Don't tall me bonito

The Skuut is dead, long live the sprint frog. Seamus’s beloved Skuut bit the dust last week. Out for our usual morning constitutional, I heard the left front strut splinter just as Seamus came off the curb onto Porter Rd. There was nothing particularly violent about this last curb vault—it was just the cumulative stress of months of vigorous riding that finally revealed the true characteristics of a cheap Shanghai knockoff masquerading as a sturdy Scandinavian steed. No matter: within minutes I was googling away, looking for the least expensive replacement, which turned out to be the spring frog, as pictured. Luckily, the frog, and not the princess, came in at the lowest bid. He has in the past claimed to like green.



The new mount is quicker and higher-strung than the old, but Seamus tamed her in an afternoon.


And once again, the future is boundless.

Oi Sim Sim Sim, Oi Não Não Não

We were graced with a visit from Uncle Sean, Aunt Minou and Dexter last week, a quick stop on their way to North Carolina. Dexter regaled us with a Haydn theme, while I played with the scale model of the Capitol that Aunt Minou and Uncle Sean had bestowed upon Booker for his birthday. Everything seemed briefly civilized.


Then Booker had a moment to show off his keyboard skills, hunting and pecking Lightning McQueen in an endless youtube search. His kinpudr taym, as he renders it, is sacred.


The next day was Booker’s birthday party, once again at Wheaton Regional Park. Seamus, tilting headlong against the towering silver maples, emerged miraculously unscathed.


Mary’s cakes, a perfection of confection, of course.


Booker no doubt wishing for Mack, the big semi from Cars. For the first time, we have become the pawns of the evil empire’s merchandising strategies. We are bombarded daily with requests from both boys for more Cars paraphernalia. The flurry of birthday gifts, including more of the expensive little vehicles than any reasonable adult would imagine to exist, assuaged this pressure only briefly.

Y., Booker’s capoeira instructor, captivated the baixinhos, and soon had them all singing “Oi sim sim sim, Oi não não não,” the most basic capoeira corrido.


Throwing a capoeira party and inviting only your friends who have never before played capoeira turns out to be a great way to pass for a martial arts prodigy.

Just Press Random Buttons

This past weekend was the annual adventure in the Poconos, formerly known to Booker as the Coconuts, now occasionally known to Henry as the Pinocchios. We grabbed Booker directly from Field Day at Rosemary Hills, where he had spent the morning testing his skills in activities such as catching a scarf fluttering in the breeze and throwing a hula hoop over an inverted chair leg, which the attending volunteer parents repeatedly advised were not a competition, but just for fun. Then they adjourned to the grassy shade, according to Booker, for milk and vanilla wipers. What happened to tug of war? In Montgomery County, not only are all the children above average, they are all winners. Only during school hours, of course—in the semi-professional world of after-school sports, competition is cutthroat and hence strenuously avoided by the Bookman.



After a long slog in the Honda V, as Seamus calls it, we descended into the golden valley of Woodloch Springs and its acres of identical condos nestled amongst fairways, bunkers, and tick-friendly rough. As tradition dictates, the centerpiece of the weekend was the birthday celebration—Booker and Dexter, the two children with the closest birthdays, dispatched the candles.



Seamus looked on with the glazed visage of one who has taken too many dunkings in the frog pool. He promptly devoured all the frosting on his slice, leaving untouched the delivery mechanism of the cake itself. Energized again, he cavorted until 10:30, surfacing occasionally from the scrum to demand at the top of his lungs yemonade and wayameyon. If these requests were not delivered, he vowed, “I will hit you and call you dummy!” Let it not be said the boy does not make good on his threats.

