POTY Time

I have received several inquiries from readers as to the outcome of the race on CloudEight for the coveted Parent of the Year (POTY) award, timely reminders that it is high time for our annual award ceremony. For newer readers, the POTY is an award bestowed each year in our house since we embarked on our childrearing adventures. For those of you keeping score at home, Deanna has won three of the previous five contests (with the help, I might add, of an “automatic” victory rule for the two years she actually gave birth – a rule I wisely never choose to argue with). I was able to bring home the hardware in 2004 and last year, in a surprise win, the award went to Suzy the nanny. Returning to the winner’s circle this year, for the fourth time in six years, is none other than our very own Deanna. The trophy this year, for those who are curious, is a model of a puking child fashioned from scraps of old soap.

While I was solid throughout the year, Deanna was, in a word (or non-word, depending on how hung up on proper grammar and English you are), solider. She also had some game-changing moments. Long-concerned about the twins’ nighttime reliance on pacifiers, for example, she decided one summer weekend that we needed to suck it up (pun-intended) and make them go cold poult. It worked, and their lips have not graced rubber since (random chewing on hot wheels tires notwithstanding). And, frankly, it wasn’t even the weekend long hysterical-cry-fest I had anticipated and dreaded.

A more telling example occurred in mid-summer: Owen was in the middle of a four week run of every day swim lessons when he was unexpectedly promoted from Level 1 (populated by those at risk of drowning in a ½ inch-deep puddle) to Level 2 (populated by those with a 50% chance of survival if tossed into two feet of water despite being almost four feet tall). He was upset at leaving his beloved teacher, Ms. Colleen, as well as his little compatriots down at the shallow end, and being made to engage in life-risking behaviors such as putting his face in the water. There was crying and uncooperative behavior.

The next day found him back at Level 1. His grandparents, who had dropped him off, witnessed some disturbing behavior during the lesson: a fairly obvious lack of effort in an attempt to stay at the relative safety of Level 1 (I was working on some good swimming stuff here using “dog(paddl)ing it” and “throwing in the towel” but have given up and am moving on). That night, Deanna and I, advised of this behavior, sat him down for a little heart to heart. Before I could even start, Deanna launched into a firm, persistent but caring monologue to him about our expectations of him and the fact that a lack of effort was unacceptable. Those words don’t due it justice really - she had just the right touch and you could see the lesson seeping into what sometimes seems like the impenetrable skull of our little five-year-old. It was just a damn fine bit of parenting, the likes of which one doesn’t see every day. I sat by amazed and largely silent (other than the occasional shout of “Amen” following particular good turns of phrase). Damned if he didn’t go out and nail the “Swimmer of the Day” award at class the very next day. And, as summer wound its way on, his swimming progressed by l(e)aps and bounds. Simply brilliant.

So how does one compete with masterful parenting flourishes like that? There were really only two chances for me at that point. One was to single-handedly potty-train the twins. While I did actually focus on this for awhile, they seemed only vaguely interested, and in the end they simply weren’t ready.

The second was for Deanna to falter - to fall off the beam, to put it into Olympic terms in what was an Olympic year – but who wants to win like that in a parenting competition. While Deanna generously tried to give me a fighting chance by dropping Cooper on his head several days before the end of the year, a fact appreciated by me if not by Cooper, it was simply too little, too late.

So, while our annual POTY competition here on CloudEight is fierce, and the kids always willing to present new and exciting challenges to our parenting abilities, I, for one, am proud to be co-parenting with our household's four-time champion. Winter hats off to you, Sunny D! And now, on to this years competition...

Hot Time in Chicago - That Toddler Town

Deanna and Owen are thawing out in Florida for a few days with her parents, leaving the twins and I to fend for ourselves in this subzero meat locker of a city we call home.

While others may have seen this as unfair or depressing, the twins saw it simply as an opportunity to host that all night "Go Fish" party and tournament they are always scheming to have but that Deanna would never let them do, what with their 8 p.m. bedtimes and all. I can be a bit of a soft touch, and soon enough on Saturday afternoon both boys were making some calls to their little friends on their plastic Mickey Mouse cellphones and sending text messages that to me all looked like "psihPPP7&^$plmmmmm," but which is apparently toddler for "game on" as it was not long before a rowdy bunch of two-somethings was gathered in the basement. The buy-in was sixteen cheerios, a wheel from a hot wheels car, and "something shiny." Beverages of choice were non-alcoholic jello shots and whole milk shooters.

