Small Moments

My sons had birthdays recently, and their special occasions had me reflecting on some small moments I have spent with them. 

My sons are getting older, and I don't see them very much anymore. Nathaniel's a junior, and he can drive himself to and from wherever he pleases. Isaiah's a freshman, and while he hasn't learned how to drive yet, the moments with him are pretty fleeting as he just basically orders his chauffeur (that’s me) for rides to and from wherever he needs to go.  

But I will say both of them had birthdays recently, and it was a rare occurrence for Michelle and I to spend some time with them. Nathaniel, much to my surprise, did not go out with his friends on his birthday, even though he had an early out from school, meaning he was dismissed by 12:30 pm. So I proposed that we go to lunch together, and again, to my surprise, he said yes. So he came home, and then we waited for Isaiah to finish a short rehearsal, which, as it turned out, morphed into a speech practice. So, nearly two hours later, and with both of us famished, Nathaniel and I went to a little lunch spot in our small town.  

The food came out quickly, so we didn't have much time for much of a conversation. But the fact that I was sitting with him at a table, and he with me, was actually special enough.  

Isaiah's birthday, unfortunately, did not give much of a chance for anyone in the family to spend much time with him. He was very busy that day. He had honors choir in the morning, which meant he had to be at school by 7:15 am. After school, he had rehearsal for a musical production that he's involved in called Hadestown, followed by an evening public presentation in his history class, followed by a night finale performance by his high school marching band.  

By the time he got home, which was late, all he did was open some presents and didn't even make time to dive into his cake. 

But I've had some special moments with him. One that comes immediately to mind is when he had some trouble with his eighth grade basketball team, namely with his coach who misused him to the point where Isaiah was basically wondering whether he wanted to stick with basketball at all, a sport that he has truly enjoyed for several years playing with his friends or just shooting by himself. So, when we decided that he would leave the team, I told him I would coach him myself. Every morning, when the team practiced at 6 am, Isaiah and I went through skills drills at another gym. I can't say every session was pure bliss and joy. There were moments when he probably didn't want to be there. And there definitely were moments when I was a little tired and frustrated. But I wouldn't trade that for anything because those were moments I got to spend exclusively with him. 

That's one thing about being a parent: You have to let your kids go. Their steps towards independence are inevitable. It can hurt sometimes in a way for a parent, because you know that your grip on them, if you want to call it a grip, is slipping away. You don't see them as much. You don't hear from them as much. Sometimes it's hard to even know what they're thinking, what they're up to, and any questions might be seen by them as an interrogation of sorts. I think they know deep down that we care and we're not trying to pry into their personal lives, but it is still difficult when they don't say much at all. 

All of which makes small moments, even if they're sporadic and fleeting, to be really, really important. I prize them and I'll never forget them. I love the small moments because I love my boys.  

Confirmand

 

Isaiah with his Confirmation mentor, Christie

We have a new member of our church. He is our 15-year-old son, Isaiah.

It was Confirmation Sunday for Isaiah and five other youth in our Lutheran church. We are proud of the two-year journey of scholarship, learning, and faith that he willingly undertook to become an official church member.

It's funny: Any adult can join our church, and after a congregation vote, can become a member. But our youth take Confirmation classes to attain the same standing. I have no problem with this, as I think it's great the kids learn about Lutheranism, have time to think about religion and their faith, and bond as a group in classes and out-of-church activities. Who doesn't want more young adults imbued with kindness, compassion, and service in this world?

Each youth was required to write a faith statement as the capstone to their Confirmation journey. As you might guess, it essentially is an opportunity to express what their faith means to them and how they will, or would, want to express their convictions. Nice and simple, open to however each confirmand would want to interpret how they feel.

After days – weeks – of nagging, Isaiah came downstairs one recent evening and announced he had written his faith statement. He opened with this:

"I, Isaiah Lewis, like all people in this room, had a 1 in 400 trillion chance of even being born. Even from my birth, I was blessed even to be alive."

