Fragments

Here are some more things from the “random observations” file. I’ve wanted to write on some of these topics (and probably will) but this will have to do for now. So here goes…

• Insomnia is something I’ve dealt with periodically since childhood, and it only has gotten worse since I became a parent. Something about having three kids in a year will do that to you.

• Some days the struggle to get something done is like herding cats. Others, it’s like giving a cat a bath. At best, all you can hope for is a pissed off look.

• Self-publishing your own book is akin to being on the home school honor roll. You’ve gotten the grade, and it’s a good one, but look at who is doing the grading.

• My mom says I learned to read while potty training. And I haven’t stopped since. Newspapers, magazines, books (fiction and non), e-mail and the previously mentioned status updates — you name it and it draws my attention for at least a few fleeting seconds. Anything, that is, except for an instruction manual, science textbook, or the work of E.M. Forester, whose novels have the effect of an elephant tranquilizer. Need a cure for that insomnia? Try “A Passage to India.”

• You want your children to do their best. Even if they fail, as long as they’re doing their best, everything will be fine. One problem with this platitude: No one wants to see their children fail.

The Status Update

Status updates on Facebook are endlessly fascinating, stretching from the mundane and ridiculous to the witty and profound. The genius is the connection it helps you make to others.

I guess — no big surprise here — that’s why they call it “social” networking.

Personally, I’m not a big fan of what people are cooking for dinner, unless they are willing to share or — at the very least — provide the recipe. I’m genuinely not interested in someone’s obsessive chronicles about walking the dog, or how drunk they are (unless pictures are included, and they never should be, if you think about it). Status updates that take the form of a sermon or are overtly political also are a turnoff.

However, there are times when you bond with a person after years or hear about someone’s achievement or tragedy that affects you in ways you never would have realized without the almost instant, real-time connection. Sometimes I have laughed out loud; others have left me with tears in my eyes.

Most of the time, I look at status updates as a fun writing challenge, a way to push out a one or two-line description of the day, the punch line without the long-winded set up, or life’s simplest truths in just a few words.

Here are some of my favorites from the past few months:

• Favorite line of the day (paraphrased): "Your lives are a reality show. The sad thing is nothing gets eliminated."

• Since when did customer service become an oxymoron?

• For every drop of rain that falls, another Northern Virginia driver loses an IQ point.

Of course, because your name is at the beginning of each update, you really should start your sentence with a verb. That presents a challenge as well, if you think about it.

On that front, here are some more favorites that started with my name first and then moved quickly toward the punch line. So you say, “Glenn Cook…”

• Is in NYC with four kids by himself. To quote the father of our country at the start of the war: Gulp.

• Has a stuffed up nose and the back of my throat feeling like an all-you-can-eat raw bar buffet.

• Was reminded again tonight that the only thing getting thinner on me is on the top of my head.

• Is happy that I don't have to dress up tonight. Any more weeks like this, and I will officially pull the dry cleaning business out of the recession.

• Is waiting at the Z Pizza in Lorton to pick up dinner. An hour ago I was told it would be 25 minutes. Should have picked the Over instead of the Under on 2-for-1 night.

• Needs to reintroduce his daughters to each other: Oil, meet water.

• Can't believe it's been three years since my father died. He's gone from having a ringside seat to a spot in the upper balcony, but I'm sure he can see just fine.

Have you ever given this any thought?

No answers

Sometimes you ask “Why” and there are no answers. Sometimes you say it with a question mark, or an exclamation point, or both, and still the answers don’t come.

Sometimes there is just no answer.

Four days ago, a 29-year-old woman who apparently had everything committed suicide. I didn’t know her well, hadn’t seen her since she graduated from high school, only mentioned her occasionally in conversation. Her parents, for different reasons, had a great impact on our lives and, ultimately, on the places where we are today.

Why does this affect me so? Why has it had such an impact on Jill?

Because this was not supposed to happen. It was the last thing anyone would have — could have — anticipated. No one would have thought, or could have imagined, why someone with so much would end everything.

No one ever can.

••••••

I grew up in a small town, or at least I thought it was small. Compared to Houston, 35 miles to the north, Texas City was — and is — a small town.

And with around 40,000 residents, it is 2½ times larger than Reidsville, N.C.

From 1993 to 2001, I lived in Reidsville, moving there as the managing editor of a small newspaper and leaving there to be the managing editor of a national education magazine. I’ve said often that leaving the Houston area to move to a small community where tobacco and textiles were the prime industry felt like going from fifth to first without hitting the clutch.