A couple of hours in, hunger descended on the crowd, the plastic cellphones came out again, and next thing I knew, a delivery guy was at the door with the entire contents of the kids menu from the local Mexican place. Not too much later, a fight broke out - there was pushing and nonsensical yelling ("Bubblebutt!" "Bad boy!" "No you bad boy!") - followed by all of the participants and non-participants converging on me for a mass tattle. Having dispensed some of my judge-like justice in the form of timeouts for the main offenders, I returned upstairs to find some female toddlers had arrived - those damn plastic cellphones again, how the hell were they doing this?!? As the responsible parent present, I was initially concerned that a game of strip "Old Maid" might be in the offing, but was comforted by the fact that none of the attendees possessed the manually dexterity to actually remove all of their own clothes.

Instead, it turned into a crazy toddler rave, with some three year old kid wearing sunglasses spinning Ralph's World and Dan Zanes tunes until the pacifier-sucking crowd on the floor was worked up into a well-past-bedtime frenzy. The endless loop of Baby Einstein, Teletubbies and BooBah videos running on the large screen TV in the background lent the scene a surreal quality. As the only adult present, I was for all intents and purposes the bathroom as well, as most of our guests were not potty-trained. The line for diaper changes snaked around the corner into the hallway at times and there was loud complaining when we ran out of wipes. From there, the evening could only go one place: karaoke. Let me just say you haven't lived until you have heard a band of tone-deaf, sugared-up two-year-olds massacre the lyrics to Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star and the Alphabet Song at 10:00 p.m. on a crazy Saturday night.

With the crowd collapsed into fits of giggles, I knew it was time to send everyone packing. I made a round of calls to what turned out to be largely surprised parents who had assumed their little bundles of joy were tucked safely in their cribs. By 11 p.m. - the toddler definition of staying up all nite by the way - I had cleared the house of all but my two little troublemakers. After confiscating the plastic phones - as well as the plastic keys to their Step 2 foot-powered cars, just to be on the safe side - it was off to bed for all of us.

Twenty four hours later, most of it spent cleaning up - I swear I will be finding half-filled sippy cups of congealed milk until Spring - I am still exhausted and just now finally able to muster the energy to write this.

Holiday Leftovers

Hope everyone had great holidays. Here are six snapshots of life on CloudEight in the weeks since I last posted. Cheers!

On Christmas morning, while waiting for the twins to wake up before going downstairs, Owen was excitedly reciting to Deanna and me a litany of items he expected to find that Santa had brought. Having spoken to Santa only hours earlier, I had some inside knowledge and was somewhat alarmed that Owen’s expectations far–exceeded what Santa had actually deposited downstairs. In an effort to manage the situation, I explained to Owen that it had been my experience as a child that Santa usually only brought one or two of the things I had asked for. Owen mulled this over for a moment, looked at me sympathetically and said “That’s too bad for you” before continuing on with his expansive list.

We have a crèche Advent Calendar - a magnetic manger scene that is empty on November 30 but gradually fills up during December as each day, another magnetic member of the manger scene is taken out of the numbered boxes surrounding the scene and added to the manger. Owen was super-excited about this from Day 1, although it probably seems to a kid in those interminable waiting weeks before Christmas that almost every box opened on the 1st through 18th is either a star or a sheep, with only the occasional shepard, cow or inn-keeper to break the monotony. Finally, in the last crazy pre-Christmas week, the big stars of the show like kings, Mary, Joseph, etc. finally appear in the mix. By December 23, the scene was complete except for Jesus, causing Owen to leap out of bed on Christmas Eve morning with the cheerily urgent statement: “I need to get Jesus out of his box."

Cooper sneezed in the car the other day, causing a flood of snot to accumulate on his upper lip. Owen watched Cooper using his tongue to lick off the snot and casually remarked: “Cooper is using my old trick.” Cooper enthusiastically disagreed, as did Hayden, leading to a spirited argument among the three as to who had actually originated the snot lip-licking trick. To accurately picture this scene, you should know that the twins debating skills are a bit rough yet, consisting mostly of loudly and frequently repeated shouted statements like "No, not you" accompanied by an emphatic arm gesture. Deanna’s frustrated contribution of “Do any of you actually believe you are the first kid to lick snot off of his lip?” only served to raise the intensity and volume level of the debate. Such, sadly, is the level of discourse in our house of small boys these days.