Michelle and I glanced at each other. We were thinking the same thing: This is very specific, with a singular, oddly chosen fact. It is grammatically spot on. It seems quite formal. Could our son, perhaps, been assisted by some disembodied spirit (And I don't mean Holy)?

We remained silent as Isaiah read his full statement. There were some turns of phrase and word choices that struck us as too polished to be his. I won't add them here, because I don't want to embarrass him, but suffice to say there were a few real lyrical nuggets for the reader to snack upon.

When he finished, we gently asked Isaiah whether he had written this solely by himself. He looked aggrieved. 

"No," he replied.

We tried again. You didn't get some help from ChatGPT?

He flashed an angry look.

"No! Why would you think that?"

"Well," we replied, "some of your sentences don't sound like you."

Now, Isaiah had become indignant.

"Now, you're rage baiting me. You don't think I wrote this?" he thundered. "I got no help from ChatGPT!"

Michelle and I are not versed enough in AI to directly challenge him. Despite our suspicions, we didn't probe further. We didn't want to mar his thoughts and effort, externally aided or not. This is his profession of his faith and how he shows it, and do we really want to turn the focus on whether everything there was original or assisted? 

So, we decided to let it go. 

During the Confirmation service, our pastor included excerpts of each confirmand's faith statement into the liturgy. I loved how she wove each youth's thoughts about faith into the larger service. This is what she included from Isaiah during her sermon:

"I want to give back to the unstoppable force that pushes me, motivates me, and, most importantly, loves me. To give back to the lord, I must aspire to be like the lord, and the way I plan to do that is to love. I want to give out compliments like a soup kitchen to the homeless. I want to bring others up the way he brought me up, but overall, I want to practice loving everyone."

Pretty tidy, huh? Maybe a little too tidy.

But .... does it truly matter whether there was non-divine assistance to his prose? Doesn't it matter far, far more that he's learned more about – and hopefully believes and want to embody – those principles? 

That answer is clear. We are proud of Isaiah for going through Confirmation. We are proud of the young man he is, and the adult he will be. He has the core values, the morals, and the principles that will guide him to become the best version of himself. 

That's what matters the most.

A happy Homecoming

 Each fall, there is Homecoming at our town's school.

Until this year, the occasion merited little attention from us. Neither Michelle nor I attended school here, so as non-alumni, there wasn't much for us to be involved in. Our children hadn't taken much notice, either, beyond perhaps going to the football game (you know, concessions and all that).

That changed this year.

Each of our two sons had a date to the Homecoming Dance. Nathaniel, a junior, asked a sophomore named Kate who he knows from marching band and whom he's had his eyes on. Isaiah, a freshman, asked a girl named Alice, also from marching band, who -- as rumor had it -- liked him.

Homecoming, or at least how boys ask girls to any school-organized dance, has changed a lot. Back in my day, you approached a girl you liked and asked her to be your date. The most challenging part of all that was summoning the courage to ask.

It's a lot more elaborate these days. Each Lewis boy designed a poster to verbalize their request (I guess). They then had to concoct a moment to make the Big Ask. And that is a torturous affair in itself.

Isaiah created his ask-the-girl poster with a clever play on the marching band's musical theme, Reminisce. Michelle helped him sketch the letters, in white and purple (the band's color scheme this year) and to embroider the poster with musical notes. It looked quite enticing. I was impressed by the effort that Isaiah put into it. (I blogged about this in detail last month.)

Then that poster sat on our dining room table for days -- then a week, then a second week -- as Isaiah agonized over when, and how, to ask Alice to go with him. Finally, one day, after multiple rounds of texts, snaps, and who know what other forms of communication – and with a little more than a week before the dance, – Isaiah suddenly asked Michelle for a ride to a friend's house. He grabbed his poster, and whoosh! they were off. 

