Why, hello there…

It’s been a while.

I periodically take breaks from writing to concentrate on other things in life — job, spouse, children, the usual stuff. Ideas are constantly coming and going like cars on the autobahn, but something prevents me from turning them into something that’s at least somewhat entertaining.

Recently, when I’ve had the time to work on a blog entry or something for work, my brain/fingers don’t cooperate. When the brain is working – shower, in the car -- the time is never right. And then everything else gets in the way.

I realized earlier this week that I had not filed a blog entry since early July. Wondering why, I decided to check my version of a diary — status updates on Facebook. (Remember, all status updates start with your name. I try to finish the phrase by starting with a verb, but that’s not always successful.)

See if you notice a trend...

End of June:

• I've spent the days of summer (3 thus far) in a darkened auditorium taking pictures of my girls (and anyone else I could shoot) doing 5 hour rehearsals of "Grease" (w/dance recital material thrown in for good measure). It is almost July, and I still look like someone who has not had sun since 1998.

July:

• It's been a good day ... on many levels. Wish Jill was here to celebrate the many things we all have to be thankful for. (To my editor friends, sorry for ending that last sentence in a preposition, but it's late.)

• Has had a wonderful day with Emma. Toured the Harry Potter Exhibition at Discovery Times Square (her version of nerdvana), ate treats at the Cake Boss cafe (see 13th b'day pics if you want to know why that's important), and had a good time with Ben, Neil and Ginno during the dinner break. It's been a lot of fun.

• Made the pilgrimage to the Lincoln Memorial with the kids tonight, something we do every time Nicholas is in town. I'm truly amazed by how much they have grown up over the past year.

• Congratulates Ben on his one-year anniversary in Billy Elliot! He has performed in 416 consecutive shows without missing a beat — a remarkable feat for anyone, let alone a 13-year-old who also went to school full-time. We are very proud of you, son!!!

• Has another one of those weekends lined up. Jill is in Boone today and tomorrow moving her dad. Kate is at a camp. Emma is meeting me in NY tonight and we'll get Ben. Nick is in North Carolina and going out of town. Yes, it is summer...

• Survived the midnight premiere of the last "Harry Potter" and is at work while the kids sleep in...

• Has taken Ben and Neil McCaffrey (happy 13th birthday, Neil!) to the train station, is schlepping Kate to camp, and has seen Jill off to her meeting in Georgia. And it's not even 9 a.m...

• Took Katharine to a two-week wilderness camp today, a 520 mile roundtrip that featured three vicious storms, a 12-mile stretch of interstate that took an hour and a half to slog through, a few photos of rural Virginia, and a very happy 14-year-old. So I guess it was worth it...

August:

• Is getting ready to leave NY with Ben, who after 451 straight performances in Billy Elliot is doing something he's never done in his professional life — taking a vacation.

• Had a great time with Jill and the kids. Of course, we had dinner and a show. Ben sang, Emma danced, Kate laughed (at herself, not her siblings), and Nick created food art in the middle of his plate. A typical family evening!

• Has put Ben on a NY bound train. Nicholas is heading back to NC with the McFarlands this afternoon, while Jill and the girls are returning from Wintergreen. As for me, I'm going home to take a nap, and it not even 7:30 yet...

• Had an amazing evening at Steve Earle's show (thanks again, Jill and kids), which reminded me of the power of music and how it can rejuvenate the mind, body and spirit. As part of it, saw/heard a new favorite band called The Mastersons. Check them out on FB; some of the best new music I've heard in some time.

Last Week:

• Blew two tires just before 1 p.m. and thought that would be my news of the day. Just before 2, at a gas station next to a very pregnant woman, the earthquake hit. 45 seconds later, we stood there wondering what happened. She said, "I thought my water just broke." I told her, "I'm sure a lot of people felt the same."

• Presents the week in headlines: Ben as Michael; 4 tires and an earthquake; Kate in field hockey scrimmages; Nicholas off to college; finding a way home to VA in a hurricane watch with Emma. Next week's prediction: Frogs falling from the sky.

• Amid unprecedented plans to shut down NYC, Emma is on a roll. We're scheduled to be on — literally — the last train out of the city, and she wants to stop at American Eagle one last time. My response: I've been shopping with you more this summer than at any time in your life, so why now? Fluttering her eyes (I swear), she said: You've raised my expectations.

• Is back in Virginia with Emma, exhausted and thankful that the train ride was smooth. Full, but smooth...

Given our lives for the past two years, it was an unusual summer. Nothing earth shattering, just a lot of back and forth, and — fortunately — some quality time spent with all of the kids. I guess you could say there hasn’t been much to blog at home about, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

But now that it’s September, and things are picking up steam, I’m sure I’ll be back in this space soon.

Dimming the ‘Lights’

It’s fitting that my favorite television show is ending its run with episodes tonight and next week, and I won’t be there to watch it. After all, I have seen only two or three episodes of “Friday Night Lights” in real time any way.

And that’s OK, because I never really wanted to watch the show when it started.

I’m a big fan of H.G. Bissinger’s 1990 nonfiction book, which told the story of a northwest Texas and the obsessive fans who rooted for the Odessa Permian football team. I also enjoyed the 2004 film based on Bissinger’s book, but had no interest in a fictionalized TV version.

I didn’t, it turns out, want to go home again.

My family is scattered across the state, from the petroleum-fueled Gulf Coast to the barren West Texas town of Albany to Longview’s piney woods in the east. Football was, is, and forever shall be the center of everything in many of these tiny communities.

That last statement is overly simplified, of course. It's just like the one from the person who says, “The only reason you have December, January, and February is to celebrate Jesus’ birth and to mark the time between the playoffs and the start of spring practice.” (I know that statement isn’t true because I spent almost a decade in North Carolina, where people live for December through February because that’s the heart of ACC basketball season.)

Texas was my home state for 28 years, and for much of that time, the town I grew up in felt stifling. Why look at fiction when I could recall my reality in bright, living, humid color?

The show’s pull loomed large, however, as its first season ended, appropriately when I was traveling back and forth to Texas to see my dad, who was dying of cancer, So I purchased the first season on DVD, but never could watch it. I couldn’t commit.