And yet, during those eight-plus years, my life changed in ways I can’t imagine. Looking back now, it’s hard to believe I didn’t leave with a permanent case of whiplash.

To sum up, while living in Reidsville, I:

• Turned 30.

• Got a divorce, rediscovered my love for theater, remarried, changed careers, bought a house, and had Kate, all within an 18-month period.

• Discovered shortly after Kate was born that we were having twins.

• Found a series of surrogate families — and my children at least one additional grandma — that we’ve stayed in touch with over the years.

When we left to move to Northern Virginia, it was time. The many things that Reidsville offered, the hooks and lures that held us there, had their allure. We could have stayed.

Something told us — both of us — that we needed to move on. And I’m glad we did, for our sakes, and for the sake of our children.

But there is something about living in a small town, or growing up in a small town, that never leaves you. It’s an extended family you can’t leave behind.

••••••

I just don’t get it.

I don’t think anyone else does either.

Separating the intellectual from the emotional is difficult most, if not all the time.

Retrospect helps you point to signs, like putting the pieces of a puzzle together. But, ultimately, it doesn’t answer the central question: Why?

Jill and I had not seen Lindsay in years. We heard about the different things in her life from friends and acquaintances with whom we still maintain contact, but like all too many people we encounter, she was another person from a place we lived in a decade ago that we assumed was going to be OK.

Her parents are extraordinarily kind people, who’ve done nothing but help us — and others — over the years. Our lives intersected with theirs at various moments; the memories we share of each other are good ones, lasting ones, or at least I’d like to think so.

But as happens all too often in this life, people you care about drift away. You don’t mean for that to happen, but life intervenes and it does.

And then something like this happens, and abruptly, without warning, you are slung back into memories of a time you had left behind.

•••••••

First and foremost, I’m a chronicler. I would like to be someone who can develop scenarios and turn them into classic fiction, but my writing at heart comes from everyday life. Why create something out of nothing when there is so much around you to chronicle?

That said, although I love biographies, I’m not a person who typically follows others’ blogs, just as I don’t expect you and others to follow mine. I hope what I have to say is something that is of interest to others — at the very least my children — but if not I can say without question that writing has provided me with an outlet that otherwise I would not have.

Earlier this week, I happened to find Lindsay’s blog (http://applebloggingjeans.tumblr.com) and could not stop reading it. It’s a fascinating chronicle of a young, caring, witty, and extremely intelligent woman facing life in her 20s. Naturally, I found myself looking for clues, hoping something would answer my central question, knowing that nothing would.

Somewhere in my reading, I happened on this paragraph that I can’t seem to shake:

“I am, at my core, a person who fights everyday with who I am at my core— both an open book, ready and willing to share all that I am with the world, and a person who deals with many of my own demons, triumphs, blessings INTERNALLY and without desire to share those things even with those closest to me.  I have been, for as long as I can remember, a walking contradiction.”

••••••

We encourage our children to be open about their struggles. We try to be open about ours.

Of course, bookstores are chock full of memoirs from people whose families did an incessant data dump on the author, who suffered so much in the process that they managed to get an autobiography and an Oprah/VH1 episode out of it.

That’s not what we’re trying to do, in our dealings with our kids or even in this chronicle I’m putting out there for them — and you. What we want them to know is that they can come to us — no matter what.

I think they do know that. And I pray, every moment of every day, that they feel like they have someone to share their thoughts with.

No matter what.

A PSA for Parenting

Dear Children of Mine:

I am blessed to have four wonderful kids, all with individual talents and strengths. But, as your parent, I also feel compelled to remind you of one single, simple fact: You don’t know everything.

Sorry about that. I realize it comes as a shock.

Before you get, well, um, “unhappy” with me about this statement, I hope you will understand that it comes from experience. Every person goes through a phase in which their parents know absolutely nothing. Zip-eh-dee-doo-dah.

I hope that by your junior or senior year of high school that you will think differently, and that you’ll follow in my footsteps by apologizing to your parents for the phase in your life that featured monosyllabic grunts, shrugs, and that all-too-familiar eye roll.

Just in case you’re wondering, I’ve developed a little translation manual that I use on a semi-regular basis to break through the communications barrier. It goes something like this:

Part I: “I don’t know” is the tween/teen equivalent of, “I refuse to incriminate myself under rights granted by the Fifth Amendment of the U.S. Constitution.”

Part II: “I forgot” is code for “I ignored you.”

Part III: “Whatever” is code for “I’m not ignoring you. I’m just not listening to what you have to say.”

Part IV: “I’m sorry” is code — especially when directed at a sibling — for “Not really, but I had to say something to get Mom/Dad off my case.”