Whatever the arrangement and however Alice happened to show up, Isaiah proffered his request, and it was accepted. He had a date. 

Nathaniel asked his date with at least a little more lead time before the dance. But he, too, anguished over the poster he felt he needed to create, recruiting his friends for advice -- and presumably, moral support. I would overhear him chatting excitedly with his friends about the what, when, and how to ask Kate. Everyone seemed to have an opinion, and all it seemed was to spin the kid into circles. I don't remember the specifics, but, like Isaiah, Nathaniel suddenly bolted out the door, off to a friend's house to design the masterpiece that would be his instrument to court a date. At least he didn't let the poster linger as he dawdled about the ask. I don't know what he wrote on it, but I guess it worked. He, too, had a date.

I hadn't noticed the change, but Homecoming has become a real gala affair, seeming to rival Prom in pomp, circumstance and apparel. Maybe not as much on the guy's side. Isaiah dressed in a white shirt, with a black tie, and black pants. Simple and effective. His guy friends did the same, although one added a suit jacket to up the ante.

The girls are another clothing matter. These young ladies, all freshmen, were decked out in glitzy, glittering dresses, some showing a fair amount of skin in the upper and lower halves. Most wore heels. They looked like a group of Barbies. When Isaiah and arrived at one of the girl's homes for pictures, I could scarcely believe the pageantry involved. The girls' mothers all were clustered together, chattering excitedly, keenly anticipating the moment when the girls en masse walked down the stairs like some scene out of Cinderella. 

The picture taking session was equally orchestrated. We drove in a caravan a few hundred yards to a human-made pond surrounded by a thin stand of trees. The pond had a boulder at one point on the shore that I assume the subdivision developer had trucked in for aesthetics. The boys chose that spot for their guys-only pictures. On the other side was a small promontory at which all gathered for multiple rounds of picture taking. It lasted 45 minutes, and would have gone on for far longer if one of the date's 8th-grade sisters hadn't decided to start ordering everyone into positions and poses. Thank goodness for that.

That was just the beginning: The girls' parents had offered to give all dates a ride to a nearby city where they could go to dinner, followed by ice cream. They then would drive the group to the dance. Then, when the dance ended, they had agreed to drive the group back to the original host home for an after party of watching movies and playing games until 2 am. 2 am! One of Isaiah's friend's parents said he would pick up his son and Isaiah and return them after that. 

All I can say to all that: Thank you and really?

I'm less clear what Nathaniel, his date, and their group did, as Michelle went to the picture taking and those kids drove themselves to dinner, then the dance, and then an after party at one of the girl's homes. Like Isaiah, Nathaniel got home around 2 am.

Quick side note here: Michelle and I normally would never allow our kids to stay out that late. We originally had set a curfew of midnight for Nathaniel and 11 pm for Isaiah. But then the after parties materialized, and we realized, somewhat grudgingly, that it would be unfair for our boys to be the only ones ordered home. So, we relented. We live in a small town, where we know most folks – and they know us – so there is a level of trust here. I know there was no way I was allowed to roam the big city of Houston for any high school dance when I was younger.

But times change, and Homecoming sure as heck is a big deal now. But you know what? Our sons had a great time. Isaiah, so nervous and awkward about his date and the dance because his feelings were not on par with hers, reported he had a great time.

"She told me she didn't like me like that anymore, and then we just had a great time talking and hanging out as friends," he told us the next morning.

Nathaniel flopped on our bed, tired and happy, when he returned. He recounted that he, too, had a great time. This girl may be more than just a date, he added. 

Homecoming may be hyped more than needed, but really that's no matter. What matters is our boys enjoyed themselves, and had returned safe and sound. 

I'm already looking forward to Prom. 

A dog and a cat

We have a dog who acts like a cat, and a cat who acts like a dog.

I'll need to explain this a little.