Then, two months after my father died, I saw a few minutes of the Oklahoma-Texas game at a restaurant and thought immediately of him. He refused to miss any UT game that was on, sitting in his chair in his Longhorns coat, a football fan until the end.

After Oklahoma won by 7, I thought again about growing up in Texas. The next night, I went and found those DVDs. Four bleary eyed days later, fueled by insomnia and the fictional Dillon Panthers, I was ready for season 2.

Fortunately, that season was cut short by the writer’s strike, in part because it had an ill-advised plotline that everyone agrees was a mistake. Still, even in its most ludicrous moments, the show had passages that were absolutely sublime.

The beauty of “Friday Night Lights” is that it’s not just about football, but life in a small town. It is not afraid to deal with issues of class, economics, and race — all of which are facts of life in any small community.

Most of all, it captures the little details so beautifully – the rebellion, confessions, religion, community, mistakes, and connections between neighbors, family, and friends. The marriage between the coach and his wife feels real. The other characters, all with flaws and redeeming qualities, sometimes in equal measure, are archetypes of those we all know.

I know this now having watched all 76 episodes in marathon stretches, always after it has been released on DVD. I usually buy the season on the day it becomes available, intending to watch right away, but inevitably I repeat the season 1 pattern. I dance around it, then watch in a single gulp.

Because season 5 was released before the show started this summer on NBC — its last three seasons were a split arrangement between the network and DirectTV — I’ve already seen the final episode that ended the series run in a typically classy fashion. As the last two episodes approach on television, however, I’ve continued to reflect on “Friday Night Lights” and what it has meant to me.

Why does it make me cringe with memories and smile privately at the same time?

I guess, because when I’m watching from a couch 1,500 miles away, I have a little piece of home — the home where I grew up — with me. As I raise kids of my own, I’m finding more and more that that little piece is a big thing.

Quoting My Kids

Facebook has become the 21st century vehicle for “Kids Say the Darndest Things,” the Art Linkletter/Bill Cosby sketch show that started on radio, moved to television, and now — thanks to social networking — is on the keyboards of friends far and wide.

As I’ve mentioned before, it’s a challenge to be both profound and pithy in just a few words, but fortunately Facebook gives you more than the 140 characters you get with Twitter. (Twitter is too pithy, even for me.)

I especially enjoy my sister’s status updates, which show a dry wit that recalls my dad. Of course, with five children — two of them still relatively small — she has fresh material on a daily basis.

Now that my kids are teens, I don’t get as much “They said what?!?” material as I once did. Still here are a few gems you might have missed:

A recent exchange with Emma as we drove the obstacle course that is Northern Va.:

— E: I heard it was pothole awareness month.
— 
Me: Do you think they're doing anything about it?

— E (hoping she doesn't fall into one): Funny, Dad. You're funny.

• From Ben: "If a boy can still sing 'Gary, Indiana,' then I'm telling you, his voice has NOT changed."

• Tonight's words of wisdom come from Kate, after drinking a Slurpee to mark getting her braces off: "My tongue looks like my hair did" when it was dyed. "But then, my head looked like a fire hydrant."

• From the boy in the bubble: "I'm confused. What's this about the Giants drafting a Prince and a wedding involving a Prince? They aren't the same thing, are they?"

• From Kate, the visual artist (who also kinda likes science): "Lips are tough, but I hate drawing ears. Every time I try to make them look realistic, they look like my small intestine."

• From Emma: "Sure they tell you that you can eat all the ice cream you want when you have your tonsils taken out. What they don't tell you is you won't want to eat a thing after that happens, and that sucks."

• From Ben, during his brief trip home to Virginia for the 1st time in months: 

— "Have you noticed that British people don't talk like us, but when they sing you can't tell the difference?"

— Upon being told that the conductor would be watching him as he rode unaccompanied on the train to New York: "I don't know about that. I'm not sure I want him watching me watching 'Dexter.' That could be a little awkward."

Of course, raising kids gives you material of your own. Here’s my contribution to the cause:

• Another way you know you have teenagers: You tell them you're cleaning the bathroom and their response is, "Why?"

A Reality Tale

Recently, a friend asked, “Is it wrong to want my child to have the fairytale?”

The reference was to the loss of her son’s team in the semifinals of the local Little League championship. The team had gone undefeated through the season and into the playoffs, only to lose to another squad that had less talent on paper but was peaking at the right time.

Watching your child deal with a tough loss is heartbreaking, because it’s natural as parents to want our sons and daughters to have the fairytale ending. And more often than not, we rediscover over and over again that fairytales are just fiction, that “real life” rarely ends the way we would like.

Still, we try. That’s why we buy lottery tickets and compete in contests with little scraps of scratch off cardboard, hoping we’ll be the 1 in 8,373,722 that gets picked. It’s why parents twist and contort schedules and make them look like the intersections of the interstate highway system, just so our children can have opportunities we did not.

••••••

Call me a cynic, but I’ve always thought something was fundamentally wrong with fairytales. First, the creators start with the premise that the protagonist’s family has to be screwed up, with at least one parent dead or absent. (The word “grim” predates the author, but it seems to be the embodiment of Grimm’s Fairytales.)

Second, the derring-do section of the story always involves the handsome prince — “Here I’ve come to save the day!” — swooping in and rescuing the princess before the inevitable “happily ever after” ending. Except, in fairytales, the prince looks nothing like Mighty Mouse or Andy Kaufman.

Like many of my generation, I love The Princess Bride, which tweaks this fairytale premise in such a smart and clever way. (I still remember the line on the back jacket of the tattered paperback: “What happens when the most beautiful woman in the world meets the handsomest prince in the world, and he turns out to be a son-of-a-bitch?”)

My first exposure to the book was in Mrs. Selman’s 9^th grade world history class; every Friday, she read us a chapter and acted out all the parts.

I don’t remember a thing about World History. I will never forget The Princess Bride. It still is one of my best memories of high school.

•••••••

I’m not so jaded that I fail to understand the appeal of the fantasy, but my worldview tends to tilt more toward the “Reality Bites” side. More specifically, it should be dubbed “Reality is Waiting to Bite.”

That’s why I tell my kids all the time, “Don’t court bad karma. If you do, it will find you. And it might anyway, but you don’t want to go looking for it.”

