Isaiah turns 2

We're on the eve of Isaiah turning 2. Some thoughts about our still roly-poly, happy little redhead.

• He loves his mommy and daddy. (More on that below).
• He loves his brother, even though he's constantly being harassed by him.
• He loves Elmo.
• He loves tackle football (i.e. running full speed into daddy).
• He loves to pigeon step, pigeon step and then fall down.
• He still loves to eat, although he remains picky. Meat of about any kind still reigns supreme on the culinary list of choices.
• He loves his newest words, which include "hat," "ear," "eye," "school" and the king of them all, "up."
• Speaking of "up," we know he loves this word most of all, because Isaiah loves nothing more than to be held. Morning, day or night, the kid loves to cuddle, and that has held true since he was a baby. He loves to burrow in to your chest, nuzzle in your arms, and just be.

That, my friends, is simply wonderful.

Isaiah is also very bright. This morning, he exhibited what I thought was quite a cognitive achievement, by stringing together several logical sequences.

As I left for work this morning, I picked up (or was already holding, more likely) Isaiah and gave him a kiss. Continuing a recent trend, he started crying and pawing at me to keep holding him. As I passed him to Michelle and went out the door, I could hear the shrieks. As I looked over my shoulder toward the window, Michelle was holding Isaiah, who was visibly sniffling as he waved goodbye.

I went to work. About an hour after I arrived, my cell phone rang. A call from home. I answered, figuring it was Michelle.

Hello?
Silcnce.
Helloooo?
Silence.

I then figured Isaiah was on the line. We had a nice conversation, actually, as he answered affirmatively to whether he was happy, was playing, and had a good breakfast – topped off by saying "school" when I asked him where his brother was.

I asked Isaiah to pass the phone to Michelle, whom I figured had called me about something and stuck Isaiah on the line initially. But she didn't. And then she told me what happened.

Isaiah found the phone, got it and took it to Michelle, who was in the kitchen.

"Da da," he said, holding the cordless phone.

Michelle smiled and placed the cordless phone the counter.

"Da da!" Isaiah said,  now more forcefully and pointing at the phone.

So, Michelle picked up the phone, dialed me, and handed the phone to Isiaiah.

A simple story, yes, but did you notice all the cognitive steps Isaiah took to arrive at that phone call?

I'm no child psychologist, but this is my breakdown:

• Isaiah missed his daddy and figured he'd do something about it.
• He realized I wouldn''t be coming home soon.
• So, he got the telephone.
• He knew he couldn't call me himself, so he took the phone to Michelle.
• He asked her to call me.
• When she initially misread what he wanted, he clarified his request by repeating verbally what he wanted Michelle to do and underscored it by pointing at the phone.

I find that remarkable.

And I love him so.

"Free TV"

A new house, a new test of our addiction to television.

Actually, Michelle and I aren't addicted to TV. We have our favorite shows (Parks & Rec is currently tops for us), and Lord knows I love my sports, especially college basketball. But we watched selectively, and we took full advantage of the DVR, almost always watching programs after they aired and forwarding through the ads. I even DVR'ed most sporting events. The truth is, I find it hard to sit in one spot (except if I'm in a bar, but, let's face it, that just doesn't happen anymore.) for an entire game, match or event, most of which go for at least three hours. Fast-forwarding cuts that to an eminently watchable hour or so.

Speaking of, I read somewhere that most sporting events are something like three-quarter to four-fifths non-action (stoppages in play, idle time, commercials, etc.). So, if you're really adept with your remote, you can zip through a contest in a half-hour. I'm not that good, and there are times when I like to hear the crowd noise, the color commentator and announcer and other sights and sounds of whichever sporting event I'm viewing. But I can't stand to sit through the commercials, especially for basketball and football. It drives me nuts.

Well, we had the DVR and many of the bells-and-whistles channels in Rhode Island. And we paid pretty dearly for it: About $170 a month (with taxes) for cable, Internet and local phone service. When we moved into our new house in Iowa, we decided to find out whether we can live without the full TV enchilada.

Actually, our package is more like ordering chips and salsa. We've opted to go basic, no-frills TV. We get the networks; Fox; PBS; several religion channels (I mean, how many do you really need?); all the CSpan channels (who knew there were three?), WGN and Comcast Chicago (I thought this was cable, and what's up with getting stations out of Chicago, which is more than three hours away? But I'll take it.), and oddball channels like MeTV, County Music, Inspiration and public-access. It is truly a bare-bone package, but there are more channels than I expected, which has been a nice surprise.

We also opted to get the lowest-speed Internet connection. More than the TV, we feared this may be a bad decision, and we'd be upgrading faster than you can say D-S-L. But so far, so good. The speed, while not lightning quick, is perfectly reasonable. We can stream video no problem. And Skype passed the test this evening, which, is important considering it is a major way by which we keep in touch with  many relatives.

After some deliberation, we decided to get phone service. I guess you can say that either we remain nostalgic about land lines, or, more accurately, in my mind, we don't trust our cell phone service enough to be completely dependent on it.

Back to the TV. So, we're conducting an experiment to find out whether we'll be fine without the channels to which we've become accustomed. I admit that I miss the sports channels, like ESPN, but I was OK with it, because I figured I could stream ESPN3 on my laptop. That turned out to be wrong. I mean, I can stream ESPN3, but I can't access anything that's airing on ESPN or ESPN2. Why? Our Internet package is too cheap. So, I'm learning to live with waiting for any live event to be completed, and for the replay to become available, when I can watch it. It is a transition for a sports fan like myself.

So, that's life in a house that needs a lot of work and is costing a fair amount of coin to fix up. Some things have to go (within reason), and for us, we couldn't justify forking over $100, $150 a month for TV and the fastest Internet.

We've survived so far. I watched a great college football game, Stanford's upset of USC, last night on a "free channel." I'm glancing at a NFL game on another "free channel" as I write. So, yes, I'm getting my sports fixes for now.

And our monthly bill? $45 a month.

I can live with that.

Moved In

Sorry for the radio silence. Well, we're in our new home. We moved in on Labor Day weekend, and we're happily ensconced. More or less. OK, less. Lots to do. Workers in and out, despite our best efforts to complete the major renovations before we moved in. One day, we had the floor guys, who, even after two months on the job, were grumpily reinstalling the trim along the baseboards. The electrician was there, putting in ceiling fans in the screened-in back porch and our bedroom (ah, yes). There was the wall guy, finishing the walls in the living room and library (expertly so and in two days time). And our friend Dave, who's helping with all sorts of jobs, from the central air to hooking up a washer and dryer upstairs.

In other words, despite our best intentions, our house was a beehive of activity, with us tiptoeing around boxes, furniture, randomly strewn toys and other stuff. But at least we could view progress taking shape in real time, because we were there.

And it's still going ... and going ... and going ...