So, you see, we actually do know something. And we love you in spite of it.

Truly, we do…

Sincerely, Your Dad

A Belated Gift

Our life together is so precious together.
We have grown. We have grown.
Although our love is still special,
Let's take a chance and fly away somewhere alone...

My father and John Lennon were born 12 days apart. They had a mutual love for Elvis and married early, as adults from that generation did. Tragedy helped shape their lives — Lennon’s in his childhood, my father’s after he became an adult.

This year, both would have turned 70 -- Lennon this past weekend and my dad on October 20. Neither made it.

The similarities stop there. We all know Lennon’s story, which is endlessly retold and reshaped every few months or years. My father’s story is more mundane, but no less important, at least to me and to other members of my family.

This past weekend, en route on another traffic-infested trip from Northern Virginia to New York with my girls, I stuck in the “new” CD, “Double Fantasy — Stripped Down.”

Lennon’s first album in five years, “Double Fantasy” was a long-awaited rebirth for the former Beatle, who emerged from a self-imposed period of domesticity that followed the breakup of one of the best — if not the singular — rock bands of all time. In between, he suffered through an attempted (and finally thwarted) deportation by the Nixon Administration, dealt with fans’ lingering (and, for many, ongoing) anger toward Yoko Ono, separated from her, dove into the wilderness of drugs and drink, and finally emerged, a mature man. And within two months after hitting 40, he was dead.

While I liked “Double Fantasy,” I wasn’t thrilled by it, in part because I didn’t understand the place Lennon was at then. (And, to be honest, I was never much of a Yoko fan.)

“Stripped Down” intrigued me, however, and as the boredom of the New Jersey Turnpike wafted past, I found myself listening in a new way to Lennon’s valedictory effort. I flashed back to the night we all found out, watching a Monday Night Football game between the Miami Dolphins and the New York Jets when Howard Cosell broke the news. For a moment I was 15 again, a place no one in their right mind should want to revisit.

My dad was not much of a Lennon fan; he preferred McCartney. He didn’t understand or appreciate Lennon’s politics, which were out there for someone living on the Texas Gulf Coast. In fact, if you came right down to it, he was happy to ditch the Beatles for Elvis any day of the week. Our entire family was affected far more by Elvis’ death than by Lennon’s.

Still, on the Tuesday after we found out, I came home after school and rummaged through my dad’s records, where I found the first three Beatles albums. He skipped the psychedelic stuff but returned for “Abbey Road” — “Come Together” played over and over in our house — and he loved “Imagine” (except for the no God part).

It's been too long since we took the time.
No one's to blame.
I know time flies so quickly.

I thought about going to Central Park and visiting Strawberry Fields on the birthday anniversary, although I knew it would be filled with people playing guitars, singing, weeping, and flailing their way through the Beatles/Lennon catalogue. That I couldn’t take, especially when there were more important things to tend to: my children.

So, I spent the weekend with my girls and Ben, running them to various things that mean something to their lives (Ben to an audition, Emma to the Cake Boss bakery in Hoboken, and Kate to every kiosk and trinket she saw). I never made the turn right to go to Central Park.

Driving back to Virginia last night, I put the CD in again briefly and listened, thinking of my dad and the weekend. As the songs played — even Yoko sounds a little better in the “Stripped Down” incarnation — I regretted briefly not making the walk on the beautiful fall day. Then I looked at my daughters — Emma napping on the passenger’s side, Kate sitting in the back looking at the laptop — and realized I had been where I needed to be all along.

Nobody told me there’d be days like these.
Nobody told me there’d be days like these.
Strange days, indeed.

STOP!!!

This sort of crap has to stop.

For the past week, I have been immersed in discussions and debates about how to improve public education. So immersed, in fact, that I didn’t take the time to watch and read the stories surrounding the recent deaths of five teens that were subjected to anti-gay bullying.

Today, I finally saw the heart wrenching video posted by Ellen DeGeneres and read the stories about the deaths of Rutgers University student Tyler Clementi and four others who took their own lives over the past month. With each story I read, my jaw dropped further and my heart bled a little more.

Why is this happening? Are our heads buried so deeply in our own navels that we can’t look around and see the damage that bullying causes? When are we going to wake up and accept the fact that tolerance is something we need to instill in our children? Or that our so-called morals should not be a mask for intolerance toward others?

For some reason, adolescence and the onset of puberty only seem to heighten the cruelty gene. Trash talk becomes a form of bonding for kids who want to be edgy and cool but aren’t mature enough to have an actual conversation about the confusion they live through every day. And the environment is ripe for bullies who find power in the vulnerability of others, whether its sexuality, ethnicity, disability, or religion.