Someone once told me that children in the throes of adolescence lose 10 years of maturity the moment they reach 13. For some, it starts coming back around age 17 or 18; for others, it never seems to return.

So, emotionally speaking, I’m supposed to be back in the land of 3 and 4 year olds. And there are times when I can see that in all of my children.

For the most part, that’s not the case. As parents, Jill and I are very lucky, but we know it’s not a fairytale by any means.

Still, we won’t stop pursuing the happy ending… You never do with your children.

Transitions

The school-to-summer transition always is a strange time.

May and June, like the holiday period from Thanksgiving to New Year’s, always is a crazy period in our lives. Inevitably, we’re dragging the kids to the finish line for school, tired and weary ourselves from getting up early and going to bed late. Meanwhile, all the end-of-year activities jam the calendar, leaving us to rush from one place to the next at a more chaotic pace than usual.

As I write this, I’m sitting in a Starbucks in Alexandria. My daughters are up the hill, dancing in the first of two performances of “Grease.” Ben is in New York, performing in the matinee and evening “Billy Elliot.” Jill is in Seattle at her conference. And Nicholas is in North Carolina with his other family and his girlfriend.

For the first time, it looks like our family won’t be able to take an extended summer vacation. As the kids get older, and activities become even more diverse, it’s becoming more and more difficult to string a week of days together that everyone can be together.

This is a transitional period in our lives as a family, a cycle that every nuclear unit goes through to a certain extent. It has been extremely difficult for Jill, much more so than for me, because I find transitions and changes generally come easily. For Jill, this time of year is doubly hard because of the work/family conflict caused by her conference and the recital always falling on the same weekend.

Despite our best efforts, cloning is not something we’ve managed to master.

••••••

At times like this, it’s hard to imagine that we’ve lived in Northern Virginia for 10 years, that my kids really were 3, 3, 4, and 8 when we moved here.

This year, more than any other, I’ve been aware of that transition, which is one reason I’ve been hanging around the auditorium where the “Grease” dress rehearsals took place. Normally, I can’t wait to get out, to the point where my kids have perfected the tuck and roll as the van hits the parking lot.

But this year is different. It likely will be Kate’s last year to dance; she’s planning to play field hockey starting this fall when she enters high school. Over the last few months, her enthusiasm for dance has waned. You can see she wants something different.

Emma, on the other hand, has really stepped it up. If anything, it’s another part of her emergence from the wide shadow cast by Ben and Kate, another example of how she is growing into her own.

Watching the girls and their peers, you can see transitions occurring for other families, too. Some are getting ready to go to college, like Nicholas. Others, the ones you remember from grade school, are driving themselves to the theatre.

Little kids — fortunately I’m seeing a lot more boys this year — are dressed up in their costumes and don’t want to leave. Their parents, having not been through the drill before, can’t wait to go home.

They’ll learn.

The 'Normal' Minority

In our house, being “normal” means you are decidedly in the minority.

Meet Emma — in many respects the most normal kid I know.

Developmentally at the apex of the bell curve, I like to say my 13-year-old twin came out of the womb a 40-year-old adult. More than one person told us, “That one… She’s been here before.”

Sometimes I feel like she has.

In some respects, Emma has gotten a raw deal in the DC-to-NY shuffle. On one front, her twin brother — the person she is most connected to in this world — is away in another city and having a ball. On the other front, she is at home with her sister, who is her exact opposite in life.

Almost since they were born, I have described the Emma-Kate relationship in a series of obscure visual metaphors that only serve to illustrate just how different they are. Among them:

• Some days I feel compelled to introduce my daughters to each other: “Oil, meet water.”

• With apologies to Ted Nugent — never something I thought I’d say — the background music when they go at it should be “Cat Scratch Fever.”

• If there is ever a community theatre version of Jennifer Weiner’s “In Her Shoes,” I know the two girls who could play the leads.

Same sex sibling relationship aside, Emma has taken what could have been a crushing experience — losing day-to-day contact with her twin — and turned it in her favor through sheer will and determination. She has terrific grades in a challenging academic program and, more important, takes charge of her homework, priding herself on not asking for help.

That means she doesn’t enjoy middle school on some days. Example: "I don't like science. The teacher turns off the lights, turns on the movie, and pfffft, that's it. I'm asleep." Say what you will about the teacher, but it also says something about a child who is both nocturnal and needing to be stimulated and engaged.

What also has been amazing to watch is an ongoing physical transformation, which started when she decided to work like a bull terrier to get into shape. Earlier this year, Emma and her mom ran a 10-mile race, and plan to do so again next spring. The girl who used to be proud of her belly now watches everything she takes in, and while she’s not above the occasional ice cream cone, has mostly sworn off fast food.

The thing I admire most is that Emma has thrived at being “normal,” if there is such a thing. She has a sweet group of friends with whom she is sharing life in middle school, is easily embarrassed by too much parental involvement, and upset when there’s not enough. She can’t load the dishwasher to save her life, but is the first to offer to make you dinner when you most need it.

In a family where the only thing mellow is the drama, she is on a steady course, or at least as steady as one gets these days. For the most part, she is very straightforward about life, and knows that she doesn’t yet know what she wants to be when she grows up.

Recently, waiting at the bus stop — at the horrifically early 6:15 a.m. — I looked at my little girl and was struck by how mature she has become. "You've grown up,” I said. “How did that happen?"

Her matter-of-fact response: "Time..."

Yes, Emma is straddling this period between little girl and young woman just fine. Not perfect always, but just fine. And I don’t think she’d have it any other way…

Everything Changes

Sometimes it takes a little while for things to hit me. I usually prefer to keep a respectful distance between my emotions and the rest of my daily life.

Occasionally, however, I get blindsided at the most unusual times for reasons I rarely understand at the moment. When I do, it feels being hit by the wave you see in the opening credits to “Hawaii Five-O” (original, remake, and Emma’s TV show of the season).

That happened this past weekend, another you can file under the familial "One to Remember" category. Fracturing the time line, let’s start with Monday afternoon, when I went to the pool near our house.

Memorial Day is the ceremonial start of summer in Northern Virginia, the time when the various suburban HOAs decide it’s finally time to open the community pools. Freezing cold or scorching hot, families flock with their towels and sunscreen and stake claims to the lawn chairs. Some, like us, you will rarely see; others won’t leave until Labor Day.