Our dog is Shadow, so named for the black fur that covers nearly her entire body. She was found in a roadside ditch in Oklahoma, with a litter of 10 puppies, and shipped, with her brood, to a rescue service in Iowa. When we took her in, she had heartworm (no surprise) and a strange wheezing sound when she breathed that required multiple veterinary trips to successfully diagnose. The wheezing, we learned, came from a bacterial infection that had taken root in a lung and traced to rotting shellfish she had eaten as a stray. Thankfully for us, the rescue service covered her medical bills, including the surgery to remove the lung infection. (The people who work -- and those who support -- animal rescue services are truly selfless and noble; if there's a heaven, their tickets should be honored.)

Shadow, now whole in body, always was whole in spirit. She's pretty dopey, it must be said, but she more than makes up for a lack of brains with a whole lot of heart and affection. She integrated seamlessly into our family -- well, at least when she realized she no longer needed to aggressively forage for her meals. We won't forget her first night with us: Michelle had cooked enchiladas, and while she momentarily left the kitchen, we heard a loud crash, followed by the distinctive sound of shattered glass. Shadow had leapt and swiped the entire glass tray of enchiladas from the range, and knocked it to the floor. When we ran into the kitchen, she was zealously lapping the splattered mass. We learned quickly that no unattended food was safe.

Then there's Roddy the cat. He arrived from an animal shelter in summer 2020, just months into the COVID 19 pandemic. He too, had been abandoned, then found and rescued. My older son had been yearning for a kitty, and begging his mother for one. I was fiercely resistant, as I was allergic to cats. There were no cats when I was growing up. My then girlfriend, Michelle, (now wife) had a fat, furry ball named Kitty who I at best tolerated during my visits to her place when we were dating. Visiting my wife's family and their cats almost instantly triggered sneezing bouts.

Cats made me miserable.

I also had a healthy fear of them. I couldn't read them, and I didn't know how to interact them. They seemed creepy, almost sinister, with their slit-like irises and their slinky strut. Once, when I was trying to hold Michelle's family cat, Hoiberg, the damn thing bit me in the soft, fleshy patch of skin between my thumb and forefinger. That wound hurt for weeks. 

So, when the older son, Nathaniel, began lobbying for a kitty, I had not forgotten the incident with Hoiberg the Biter, and I had not forgotten my episodes of spasmodic sneezing at Michelle's family home. I was completely opposed to cat in the house, and I felt I had some pretty good reasons why. 

So, imagine my surprise when Michelle and Nathaniel came home one day with Roddy. Boy, was I not happy. "Why?" I asked. "You know I'm allergic to cats."

But my protests largely were ignored. Plaintive son wins over whining Dad nearly all the time.

I was not happy a cat was in our home. I was less happy when Roddy took to leaping on the kitchen counters to forage for food. Unlike Shadow, who one time whacked our dinner to the floor, Roddy could jump up on and thus access our kitchen counters with ease, and nibble and bit his way into anything there. Bread, rolls, buns, snacks, the bar was always open for him.

As I was now working from home, Roddy's kitchen forays began to really piss me off. 

It all came to a head one day when he leapt on the counter and helped himself to something I had made. Maybe it was a sandwich, I don't remember. But Roddy was feeding himself with impunity, and I had had enough. I clapped my hands at him, and he jumped off the counter. Then, I chased him. I chased him into the living room, I chased him into the front foyer, I chased him into the kitchen, I chased him to the stairwell, I chased him to our bedroom, where he had leapt on to the bed. I grabbed him, clutched him, and yelled at him, "You little bastard!" and threw him down on the bed. Then, I chased him again, he scurrying mightily, talons digging into wood, as he jetted from one room to another, with me screaming like a banshee, in hot pursuit.

I finally cornered him in the closet of Nathaniel's room, where he cowered on a shelf. his back arched, hissing at me. I backed away, fearing he might leap at me and claw my eye out or something.

