He knew this from experience, plus he fancied himself to be a casual eavesdropper.

At least the newbies spoke. They and a couple of veteran riders who were trying to convert you in some way. Commuter converters, he called them. They made nice for the first couple of minutes, checking out your political leanings, whether you had a family, what your job was, occasionally wondering if you had a church, and then they started on their agenda. The sound and the fury varied, as did the subject matter, but the dulling effect on his senses felt the same.

The morning talkers were the worst. The previous week he had gotten stuck next to a newbie woman wearing too much perfume. She was heading to a job interview for a position that she would never get because of her smell. It didn’t compare to the strongest, fuzziest cup of coffee he had ever consumed, but he didn’t have the heart to say anything. By the time the train stopped at his station, he was too tired and woozy to work.

That wouldn’t happen today. He was on his way home, for one, and no one dared to sit next to him. He looked down at his belly and thought to himself, “Who would want to?”

••••••

He’d been on this train for 21 years, traveling up and down an hour each way into the city. His wife had wanted to live farther out, so they found a house that looked like every fourth house in their neighborhood and moved in. The kids — a daughter now in college and a son, now in high school — were bored suburbanites consumed by shopping and the Internet. His wife, the administrative assistant to the county judge, was looking at retirement soon.

The first stop took eight minutes, four seconds. By this time, he had settled into his comfortable routine. Take out the laptop, open up the reports and start to shuffle papers. By the third stop — 22 minutes and 19 seconds out, give or take — he had finished his task and started looking around. It was better than laptop Solitaire.

Twenty-one years on this train, he thought, and what to show for it? No major injuries. No wrecks or derailments. No robberies. He had not been conned or converted. He had seen towns grow and decay at each stop, wondering what was happening in the lives of those around him.

One morning, on the Amtrak, he met a woman with a scarf wrapped around her head and headphones poking out of her ears. She shifted occasionally in her seat, but remained still for most of the trip. He wondered where she was going and decided to ask. It wasn’t like him, but he couldn’t resist.

“I’m going home,” she said.

“Me, too. Where’re you headed?”

She told him of the town up north. She had been home to bury her mother, leaving her husband and seven children behind. Her husband was self-employed, and they couldn’t afford for everyone to go.

“They didn’t like her much anyway,” she said by way of explanation.

••••••

Usually, he didn’t talk, even though on some days he wanted to. He had been a gregarious type on high school and college, with acquaintances who seemed to appreciate his wit and playful nature. That’s one reason his wife was attracted to him. Or at least had been.

He worked for a government agency, like most everyone on the train, sitting inside a cubicle with his family’s pictures on the desk. Mostly, he pushed paper from one stack to the next, then into the outbox. Some mornings he daydreamed, with thoughts of playing hooky and touring the museums.

It wasn’t a bad life. Just dull, he thought, as he saw the next group get ready to disembark. It was the fourth stop, 31 minutes and 40 seconds out. The person opposite his seat had gotten off one stop before. A woman and her child walked down the row, holding hands, sat next to him, their seat still warm.

The child, a girl of 3, looked nervous. She was the newest newbie he had seen in a while. Occasionally a group of school children went into the city on a field trip, pissing off the commuter converters who didn’t like to be squeezed in on “their” train. A little man who rode the same route always asked the tie clip attendant, “What the hell is this?” as the school kids got on, followed by, “I hope you’ll make sure they stay in their car.” It was the only time the little man, as he had been dubbed, ever spoke.

But this child looked different. She was younger than the school children, for one, and there was something about her eyes.

“Hi,” he said to the little girl, who buried her head in the woman’s chest. “It’ll be OK.”

The woman looked down at her child and kissed her on top of the head. The little girl peered at him, a thousand questions hovering behind those big, innocent eyes.

“Is this your first time on the train?” he asked.

She nodded.

“You’ll like it. Look out the window,” he said, pointing.

She lifted her head and saw the river, then said something unintelligible to her mother.

“Lift up your feet,” she said then, a little louder.

Her mom pulled up her knees. The little girl motioned to him, “Lift up your feet, or your toes will turn green.”

••••••

He did as he was told. The little girl’s mother looked at him and said, “It’s a little game we play; it keeps her occupied when we are in the car.”

He smiled, and asked the woman where they were going. One stop beyond his, she replied. They would be on the train together for the rest of the route.

The little girl looked out the window at the trees. “What’s that?” she asked repeatedly.

Her mother patiently gave her an answer every time she asked, occasionally looking over at him and rolling her eyes slightly. He was intrigued.

After the sixth stop, 44 minutes and 31 seconds out, the little girl started to squirm. They had had to wait much longer than usual, because an elderly gentleman had trouble getting down the stairs. He noticed the train attendant with the tie clip patiently helping the elderly gentleman down.

He thought of the two extremes, the little girl and the old man, that were on his train. And that’s the way he thought of it; after 21 years, it sort of was his train. If he had been the manager, he would have given the attendant high marks for his kindness. He would not permit perfume. He would add a beverage area, but with no alcohol. He would force people to speak to each other.

A northbound train zoomed past on the other track, scaring the little girl. She buried her face in her mother’s chest again, and started to whimper softly. At least she didn’t scream.

“Would you like to sit over here?” he asked in a kind voice, motioning to the two-thirds of a seat he had remaining.

The little girl looked at him with the big eyes. She looked up at her mother, speaking to her silently, and her mother nodded her approval. As the train left the station, she squeezed in next to him, her legs just extending past the seat’s edge.

They rode together for two more stops. She moved onto his knee, again with her mother’s silent approval. She asked about the trees, the silver door with the big red lettering that opened and shut. She pointed at a woman two rows up and asked if she was his mother. That made him laugh. She noticed the ripples in the second river they crossed together, and made him lift up his feet again.

His stop, 61 minutes and 34 seconds out because of the earlier delay, came quickly, and he didn’t want to leave. But he motioned to the girl’s mother that he had to stand up, that this was his stop, and she told her daughter to move away.

The little girl complied, then turned and hugged him around the leg as he stood.

“Thank you,” she said in a sweet little voice, pronouncing “Thank” as “Tank.”

“No, thank you,” he said, smiling. “I hope to see you again.”

She smiled back, an innocent.

It had not been a bad ride after all.