He was happiest in the frog pool, only occasionally frustrated by the inability of other youngsters to remove themselves from the base of the giant plastic frog-tongue slide before he came crashing down upon their necks. The nearby indoor beaver pool, with its three water cannons offering maximum opportunity for hectic crossfire, was equally thrilling. Booker held his own in both environs as well, earning cherished praise from Dexter for his grace under pressure while manning cannon number two, fighting off blackguard pirates like Charlie and Henry. The ever-mystifying game of catch was more of a challenge, as Aunt Minou’s unerring vision reveals: as the disc approaches, Seamus prepares his hands, eye on the target, while Booker holds his arms wide in what might be considered the purely aspirational approach to the game, steadfastly watching the location from which the disc was launched.


There was so much to do that Seamus was only occasionally frustrated that he could not entirely keep up with the big boys. Looking around at the toddler-safe environs of the frog pool and discovering that his brother and cousins had moved on to more sophisticated pleasures, he ran after them to the lakeside beach. At a gallop he took the stairs to the giant slide that plunges directly into the lake, chasing vainly after the gang, only to be restrained by the loving hand of Uncle Sean and delivered in a stiff pose of reluctant compliance to the parental scold.

Back at the ranch the separation was more technological than physical. Robert, Charlie and Dexter slayed villains on their DSs. Henry, skilled beyond his years in electronic wizardry, provided the solution to Dexter’s frozen screen—and many of life’s difficulties—surveying the problem, scrunching his features and pronouncing, “Just press random buttons.” Success.

The climactic moment of the weekend, at least for Seamus and me, came not long afterwards. Robert came running to the top of the stairs, fighting against his nature to muster a countenance of grave urgency, shouting, “Something really bad is happening! Seamus is caught in the sofa-bed.”

Somehow, while the other five boys romped above him, he had crawled under the sofa-bed and wormed himself inextricably into its farthest confines. Robert, of course, was the only one to hear his plaintive cries. When I arrived and peered inside the evil machine, Seamus was doing an uncanny impression of Chris Elliott’s guy under the bleachers routine, prying unsuccessfully at the springs. Once we rousted the other ruffians we were able to extract him unscathed and no doubt unedified.



All boys managed to subsist on a diet mostly of cheez-its, hot-dogs and cake. On Saturday, Booker had his first slushy, described longingly by him as “that thing that my cousins have,” and then on Sunday had his second. Lucky boy. For the short term, that is probably most memorable for him. Once that novelty wears off, I hope he’ll remember the more enduring sensations of the gathering speed, the cold plunge into the dark waters, and the exhilaration of that first breath.



Should he somehow forget, the contributions of Aunt Minou, this week’s brilliant guest photographer, will be there to remind him, and all the rest of us.

I Don’t Like Fiction

Kindergarten draws to a close not a moment too soon for Mrs. B. As you can see from the photo, she is due any week now, and will soon have her own switch her focus from twenty-five petulant, demanding creatures to one. We were lucky to get through the school year before the blessed event—without Mrs. B’s loving encouragement, kindergarten might have been a disaster, but with her it was wonderful. Booker has grown considerably under her tutelage—he can read a little, add a little, tell stories a little. The greatest change is that he now understands that his is not the only perspective on the world, and the range of experiences that realization makes possible—humor, empathy, more strategic manipulation of his parents and his little brother—is now available to him.


He has grown in other ways, of course: as you can see, he is now six feet tall and climbing. He towers over his peers in the violin group, swaying gently like a skyscraper in heavy winds as they fiddle furiously beneath him.


He still insistently carves his own path through the standards of the Suzuki songbook, always always always starting up when everyone else starts correctly down, and building successive variations from that initial divergence. But it is less noticeable now, maybe because we are halfway napping through the recital, like most of the other parents.

Probably the most significant achievement here is that standing in front of a fitfully dozing crowd and struggling through “Go Tell Aunt Rhody” is no longer an agonizing experience for Booker.



He checks it off his list, collects his cookie, and moves on. What more can one ask?

Booker has also begun to separate the world of reality and invention. We were watching Angus Lost a few weeks ago—the tale of a curious Scot terrier who escapes his yard and has a rousting adventure about town—when Booker asked, “Is this fiction?” Well, kid, generally when the pet dog talks to the goat, its fiction, but I’ll let you make the call.