As a kid, I was bullied and harassed over my appearance, my nerdiness, my inability to connect to my peers. Why?

Because I was — God forbid — “different.” I loved theater and movies as much as football — just like my dad did. I did not go cruising, to the roller rink, or get to make out with girls in cars on the Texas City levee. I did not get invited to parties; to this day, even though people think I’m an extrovert, in a crowd I still look for the one-on-one conversation. People perceived me as arrogant, but being a smart ass was a mask for my fears. I could not beat you with my fists, but I could with my words.

Looking back, the smartest thing my parents ever said to me was, “We don’t want you to grow up with our prejudices.” They recognized that they grew up in another era and a different time, and they were smart enough to encourage me, with their guidance, to develop my own set of values and sense of judgment. Even though we disagreed on politics, they taught me that respecting others’ views is just as important as having my own.

Several years ago, I spoke on a panel in Columbia, South Carolina, commemorating the 50th anniversary of Brown v. Board of Education. (The first of five cases that were combined into the Brown ruling occurred in Summerton, a small town about two hours away.) During the Q&A session, a woman asked me why I thought bigotry still exists in our schools.

My answer was simple: “First graders aren’t bigots. They’re parrots.”

Somehow, I managed to not succumb to the pressures and taunting I still remember, and today, I’m the proud parent of four very “different” children. But I didn’t grow up in a world where bullies lurked behind video cameras and computer screens, hiding behind a new and very dangerous layer of invincibility.

I begrudgingly became part of “The Social Network” when my children started showing an interest in it. Now, I love Facebook and the opportunities it provides to connect to far-flung friends and acquaintances, but a primary reason I’m on it is to monitor their pages and accounts vigilantly.

My kids are in four schools in three states, but fortunately, I think they’re in the places that suit their personalities. We are trying to raise them as individuals, without the prejudices we have.

That’s why, tonight, I let Kate go to a church lock-in wearing a borrowed Halloween costume. She called it her “Lady Gaga Taco.” Yes, I cringed and wondered about the social repercussions she would face, but then I realized it was her expressing her personality. I admire her bravery.

Before we left, she showed me a piece of art she is working on as part of her community service project. On a canvas marked with x’s and o’s, she had written: “Live with Love in Your Heart. And Mend a Broken One.”

My heart breaks for the families of the boys who committed suicide, feeling there was no other way out of the lives they led. The anger I feel toward their perpetrators is at a boil.

This bigotry and hatred has got to stop — now. We must start mending broken hearts.

Not "Waiting for Superman"

My dad was a fan of superheroes — Batman, Green Hornet, the Flash, and, yes, Superman — for his entire life. He drew pictures, collected comic books and action figures, and saw the art that was brought to life within the pages of a comic book.

He also was a teacher, someone who taught art and history for more than 30 years and a person who affected the lives of thousands of students. When he retired, three years before his death, he questioned whether he had made a difference — even though those who were in his classes knew he had.

I looked up to my father — and to my mom, whose career also was spent in classrooms — and respected his opinions, even though they differed greatly from my own at times. Today, watching the opening of “Waiting for Superman,” I wondered what he would have thought.

Davis Guggenheim’s new film has ramped up the debate about our nation’s public schools in a way that the best films do. He hitches the narrative to sympathetic, interesting characters and draws them into a sort of good vs. evil battle with the highest stakes of all — the education of our children. But in doing so, he also misses the mark.

“Superman” does not feature the staple of what makes superhero stories interesting — a great villain. By casting teachers and, more specifically, teachers unions in this film’s role, Guggenheim opts for a convenient target. (Examples of school boards and traditional administrators are shown in films made in the 1950s and ’60s — another cynical slap at traditional public schools.)

And while the brush is not quite broad enough to paint charter schools as the be-all, end-all for public education — more than 80 percent underperform their traditional counterparts, by the way — the only success stories shown in the film are charters. I know, having covered education for a number of years, that you can find many traditional public schools that are doing great jobs as well.

Guggenheim’s case is boosted by five adorable children — all with loving, sincere parents who are seeking admission to high-performing charter schools via a lottery. Innovative, charismatic reformers — Geoffrey Canada, who provides the source of the title, and Michelle Rhee, the controversial Washington, D.C., chancellor — are without question upheld as the heroes.

You can’t help but feel for these families as the lottery balls drop, and knowing the outcome in advance — I won’t spoil it for you here, but needless to say it’s not a fairy tale — makes the inevitable ending all the more heartbreaking.