As my adrenaline retreated, I realized how foolish I had been, and how guilty I felt for freaking out a pet who still was becoming acclimated to our home, to our family, and to his new situation. 

I later found him burrowed tightly against my younger son on his bed, trembling from our frenzied encounter.

I felt very small in that moment.

Maybe Roddy and I reached an understanding that day. He seemed to lessen his counter leaps of plenty. At night, when I'd watch TV, he jump on the back of the sofa and lick my head. Tentatively at first, I would pet him. Then, I'd pick him up, gingerly – really, because I didn't know how to do it – and put him on my lap. He sat there, content, as I stroked his fur. Hmmm, I thought, he's pretty nice, and damn if I don't have any impulse to sneeze, no matter how close he was to my face. When I picked him up, he thrust his legs forward, like a long-jump skier who had just taken off from the chute. Sometimes, I would lift him high in the air, pronouncing "Lion King!" as he looked down at me from above.

I don't know if he enjoyed any of that, but he certainly tolerated it, no complaints at all.

Since then, our relationship has gone unalterably up. Soaring, actually. It's fair to say Roddy has much affection for me -- and the feeling is mutual, which, though well established, still surprises me to write it.

I am Roddy's main breakfast feeder, and since I've worked at home for the past five years, a reliable companion. Meaning I talk to him -- sort of. I call his name regularly -- just aimlessly oftentimes -- and he comes ambling up, like a dog. In the evenings, he senses when bedtime is creeping closer, and he starts circling around me. If I move, he follows me. Where I go, he goes. When I stop, he moves between my legs, his tail swishing against either leg. He wants me to know he's here, and it's time.

That time is Roddy Time. When I sit on the bed to put on the t-shirt and shorts I'll sleep in, Roddy starts to get aggressive. He's all over me -- on my lap, off my lap, rubbing his body with some force against my torso. He knows what he wants, and he's like, 'Well, buddy, what are we waiting for?'"

I settle in to the bed, my upper body propped up with pillows. It's time, and Roddy moves in. He climbs up my chest and head butts my chin. Once, then again, even a third time. In response, I begin a vigorous rubbing of his head, ears, jowls, and under chin. I swear, it's as if eyes begin to roll in his head, he's so damn satisfied. His purring is so loud you can feel it in the mattress. 

I'll give him his version of a Turkish Bath head and body massage for several minutes -- him purring with pleasure, me closing my eyes, relaxed and sleepy as I move my fingers through his fur. He is happy, and frankly, so am I.

Never thought I'd say that about a damn cat.

As you can tell, I'm far more comfortable around dogs. I've been around them my whole life, so I feel I know them pretty well. I have no fear of them, except pit bulls, which I just don't trust.

Anyway, Shadow can be trusted completely. She is a big bundle of sweetness. I like when she sticks out her tongue, like a snake, when I approach her. I like how she'll cuddle up to me, either sitting at attention, patiently waiting for acknowledgment, or when I'm sitting on the futon, practically flopping herself into my body to squash herself as close to me as she can. 

Maybe what I like best is the mood she's in after she eats. She'll come in from the screen porch and sit at attention inside the sliding door, and make guttural, Darth Vader-like grunts. When I pet her on the head, her grunts intensify in sound. It's as if she's purring, like a cat. Start rubbing her ears? The purring reaches a whole new level, as if she's snoring with delight. What a visceral show of affection, no?

So, a dog who behaves like a cat, and a cat who behaves like a dog. Go figure.

We'll take 'em just the way they are.

A Relaxing Run

 Our lives can be so structured. Overstructured, really.

Schedules dominate our days. We need to keep to our meetings, our appointments, our myriad chores. And inevitably there are circumstances that arise that demand our immediate attention, another task -- or two, or three -- crammed into our day.

For me, it means I need my outlets.