I took a book — one of several I’ve been trying to read unsuccessfully for the past several months — and a seat next to Jill while Kate played with some friends.

The title — Everything Changes.

••••••

The pool and book were a nice way to end a weekend that at times felt more like Groundhog Day (the movie) than Memorial Day (the holiday). On a 900-mile roundtrip that lasted just over 48 hours, I watched as my oldest graduated from high school and my wife and brother-in-law took care of their ailing father.

It was an explicit reminder that we officially are part of the Sandwich Generation, even if our hoagie feels open faced/ended and overwhelmed by condiments. (And that was before I managed to rekindle old ties in the most unlikely of places…)

Because he is the family’s oldest child (and grandchild), Nicholas’ graduation is huge in varying degrees for everyone involved. His transition to adult life turns a large page for him (obviously), as well as both of his families.

The weekend’s activities were an opportunity to bask in nostalgia, to show how proud we are of him, and to take some time remembering what has happened in getting to this point.

But first, we traveled to Boone to see Jill’s dad, who marked his 80^th birthday this month by landing in the hospital with a broken arm and a cancer diagnosis. It was not exactly the way you want to start the ninth decade of your life, but Bob was happy to see his grandchildren, and to get some time away from the rehab facility where he currently resides.

 



Jill and her brother have an up-and-down history with their dad, but both are committed to ensuring that he has comfort, and above all else, dignity. They saw his desire to return to his house and are working to fulfill it as they can, even though we live 7 hours away and Jill’s brother is 3 hours from Boone.

Putting aside past wounds is tough, but admirable, especially in what will continue to be uncertain times ahead.

••••••

Two additional truisms/clichés were reinforced this past weekend: Irony is alive and well, and the world is a very small place. Both came courtesy of our newly coined high school graduate and two of his closest friends.

One disadvantage of Nicholas’ living in North Carolina and us living here is that we don’t know his friends and their families. On Saturday night, the McFarlands and Cooks had a chance to meet the first girl with whom he shares a his-and-her Facebook status. Ironically, she is working as an intern this summer with the person who encouraged Jill to try musical theatre when she was a child.

On Sunday, after graduation, we finally met Nicholas’ prom date — a longtime friend from middle and high school — and her parents. Except, as I discovered, we sort of already knew each other.

As it turns out, her dad and I met more than 15 years ago in Reidsville, N.C., where he opened and owned a local Subway and I worked for the newspaper. Our paths crossed on a number of occasions, and as people tend to do, we talked about our families — his little girl and my little boy.

They’re not so little any more.

••••••

When it comes to escaping your past, you’d have a better chance of swimming to shore from Alcatraz than shedding the vestiges of a small town. That’s doubly true if you’ve lived in Texas or North Carolina.

Despite what I may have thought when I left, I have no desire to escape the places that brought me to this point, or wipe them from my memory. My heart always will always have a special place for Reidsville — a place I’ve written about before — and I know I can’t fully leave it behind.

I think about this often, and was reminded of it again while reading Jonathan Tropper’s The Book of Joe, a comic novel about a man who returns to the small town where he grew up and realizes that everyone hates him, just because he had written a bestselling, thinly veiled piece of fiction about his miserable high school experience.

Tropper’s self-deprecating, faintly absurdist style appeals to me — I truly wish I could write like that — and I have been slowly making my way through his other books, of which Everything Changes is one.

Sitting at the pool yesterday afternoon, I looked around at others in the crowd and felt somewhat nostalgic. I remember when the pool opened, and what a big deal it was for our fledgling subdivision. I remembered the lifeguard getting on Ben’s case for running, and hearing him say, “I’m not running, I’m skipping.”

Then, as I went to get something out of my car, I heard a slightly deep — though distinctly teenage — voice say hello. I turned and saw a young boy/man whom I barely recognized. He asked about Ben and politely reintroduced himself, and I realized he was part of a set of twins who we met when we first got here in 2001. All four kids, plus Kate, started in daycare together and now are teenagers.

That’s when the emotions hit me.

I told the young man goodbye and walked to my car, asking myself vaguely existential questions: Where did the time go? What happened to the last 10 years? Why did the time fly by in a blink?

There’s no easy answer to the last question, or a decent explanation for all the emotions attached. I’m still processing that one.

Life in Real Time

Last month, everywhere I looked during NSBA’s annual conference, officials from Missouri’s Joplin Public Schools were talking about Bright Futures. The district won the Magna Award grand prize for its program, which works to build partnerships between schools and community agencies to serve students in need.

Today, the immediate future is not looking as bright, and the entire Joplin community is in need.

On Sunday, a massive tornado struck this town of nearly 50,000, killing at least 116 people and injuring more than 1,100. It is the highest death toll from a single tornado since 1953.

The event was the latest in a series of devastating spring tornados that have pounded communities across the Southeast and through the Midwest. Just four weeks ago, 315 people were killed when a series of tornadoes struck in five states — Alabama, Tennessee, Georgia, Mississippi, and Virginia.

According to news reports, the late afternoon twister destroyed three schools, leaving two others and the central office seriously damaged as it ripped through the middle of this city 160 miles south of Kansas City. Graduation ceremonies for Joplin’s Class of 2011 were wrapping up at Missouri Southern State University when the tornado struck around 5:30; the high school itself was destroyed.

••••••

The stories from Joplin shook me.

Thirteen years ago, when we lived in Rockingham County, N.C., a tornado ripped through the small town of Stoneville. Two people were killed, including a young teacher, and 27 were injured.

At the time, I was the school district’s public information officer, just 18 months on the job, with a 14-month-old daughter and 3-month-old twins at home. Jill was working as a school counselor at Reidsville Middle.

The storms throughout that spring of 1998 were fierce. We were in a weather pattern much like the one we’re seeing now in the Southeast and Midwest. Severe thunderstorm warnings, almost every afternoon, came over the weather radio that we monitored. At one point later in the year, we had a hailstorm that was so bad my car was considered totaled.

Late on the afternoon of Friday, March 20, we got word of a tornado warning in western Rockingham County. Buses were on the streets, with children having been let out of school just an hour before.