Not long afterwards, he determined his preference, telling Mary at storytime, “I don’t like fiction. I like non-fiction.”

That excludes the world of toy cars, of course. But that is another story.

We Will Have a Perfect Life

Grams, post-fall, partakes of Easter Dinner with the aid of her royal scepter

Kinderstrasse comes to Bookseaboomband

How long has it been since your last confession? As Grace Paley put it in “Wants,“ explaining to her former husband why she never invited the Bertrams to dinner, “But really, if you remember: first my Father was sick that Friday. Then the children were born, then I had those Tuesday-night meetings, then the war began. Then we didn’t seem to know them anymore. But you’re right. I should have had them to dinner.”


And we should have blogged at some point in the last two months, but first this and that, and then the other.


It all started well, certainly. The Kinderstrasse crew came to visit just before Easter, and cousins gleefully reunited. Glee took on an unsettling cast in the case of Booker and Clara, who moved with ferocious speed through the phases of courtship, engagement, disillusionment and recrimination. Within an hour of Clara’s arrival, they were giggling and google-eyeing. By day two, they were holding hands and whispering secrets. By that night, they were avowing their commitment to all who cared to listen: “We will have a perfect life!” They shouted, in unison. And then one or the other would say, “And the rest is secret,” and they would walk away cackling.

The rest of us tried to go about our business as usual, but so much affection was obtrusive. Seamus, bereft of his usual target for sneak attacks and easy provocation, was inconsolable, until he realized that Ava was the keeper of the key to all wisdom and joy, and became her groupie. To our relief, Ava tolerated and humored this adoration.




As in a Shakespearean comedy, multiple storylines of impulsively blooming youth unfolded against a verdant backdrop on our outing to the National Arboretum. We elders blundered along blearily like Dogberry and Verges, content to be minor characters, if not necessarily buffoons.

Grams’s arrival the next day promised to restore some order to the kingdom, and we feted her with viands and garlands. But things took a turn for the worse on the next grand day out: there in the shadow of the Washington Monument, fresh from a picnic of sopresatta and strawberries, crossing 15th street with a grandchild on either arm, Grams caught a heel on the curb and took a tumble. She ended up in GW Hospital with two shattered elbows, a condition that she insisted on treating as a minor inconvenience on an otherwise delightful trip, not to be spoiled by a mere four-day spell in hospital.


The rest of us were not always such good soldiers. Tempers frayed on the home front, and Booker snapped at Clara for interrupting him, baring his teeth and shouting with such sudden ire that tears sprang instantly from her eyes as if from a garden sprinkler. It is always sad to watch the end of an affair, even when it comes as no surprise and something of a relief.

The Kinderstrasse crew, their wisdom imparted—at least as much as we had the capacity to absorb—packed their bags and headed west, to be sorely missed. Aunt Layne arrived soon afterwards to help see Grams through the most fragile days. I know that they say double elbow-surgery is really no big deal these days, but you’d be surprised how it can crimp your style. Grams rose to the occasion, keeping a firm grasp on civilization with the assistance of the extra long-handled utensils fashioned by Big John before his departure.






And then before you knew it, Grams and Aunt Layne were gone, also, to be equally sorely missed, and we stumbled back into the everyday routine of brotherly bonding, a process known to require liberal doses of mutual antagonism.


It would be easier if Seamus were not such a pigsqueak, according to Booker, and if Booker were not such a dummyhead, according to Seamus. But then, we are all dummyheads now, especially at three in the morning, when Mommy is an old dummyhead, and Daddy is an old dummyhead, and bed itself, especially, is very dummy.

Batten the hatches when Hurricane Seamus is coming. We’ve considered it a wise investment to make sure Booker continues the capoeira, so he can defend himself. His batizado was the social event of the season, with a packed house on hand to watch Booker, aka Labrador, display his skills in the ring. For his efforts, Labrador moved up from the ivory belt to the ivory belt with bright orange tassels, which he gazed upon wide-eyed for the remainder of the day.