The most frequently heard Christmas greeting around our house this year was, of course, “Happy Birthday.” Sadly, the boys were not wishing Jesus a happy birthday, but instead took the line from Frosty, who enthusiastically and emphatically wishes himself a happy birthday each time the magic hat is placed on his head, causing him to come to life. An early season viewing and a couple of subsequent repeats of this holiday “classic” caused the twins to happily yell “Happy Birthday” periodically throughout the season whenever they felt filled with the Christmas spirit.

Deanna brought the boys by my workplace last week to check out my fancy new office. At one point, the twins were simultaneously engaged in some vigorous pounding on my computer keyboard. This seemed like harmless fun until I noticed that in their randomness they were causing various programs, functions and screens to manically appear and disappear. Since that time, my e-mails are all printing in a tiny, almost unreadable size font, a problem that has now stumped our tech person for a 3rd straight workday.

Last night, the boys and I had spinach salads with carrots and cherry tomatoes, and a chicken stir fry with lo mein noodles and vegetables and teriyaki sauce for dinner (kudos, by the way, to my in-laws for generously putting this meal together before leaving after a long day of babysitting. You guys rock!). Anyway, as I sat there watching all three boys cheerily eat it all – broccoli, mushrooms, water chestnuts, etc. - I was pretty proud. Two of them even asked for second helpings of spinach salad for God’s sake. Whether their good eating habits are the result of blind luck, a good example set by Owen (who has always been an unpicky eater), good and consistent parenting, or a combination of all three, I can’t say. What I do know, is that for all the unknowns and guesswork and randomness and uncertainty involved in raising kids - a project which you will not really know if you have done well at until years and years from now, if ever - this little tangible thing made me feel like we are doing at least something right. And yes, I do realize that by writing this, I have jinxed it and am now in for many years of picky eating.

Confessions of a Dork: Holiday Edition

Songs leave such deliciously indelible imprints on us throughout our lives, reminding us of particular moments in time, or as time passes, general eras in our lives, whether happy or sad. They also mean different things to different people. That is why, for instance, while you may cringe and dive for the dial, I will never switch the radio station off of Cyndi Lauper’s “Time After Time,” but will instead lamely listen to the entire thing for reasons best kept to myself, or why, at your friend’s wedding, you will go charging out to the dance floor in excitement when “Paradise By the Dashboard Light” comes on and I will simply see it as a chance to get another drink.

The imprint songs make on us is even more pronounced at Christmas, a time that I believe most people are more prone than other times of year to romanticize the past. The imprinting of Christmas carols into our brains starts at an early age, as noted in the last post. My family (my Mom excepted), for instance, is unnaturally attached to the Elvis Christmas Album, which my parents had on vinyl and which was a Christmas staple in our household in the Christmases of my youth. Two of my top 5 favorite Christmas songs of this and every year were birthed not in the distant past of my childhood, however, but instead were created in the relatively less-distant year of 1984, where they sat atop the English pop charts at numbers 1 and 2 that year at Christmas of my freshman year of college.

The first is “Do They Know Its Christmas?,” the English 80’s superstar compilation that was the most thrilling musical event of 1984 to my 18-year-old self. You should know, of course, that my 18-year old self wore parachute pants and had dubious judgment, as well as a fervent love of all of the seemingly brilliant music pouring forth from England at the time. Bob Geldof of the Boomtown Rats and Midge Ure of Ultravox wrote the song in a 24-hour period and 3-days later had gathered a whose who of pop talent of the moment in a London studio as "Band-Aid" for a day long recording session, including Sting, Simon LeBon, Bono, Boy George, George Michael, Paul Young, etc., as well as lesser lights such as Bananarama and Marilyn, who was not invited but showed up anyway. With the profits all going towards Ethiopian famine relief, it was the first in the stream of politically conscious charity songs that later spawned “We Are the World” in America and the Live-Aid concerts. For anyone interested, there is an interesting entry on the recording of the song at Wikipedia. Anyway, despite the sometimes ubiquitous presence of the song, especially that first year and the next one, I have never tired of it and my heart still gives a little jump each time I hear the opening chimes. I still have the 45 of the song given to me for Christmas in 1984 by my friend John (a dedicated reader of this blog!). Curiously, I learned just this week that Deanna had always thought they were egotistically singing in the song that “The greatest gift they’ll get this year is this.” “They,” being of course, the starving people of Ethiopia, and “this” being, I suppose, the record. While it may have been the greatest gift I got in 1984, and while I am sure Ure and Geldof and the rest of the crew they gathered to record the song that long ago day in London all had outsized egos, they were actually singing that the greatest gift the Ethiopians would get that year was life, due to the money raised by sales of the record, and not the record itself.