Starting around 3:25 p.m., the tornado touched down and left cut a 12-mile path, missing four of our schools by less than 100 yards. The town of Stoneville was devastated. The teacher, Beth Mitchell, was killed just blocks from Stoneville Elementary; her mother, a library aide at the school, was seriously injured.

That Saturday afternoon, I was sent over to assist in coordinating the press coverage. It was trial by fire because I had no training in handling crisis management. I decided to treat reporters the same way I would have expected to be treated when I walked in their shoes. For the most part, they were respectful, although one tried to attend the teacher’s funeral despite requests from the family that it be kept private.

The staff, many of whom lived in the town, was shell shocked. School was cancelled until that Wednesday, and Jill and other counselors were on site when students returned.

The rest of that school year is a blur, glazed by mourning. The staff’s bond was so tight, but you could see transitions coming. It was hard on everyone involved.

Thirteen years later, I remain proud of the work of the staff in Stoneville, and of the board’s response to the crisis. It showed me how communities can come together in the times of greatest stress, a life-affirming message in the wake of a horrible tragedy.

••••••

Honoring the winners of the Magna Awards — the magazine’s biggest event at NSBA’s conference — is one of the favorite parts of my job. The program, sponsored by ASBJ and Sodexo School Services, recognizes school boards and district-level programs that go above and beyond the call to improve student achievement.

Another highlight is talking to board members from around the country and learning more about their work. Each year, it seems, I meet someone new at the start of the conference and then continue to bump into that person at odd moments throughout the event.

This year, that person was Joplin board member Randy Steele; by the end of the conference, we had seen each other so often that it had become a running joke.

Bright Futures, the program Joplin won for, is no joke. The 7,747-student district received the grand prize in the 5,000-to-20,000 enrollment category for a community engagement initiative that has helped reduce its dropout rate by more than 50 percent. Bright Futures also has resulted in the development of more than 230 community partnerships, and brought in more than $300,000 in cash and in-kind donations.

One unique aspect of the program is its use of social networking — primarily Facebook — in a “rapid response” system designed to meet the basic needs of students within a 24-hour period. The Bright Futures group has 4,800 people who “like” it; the district’s Facebook page has almost 3,000.

“Whether it is providing comfort to homeless students, eating lunch with children of incarcerated parents, tutoring struggling students, or buying a pair of shoes for a child whose family can’t afford it, every single need is being filled as it is identified,” Superintendent C.J. Huff said in the district’s application.

The needs are far greater today in Joplin, and in other districts and communities that have been devastated as well. Fortunately, the district has the infrastructure in place — an infrastructure that was being leveraged just hours after the tornado.

••••••

Communication always is a struggle when disaster strikes. Phone lines are jammed or down.  E-mail is non-existent. In the wake of such a devastating event, the greatest struggle can be just locating people amid the rubble.

We have not spoken to the superintendent, or to Randy Steele. Reaching people in the district via traditional methods has been impossible almost all day.

Except through Facebook.

Throughout the day, postings gave the district’s status on the Joplin Schools page. One, noting that the district was “in the process of accounting for the safety of our students, faculty, and staff,” had more than 275 comments in just six hours.

“I can’t dial out, but I’m safe,” said one.

“I pray for the safety of the rest,” said another.

“Thanks for checking on everyone,” a third said.

As the day progressed, postings were added to the Bright Futures page — requests for clothing, shoes, non-perishable food. A community conversation, in the middle of a town devastated, was starting anew.

Tell A Story in 100 Words or Less, Part 4

The thin whistle came at the end of every breath. A deep inhale, usually interrupted two or three times as he breathed in, holding the air in his lungs. Then the exhale — halting, pausing — and the tiny whistling sound.

Hundreds, if not thousands of times a day I heard this as my grandfather and my father struggled for breath, the whistle becoming overwhelmed eventually by the sound of the machines.

Breathing is something you take for granted. And then one day — no day in particular, just a day — you stop. And it’s over.

The Reality of Perspective

Not too long ago, I bumped into Jim Moore, the musical director for “Ragtime,” while Ben was in a ballet class.

“Did you realize what we were getting you into?” he asked.

We laughed for a moment — fleeting moments are all you seem to get when one show ends and the search for another begins — and soon parted ways.

This is one of theatre’s little oddities that no one prepares a parent for — watching your child have extremely intense, fulfilling relationships with people whose talents far outnumber yours, then seeing those relationships evaporate or be forever altered within moments or days. The boomerang of emotions your child feels is sometimes more dramatic than what you see on stage.

Fortunately, as we’ve learned, the theatre community in general is small and close knit. Chances are, if you go from show to show, you’ll always meet someone with a connection to someone you know. And, if you’re lucky enough, you’ll work with people you like (and who you hope feel the same about you) more than once.

Ben has been extremely fortunate to work with a variety of interesting, creative people over the past four-plus years he has been doing this. When each show has ended, he has mourned its loss, and wondered if he would ever see those people again. We try to reassure him, and let him know that he will, just in a different context.

••••••

Perspective is a funny thing, and in many ways, it’s only gained by the passage of time. Little things — fragments of memory — that seemed insignificant in the moment take on greater resonance with perspective. Things that once seemed huge shrink and drift away when new memories or experiences are added.

As parents, this is something we try to teach our kids, that perspective and context do matter. It’s hard for kids — and in some cases, adults — to understand that a break up, or a show closing, or a high school sporting event that didn’t end well is not the end of the world. It’s even tougher to comprehend that something you cared so passionately about is but a memory.

That last sentence applies to parents, too. When you see your child immersed and psyched about an activity, no matter what it is, the end and subsequent transition always is a bit of a shock to the system. You’ve juggled and scrambled and rescheduled to successfully achieve the impossible, and then it’s done and over in a flash. Yes, inevitably we are relieved to get our lives back — until the next thing comes along, that is — but we often miss it, too.

Ben’s run in “Billy Elliot” — he marked 10 months in the show last week — has been a fascinating experience for a number of reasons. And even though it is a long-running show with no chance of closing any time soon, it has presented a number of challenges on the transition front. Ben has seen a number of kids — castmates and peers — leave as their voices change and contracts end.

The reality of the business — that nothing is ever permanent — regularly hits home.