As the credits roll, Guggenheim notes that, “The problem is complex but the steps are simple.” By failing to properly outline the complexities found in our public schools, he has done a disservice to viewers who are being called into action. In the end, nuance is all but lost in the interest of drama.

Make no mistake, as a drama, “Waiting for Superman” works. But the more I think about the film, I keep coming back to a problem with its central thesis. By casting unions as the central villain, and noting that some people scam the system (and ultimately, the kids) for their own self-interest, Guggenheim takes the simplest path to make his point. This uneasy mix of cynicism and naïveté, while it works in telling his story, also feels somewhat contradictory and disingenuous to someone who knows how complex schools are to operate.

I can’t help but think my father, who was no fan of unions, would have felt the same. He knew the superheroes he loved were characters from a comic book, and that real-life heroes could be found in traditional public schools every day. I just wish Guggenheim and those who are so quick to bash would look for those heroes, too.

"Joseph": Coming around again

One of our family’s favorite phrases is “What goes around, comes around.”

As parents, we try to teach this lesson to our kids, but I was reminded again tonight that it applies to theatre as well. And I’m not just talking about the Rodgers and Hammerstein shows that continue to be performed — often badly — year after year.

In this case, what goes around has come around not once but twice. Nicholas has been cast as the lead in his high school production of “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat,” the catchy/kitschy Andrew Lloyd Webber-Tim Rice musical that is based on the story of Joseph in Genesis.

This is a huge accomplishment for Nick, who has been involved in theater for his entire four years of high school and plans to major in it in college. It’s a wonderful opportunity for him to develop and showcase his talents in a role he’s wanted to play for a long time.

It’s also an opportunity to revisit a show that has played a significant role at key points in our lives as a family.

In 1996, Jill performed in the “Joseph” ensemble for the Community Theatre of Greensboro and I volunteered to work one of the spotlights. Early on, we found out she was pregnant with Katharine, and wondered how we would break the news to our parents. I will never forget how Jill’s mother Betty found out.

We ate lunch with Betty before the matinee. Exhausted from tech week (and in Jill’s case, the first trimester), my lovely bride turned down an opportunity for a cup of coffee and my mother-in-law knew. She just knew.

Betty was a deeply spiritual woman who also was, ultimately, a realist. Sitting upstairs at the Carolina Theatre, she merged the two by mixing the word “holy” with her default choice when picking through the profanity dictionary. Little did she know what the next few years would bring.

Cut to 2007. We are living in Virginia. Kate, Emma, and Ben are dancing at Metropolitan Fine Arts Center, which had formed a new nonprofit company, Metropolitan Performing Arts Theatre. MPAT’s second show was — you guessed it — “Joseph.”

All three children auditioned — Ben was cast in his first big role (as Benjamin, the youngest of the brothers). The girls were in the ensemble with Jill, who had not performed on stage in several years. I was slated to be the stage manager and do the program. It was, for all of us, an opportunity to participate in something together as a family.

The opportunity was bittersweet, however, when life intervened again. My dad’s blood disorder had turned into an aggressive form of leukemia. I went to Texas 13 times that year and just five weeks before the show went up, he died on July 29.

The diversion of doing “Joseph” — the little show with the big themes — was good for all of us, although I missed most of the rehearsals due to the back and forth and we were gone to Texas for a week for Dad’s funeral. Everyone involved — from cast to crew — was extremely understanding.

On Sept. 8, “Joseph” premiered for the first of its two weekends. It was an aggressive and expensive undertaking for a small theatre company, but overall it was a success and a huge step forward for MPAT.

Three days later, on Sept. 11 and before the second weekend of shows, my second “mom,” Fran, passed away. We waited until the second weekend was done before returning again to Texas for our second funeral in two months.

Much of that period, understandably, is a blur. But what I remember most vividly is how wonderful it was to have my family — biological and since extended — together for much of that time.

Only one of my children did not get to participate in the show: Nicholas. When he was with us in Virginia, he came to the rehearsals. Sponge that he is, he learned all of the colors in order in “Joseph's Coat" — one of the show’s signature songs. He also memorized much of Joseph’s big solo, “Close Every Door.”

Since he’s been in high school, Nicholas has tirelessly lobbied for “Joseph,” which despite its loving but slightly irreverent look at a religious story is perfect for his Catholic high school to perform. Now, as he starts his senior year and looks ahead to college and beyond, he gets to play the title role.

As we circle back, we move ahead. And we are reminded again that, at least in theater, thankfully what goes around comes around.

Break a leg, son.