My more embarrassing 1984 favorite is Wham’s “Last Christmas.” The song, despite its infectious chorus, is numbingly repetitive and checks in at a bloated four and a half minutes. It is the video that left its impression on me, however. It features a brokenhearted George Michael sadly but gamely enduring a Alpine holiday ski-trip with a big group of friends, including his girlfriend from the previous Christmas, who is now dating Andy Ridgley and who has, cruelly, sadistically even, given Andy the brooch that George bestowed upon her the previous year. The video and its bittersweet story of love lost, in addition to setting unrealistic expectations for the kind of holiday get togethers with friends I should expect during my 20’s (never did get that call to meet everyone up at the big lodge in Kitzbuhel, Austria for a bit of skiing and some holiday fun), made such an impression that I still, sadly, make Deanna watch it with me each holiday season (thank god no one reads this blog!). There is much mocking by her of course, but for the most part, she is reluctantly indulgent of this bizarre holiday tradition. Reason enough to love her right there, I say, because frankly, holiday traditions don’t get more dorky than that. I might even buy her a brooch this Christmas.

Ginkle Bells

Hayden wandered by me the other day, smiling to himself while he tunelessly sang Jingle Bells to no one in particular. Because he is 2 1/2, and most likely has no concious memory of hearing the song before a week ago, it went like this: "Ginkle bells, ginkle bells, ginkle bells, ginkle bells, ginkle bells, ginkle bells, ginkle bells, ginkle bells, ginkle bells." At that point, just when I thought he had some sort of robot-like short circuit in his brain, he unstuck, and launched into a verse that went something like "fun ... ride ... horse ... sleigh." In addition to finding this damn cute (seriously, like 10 times cuter than I have been able to convey here), I was also struck once again how awesome it is in some ways to be two.

Less than two months ago, the twins left behind a summer that was chock full of two year old fun and adventure and were immersed suddenly into Halloween culture - a blur of costumes and parties, pumpkin carving, and scary but fun decorations. They often insisted on wearing their costumes parts of each day leading up to Halloween, merrily following Owen in whatever crazy game or monster related fun he was cooking up that day. On Halloween itself, it took a total of about two houses to master the concept that if they said trick or treat and held out their bags, they would be handed actual CANDY - score!!

Then, before the sugar high had even worn off, everything was about turkeys and pilgrims and horns o' plenty, culminating with a giant party at our house attended by all of their favorite people on earth.

Two days after Thanksgiving, life changed abruptly again and we were hauling 14 bins full of Christmas wonder down from the attic. Suddenly, everything is Santa and lights and Christmas trees and Baby Jesus and songs and reindeer and stars. One day they are reading about snow and not really understanding it, and the next they are standing outside in the real thing, laughing delightedly as they attempt to pelt me with snowballs (I say attempt because to actually be pelted by a two year old, I would have to literally stand six inches from them). One day, they see lights on a tree in someones yard and go nuts. A week later, and we are, crazily, bringing a tree INTO THE HOUSE and putting lights on it. Madness, genius, ecstasy!!!

They accept these constant changes to their lives without question and with a good natured enthusiasm that is, of course, infectious. And really, why shouldn't they, as life at this point is a wonderous series of costume changes for the house which is essentially their world at this point, each more awesome than the next (actually, it is pretty debatable whether Thanksgiving is literally more awesome to a two year old than Halloween, but you know what I mean).

So, while being two has its downsides, a limited ability to fully express your wants and desires and our quite obviously unfair and onerous household policy of demanding children go to bed being chief among them, it seems, overall, like a pretty damn fine existence. Ginkle on.

A Billvember to Remember

10:30 p.m. this past Saturday night found me cleaning a vomit-drenched car seat inside the cold, dark minivan parked in our driveway. Before I go on, writing that sentence prompts me to offer the following word of advice for any prospective parents out there: while safety ratings in a car seat are great and all, I suggest you instead base your decision to buy a particular car seat on its ease of cleaning when something disgusting happens. Because, my naive young friends, something disgusting will happen, and many more times than just once. Car seat makers must take some secret glee in creating all kinds of nooks and crannies for nasty half-digested food bits and fecal matter to hide in, because despite my extensive efforts, I speak from experience when I guarantee that that car seat, and by extension the entire van, will still smell nasty 6 weeks from now.