Almost two years ago, I had no way of realizing the impact that “Ragtime” would have on the lives of everyone in our family. The show’s abrupt end caught all of us off guard, and it took a while to bounce back. It was such a close-knit group of people, which is something I’m reminded of every time we see someone from the show on the street.

I can see now, far more clearly, why people try to work with the same folks over and over. The ability to collaborate and create is made far easier when you have people you know who are just as passionate as you about a particular project. Ben is extremely fortunate to have known so many kind people who have that ongoing passion.

Two years ago, taking that leap into the unknown — a leap of faith without a bungee cord attached — was exciting, thrilling, exhausting and scary as hell for everyone in our family. And it remains just as exciting, thrilling, and yes, exhausting and scary today.

No matter what happens next, it’s been one heckuva ride.

The Writer’s Pea

Do you remember the story of Hans Christian Andersen’s The Princess and the Pea, immortalized in the musical “Once Upon a Mattress”? The evil queen — a staple of fairy tales — gives Winnifred a test to see if she’s sensitive enough to marry the prince. The test: Will placing a pea under a stack of mattresses prevent Winnifred from falling asleep?

Of course, we all know how it works in fairy tales. Winnifred — the feisty, unrefined heroine (fairy tale staple #2) — becomes a raging insomniac, all because of a stupid vegetable. And in the end, the evil queen is proven wrong (fairy tale staple #3 in this scenario). 

I thought of this story — sadly I can identify with the raging insomniac part — when I tried to come up with a reason for explaining why I have not been writing in this space for the past month or so.

It’s not like I haven’t had ideas. Most of this blog is writing about our family, and there’s no shortage of material there. And even though our schedules have been jammed, it’s not like I haven’t had a few sleepless nights to work on things.

But every time I’ve started, I’ve stopped for some reason, so my desktop is cluttered with a series of half-formed ideas for essays that are still marinating in my brain. This explanation is my way of trying to get back in the groove — “The Father’s New Groove,” now that’s an idea for a fairy tale.

The best way I can describe it is that I’ve had the “writer’s pea.” I hope that I’ve managed to now remove it successfully, and that, having relaxed and done something productive, that we can now return to our semi-regularly scheduled programming.

Back soon, I promise. Thanks for indulging me.

Why I Like What I Like: Photography

In addition to my family, there are several things I love. My hit-and-miss fascination with reading was mentioned in a recent posting, and, obviously, I like to write and tell stories.

Music, computers, and photography are passions as well. And each overlaps and intersects with the others at different times. In my case, technology has been the uniter, because computers help to merge and indulge my likes and make the mechanical more cerebral. 

I’ve always felt inept and useless when it comes to handyman work — it doesn’t come naturally and serves as the source of much frustration. For example, I didn’t enjoy writing until I could type, in part because I spent too much time focusing on the mechanics to compensate for my lack of hand-eye coordination. Keyboarding  — mercifully one high school semester of "A, S, D, F, J, K, L, semi. Rinse. Repeat"  — ultimately is the class I took the most from after graduation.

In the analog, pre-digital days, photography was a source of fascination and a reminder that my lack of mechanical skills would be the bane of my existence.

Working for small newspapers made taking pictures a necessity, and I enjoyed shooting people with the Pentax camera that was a graduation present. But understanding how to get my camera to do what I wanted so I could capture what I saw was more frustrating than fascinating, especially in the days when post-production was spent inhaling chemicals in a pitch dark room.

That has been eliminated thanks to the digital explosion, and enhanced by a chance to pay tribute to my dad and an opportunity to explore that I never thought I'd have.

My dad was a visual artist who could paint, sculpt, or draw anything that came to mind. I can't draw a stick figure, but I've always had his eye for composition, just not the creativity (or sadly, the fine motor skills) to create something out of nothing.

When we came to New York, I thought of my dad often as I was drawn to the visual explosion that is the city. Dad never visited New York, but in so many ways, the stuff I see walking around serves as a constant reminder of his interests, insights, and influence on my life. Also, when in New York, I spend most of my time on foot as opposed to in a car, so I see things differently when I’m there.

On a beautiful spring day last March, I took out my camera, started taking random pictures of the things I saw, and found I have a knack for it. Thanks to Facebook (and now Flickr), I have outlets to show my hobby to the world (or at least several hundred of my closest "friends"). And my hobby has taken me in new directions as well.

Photography has allowed me to make connections I never would have imagined, and several folks from far-flung places have said they too picked up a camera after seeing my random noodlings. I've even started going out on photo shoots with other weekend warriors, many of whom I've learned from and whose talents are greater than mine.

Recently, I've gotten a number of questions on Facebook about my camera, photography, etc. I don't pretend to have any answers, but here is what I know.

• In terms of cameras, I have a Canon 60D, which is on the lowest rung of the pro-level. Yes, you can get great shots with many of the point and shoots that are out there, and the iPhone's camera is really nice (not so with an iPod Touch).
• That said, a good digital SLR gives you flexibility (faster shutter, no delay, broader range, more settings, different feel in your hand). I desperately want to upgrade my camera body -- like any addiction, photography can be an insidious beast -- but am being patient now for the sake of my finances (and my marriage).
• Lenses matter, too, and they are where you start to spend the bucks. Each gives you different abilities/opportunities (sharp foreground/background blur, panoramic view, zoomed in view) and, depending on how much you're willing to spend to make your photos pop, greater clarity.

Think of it this way: Some people play golf and spend $100 every two weeks for greens fees and equipment. I spend my money on cameras and lenses instead, but just every six months to a year instead of every weekend.

It's all a matter of what you want to do, and how much time you're willing to invest. The beauty of digital is that if you don't like it, you can delete it, and it doesn't cost anything. So go out and start taking pictures. Don't be afraid to bend down or look around, and take the same shot from three different angles. Keep the one you like and delete the others.

If you try it, you might find that you like it, and you can start making those connections, too.

The Adjustment Bureau

For weeks now, I’ve seen ads for “The Adjustment Bureau,” the new movie about someone who tries to take back control of his life despite dark and perhaps sinister forces that are trying to stop him. Given everything our oldest daughter is going through in dealing with the sinister combination of puberty and bipolar disorder, the movie’s title aptly describes much of the last 10 days.