The move itself was uneventful. Dave and I loaded a 20-foot UHaul truck, with much help from the women Murken and Michelle's good friend Laura. Everything sorted themselves beautifully, and we had that baby loaded in about one hour and a half. The unloading was even faster; we were done in 20 minutes.

Of course, that was only the beginning. The arranging and rearranging, the unpacking and placing and the cleaning and more cleaning remained. But at least we were, finally, in our house.

Sweet.

Facebook

I opened a Facebook account today.

I have very mixed emotions about this decision. For years, I have avoided Facebook like I should've avoided the poison ivy at our new home. I avoided it even though just about everyone I know – family, friend, acquaintance, coworker, stranger – has an account. I avoided it despite the fact that there are 800 million regular users (800 million!) worldwide, according to Facebook.

No, I didn't avoid it because I think Facebook represents some nefarious plot by a stateless organization to take over the world or infiltrate our minds. I didn't avoid it because I'm adverse to social media. I do have a Twitter account, after all. (And, I like it.) I avoided Facebook, because, quite simply, my life is cluttered enough. It's complicated enough. I've got more going on in my life than I can keep track of, much less stay ahead. Also, I know who my friends are, and I certainly know my family. I can reach out to them in other ways.

Lastly, I have no burning desire to find out what friends of yore, long lost flames and people with whom I've had random encounters are doing.

I like things simple, more or less. Facebook makes things not simple. Therefore, I had no driving interest to join.

So, why the heck did I do it?

I've opened a professional account. It will display the stories my colleagues and I are producing describing the discoveries, findings and advances that are taking place at the University of Iowa. It is another means to communicate those stories for anyone who's interested.

You will find precious little information about me on my page. You'll find one picture – my profile pic – which is more of a tongue-in-cheek shot than anything else. You won't find pictures of my family, and you won't find dispatches of our lives. That's what this blog is for.

So, if you're interested in what I'm writing about, take a look. If you're not, then you probably won't be too interested.

But now I guess I can look up all those people I had mildly wondered about. All 800 million of them.

More Than Meets The Eye

It's 9:30, I'm tired, and it's a trying week at work and with our new house. So, I'll make this a quick one.

We've been taking the boys with us as we work on the house. And, man, there's a lot to do – far more than Michelle and I imagined. A lot of it is stuff that we did with our house in Rhode Island: tearing up carpets, removing clutter, painting trim, painting rooms, landscaping, etc. On top of that, some of the things we did in our house in Rhode Island, such as redoing walls and refinishing hardwood floors, we're not attempting to do here.

So, why is it taking so long? There are two quick answers here, neither of which we took fully into account: Bigger house and children.

Our house in Rhode Island is about 1300 square feet. Our house in Mt. Vernon is 2200, or 69 percent larger than the Rhode Island home. I guess that's supersizing, although I'd submit our home (with one bathroom, mind you) was more of a mini than a regular. Anyway, painting trim, walls, cabinets – you name it – in the new house is taking that much longer due to the fact that it is larger. Duh. Should've thought of that one.

When we bought our home in Rhody more than 8 years ago, we had no children. So, we could work anytime we needed, for as long as we needed, until the job was done. And when we worked, it was both of us (for the most part), so we covered more ground, workwise, than one person. Now, we have the two boys, and that means that usually only one of us is able to do work. Typical example: This evening. I drove to our home in Mt. Vernon all hepped up to do some work. When I got there, Michelle was knee deep in cabinet painting, so it really made no sense for her to stop and take the children to her mother's and sister's. So, I did. Of course, by the time I wrangled the children through bathtime, dinner, brushing, book reading, singing and sleep, it was 8:30 p.m., and I still had dinner to eat, shower and shave and a work email check to do. It would be pushing 10 if I had returned to the house. No sense in that.

Tomorrow will be another game of pass-the-children baton. Who takes the handoff this time?

Tune in!

Infested with Ivy

I've got a pretty good case of poison ivy.

It started two weekends ago, when I was clearing much of the overgrowth that had been choking the yard at our new home. Although I had been warned that poison ivy had been spotted to and fro, I clambered about clumsily, too intent on weeding stuff out to parse between plants.

Within a day or two, groups of mottled, red bumps dotted my arm, signaling, I assumed, that I had brushed against poison ivy. Sure, it itched a little, but really it wasn't a big deal. An annoyance, yes, but little more. I did nothing.

For a relatively closeted city slicker, I thought I was taking my lumps from nature pretty well.

A week went by, and last weekend came. I resumed my clearing of overgrowth, and this time, I took note of the poison ivy. It was everywhere, the 3-leaved shoots rising from mazes of vines that snaked along the ground, tenaciously anchored to the soil like a series of tents staked to the ground. Fascinated, I began pulling the shoots, then the vines, out of the ground. I'd pull one plug, only to discover that it was connected to another vine. And I pulled that. It was connected to yet another vine. The network of vines was so dense, so confusing, crisscrossing every which way, that I finally gave up. It was too hard to follow.

By Saturday night, I noticed some welts on my left leg, in the inner part above my knee. By Sunday, the welts had migrated to my left ankle, and a matrix of little bumps had appeared on my right arm just below the wrist. Meanwhile, the bothersome blotches on my left arm had suddenly become a lot itchier, as if they had become energized by the Red, Bad-Ass Revolution overtaking my body. By the time I went to bed, new welts had popped up on my right leg. And, they itched. All of them. A lot. I was miserable.

By Monday morning, I realized I was itchy above my left eye, under the brow line, and on the bridge of my nose. Guess what? The ivy had made a bold attack to my face. Was there any stopping the advance?

Desperate, I asked coworkers if there was some magic elixir. No, they said. But you might find temporary relief in something called Calamine. I was out the door before they could spell it.

So, as I sit here tonight, I am covered in a Calamine-like balm, trying to keep the severe itch – and the wicked temptation to scratch – at bay. I don't know how I'm going to get any sleep tonight.

Poison ivy, you have my respect.

The Rains Came (Finally)

We have been baking in the nation's heartland.

Most know this already, at least in some way. Most have read about the intense heat. But my dad and his wife excepting (who experience extreme hear in central Texas each summer), it's hard to fully appreciate how hot it has been here this summer, when you break out in a full sweat in a matter of a few paces. Most have read about the drought gripping Iowa and the agricultural belt. But it's hard to fully appreciate how dry it has been unless (again, excepting my dad and his wife, who endured an epic drought last fall) you see swaths of grass gone brown and expanses of corn fields turn from aspiring, green shoots to withered, tan stalks. It's a real eye opened, I tell you.

It just hasn't rained here.

That is, until today, when we got a real doozy of a storm.

I was at our new house, bagging all the leaves, sticks (I never knew there could be so many sticks in one place.) and yard debris. It was late morning, and humid. It had rained a little on and off for a half-hour, but considering how much we need, it was more the sky spitting in our eye than delivering anything substantive. I had started to think this would be another day of promise unfulfilled, when I looked to the west. The sky had turned green, and it grew completely still, nary a breath of air.