As I went about my grim chore, my wife appeared behind me in the doorway of the van, looking bedraggled. Her voice husky with the beginnings of a cold and her lip still swollen to Angelina Jolie size from a shot absorbed from a two-year old head as she tried to wrestle one or another of the twins into clothes while I was at the office for six hours on Saturday morning. I turned and handed her yet another armful of vomit-soaked blankets and rags, careful not to put pressure on my toe that I was sure I had broken during some Christmas decorating excitement the day before. While it throbbed with pain the rest of Friday, it may not have been actually broken. It most certainly was on Saturday when Cooper jumped off of a wooden box directly onto nothing but the already injured toe, leaving me writhing in pain on the basement floor while Cooper stood over me asking "Daddy boo-boo?" over and over and over.

So, fittingly, ended November, not so fondly referred to as Billvember here at CloudEight due to the fact that it is the end of the billing year at the law firm where I am employed. Each year during Billvember, I disappear into a blur of work that leaves me largely unable to participate in any meaningful way in life at home and leaves Deanna spread even thinner than usual. During periods that I was at home, I was often distracted. My distraction did lead to some amusing incidents, such as absentmindedly handing the boys a half-full bag of cashews when they asked for oyster crackers for their soup. I only realized my mistake moments later, alerted by Deanna's confused exclamations upon finding Cooper enjoying a heaping bowl full of pumpkin soup soaked cashews. Anyway, while it is true that we here at CloudEight truly have an extraordinary amount to be thankful for, right now I am mostly thankful Billvember is behind me, and am looking forward to once again rejoining the family, and you all, for some Holiday and winter fun. See you soon!

Times Up, Pencils Down. Please Hand in Your Votes

We here at CloudEight are projecting an Obama victory Tuesday, with Obama getting 51.8% of the popular vote, compared to McCain's 47.3%. We are able to make such a confident projection after Obama trounced McCain in voting by grade schoolers throughout our local school district, besting him by an almost 2 to 1 margin and winning in all three grade schools in town. This result was then fed into a sophisticated computer program developed with the able assistance of a junior-high kid CloudEight keeps on retainer for special projects such as this. The program is able to extrapolate the local grade-school results into nationwide results using census data, other math stuff, and 11 secret herbs and spices. While I am confident the grade school election results have yielded accurate data upon which to make our prediction, I am mildly concerned that the model is projecting that SpongeBob SquarePants, Miley Cyrus and Iron Man will split the remaining 1%. While it appears there may be some minor kinks to work out for 2012, our projection has a margin of error of just +/- 1/2%.

Interestingly, the margin of victory for Obama in Owen's kindergarten class was 20-3; even bigger then the districtwide margin. It was actually 19-4 until Mikey wisely decided he didn't want to throw his lot in with a loser and switched his vote - an insightful peek inside the head of the independent voter perhaps?

The grade school campaigns of the candidates appeared to be based around only three pieces of information - all critical in winning the all-important youth vote. So, while Owen may not be able to detail the finer points of the candidates' economic policies, he can tell you their favorite hobby (Obama = basketball, McCain = hiking), favorite books (Obama = Harry Potter, McCain = "some book about King Arthur") and favorite food (Obama=chili, McCain=tacos). In these answers we can see the reflections of the candidates. Basketball, a youthful, urban sport that emphasizes teamwork but allows the most talented to shine brighter than the rest and to even become superstars. Hiking, trying to be youthful, but a bit obscure and old fashioned seeming; eliciting images of McCain holding a walking stick, dressed in German alpine clothing while he trudges alone through meadows high in the Alps. Chili, a bold and spicy yet substantive food. Tacos, a food that could not seem less "McCain" like, eliciting suspicions of political pandering. Obama digging Harry Potter, perhaps seeing a bit of himself in Harry, the unlikely longshot hero with the funny hair/name, who, thrust from relative obscurity onto a broader stage, suddenly finds himself burdened with the outsized expectations of some and the target of insecure jealousy of others. While picking a book that has sold a gazillion copies may have been designed by Obama to counteract charges that he is "elitist", it was also a risky move that could have backfired if conservatives had been able to make hay out of an argument that Obama identifies himself with the elitist "wizards" and looks down with condescension on the Muggles who are clinging to God and guns in their desperate non-wizarding lives. McCain, King Arthur, again we see the political pandering ("Hey, I'm the next Camelot, not that one over there!") and general out of touchness (assuming that touchness is even a word).