Tell Me About Your Child

For the past few days, Kate has been rapid cycling. For those of you who are fortunate enough not to know what this means, think about a light switch run by a small person who thinks it's cute to turn on and off the lights in rapid succession.

Except in this case, "On" is manic, with thoughts racing a mile a minute and exaggeration flowing at all times. "Off" is horrifically sad and angry — adolescence on steroids.

It's exhausting, not just for us and for Emma, but for Kate as well.

So, in our ongoing search for life's little ironies, we discovered one tonight. Digging through our daughter's book bag, Jill found a letter from Kate's creative writing teacher: "In a Million Words or Less … Tell Me About Your Child!"

The assignment was handed out last week; the due date, of course, is tomorrow.

Below is what I came up with and attached, along with the essay I posted earlier this evening.I hope each provides you with some insight into parenting a bipolar child.

Kate’s highlight reel reads like this:

Born two days after Christmas. Always restless and difficult to soothe as an infant and toddler. Walked at nine months. Twin siblings born before she turns a year. Diagnosed with ADHD at 5. Accepted into GT program between 2nd and 3rd grade. Diagnosed as bipolar at age 10. Hits an academic wall in 5th grade. Mood disorder never goes away. Sixth grade hits a major wall and pulls out of GT. Enters middle school and has to be in basic skills.

Starting over. Struggling to find letters B through Y in the alphabet; prefers to go straight from A to Z instead. Always has enjoyed art. Finds comfort in drawing and sketching. Wants to be a fashion designer, but has no patience to sew. Loves to run and does so like a gazelle. Loves to dance; ironically ballet calms her. Has many ideas racing through her mind at all times; the mind never shuts down. Never. Until it overloads.

Wants to have and make friends. Doesn’t know what the give and take of friendship really means. Anything can be solved by giving someone a present, usually used and/or created. Doesn’t matter what it is; it’s the thought that counts.

Has anxiety. Sometimes so severe that it’s almost crippling; other times it’s like sending the space shuttle into orbit.

Like any adolescent, both loves and loathes her siblings. When she’s rapid cycling, the two emotions overlap, causing confusion.

It’s hard, this life. No one understands me. And no one tries, even though that’s what we’ve spent her entire lifetime trying to do.

From an intelligence standpoint, she should not be in special ed. She — and her parents — are alternately saddened and proud that she has the label. This year, she knows that she’s been labeled, and she — like all teens — is both ambivalent and cares too much. Kate’s dual exceptionalities represent a conundrum that school systems are ill-equipped to face, and we say this both having worked as educators in various capacities.

Kate is someone who is almost incapacitated in her search for emotional equalibrium. She is beautiful and talented and so incredibly creative. She just hasn’t found the true outlet that she can hold on to that allows her to express her thoughts and emotions adequately.

Now she’s trying creative writing, something that should — and can — be a natural outlet for her, especially given her parents’ backgrounds. The struggle will be in harnessing her innate creativity and not allowing herself to get bogged down and overwhelmed by the mechanics.

Here's what I didn't tell the teacher: I love my daughter with all of my heart and soul, but her illness doesn't make it easy. My wife and I desperately want to do everything we can to make a difference in her life, and we're trying as hard as we can without getting bogged down and overwhelmed as well.

Wish us luck. We need it.

Kate: The Early Years

Editor's note: I wrote this essay when Kate was 18 months old. She's now 13. Interesting how we knew something was up even then, isn't it?

She walked at nine months. She had twin siblings before she turned a year.

It’s no wonder my daughter Katharine made it to the “terrible twos” several months early.

We are now in that period of parenthood that my seasoned, been-there-done-that friends refer to as the “teenage preview.” They shake their heads and say, “Just wait ‘til she turns 13.”

At times, I wonder if my wife and I can make it until she turns two. Little did we know that parenting a pair of infants would be a breeze compared to chasing a toddler with an attitude any high school sophomore would be proud to possess.

Part of it is the circumstance. With three children under age 2, life around my house is never less than interesting. Going to the bathroom can require an act of Congress and a signed letter from the president. And with Katharine in her present phase, you never know what you’ll find when you get there.

I’m more convinced than ever that the “terrible twos” are a simple way of identifying “toddler schitzophrenia,” the developmental stage all parents must endure. I just wish they had “toddler Prozac” to help the parents cope.

One minute, she’s wonderful, working the room like a career politician.

“Hi, I’m Katharine Cook, candidate for leader of the toddler party. My platform is more beanie weenies, less Spam for all. Glad to meet you.”

The next is like listening to an air raid siren, battle lines having been drawn when I tried to take something out of her hands.