I knew something was coming, so I began to collect the lawn bags and take them into the garage. Within minutes, the storm hit, a freight train of thunder, lightning, wind and pounding rain. It was downright awesome in its intensity. I rushed around the yard like a fool, collecting the yard implements, then sprinting to my car to roll up the windows, then dashing into the house to close the storm windows.

Then I waited in the dark when the power went out.

Michelle, meanwhile, was at her mother's and sister's house experiencing much the same. Except while I dealt with gushing water and gusty winds, Michelle watched with some degree of horror as 70-mph winds sheared off huge limbs from the maple tree just behind the house, blew lawn chairs and jettisoned branches like javelins against the windows. It must've been a little like being in nature's war zone.

Ten minutes later, the storm belt had passed. But even in that short time, it dropped 1 1/2 inches of precious water on the soil and crops. I think we got more in our little town.

Scary? Yes, a little. But more than worth it.

Progress

Last weekend was one filled with some hard labor.

While Michelle, assisted by her sister, Rachel, lined cabinets in the kitchen, I took to landscaping the yard.

OK, let's be more truthful: I took to hacking away at the jungle that is our yard. We have a big, L-shaped plot in our fair little town. If you look at our place on Google Maps, you can make out our house – barely – but all you see is a mass of green to the north and to the west. That double lot, my friends, is ours. Currently, it's a mess, a cacophony of nature let loose to compete with itself. Someday, it'll be a lot of space for our boys to romp and roam. But for that to happen, some order needed to be restored.

So, armed with loppers and two handsaws, I got to it. It may seem against my nature (pun intended) to relish chopping down trees and clearing vegetation, but it's also sound ecology, in my book, to make way for species that are valued (to us, admittedly) and to get rid of those that are less so. So, yes, it is modification, stamping our imprint on the land, but the fact is this lot has been remade many times already, and we can create something that is good for our children, for us, and for birds, bees and other critters.

Luckily, we have a lot of really good stuff in our large yards. Two soaring evergreen trees in front. Two mature oak trees on the side and in the back. A maple tree. Blackberry bushes. Vines of grapes. A cherry tree in the back. More trees of other kinds. Some wild grasses. Nice variety. My goal, then, was not to engage in some clear cutting, but to let what we have breathe and thrive.

Here's what I was working with:

Back yard before

Back yard after

Side yard before

Side yard after

Do you see a difference? I must admit it doesn't seem as dramatic in pictures as it does in reality. The back yard looks like it's been leveled, which isn't quite accurate. Here's the back yard, as seen from the street:

You can barely see the scraped-away, newly mowed grass in the middle and back of the lot. Most of the trees in this picture will stay, which offers some measure of seclusion and a nice bit of woody diversity to the yard. We're getting there.

Mourning and Prayer

I had planned to write about all the home improvements we did this weekend and to show pictures of progress on our grounds. But that'll need to wait, for I learned today of something far more important.

The head men's basketball coach at Southwest Minnesota State lost a son in an awful head-on collision this past weekend. It's the second family tragedy to befall this family in a year.

The story is here.

I don't know Coach Bigler, but I mourn with him and his family, and my prayers are with them. It just underlines so starkly how capricious and fragile life can be, how so much is beyond our control, no matter how much we think we have it all buttoned down and figured out.

Southwest Minnesota State is in the same conference, the Northern Sun, that my brother-in-law Matt joined when he was named last week as the head coach of Minot State University in North Dakota. Matt reported on his Twitter account that he visited Bigler, and that the coach was in good spirits despite his injuries and his loss.

You can join the conversation via Twitter at #PrayforBigs.

We hope and pray for a speedy recovery.

Beaver Man

We've got a fair amount of house work to do this weekend, so I'll make this a quick one. My brother-in-law, Matt Murken, has a new job.

On Wednesday, he was named head men's basketball coach at Minot State University, in North Dakota.

The move is a wise one; MS elevated itself to NCAA Division II status this summer and entered a conference called the Northern Sun. Matt is familiar with both, from his tenure at Wayne State, in Nebraska.

Congratulations, Matt. You done good.

True to his nature, Matt played this one pretty close to the vest. Three weeks ago, he was helping me fell a big tree and didn't even mention the position. Then again, the position wasn't even open at that time. It only opened less than two weeks ago, and Matt apparently pounced on the opportunity. Good for him.

So, now he's a Beaver, and so are we.

The neat thing about this is Minot State has several games in the general area where we live, so there's a good chance I'll finally see his team play. By general, I mean within a 6-7-hour drive, which is doable, because most games are on weekends. I am really excited to watch basketball live and root hard for a team in which I'm fully invested!

So, although it sounds strange – GO BEAVERS!

Invasion of the Flower People

The title says it all: We're being invaded today by Flower People.

For weeks, Michelle's mother and sister have been preparing for this day. Each morning – often before anyone in our family has risen – they pop off into their expansive gardens for some tending. Each evening, after a day of work and following a quick dinner, they're back in the gardens, working until sundown, which can be as late 9 p.m.

Why do they do it? Well, it's to prepare for the visit by the regional day lily society, of course.

Yes, the Murken ladies are one of only four stops on this year's "Dazzling Daylilies of Cedar Valley" tour. It's a big honor to have your grounds – and the day lilies in them – to be chosen as a destination.

The club's organizers made the right choice, in my book. The Murken gardens are indeed fabulous, and that's coming from someone who could barely tell the difference between a day lily and a dandelion. The flowers are a riot of colors and all are meticulously cared for. They stand in row upon row, in plot among plot, over four acres of the Murken property. That's a lot of day lilies, folks. 700, in fact.

Here's an excerpt for how the club described the Murken garden in a brochure for the tourgoers:

"Sharon's luscious city/country garden now features cultivars from many hybridizers, with favorites from Karol Emmerich and Jack Carpenter. Keep an eye out for 'Shocking,' an orienpet lilium that provides an astonishing display among the day lilies."

I have no idea what they're talking about.

But the 50 or so people from Iowa and as far away as North Dakota who disembarked from the coach-style tour bus sure did. Around 8:30 this morning (almost an hour later than expected), they disgorged on to the Murken property and descended upon the breakfast tables that Michelle's mother and sister had prepared.

After bagels, fruit and muffins, coffee and juice, the day lillians strolled through the Murken gardens, discussing the varietals, taking close-up pictures of individual flowers and amusing themselves in general. Several took an interest in watching Nathaniel and I engage in a mock sword fight with sticks. 

About an hour later, a call went out, and the group ambled up the lane and back on to the bus, which, thankfully, did not attempt to maneuver its way fully down the meandering drive. And off the tour went to the next destination.

Another crew comes later today.

A Boy & His Boots

 

You just gotta love that photo.

Looks like our second child has entered the "Elmo Luv" phase of life.