It is too bad the schools did not ask the candidates the really tough questions, like what their favorite color is. Think about it. While Obama might have been tempted to go with red, a youthful and energetic color, it is also the color associated, rightly or wrongly, with Republican states. Would choosing red then result in charges of political pandering? But would choosing blue be playing it too safe, exciting your base while doing little to energize those in the middle. The logical choice then, is purple, the color of the all important independents. How about favorite sport? Would McCain have transparently sucked up to the all important grade school election demographic of males age 5-11 by choosing NASCAR.

While these and many other tough questions remain unanswered, it is time, at last, to go to the polls, cast our votes, and, hope for the best, visions of Quiddich as a demonstration sport at the 2016 Chicago Olympics dancing in our heads. See you on the other side of history.

Two Shots of Whiskey for Us Please, and Three Cheese-Waters for the Kids

Why we continue to try to eat out as a family these days is, quite frankly, a mystery to me. Within two minutes of being seated Deanna and I are desperately trying to corral a server and get our entire order in immediately so we can get served and shovel food at the kids as fast as possible so we can then quickly flee the premises before the twins start loudly demanding freedom to wander about terrorizing the other patrons and staff. Well, terrorizing may be too strong a word. Its not like the twins are purposefully misbehaving. They have never, for instance, gone through Owen's unpleasant toddler phase of signaling he was done with a meal by tossing his plate face down on the floor – always a hit with restaurant staffs. They are, however, two, and, no matter how you slice it (wait, you don’t have a knife? Here, use one of mine from this pile I have confiscated from the kids during the meal – I don’t have a fork though, those are all on the floor, along with various crayons, the salt shaker, my sunglasses, 2 sippie cups and approximately 1/5 of all food served to our table), it is often tense and never relaxing to dine out with two two-year olds and a sometimes cranky and overtired five-year old. We hit rock bottom over the summer when things went so badly one lunchtime that we were forced to acknowledge that even the six-table, un-air conditioned hot dog diner in our town was too fancy an eatery for our little crew to dine out at. A sad day.

Still, who wants to give up on eating out altogether. Not us, that is for sure. You wouldn’t want to dine in all the time either if you got a look at the floor underneath our table following pretty much every meal at home. Tonight, for instance, the boys decided to create “cheese-water” by putting big pinches of Parmesan cheese into glasses of ice water. Not only was it disgusting, but the twins Parmesan cheese-pinching skills hover somewhere between muppet and Cro-Magnon. Who wants to spend every evening as the janitor of the cafeteria at the insane asylum. And so we persist in going out, motivated partly by stubbornness, partly by principle, and partly by laziness. And on those occasions when it does go well, there is that glimmer of hope that someday, in the not so distant future, everyone in the restaurant won’t be thinking of us as THAT family. You know the one. That glimmer keeps alive our little dream that we can someday take our seats once again with the rest of you, tsk, tsking to ourselves about the behavior of some as yet unborn children that some couple will by then be inflicting on us, and smiling to ourselves as we dawdle over a second cup of coffee and desert.

Mr. Obama Goes to Springfield

Upon graduation from law school I spent a couple of years working as an attorney for the Senate Democrats in the Illinois General Assembly, where I was the lone democratic staffer for the Civil Judiciary Committee. My main job was to analyze the bills that came before the Committee and advise the four Democratic members of the Committee on the bills during Committee meetings. After the bills moved out of Committee to the full Senate, I would be present on the Senate floor to advise any of the Democratic Senators in the event they had questions. We would do other things too, write legislation, meet with lobbiests, etc. but the Committee support and analysis of bills was the main gist of the job. All in all, a pretty cool first job to have after law school.