One faithful outlet has been basketball. Since COVID in 2020, I join a group of guys at our local community center twice a week and ball out. We span a range of ages, and of skills. Some have played lots of organized ball, some haven't. But regardless of skill and knowledge, we congregate to play, get in a good workout, and immerse ourselves in competition and camaraderie that comes with playing a team sport as adults. We play hard, try to win, and have fun -- just the way it should be.

We generally play for 60-75 minutes during the lunch hour. Breaks between games are fleeting, as we are trying to get in as much play as possible within our allotted time.  There aren't many opportunities to have much conversation when we're rushing to return to the court.

We decided to change that by getting together, off the court and out of the gym, last Friday evening. We congregated at a local bar and watched our football team take care of business as we slugged down pitchers of beer and gobbled pizza. Best of all, by far, was talking, and getting to know each other better. I learned about some of my ball players' occupations, families, where they grew up, and so much more. 

I had a great time.

All that merrymaking left me fatigued and with some cobwebs in my head the next morning. I shuffled around for a bit, trying to decide what to do on an on-off rainy day. I shrugged off my usual reflexive action of tuning into a soccer match or lapsing into melting into a series of college football games I wouldn't have cared about.

I made a better decision. I went for a run.

I don't jog as much as I used to. Basketball, by far my primary athletic participatory love, is my main outlet. But I've long found a run as a very good complement. I don't run as far as before; I go 4-6 miles, and call that enough. But I will say that, unlike basketball, a run represents a true personal outlet. It's just you and outdoors. No teammates, no chatter, just the quiet around you and the satisfaction of your body in movement, a rhythmic, almost machine-like propulsion in space.

I remember when training for my first marathon how astonished I was that during long runs, my mind would simply switch off, and wander from one thought to another, as my body moved effortlessly forward. It was exhilarating, really, knowing the miles I was knocking down with ease. I felt almost invincible.

I still get that feeling of mental liberation and physical production on runs, although they are briefer, considering the shortened distances. What I like best is I simply relax. My brain still switches off, and when it does engage, I am having constructive thoughts. Any negativity, or worry, is ignored. I think about my state of affairs in a positive vein, such as what I can do to improve myself, rather than tearing myself down in potshots of blame.

It's well known that physical exercise confers a wealth of mental and physical benefits. I am blessed to have two really good outlets -- one social, the other more in solitude -- that I can rely upon when my life becomes -- or seems to be -- veering into too much structure. So needed, so necessary.

And, so much fun.

Apples

How 'bout them apples?

I can say this literally, for once, because, boy do we have a lot of apples.

We have three apple trees in our back yard -- a Cortland, a Liberty, and a Honey Crisp. We planted the Honey Crisp first, followed by the Liberty, and finally the Cortland. 

It took some time for any of the trees to produce. The Honey Crisp yielded first, but its production was sparing and intermittent -- apples one season, almost none the next. This trend went on for at least a few years, which caused us to question what we were doing, or had done. Was it how, or where, we planted the tree? Was it getting pollinated? Soil issues? Bugs? Blight? Being rank amateurs, we had no answers, only guesses -- and poor ones at that.

When the Honey Crisp tree did produce, tiny black bugs called aphids or the insidious apple maggot fly ravaged what relatively meager fruit was growing. Then, five years ago, when the Honey Crisp tree was on its way to a big yield, the neighborhood squirrels made it a primary stop on their daily foraging. This was COVID year #1, and, working from home, I watched from my screen porch with mounting exasperation as those rampaging rodents scooted down the tree, scurried across the yard, scaled my tree, and snatched at my apples. They'd sample the fruit -- one or two bites -- and then discard it, like some glutton who already had had his fill. It got so irksome for me that I trapped nearly a dozen squirrels (and shepherded them elsewhere) before the Derecho of 2020 put a serious dent in their numbers.

Last summer, the Honey Crisp tree went nuts. Infestation was mild, and the squirrels must have found another major food source. I picked apple after apple, and for weeks, I enjoyed a Honey Crisp nearly every day. I like me some apples, and I really like me some Honey Crisps. I mostly ignore the Cortland and Liberty, and I kind of feel badly about that. But not too much. Those Honey Crisps are just better.