Nathaniel loved Elmo for a long time. Elmo books, Elmo dolls, Elmo television programs, Elmo songs. If it was Elmo, it was prized. He still does love Elmo in some ways. But he never cared for the Elmo booties. Whenever we'd try to put them on him, he'd thrash around, resisting. The very few times we did get them on his feet, he'd immediately tear them off and throw them to the ground in disgust.

We figured those boots would be a dead ringer, entirely coveted by Natty Lou. But no. Isaiah, however, can't get enough of them. He points and grunts for the Elmo boots when he wakes up in the morning. He points and grunts for the Elmo boots when he wakes up from nap during the day. He points and grunts for the Elmo boots at night. He wants them on his little, chubby feet, all the time.

It will be interesting to find out whether his affection for the Elmo boots will extend to other Elmo merchandise. If it does, a lot of money is going to Elmo and his creators.

But while we may be poorer, we know Isaiah will be happy.

A Cousin Returns

A major, and I mean, major, reason why we moved to Iowa was to be closer to at least one side of our families. While most of my family is spread out, Michelle's family is geographically pretty close together. That meant Iowa.

We knew this move would be good for our children – and for us. In fewer than three months, Nathaniel and Isaiah have been to Grandma's several times now, they've seen their uncle Matt at least three times, and they see their Mimi and Aunt Rachel daily, as we're living with them while our new house gets made habitable.

Tonight, our boys will see their cousin again, too.

Nathaniel and Isaiah have three older cousins courtesy of my sister and their Uncle Rob. My sister had children earlier, and I had mine later, so there is a significant age gap. Amazingly, despite differences in age and many other things, my sister's children are wonderful around Nathaniel and Isaiah and even seem to like being with them. Soon, though, they will have better things to do. I understand that.

The cousin who arrives tonight is right in the middle, age-wise, to our two boys. Her name is Kenley, and they've all gotten to know each other quite well. Barring any unforeseen developments, they will see each other regularly. They will grow up together. Their bonds will strengthen. I expect they will become quite close, like best friends.

Kenley and her parents – Michelle's brother Ryan and sister-in-law Jonie – live in Nebraska. State next door. We've seen them three times already, I think, and this visit will be the fourth. The last time we got together, we all went to the zoo in Omaha and spent the night in Lincoln. While I attended a conference, Michelle and the boys returned to Ryan, Jonie and Kenley's home, and the cousins palled around even more.

Nathaniel and Kenley at the Omaha Zoo

Isaiah and Kenley at the Hastings children's museum

The time before that, we traveled to their home to celebrate Kenley's second birthday. One of my fondest memories from that weekend was watching Kenley and Nathaniel sitting at a children's picnic table, jabbering away at each other as they socked down hamburgers and fruit. They looked like old friends, catching up.

Maybe they are. But surely they are making memories and solidifying a familial bond.

Beginning tomorrow, there will be more of that.

A Day with Daddy

Ever since we arrived in Iowa, and that was about 2 1/2 months ago, Michelle has been with the boys 24/7. It's enough to wear out the sturdiest, most constitutionally strong individual.

Despite generous support from her mother and sister, Michelle is at wit's end most days when I return from work. She's a little less patient with the children, her voice is a little more shrill, and she has a bit of a feral look in her eyes. I should know what I'm describing, because I've been there, too.

In short, like any caring, conscientious parent, Michelle needs a break from time to time. But with our lives a bit dysfunctional with a new house that needs fixing and living with her family in the interim, it's been hard to get that respite.

I wish I could say that I had this great idea to give her some relief. But the fact is one Sunday about a month ago, relief was pretty much thrown at me. Michelle needed her time, and that meant I needed to find some time with the boys, by myself.

I like being with my children. I like it a lot. But I admit I don't jump at the opportunity to watch over them for a day, because it's hard to keep them occupied for that long. Necessity, meet desperation. Desperation, meet creative thinking. Creative thinking, meet Grandma.

Grandma is what we did my first time (in Iowa, that is) of full-day watching. I packed those kids in the car, and off we went to Grandma's farm, about an hour away. Going to Grandma's serves two purposes: One is instant assistance with the boys, and from someone who adores the little buggers, to boot. Two, is there is always yummy food, and plenty of it. Fat, happy and assisted. What's not to like?

The second time daddy day care occurred, I took the boys to Davenport. The main impetus, I sheepishly admit, is I read that the local Chick Fil-A had a 50s-themed party, and there'd be ice cream and activities. I'll take a serving of planned activities, please. After that, I had only a vague idea what we'd do and still most of the day lay ahead of me. Thankfully, there is a fair amount to do in Davenport. We went to a dinosaur museum with an Imax theater, where we watched a documentary (with scientists!) about tornadoes. (I got to eat popcorn, thus making my day complete.) Then, we went t the city's botanical gardens, which, to me, seemed more like a park, albeit a very nice one. The children swung, ran and played, and we even witnessed a wedding at a giant fountain. Despite the random planning, this, too, was a good day.

The third Sunday I had the children, we had bought our home in Mt. Vernon. That meant we had closed, and thus were poor. So, the activities remained local. I took the boys to a playground, we tromped around downtown, ordered a Hawaiian pizza and lemonade and walked around the Cornell College campus, where the boys made piles of leaves and picked up sticks (bless them in their simplicity). Before I knew it, five hours had passed by the time we walked to the house.

Last weekend, I went for the big enchilada. For some time, I've been intrigued by Palisades Kepler, a state park just four miles from Mt. V. Would it have real natural beauty or would it be more of an exaggerated preserve? We are in Iowa, after all, and – nothing against my adopted state – but I really wasn't sure what I'd get.

We got ready to go. Water? Check. Fruit for a snack? Check. Sunscreen? Check. Baby backpack? Check. Shoes, not flip flops? Check. Children? Check.

Then, I got a little ambitious. Hot dog buns, hot dogs, charcoal briquettes, Gatorade, yogurt. Packed.

We were ready to meet Mr. Kepler.

Kepler State Park is beautiful. Quite. You enter on a narrow road amidst a dense thicket of trees, the canopies shading the road. Soon, you are winding around, a peaceful forest surrounding you. There are hiking trails left and right, camp sites, picnic areas, meadows, gorges. The road ends as it snakes along the Cedar River, and that's where we alighted. I loaded Isaiah into the backpack and off we went on a hike. Nathaniel immediately picked up some sticks, waving them around like light sabres, reflecting his current obsession with Star Wars. The trail hugged a rise along the river, opening up gorgeous views of the lazily flowing waters, with 40-foot bluffs as the backdrop on the opposite bank. A couple drifted in a boat, fishing. A boy walked on the bank with his dog. The birds chirped. The trees swayed in the breeze. Peaceful.

We all enjoyed our little hike, returned to our site and feasted on hot dogs, blueberries and Gatorade. After we ate, the boys ran around in the grass, and Nathaniel searched for Nicholas the bunny, from the Richard Scarry book, wondering aloud why he had failed to join us for lunch.