Luckily, they did not, as Booker feared, have signed seats, so we were able to alternate attendance at the capoeira marathon with shifts in the playground outside, where Seamus vented his frustration at being excluded from the ceremonies by swinging maniacally on the monkey bars.
Seamus had his own moment in the spotlight a few weeks later, at his graduation from pre-pre-pre K. The main event was a teddy-bear parade, in which each three-year old lovingly placed a favorite plush toy in a box and then towed it around the Great Hall by a string. According to Mary, the other tots strode upon the boards with the well-trained self-assurance of Miss Venezuela contestants. Seamus, after leaving a puzzling gap in the parade, wandered aimlessly about for a few moments, one hand towing his stuffed dolphin, the other holding his crotch. Appearing to take notice of his audience for the first time, he then turned to the crowd, removed his hand from his fly and—before Mary could breathe a sigh of relief—promptly stuck his finger up his nose.


But that was all so long ago. Summer is now here, and we seized the last day before the annual plague of mosquitoes descended upon Silver Spring to host an unforgettable churrasco, so we can pretend we are not yet entirely consigned to the wings.


There is no doubt who is now center-stage, is there? I had a dream last night that I was watching over Seamus in a twelfth-story apartment with a sliding-glass door leading to a railing-less balcony. Seamus stepped on something sharp, started to cry and ran towards the balcony. As I ran after him screaming stop, stop, he hurtled through the door, across the balcony and over the edge. I ran after him, vowing not to stop, and took the plunge. I landed on the soft cushions of the balcony one story below, where Seamus lolled about laughing. He then insisted on doing the same thing over and over, and I thought, does anyone else’s kid do this?

The young prince tyrant plots his next move. And the rest is a secret.

Cue the Mice

Seamus awoke howling in the early morning hours this past Thursday, but not for the usual reason. Usually it is because Mini Tooper has fallen from his clutches in his sleep. This time it was because his cracking toes were throbbing painfully. He had been wearing his green, frog-face rainboots most of the previous week (see Suburban Cowboys, below), usually without socks. He insisted, we caved. They are the only footwear he can get on and keep on by himself. Like so many things about parenting, it seemed like a good idea at the time—or at least a reasonable way to avoid hysteria. By Wednesday this haphazard cobbling had taken its toll. The poor boy had taken up lame, and uncomfortably so. Only when Mary took him to the doctor on Saturday did we discover—to our chagrin but not to our surprise—that this was not merely chafing, but raging athlete’s foot.

Not that she took him to the doctor because his toes hurt. No, that was for the double-ear infection. Earlier in the week, a different doctor had confirmed for us that Seamus is allergic to cats and dust mites. And so it was that following Saturday’s doctor’s visit, Mary reported to the pharmacy for a shopping spree, coming home with unguents, potions and vapors to treat him head to toe. It is fair to say that Seamus is a mess.

The mystery is how a boy can appear so robust and yet suffer so many maladies, or perhaps it is how he can require so many prescriptions despite his evident vigor . We are chalking it up to false spring—several times in the past six weeks we have had a day or two of warmth followed by a week of cold rain. It raises bodily expectations subsequently thwarted.

Booker has held up relatively well. If it weren’t for the faint clownish rash around his mouth—the result of a recently acquired nervous habit of licking his chops—you wouldn’t know he has been sniffling all winter.

In any case, the cherry blossoms have blossomed, so maybe the real thing is upon us, and we are on the road to Wellville at last.

As for Junie, she is gone. Jussara picked her up yesterday and carted her away to her new home in distant Crofton. So long, kitty. We’ll miss you. Exit cat. Cue the mice, stage left.

Suburban Cowboys

Kid Blondie rides into town....

The Sheriff in these here parts.

Guess you ride pretty good, Kid, but you’ll have to shake the dust off them boots to catch my shadow....

The Posse rides again.

Saddle up, pardner. Our work here is done.