This past spring, I noticed blooms all over the Honey Crisp tree, and I got excited. Fast forward, and those blooms became apples, lots of them. Also, for the first time, I bothered to actually research Honey Crisp cultivation, and learned to cull small, misshapen or stunted apples early in the growth cycle, to give the fitter apples more nutrients to grow. The squirrels again left the tree mostly alone, and the insects' effect has been relatively muted. So, for the second consecutive season, it's been a good year for picking apples. 

I know this is confirmation bias-like psychology at work here, but I love eating apples from my (Honey Crisp) tree. For the past two weeks, I have been busily harvesting the fruit, and every morning, I slice one up and eat it, sometimes accompanied by cheddar cheese. So simple, so nutritious, so delicious, and so satisfying. 

I'm already looking forward to next season.

Homecoming Poster

 We haven't paid much attention to Homecoming at our town's high school.

Neither Michelle nor I is a graduate of the school, so there's no real incentive to get involved in the alumni-geared events that dominate the weekend.

Neither of our sons have taken much interest, either, except showing up at the football game -- more to socialize than to watch the action on the field.

But that may have changed for good.

Our youngest son, a freshman, told his mother out of the blue that he planned to ask a girl to the Homecoming Dance. And, he wanted to create a poster to make The Big Ask.

The announcement, as it were, came in the midst of a particular grinding day for our family -- or at least me. I had called for a family summit, an intentional choice of words to elevate the occasion from our relatively mundane family meetings to one imbued with more gravity.

Not to deviate too much from the Homecoming storyline, but Michelle and I had grown increasingly frustrated at our teenage children's abject inability to execute a host of simple tasks, from picking up their clothes, putting dishes in the dishwasher, disposing of food wrappers, shelving shoes and bookbags, and so on. Our house had become one constant mess zone, and Michelle and I were tired of being treated as their maids. So, it saw time to redraw the line, and remind them of their responsibilities to the family and to themselves.

The boys greeted the Family Summit announcement just as you would expect them to. First came the ? in the text replies. Then "What" and "Why" in subsequent texts. Then, as the meeting approached -- a resigned roll of the eyes and "how long will this take?" utterances that made clear just how they felt.

To cut to the chase here, the daily chore list (we call it "contributions") was reinstated, they had to sign up for concessions shifts that benefits their school's Fine Arts programs. Michelle and I also instituted a one-strike policy for any deviations from the keep-the-house tidy mandate.

We'll see how it goes.

Well, the summit concluded, and Isaiah transitioned immediately to creating his Homecoming poster.

The thing about Isaiah is he's a real study of extremes. There's the lassitude that comes with activities or subjects that don't interest him much or hold his attention. And, then there's the energetic, almost manic Isaiah that pairs with something that he's truly motivated by, or invested in. We've seen the hyper-motivated Isaiah in his performances in school plays and the hours upon hours of practice that lead to the shows. We've seen that energy and enthusiasm in music, too. In basketball and soccer, it comes and goes. I've seen Isaiah in full on mode and then in mostly off mode. As his longtime coach in soccer, I never knew what I was going to get -- fully engaged Isaiah or disengaged Isaiah. Only he seemed to know, or decide, when he was ready to get after it.

What I can say is he was fixated on creating an alluring poster. He listened intently as Michelle and he worked out the messaging -- a cheeky nod to the theme of his marching band's upcoming performances and the fact that the girl also is in the band. He attended to every detail, the colors, the adornments. He eagerly flitted from one vantage point to another as he watched his mother sketch out the letters, barking instructions (politely) as the artwork came into being. He was completely engaged -- drawing, coloring, scrutinizing, pondering his creation.

What he created is thoughtful, sweet and so on point.

How can any girl say no to that?