“This is a test of the Emergency Broadcast System. For the next 60 seconds, I’m going to let out a scream that will make you think the entire area is under nuclear attack. Please stand by.”

And so it goes.

For her parents, moments of quiet have resulted in near “I wonder what she’s gotten into now” paranoia.

And yet there are moments when I wouldn’t trade this time for anything.

With the insanity around my house, it is easy to forget Katharine is only 16 months old. She’s had to change rooms, move from a crib into a bed, and share the attention with twins who — by virtue of their unique nature — naturally snatch a spotlight that once was exclusively hers.

Partially because of all the changes, Katharine is remarkably self-sufficient for her age. She’s at the phase where she absorbs words and actions like a large sponge sitting at the bottom of a vast ocean. And yet, as much as it makes us cringe, it’s also easy to understand why she occasionally enjoys sitting on her sister’s head. She’s still a baby herself.

In those rare quiet times, however, all it takes is a certain look to make you forget all of the bad stuff. Her eyes, which are as expressive as her mother’s, alternately make me swell with pride and reach to my face to feel the tears roll down my cheeks.

Recently Katharine has started waking up in the middle of the night. And even though it usually takes her mother to get her back to sleep, I have made several half-groggy attempts to soothe my daughter.

In the small rays of dim light provided by the blinds in the bedroom window, I start to rub my little girl’s back, much like I do with her mother. As I watch her eyes move slowly, alternately opening and shutting, I flash forward to those teenage years my friends talk about.

On some nights, I project even farther into the future. College graduation. The day she has my grandchild. I wonder briefly if her daughter will be as beautiful as she is.

But that is a lifetime away. A lifetime that will pass much too fast. Ahead is a childhood that I hope we both can enjoy.

If we survive it, that is.

Next to Normal

I stood on the corner of 8th Avenue and 48th Street in Manhattan this week and my son said goodbye.

“See ya, Dad,” Ben said, his backpack filled with school supplies. “Gotta go. I’m good.”

The “I’m good” was 7th grade code for “You don’t need to walk me to the front door of school anymore” — a transitional moment that makes me vaguely uncomfortable as a parent and proud at the same time.

The day before, in Virginia, Jill saw Kate and Emma off on their respective buses — they’re going to different middle schools — and said she felt the same set of conflicting emotions.

This is “normal,” I guess. A normal moment in what feels like, at times, an abnormal life.

As a child, I went to the same elementary school for five years, the same middle school for three, and the same high school for four. I was raised in the same house that my parents lived in until my father died.

Today, I’m a parent with four kids in four schools in three states. Nicholas is a senior — gulp — driving himself to school in North Carolina. Kate and Emma are in 8th and 7th grade, respectively, still jumping on the bus. And then there’s Ben.

Last year at this time, he was our “Little Boy,” having moved to New York to play that role in “Ragtime.” This year, he’s “Tall Boy” in “Billy Elliott,” having booked his second Broadway show in just nine months.

While he’s still small for his age, the image of me standing on that street corner watching him walk the last 100 yards to school is a vivid reminder that he is growing up.

And fortunately for us, when he says “I’m good,” I know what he means.

12 Random Thoughts

Random thoughts and observations from the past month:

• When asked to describe Kate, I have said, “Kate is 13. She’s bipolar.” Heads nod. Then I say, “She’s 13 … and she’s bipolar.” That’s when the looks of sympathy begin.

• We went to the beach recently with the kids, which provided another opportunity for me to clarify a key definition. Some, naively, call family outings like this a “vacation.” I call them a “trip.” Vacation, for me, is an opportunity to do things on my schedule. I can sleep when I want, wake up when I want, read when I want, and talk without fear of being interrupted by someone who is not yet of legal status. Everything else is just a “trip,” often in more ways than one.

• I can’t help but feel sorry for Nicholas. It must be tough (and confusing) to be anal-retentive and ADD at the same time. Or you could just call it being a teenager.

• Two things I’ve always wanted to do: draw and sing. The talent fates intervened, however. I can’t draw a stick figure and I lip-synch “Happy Birthday” even (or especially) in large crowds. Fortunately, I’m surrounded by a family of singers and artists who allow me to live with and through them somewhat vicariously.

• The maturity and creativity of my kids — and conversely, the lack thereof — astounds us daily. This is especially true when Nicholas is here. I never know what project, poster, performance (or mess) is lurking when I walk through the door.

• Emma and Kate remind me of the sisters in Jennifer Weiner’s book, In Her Shoes. The only thing they will end up having in common is shoe size. Right now, their theme song should be “Cat Scratch Fever”; parents of teen girls are old enough and have the experience necessary to understand that Ted Nugent reference.