Now 14, Kate has struggled to maintain any emotional equilibrium since the start of her eighth-grade year. Middle school is hard enough as is, but especially for girls riding the hormonal rollercoaster, and things have been steadily on a downward spiral since November.

The level of pharmacopeia — multiple medications addressing multiple issues — was not touching the problem. Adding lithium — aka the “gold standard” drug for treating bipolar — didn’t help. Kate’s generally upbeat nature was being overwhelmed by pressured speech, tears, anger, sadness, and rage.

When she could not stop twitching a few nights ago, we had to take her to the emergency room.  After consulting with doctors the next morning, we knew that something more had to be done, both with her meds and to help guide her out of an increasingly dense wilderness.

We had entered our own personal adjustment bureau.

••••••

According to the Child and Adolescent Bipolar Foundation (CABF), the past decade has seen a 40-fold increase in the diagnosis of children with bipolar, even though it remains far below the rate for adults. A National Institute of Mental Health study notes that at least 65 percent of adults with bipolar felt that it started in childhood or adolescence.

For as long as I can remember, Kate has confronted the various — and multiple — stresses in her life in one of two ways: Curling up in a fetal ball and crying, or screaming at the top of her lungs. Sometimes, when you’re lucky, you get both in a span of just a few minutes.

Medication has helped mask those emotions, but over time, as she has gotten older and moved into her teen years, Kate is no longer comfortable with the mask — on or off.

That leaves us with a mix of hope and dread.  As her parents, we hope and pray that she is doing better, that something — in this case hospitalization — will help her to be better. Dread comes from experience, because we know that when she is positive that the other shoe is just waiting to drop.

It’s interesting, because in our marriage, I’m almost always the one who takes the “glass is half full” view. Consider it Paul McCartney’s “getting better all the time” combined with an occasional “can’t get much worse” from John Lennon.

And remember, neither was as good solo as they were together.

With Kate, Jill usually takes the optimist role. My view is that we should not question why, but determine how best to deal with a 48-card deck that is missing several essential cards right now. This focus on analysis and solutions helps me to understand our daughter, but doesn’t work that well at times in the moment when things are fired up.

Jill is more patient and better able to relate to her than I am. She frets and continues to search for solutions. For the longest time, she had difficulty accepting the fact that this is a long-term illness with no short-term resolution for our daughter’s condition, that she won’t be “normal” (whatever that is).

In her view, this shouldn’t happen to a child.

She’s right about that, no question. But it has.

••••••

Every time a new drug was introduced, or the dosage increased, Kate always seemed to get a small bump. The family breathed a sigh of relief, only to learn that it was just temporary. As she entered adolescence, then puberty, then middle school, even the effects of the pharmaceutical bumps lessened.

For the last several months, nothing has worked.

We have been very honest with Kate about her situation, and have tried to explain what it is to her in positive — yet truthful — terms. Our family’s firm belief is that treating a brain disorder is no different than treating, say, diabetes (both have a biological basis). Mental illness should be discussed in the same matter-of-fact way that we discuss any long-term, physical disorder.

The difference, however, is that treating bipolar, ADHD, and other types of these disorders is a crapshoot. What works for five people with the same diagnosis won’t work for numbers six through 10 because each person’s brain chemistry is unique. Since, according to CABF, the adult brain is not fully formed until age 25, treatment becomes even more of a shot in the dark with children and adolescents.

Research also shows that girls tend to linger longer on the depressed side of the bipolar pool. Most bipolar medications on the market are more effective for mania than depression, which can make treatment difficult. Hospitalization or a stay in a residential facility often is the only effective way.

We love our daughter, would do anything for her, and have tried everything to help. But “It” has refused to leave Kate — and by extension her family — alone. Progressively, we have become worried about her increasingly fragile mental state, and the anger that lies underneath. Physical and emotional safety, hers and ours, is an ongoing concern.

••••••

Bipolar is an octopus, metaphorically speaking. It is not self-contained; if anything, it demands to always be the center of attention. You can tiptoe around a mood disorder all you want, but it still will strike out, often for the most miniscule things at the most inopportune times. Think of it this way: ’Roid rage has nothing on an ill, pissed off 14-year-old girl in a very dark place.

This makes for a difficult family dynamic under the best of circumstances. And the past year and a half has been trying, as we juggle careers, teenagers, and commuting back and forth from Virginia to New York.

Kate knows her internal spin cycle has been out of control. She no longer thinks her psychiatrist is effective and wants someone different. We’ve known her current mix of meds wasn’t working; in fact, her new doctor said her ADHD could have been misdiagnosed. After the twitching/convulsive episode last week, she begged us for help, saying she knows something is wrong.

That’s what we’ve been dealing with for the past 10 days, and we’re hoping that we’ve got her medication sorted out — for now. Still, through individual and family counseling, other issues must be addressed as she works to find that elusive emotional equilibrium.

In general, girls tend to internalize their emotions. Kate has suppressed hers for so long that the only way they know how to come out is in a rage. She has to be able to identify when she is upset or unhappy and learn how to deal with it. She has to learn how to be accountable for her actions — in school and at home.

The problem is that she speaks in general terms, too general really, if she wants help. The art of in-depth debate and conversation, something that brings me great joy in this life, escapes her because she has no patience for it. And her coping mechanisms are so deep, so embedded, that it will take a very long time for her to find new ones.

There are no magic wands. That’s for sure.

••••••

Jill and I genuinely believe Kate wants — desperately — to be positive about life. But a fake positive has the effect of a false negative; no one wins. We have to work together to identify ways for her to have positive interactions with her family, a lesson that she can hopefully translate into friendships with her peers.

At times, I provoke the situation with Kate, in part because I know that the only way she will stop pressing me — for food, for money, for stuff — is to make the emotional valve go off. That is not healthy parenting; I need to do better.

I can’t imagine what it is like to be in her skin and to feel so uncomfortable all the time. I can’t imagine what it is like to feel like you can’t be alone, or that you must be doing something — anything — at all moments of the day.

The counseling sessions we’ve had this week were about unmasking the real Kate. So far, they have not been terribly successful, although the medication adjustment has helped. What has emerged, however, is how important her ongoing treatment is. Chiseling away at something that is so engrained — taking apart to put back together — will take time.