Hot yet happy, we returned home, and I put the boys down for a nap. I thought about how much fun we'd had, and how simple it all was – and how fulfilling. Truly, I can't wait when the boys are a little older, and I can take them camping.

At Kepler, of course.

"Act Like A Grownup"

The last couple of posts have been pretty heavy, so let's go a little lighter here.

This evening, I was playing with Isaiah, mildly play wrestling with him on the floor – one of my favorite things to do with the boys. As we rolled around, I'd grab a foot, smell the underside, and then say "Stinky!" Isaiah would giggle, roll, and proffer another foot.

Nathaniel, busily eating dessert, chimed in with something or other. So, I began teasing him, telling that his feet were stinky, too. He vigorously protested my assertion, which egged me on to do it more.

"Stinky Feet Tanny!" I began calling him.

Protests from Nathaniel.

"Stinky Feet Tanny!" I said again. And again.

Natty Lou was getting more and more upset. And, me, ever the child, couldn't stop.

Finally, Nathaniel sighed and said firmly, "Daddy, you're being a baby." He paused, then added, almost under his breath, "Act like a grownup."

Indeed.

The Heat Returns

Here in Iowa, we just emerged from an 8-day stretch when the daytime temperatures exceeded 95 degrees each day. The heat index on several of those days topped 100, easy. It was damn hot.


The sizzler broke last week, and temperatures regressed to seasonal averages of mid-80s for a few days. It felt downright refreshing.


That respite has ended. Today, the heat has returned, and it will be with us for at least a few days. Temps will reach the high 90s, according to the National Weather Service, and with a southerly wind bringing moisture from the Gulf of Mexico, the heat index on those days almost surely will be north of 100º. Again.


Iowa gets hot in the summer, of that there is no doubt. And it's not unusual for the thermometer to register in the 90s – or even the high 90s. But generally that occurs in August, Iowans tell me, and it's a wave or two, and that's it. Already, though, we had a prolonged heat wave that began in June and now one that's ripening this month.


I think about the onset of heat, the drought in Iowa – on pace to be the worst in more than two decades, the epic drought in Texas last year, the wildfires ravaging New Mexico, Colorado, California and other areas of the western U.S., and I wonder how anyone – and I mean anyone – doubts global warming.


At this point, you just have to be plain ignorant to disbelieve that our country is baking, and that we have put her in the oven. I'm tired of listening to folks who willfully ignore evidence, as if they were grade-school children afraid of getting cooties.


The facts, please:


• The average temperature across the contiguous United States for the first six months of this year has been the warmest on record — and by a considerable sum — dating back to 1895, according to a monthly report released Monday by NOAA’s National Climatic Data Center.


• The past 12 months (July 2011 to June 2012 ) have been the warmest on record for the mainland United States, according to NOAA. During that period, the nation averaged a temperature of 56.0 degrees, 3.2 degrees higher than the long-term average. According to the report, every single state in the contiguous US except for Washington saw warmer-than-average temperatures during this time period.


• This decade, and the decade prior (meaning the entire 21st century) has been the hottest decades in the instrumental temperature record. From NOAA: "Including 2011, all eleven years of the 21st century so far (2001-2011) rank among the 13 warmest in the 132-year period of record. Only one year during the 20th century, 1998, was warmer than 2011."


Now, we know that climate is about trends, over longish time spans, whereas weather is tracking what happens day to day, or week to week. Weather, in other words, is a subset of climate, a blink of an eye compared to a night's sleep. And while the points above don't necessarily prove the U.S. is getting hotter, it and the other accumulating phenomena do show the trend is going that way, and that the probability for extraordinary happenings – be they floods, drought, heat, tornadoes, hurricanes, ice melting on glaciers and in the Arctic, etc. – is increasing. Unfortunately, this falls right in line with what climate scientists have forecast. And it will get worse, their models show.


If that doesn't grab you, then let's just consider the basic science and go from there:

We know there are a host of natural variables that have influenced the Earth's climate since the planet's formation. As you may know, these include: changes in the Earth's orbit around the sun, the tilt of its axis, its "wobble," the intensity of the sun, the amount of CO2 in the oceans and/or the atmosphere, volcanic eruptions, impacts from meteors, global wind patterns, circulation in the ocean, regional phenomena such as El Nino and La Nina, etc. The effects of some variables are pretty well known; the effects of others not so. Climate scientists also are studying how each variable works, and how (or whether) they work in tandem is still being studied. The bottom line is the Earth's climate is incredibly complex and mysterious. There is a lot to learn.


That said, there is a lot that we do know. Climate scientists have been able to tease out the most pronounced natural variables that influence the Earth's climate with great clarity. Those biggies include the effects of eccentricity, precession, axial tilt and the sun's intensity. For example, the advent of Ice Ages that you reference (and relatively warm periods between them called interglacials) are caused primarily by the Milankovitch cycle, which is governed by some of these processes I cited earlier in this paragraph. The elevated CO2 that marked the dinosaurs' reign (and other periods in the Earth's history) were caused by natural factors, such as volcanism or a meteor impact.
These natural variables continue to influence our planet's climate, no question. And the scientific models take all of them into account. The reason why they are predictive models, and not fool-proof analyses, is that we don't know fully the extent that these variables influence climate. But the models are getting better, and thus, more accurate at predicting changes. In fact, they have accurately predicted the warming that we are seeing in the Arctic, the drought that is frying the American Southwest, etc.


What none of the models can account for is that natural variables alone have caused the changes to climate that we have witnessed since the Industrial Revolution and that we are seeing today. And that's where the rubber meets the road. Something else is causing these changes, beyond the natural influences. And that something is us. It's our burning of fossil fuels that is increasing the concentration of CO2 in the atmosphere. CO2, as I am sure you know, warms the air. That fact is indisputable. And that's a good thing, for without CO2 and other greenhouse gases, our little planet would be far too cold to support human life. But there's such a thing as too much of a good thing, and that's what is happening now. We have put our planet in the oven and are slowly baking it.


The cost of ignoring global warming and our role in it has become too high to deny any longer. The cost of doing nothing to prevent drastic changes to our planet's climate has become too high to stand idle. Even if all those climate scientists and all those models are wrong, wouldn't you feel better if we did something in the face of what appears to be a calamity on the horizon than if we did nothing?


Well, wouldn't you?

Neighbors

We didn't expect much from today, but we ended up getting a whole lot.

This weekend is Heritage Days in our newly adopted town, Mount Vernon. It's the biggest event of the year. The main street is cordoned off for several blocks, and the festival is marked with music, a carnival, various activities for children and a parade. As newcomers, we are more fixated on our house than goings on in town. Those times will come later. So, we started our day moving a carload of belongings to the house. As we were standing in our yard mulling what to do next, a next-door neighbor came by and introduced herself. And her next-door neighbor came over, too. And then a family of four, our other next-door neighbor, stopped by. Soon, we had 10 people standing around, introducing themselves and chitchatting about life in our town.