• Speaking of which, I never thought I would include Ted Nugent in anything I ever wrote. Of course, I never thought I would come close to agreeing with Glenn Beck on anything either. But the other day, I found myself nodding at his recent non-confrontational stand on gay marriage. Further proof that it’s a strange world we live in, folks.

• I still can’t get over the fact that I have four kids in four schools in three states, or that the baby of the family (by a minute, as Emma proudly notes) is living, thriving and holding a steady job in Manhattan at the ripe old age of 12. Go, Ben!

• As a child, I was always frustrated by the things I couldn’t do (see the previously mentioned drawing and singing). And, believe it or not, I hated to write. Then I found a keyboard and realized that I finally had a tool that could match the speed at which my brain works (plus the value-add of spell check). Recently, I decided to take up non-kid related photography and started snapping just the things that catch my eye. Finally, I’ve found another outlet for artistic expression.

• Kate has a new theme song, and it’s a mash-up of two pieces you might be familiar with: “It’s just another Manic Monday … Tuesday, Wednesday — Happy Days!! Thursday, Friday…”

• I may have said this before, but just in case: Emma is the Marilyn to our Herman, Lily, Grandpa and Eddie. And, with all due apologies for mixing my 1960s sitcoms, I’m sure there’s a Cousin It thrown in there somewhere for show.

• A work discussion about the merits of cloth vs. disposable diapers led to this epiphany: I now know why I have certain reading habits.

(Editor’s note/Public Service Announcement: The following statement is not necessarily for the squeamish and may qualify as TMI.)

The aforementioned habit is the result of my mom — a teacher through and through — putting a calendar in front of my face while I potty trained. Little did she know that by teaching me numbers — “Mommy, what is 2 and 1…?” — she was planting a seed while I sat on the plastic bowl.

The less said here, the better.

Apologies

To the few of you who follow this, my apologies for not posting recently…

To those of you who don’t, read below and see what you have missed…

Parenting amid the holidays

For this year’s Fourth of July, I took three of the four to New York, where we met up with Ben. Within a few minutes, the familiar patterns emerged:

• Nicholas: Developed a specific list of things he wanted, wanted to accomplish, and just plain wanted, with a variety of opinions on things he did not like/appreciate/enjoy.

• Kate: SHOPPING!!!! NOW!!!! (All caps, with minimum of four exclamation points required at the end of every sentence, unless it’s a question that starts with, “Can we go to…?”)

• Emma: Channeled her inner Eeyore and added a Dead Sea Scroll of “don’t likes,” starting with the fact that New York is busy, dirty, and, well on the rest she would just have to reserve judgment before liking the experience.

• Ben: New York is where I’d rather stay. I get allergic smelling hay. I just adore a penthouse view. Darlings I love you but give me Park Avenue.

I guess that’s why they call it parenting.

From Closing to Closure

Just after Ragtime’s stirring opening number, Father says something to Mother as he leaves on his year-long journey: Nothing much happens in a year.

Hogwash.

In many ways, this is a typical Saturday morning. I’m writing this and procrastinating. On the agenda is grocery shopping, doing laundry, running a few errands, cleaning up the apartment, and muddling through some leftover work tasks. Ben is sound asleep on the couch, not yet stirring, and anxious to go to his dance classes. Tonight, Jill will arrive, and we will have a rare weekend together in New York.

But this weekend, like much of this past year, also is atypical. Tomorrow, we head to a brunch that will have the feel of an extended family reunion, and then we will go to (eek!) the Tony Awards.

It’s something I never dreamed would happen in my lifetime, and only fantasized about in the broadest terms a year ago. But in a rare moment of wisdom, the nominating committee recognized Ragtime with six nominations — an amazing feat for a show that closed five months ago.

In many ways, the nominations bring a bittersweet sense of closure to a show that many feel should still be running. They represent long-deserved acknowledgement for people who have toiled in the business for decades, an affirmation of some whose careers are just starting to explode, and recognition of a production that forever changed the lives of everyone involved with it.

And a year ago, it had only just begun.

Ben was the last person from the original DC cast to perform, and his debut was on Broadway. Closing for him, and for everyone involved, represented a huge transition into the unknown.

Journalists are trained to work with the 5Ws and an H. The lasting lesson from my college training is to ask two more questions: “So what?” and “What’s next?”

In this case, the answer to the “So what?” is obvious. This experience has changed our lives for good. And fortunately, after months of uncertainty, we now know what’s next.

But for one last weekend, we can remember, recognize and reflect.

From closing to closure, we have a chance to celebrate.

And we will.