How long that will be, no one knows. I just hope we can all stay on the right path.

Father and Son, Vol. 2

I can call my life a number of things. Boring is not one of them.

On nights like this, I wish my dad were here for a number of reasons, although I’m fortunate to feel his presence. Actually, after a period in which he temporarily slipped back into memory’s recesses, he’s been popping up a lot lately. (Spirits have a way of doing that, but as far as ghosts are concerned, fortunately my father’s lean toward the Casper side.)

The relationship I have with my sons, in many ways, mirrors the one I had with my father. With Nicholas, it’s by the periods of absenteeism, caused in my dad’s case by illness and in mine by divorce. (See “Fathers and Sons, Vol. 1.”) No matter where I was, however, I knew I was loved; I hope Nicholas feels the same.

My relationship with Ben is different, in part because of proximity. The simple fact that we spend as much time as we do together, often one on one, makes it different. The fact that he has spent much of the last 19 months in New York both simplifies and complicates the parent-child relationship.

At the same time, among my four kids, Ben’s personality, interests and wit are closest to my father’s.

Here are some recent quotes from my youngest teen:

• "I like snow, but when it doesn't give you a snow day, it's useless."

• "Friday always comes at the right time, just when I'm starting to hate school. By Monday, it's normal again, and I go back to school."

“La Cage Aux Folles,” the Broadway revival playing on 48^th Street, occasionally will hold after-show karaoke in a nearby pub. One night, walking to the apartment, we passed a 6-ft-2 inch man in high heels, full makeup, dress and wig, smoking a cigarette. I asked Ben if the man was heading to karaoke. Without batting an eye, my teen said, "Well, if he's not, then he got all dressed up for nothing."

Those are the types of things my dad would say…

••••••

“They call me the Wanderer / Yeah, the Wanderer / I roam around, around, around.”

My father loved that song, and I’m sure wore the grooves off the 45 he had. If his life had been a reality show, the 1961 single by Dion and the Belmonts would have been a good candidate for the theme.

Dad enjoyed having time to drift. He could spend hours in a bookstore, or a junkyard, searching for parts to some old Cadillac he was trying to fix up. He enjoyed going to flea markets — the all-in-one version of a neighborhood yard sale — on weekends.

If he had a goal, or a purpose, he was extremely focused and would see it through until the end no matter the time of day or night. At multiple points during my childhood, he would wake me in the middle of the night — nocturnal is another characteristic shared by the three generations — to help him with an art project or to see an old movie on television that he would break down in detail.

No goal? No dice…

Ben is the same way. Like any kid — and like his father, much to Jill’s chagrin — he can procrastinate with the best. Spark his interest in something, however, and he masters it — quickly.

Example #1: The boy had no desire to get out of diapers. At age 3, we insisted and put him in pull-ups. After the first day, he asked if he could change to “big boy underwear” and pronounced that he was ready to use the bathroom on his own. The reason: He didn’t like pull-ups because they “bunched up,” and if he had to wear those, he might as well wear underwear. He never had another accident.

Example #2: At age 4, he wanted to ride a bike. After a couple of hours on training wheels, he came inside and asked why his bike had to have four wheels when the older kids’ only had two. We explained that he needed time to get his bearings and balance. He said he was fine — and he was, riding on two wheels that day.

Example #3: Ben did not enjoy singing until “Ragtime” two years ago. Thanks to his mom’s gene pool, he had a nice enough voice, but was not interested in training until he realized that singing was essential if he wanted to make it in musical theatre (and stay, yes, gainfully employed).  So he learned the song for the audition, passed, and hasn’t stopped singing since.

Now we get a Broadway concert every time he takes a shower.

••••••

Things come naturally to him, but Ben possesses a work ethic unlike any child I’ve known. Not many teens can do eight shows a week, plus four hours of rehearsal and full-time school, and complain as little as he does.

If he cares about something, he is a perfectionist. After having only a limited interest in ballet, he has a goal and practices it constantly. I can’t begin to tell you how many times I’ve had to ask him to stop doing pirouettes and fouettes in our apartment in the middle of the night.

Two years ago, Ben started making short films, editing them and posting them to YouTube. Self taught, he has built up more than 11,000 subscriptions on his bentwins10097 channel. If you ask which he loves more — dancing, singing, or acting — he finds it tough to give you an answer.

Like my dad, he’s a visual learner. And like his father and grandfather, he’s a huge movie fan. Recently he rewatched “Slumdog Millionaire” to compare the visual and music cues to director Danny Boyle’s “127 Hours.”

He’s very much a teen, interested in his Xbox 360 and his iPod Touch and learning the often-tangled ropes on relationships with girls. He still gets nervous when he’s facing a test in school or about to go on in a new role.

And yet, he’s still our little boy, not afraid to give me a hug in public, not ashamed to be seen talking to his dad or other adults.

The best part of this entire experience is when friends and relatives see him in New York. Quickly, they discover the things we already know, that no matter how crazy and nontraditional things are, he has not become someone else. He is still “just Ben.”

And that, folks, is anything but boring.

No Stereotypes Here

Several weeks ago, on a late Saturday afternoon, my 13-year-old son and I walked into a store on 50th Street in midtown Manhattan to buy him a pair of shoes.

Ballet shoes. White canvas ballet shoes.

And then Ben went home to play Call of Duty: Black Ops during his dinner break, practicing his turns in second in the small living room while waiting for the game to load. An hour later, I took him back to work.

That wasn’t the first time I realized that this not the stereotypical father/son relationship. It wasn’t even the first time that day.

Nothing about the relationship with my youngest child — by a minute, his twin notes — is stereotypical, or even typical if you try to put it in conventional terms. Of course, few things are typical about Ben.

Born small for a boy at just 5 pounds and 10 ounces, he’s still small in stature — less than 5 feet and only 83 pounds. But it doesn’t bother him. In fact, small is a good thing given the short career span of child actors, especially one who loves the stage.

This afternoon, Ben will be wearing a dress on a Broadway stage, making his debut as Michael in “Billy Elliot.” Two months ago, he uttered the word “orgasm” on national television. And a couple of weeks ago, he went to a movie with a girl, then told me about it, and asked if he had handled things correctly.

See what I mean by atypical?