One of our neighbors loaned us their stroller, so we could stuff the ever-hefty Isaiah, instead of carrying him downtown to all the fun. Other offered to watch our children whenever we needed to work on the house. And they said come on over whenever the children want to cool off. (We have no central A/C for now. It's pretty much a requirement here; window units don't cut it.)

Later, as I was sweeping the front porch, our neighbor from across the street stopped by and invited us to a lawn party they were having.

And this is where it gets more interesting.

That party was to start at 4:30. About an hour before, Michelle had taken Isaiah home to put him down for a much-needed nap. Nathaniel stayed with me. Around 4:30 I asked Nathaniel whether he wanted to go across the street to the party (with a bouncy house, a major draw) or walk to the petting zoo. To my mild surprise, he chose the petting zoo, so away he went. He went, he saw, he petted, he played, he ran, he tired. And we walked home.

Surprisingly, Natty Lou was holding it together quite nicely. He was tired, to be sure, but he wasn't spazzy or anything, so we decided to cross the street to our neighbor's party. In less than a minute, Nathaniel was gone, deep into bouncy house rapture and making new friends. I sat down with neighbors for a nice chat. At some point, Jeff, the host, came by and asked us if we were hungry. I figured I should get some chow in my little boy's tummy, so I followed him to the porch. He offered me a tour of the house, and I accepted. As we walked upstairs, Jeff saw some friends, said hello, and told them to make their way down and our of the house. He then turned me, and nonchalantly said,

"I'm going to propose to my girlfriend this evening."

I looked at him, mouth agape. It took a few beats for it to sink in.

"Well, why are we standing here, you giving me a tour," I finally said. "Let's get out of here!"

And so he did, and we did. And, within minutes of us exiting the house, Jeff was on one knee, proposing to Sara.

You don't get that every day.

Not from friends. And certainly not from new neighbors.

Big, Bad Banks

If you ever had faith in big banks, my guess is that your belief has been shaken. At least it should be.

There are three stories about big banks in today's news. And each is about deception, greed and selfishness.

Let's start with JP Morgan. That big, bad bank has been caught in a cover up to hide risky activity by its traders. Traders playing with other people's money. Traders with no regard for the people whose money they were entrusted to handle safely. Money that at least some clients  had earned and planned would carry them into retirement, home payments, children's education and financial security generally. JP Morgan has no idea how much of its clients' money it has lost; the latest estimates are $7 billion.

$7 billion. That's 70,000 clients investing $100,000. Or 35,000 clients investing $200,000. Either way, it's a lot of people whose money has been lost.

On to Barclays. That big, bad bank attempted to manipulate the cushy loan rates that bank use to lend to each other, known as the London Interbank Offered Rate, or LIBOR. Now, that sounds pretty innocuous, like one bank trying to con the others. Like someone conning his family and friends. But make no mistake: This is price fixing and market manipulation, and we all pay a price for such misdeeds – such as through big, bad banks passing on their losses to others (i.e. consumers). And, if Barclays tries to con its kin, how do you think it regards regular people?

Saving the best for the last: All of the big banks. Today, I read that big banks are reinvigorating their efforts to foreclose on homeowners who have fallen behind on their loans. According to an Associated Press story, "The increase in foreclosure starts comes as banks make up for time lost last year as the mortgage-lending industry grappled with allegations that it had processed foreclosures without verifying documents."

In other words, banks are redoubling their efforts to throw the very people out of their homes to whom they extended easy credit and for whom they failed to examine their ability to pay for the credit extended to them, and for whom they tried already to kick out of their homes illegally. Banks are making homeowners the scapegoats for their own giddy, greedy, reckless pursuit of money. It's like someone robbing a store and then getting paid for the heist, rather than thrown in jail.

And you wonder why we remain in the mess that we're in.

I don't wonder at all. I have no doubt. It's those big, bad banks.

And yet they still get away with it.

Lovely town, Mount Vernon.

Last weekend was one filled with some hard work, as we try to get our new home in move-in and livable condition. Unlike our home in Bristol, we are getting others to do some of the major projects for us, such as refinishing floors and walls. It's a combination of "been there, done that" and having two little children who make it hard to carve out the time to do the work.

Or, maybe we're a little lazier.

Other jobs are beyond our scope: Installing central A/C (a prerequisite in Iowa, where we just endured an 8-day spell of temps above 95º), adding to the electrical system and installing a system to rid the home of a mysterious, possible cancer-causing called radon that is prevalent in Iowa and few other places.

But we have cut down some trees, including one pretty big one. And that's what this post will be about, despite my lede.

On to that tree: We believe it was a red cedar tree, a 25- to 30-footer that had the unfortunate plight of having grown right next to our front porch. So, it was brushing right up against our house. Worse, it was dwarfed by a fir tree that is easily 100-feet tall. a real monster, that one. I call it "Pisa," because it leans, it's stately, and it's clearly pretty old.

Anyway, the yew tree needed to go, and Michelle's brother, Matt, and I decided to do it ourselves.

Just call us the lumberjacks.

Last Friday, after I got off work, Matt and I got to work. Matt roped a loop about a third of the way up the tree and we hooked the other end of the rope to the back of a pickup truck. Then we broke out the chainsaw and went to town. The base of the tree is about 11/2 feet to 2 feet thick, and yet we thought we'd fell it in no time. We cut a notch and then sliced away at the sides, expecting the tree to weaken quickly and be ready to go down.

We started at 5:30 p.m. 6:30, 7:30, 8:30. The tree remained upright. In fact, it showed no sign of budging. It was getting dark, and we were starting to wonder whether we'd have to leave it there and take our chances. Meanwhile, the neighborhood had taken quite a bit of interest in our labors. Some walked nearby, pretending to be on a regular evening stroll. Others simply stood in their lawns and gaped. One man rode by in a canary yellow vintage car and asked us, in no mean spirit, what company were we from.

"Brother & Brother," I replied.

He didn't seem amused.

Neither did the neighbors. Not only were we subjecting them to the whine of the chainsaw in the middle of the evening, but there was morbid fascination coursing through the hood that these yahoos from Rhode Island just may cause a tree to fall on that house they just bought.

I must admit that thought crossed my mind, too.

But we were too deep to turn back. So, we mounted one final push. Matt sawed, and I gunned the pickup truck, getting that rope as taut as possible without snapping it. Suddenly, the tree moved, like a slipped disk in your back. Matt sawed again, and I pulled the rope taut again. It slipped again. Another saw and snap! that baby crashed to the ground, right where we had planned (and hoped) it would.

Here's the result, with Iowa's newest lumberjack.

Here's the debris field from the tree.

And a gratuitous shot of me.

Now, we have designs on that 100-footer.

We're not that crazy!

I guess Independence Day is as good a time as any to restart blogging. Freedom, liberty and the inalienable right to jot down thoughts.


And I've got a lot of them, for there have been a ton of changes for myself and our family.


For one, you may notice the heading for this blog has changed. That's because my job has changed, as well as the location. 


To be brief (since all family knows this already): We live in Iowa, and I am coordinating research coverage and communications for the University of Iowa in Iowa City. More on all this another time.


We have a new home. We will live in Mt. Vernon, a college town of about 4,500 that reminds us very much of Bristol, the beautiful, bayside Rhode Island town from which we moved. Granted, Mt. V. doesn't have the water, but it's eminently livable, with a small, viable, cozy downtown within blocks of our house. It is home to Cornell College, a well-regarded higher-education institution plopped on a hill. Its campus is just three blocks from our new home. For us, it's such a huge quality of life benefit to be able to walk to so many places – from the college to town hall to the library to the coffee shop. We are eager to make Mt. V. our home – we hope for a very long time.


Our house is an 1895 Victorian, like a grand old painting that's been left neglected in a closet. In other words, it has beauty, but it will take some restoration for its original grandeur to be revealed. Even more simply, it's a fixer upper, from the floors to the screened back porch and the overgrown yard. 


I sort of swore to myself that after extensively renovating our home in Bristol, built in 1900, that I wouldn't entertain such work again, especially with two young boys in tow. But when Michelle and I saw this place, and toured the town, we decided to go for it, restoration and all. 


I will save my groans for another time.


Another thing that will take some acclimatization is the weather. For days on end, the temperature has been in the 90s, hot and humid. The heat index today, tomorrow and Friday is around 107 degrees. It's oppressive, it's awful, it sucks the life out of you. Which brings me full circle to July 4th. Normally, we would be lining a street in fair Bristol, taking in the nation's longest running July 4th parade and ensconcing ourselves at our very good friends, the St. Angelos, eating stuffies, having some drinks and laughs and watching home-fired fireworks. We miss that, and we miss our friends.


We hope to make some new ones in our new town. 

Jimmies Rule!

A shout out to my brother-in-law Matt, a men's basketball coach at Jamestown College.

To Rhode Islanders, ask them about "jimmies," and they'd tell you those are the sprinkles that go on cupcakes or ice cream. But to Matt and the good folks at Jamestown College, being the Jimmies means you nabbed something sweeter than a confectionary add-on.

Oh, yes, these Jimmies will dance at the NAIA Div. II national tournament next month.

In just his second year as head coach, Matt has piloted Jamestown College to a 26-5 record. The Jimmies earned an automatic berth to the national tourney by prevailing in a nail-biting, 71-70 win over Dickinson State in the conference tournament semifinals last night. They play in a few minutes for the conference championship and a higher seed at the national championships.

All I can say is wow.

The other thing I can say is I love basketball, so I have the ultimate pleasure of living vicariously through Matt. I get some insights into the game, and the coaching, that I would never get otherwise. I even got to write up a scouting report! As many of you all know, I am a Duke basketball fan, a loyal rooter for my alma mater. But I must say I enjoy just as much, if not more, cheering for the Jimmies as for the Blue Devils. It's like adding another dimension when you're not only backing a team, but a team coached by someone in your family. It takes your fandom to a whole new level.

And anxiety, too, I might add. It's a good thing I don't coach (not that I would know how to do it). I'd have an ulcer five times over by now. I don't know how coaches like Matt handle the stress and endure the emotional roller coaster of having your fate tied to the performance of 18 and 19-year-olds. Of course, there's the rush of victory, and, to some coaches, the satisfaction of teaching life lessons to young men.

I'm sure it's a great ride. I'm glad I've got a front-row seat.

Thanks, Matt.

Easter Dreamin'

I was driving to church this morning with my oldest son, Nathaniel. Michelle and the younger one, Isaiah, were staying at home, because Isaiah has a cold. Welcome to February, again, the cruelest month on the calendar for parents with young children. Nathaniel has been getting over a nasty cough himself, and he was babbling to himself as we motored along.

I think I mentioned something about how on this beautiful, blessedly frigid morning, it felt like February. Finally.

"Is it winter?" Nathaniel asked.
"Yes," I replied.

"What comes after winter?"
"Spring," I answered, and then reeled off the other seasons for good measure.

"When is Easter?" Nathaniel asked.
"That's in the spring."

"I like the Easter Bunny. He brings candy."
I grunted the equivalent of a nod.

"Will he bring me candy?"
"Only if you're a good boy," I said, riffing off the Christmas theme and figuring I'd use any incentive I can find to keep him on the straight and narrow.

"Where does he live?" Nathaniel asked.
I was stumped. I thought about this for a few seconds. Then, my mind still drowsy, I said, "Easterland."

Nathaniel thought about that one for a while.
"is that near Santa?"

How do you answer that one? Well, how do you?

So, I changed the conversation.

Super Bowl bound

Those of you who read a few posts ago know I had the unbelievable fortune of attending the AFC Championship game a couple of weekends ago. I don't need to remind some in my larger family (read: Niccolinis) that the New England Patriots (the good guys) prevailed over the Baltimore Ravens (the bad guys) in a suspenseful game with a stunning finish.

I doubt I can fully describe how much doggone fun I had at the game, the first Patriots game I had ever seen in person and I think the first NFL game I had attended since watching the Oilers in a playoff game in 1991, twenty years ago.

I have heard from those more tuned than I into all things Patriots that Pats fans had grown complacent with their teams' perennial success. As if every dinner were a feast, Patriots nation had become fat and happy, and thus unable to truly appreciate the team's amazing run of success over the last decade. The fans are boring, stay glued in their seats and nary raise a roar even if the game gets tight. The novelty of winning and of success had grown worn indeed, I was told.

So, despite my excitement, I was unsure what would greet me when we pulled into the parking lot for the pre-game tailgate. My good friend, Av, who had secured a ticket for me, and I were meeting two men from his hometown in New Hampshire who had season tickets. From the moment we got out of the car, you could sense festiveness in the air. Drinks, grills, portable heaters, blow-up players, footballs flying through the air, it was one big asphalt party. We broke out two grills and feasted on sausages, peppers, lamb kabobs, grilled chicken and enough chips and dip to feed a battalion. Some brews (no numbers given here) and much food later, we made our way into the stadium.

Our seats were high in the sky – upper level, just off the end zone. I can tell you I didn't care where we were sitting; I was simply overjoyed to be there. And, judging by the others fans in our section, that feeling was amply shared. People were standing, screaming their fool lungs out.

I never sat down. Many others did the same. And the game held everyone's attention in spades. It really was that good. In the fourth quarter, I had a sinking feeling that we may lose as the Ravens began to methodically move the chains. Ray Rice was gaining 5-6 yards on first-down carries, nicely setting up play-action passes for Joe Flacco, who, after a rough first half, had found his rhythm and his confidence. Even though the Pats took the lead in the final frame, the Ravens had the momentum, and their final drive appeared destined to be a winner.

Most know what happened at the end. But let me describe what happened in the stadium as Ravens kicker Billy Cundiff lined up to kick. Most of us, dare I say all of us Patriots fans, were readying ourselves for overtime. The snap, the kick.

Silence. One beat, two beats. Silence.

Then, pandemonium.

The stadium shook as grown men and women jumped around, dancing into the arms of strangers, high-fiving friends and row neighbors and acting like a little child who received his entire wish list for Christmas. No one, and I mean no one, expected that field goal to miss. It took those two beats for everyone to realize that, by golly, the kick had sailed wide.

The Patriots had won. They were Super Bowl bound.

GO PATS!

Short and Stout

Isaiah got his latest progress report from the doctor last week. And the bottom line is he's like a teapot: Short and stout.

And, now, a digression. The teapot song, if you please:

"I'm a little teapot, short and stout/

Here is my handle, here is my spout/

When I get all steamed up, I just shout/

Tip me over and pour me out."

I can't remember lyrics to a Jimi Hendrix song, but, yes, I have had the lyrics to the teapot song seared into my mind. This is parenthood.

Back to Isaiah: His height has gone from 6th percentile to 10th percentile. His weight has gone from 55th percentile to 65th percentile.

Now you know why he call him short and stout.

We love him!

Surprise Ticket

This is going to be one short blog but with a big piece of news, at least for me.

I've got a ticket to the NFL's AFC Championship game this Sunday.

I feel like the boy Charlie who discovers he had a golden ticket to enter Willie Wonka's chocolate factory. Maybe even luckier. I mean, out of the all the fans here in New England, all those rabid Patriots fans, and I have snared a ticket to Patriots v. Ravens?

Holy cow!

I really had almost nothing to do with this. Somehow, magically, my friend Av knew some people who, equally amazingly, either have season tickets or know some others who do and aren't going to the game. They aren't going to the AFC Championship game. Go figure that.

And since Av somehow knows these people, he found out they had an extra ticket. He told me several days that it looked pretty good that he would be able to go.

Then, around lunchtime today, I get a text from him. It read:

"My man, it's Av. SHALOM! I'm going to the game on Sunday..."

I was happy for him. He adores the Pats.

The text continued, "and might be able to get you a ticket. Stay tuned."

Trust me, I stayed tuned.

No more than a half-hour later, Av calls me: "You want to go to the game?" he asks.

I should've said, "You want my first-born?" OK, I don't want to go that badly.

But pretty close.

So, there you have it. I will be at Gillette Stadium in Foxborough on Sunday afternoon, cheering lustily for the New England Patriots as they take on the hated Baltimore Ravens.

My sister, her husband, and one of their children will be sitting at home, dressed in their Ravens jerseys.

Eat your hearts out, Niccolinis!

And... GO PATS!

Oopsy Order

We have a subscription to a possible pornographic web site. Let me explain how it happened.

This morning, Nathaniel was playing in his room as Michelle put our younger son, Isaiah, down for his morning snooze. When she entered Nathaniel's room, she noticed he had her phone. She asked why.

"Lamby has an owie on her bottom," Nathaniel said, pointing to the stuffed sheep's underside (stomach), which had been stained with some kind of liquid.

Michelle inspected the stain and asked again, "But why do you have my phone?"

Nathaniel answered, "I had to get it to call Doctor Tina," referring to our pediatrician, Christina Dierolf. "But she wasn't home," he added, still clutching Michelle's cell phone.

The phone suddenly beeped, indicating an incoming text. Michelle took a look.

The message read: "Thank you for subscribing to Sprint's 'Babes Unlimited.'"

Frantically, Michelle sought to figure out what had happened, and, instead, navigated her way to the site's first offering, a picture of a provocatively posed woman.

I swear I did not put Nathaniel up to this.

Michelle called me in a panic, asking me to call Sprint and cancel the subscription. I've got to say I was a little stunned when she told me we had just begun a subscription to scantily (if at all) clad women.

Sheepishly, I made the call. You bet I made great pains to blame it on our three-year-old son.

Let's hope this is not a pattern!

Seven Years

New Year's Eve is a special time for many people. A time to close the books on the year that was (for better or worse) and throw open arms to the year that will be, hopes and dreams attendant.

For Michelle and I, New Year's Eve is also our wedding anniversary. On New Year's Eve 2004, we got married in Iowa, so it's now been seven years of matrimony. Lots of ups, a few downs, lots of joy, some tension (hello, children!), many laughs, a few tears. A wonderful voyage so far. I know this is simplistic, but I've always likened marriage to rowing a boat. You get where you want to go if you are rowing in unison. Or, you don't, and you remain mired in the same place. For most of these seven years, Michelle and I have rowed synchronously and harmoniously. I feel blessed that we are on the same page on most matters and share the same values, especially the core ones. Like others, we don't agree on everything (cleanliness, the NFL and timeliness with performing chores come immediately to mind), but we are of one mind on the things that matter most. And if we do disagree, we talk about it. Most of the time.

We sing from the same script with our children, which is vital, for obvious reasons. Uniform, consistent rules and behavior in parenting is essential to raising children who are loving, kind, giving and respectful. We try hard to be fair and balanced with our boys and to instill in them the values we think are essential for them to one day be happy, adjusted, productive and successful. At least we hope we know what we're doing.

I remember the first time I met Michelle. Actually, it was the first time I saw her. I was working at a daily newspaper in Ames, Iowa, and I had walked into the newsroom on a Saturday morning. Usually, no one is there, and I had gone in only to nab a copy of that day's paper. Instead, the general manager had someone in his office, seated, with her back to the newsroom. All I could see was this long, gorgeous red hair. Boy, did I love that hair, for the fleeting moment that I saw it.

And that was that. Or, so I thought.

Maybe a week later, the woman with the flowing red hair appeared in our newsroom, and from there, haltingly, a relationship was born. A relationship greased by nights out with newsroom friends, visits to a honky tonk-like spot with odd characters crooning country tunes and watching Iowa State games (her alma mater) in person or on TV. This was October 2000 and by the time January rolled around, I was out of there, on to the Associated Press bureau in Rhode Island. It seemed like this little romance would end there.

And then a funny thing happened. We spoke almost every night on the telephone (no cell phones yet, folks). We didn't agree to do anything of the sort when we departed. It just happened. And those chats were easy, unforced, unhurried, seamless. We visited each other about every five weeks. And our relationship, which seemed as if it would be dashed against the rocks of distance, flourished.

In June 2002, Michelle, her brother, Matt, and I drove from Iowa to Rhode Island. Michelle was moving to New England, to join me. It was major leap for her, leaving the only state she had called home, leaving her family, leaving her friends, to be with me. I'm pretty sure I didn't fully appreciate the magnitude of her decision, not how hard it must have been to decide. But I'm glad she did it!

In the spring of 2004, I proposed to her. You can read that story here (the byline is wrong, by the way). And by the end of the year, we were married.

And now it's been seven years. Wow. Two children. A home. A family. An interconnected life. A marriage. A future together.

Sweet.