Six months before I left the job, a newly hatched State Senator by the name of Barack Obama arrived in Springfield and was assigned to the Judiciary Committee. Before his first Judiciary Committee meeting, he summoned me to his office to talk about the bills and my analyses - my first meeting with this extraordinary person. I, like many others in the Statehouse, grasped quickly that this was a person of exceeding intelligence, charisma, talent, and ambition. But, as hard as it is to imagine at this particular moment in history, back in those early days, he was also just a normal person new to the job (well, as normal as a brilliant constitutional law professor from University of Chicago freshly elected to the Illinois Senate can be). I remember standing in a bar one night with him in those early weeks at some function or another, with him pointing to this person or that, asking me who they were, what their story was. Another time in those first months of Barack's legislative career, when Chicago's Mayor Daley was down in Springfield for an annual party that Chicago threw for legislators, I watched as Barack, after waiting in line, introduced himself to the Mayor, shook his hand, and posed to have his picture taken with him. I was aware even then that Barack was destined for bigger things so I paid attention to little moments like that. I have a cool black and white picture of Barack speaking on the floor of the Illinois Senate on a bill he had sponsored, with me standing to his left in the event he had questions or needed additional information. I liked and admired Barack, enjoyed the time I spent with him, and believe he liked me. I got to know Michelle Obama a bit as well, especially when we sat with Barack and Michelle at a friend's wedding not too long after I left the Senate job, and I thought she was fantastic. While I left the job disillusioned in some respects about politics and the legislative process, I continued to hold Barack in high regard. Several years later, Barack was one of my references when I got my current lawyering gig. It is simply amazing to think how far he has come in just these few years, although Deanna and I were predicting great things for him to anyone who would listen long before he became a household name.

The coolest thing to me about the Obama phenomenon is not the man himself, but what he inspires in others. Aside from knowing Barack personally, that is why I feel so strongly about this election. I actually first started this entry the day after Barack’s speech accepting the nomination for President. That day, still riding a wave of emotion from seeing this extraordinary person accept the nomination, I wrote that “No matter who wins this election, I firmly believe that we stand on the brink of a new American epoch. There is no denying the energy, aura, hope and power that hangs thick and heavy in the air today, like the smoke following a fireworks finale in the moment just before everyone exhales, turns their gaze from the sky, and goes back about their business. The culture is changing at a breakneck speed, and, at this moment, for the better. The last decade, defined by its winking cynicism, is slipping away, replaced by a rising tide of hope that will transform all in this nation who care to come along, for the better. The transition to the next epoch is happening now and will be marked in the coming years by turbulence – but, in four years, this world will be completely changed, whether for the good or the worse.” (Apparently my time in politics did not completely beat the optimism out of me!). While I believe some of that remains true, the breakneck speed and turbulence parts seem most true (hello stockmarket!). Only a few weeks have passed and the economy is in shambles, and, it appears to me, the Republicans, in these last desperate days of the campaign, are encouraging, tacitly if not overtly, a cultural war and ugly acts by their supporters. The nation continues to hold its breath but the mood has shifted: things are tense, nerves are frayed, and we are all holding on tight and watching history unfold.

This being, ostensibly, a parenting blog, I will dispense with the politicking at this point but will leave you with one story that is kid-related and always amuses me. The last time I saw either Barack or Michelle Obama in person was at a relatively lightly attended press conference when he announced his long-shot bid for the U.S. Senate seat. I happened to be working at the time in a building across the street from the hotel where the press-conference was taking place and decided to swing by and watch the announcement. Owen had recently been born and Deanna had been corresponding with Michelle Obama via e-mail regarding a daycare facility near our home run by one of Michelle’s friends. After the press-conference, I ran into Michelle in the hallway outside and we took a minute to catch up. While the events in the Obama’s world, I would guess, had been much more eventful even then than the doings in our little corner of the world, Michelle, charming as always, asked, among other things, how breast feeding was going for Deanna. After we parted ways I was making my way through the crowd towards the lobby to leave when I heard my name behind me - Michelle trying to get my attention. I turned around and she called out to me down the crowded hallway with a smile "Tell Deanna to use lanolin on her nipples!" And that, my friends, is a pretty damn cool thing for a (hopefully) future first lady to say.

Summer Wrap-Up

Best quote of the summer - Deanna, speaking to me while changing Cooper's diaper one night after a long day during 4th of July weekend: "How did Cooper get orzo on his scrotum??" How indeed my young friend. If you end a day with orzo on the scrotum, you can say with some authority that that is a day that has been lived to the fullest.

With October here and temperatures hovering in the 50’s and 60’s, it has become futile to argue that it is still summer in Chicago. It is thus time to formally bid adieu to what was truly an outstanding season. We laughed, we cried (including over spilled milk, my parental admonishments to the contrary notwithstanding). Those of us who didn’t know how to talk at summer’s outset are now little talking machines, a bike laden with training wheels at the outset of summer is now a sleek two wheeler, and the water that looked so deep and intimidating on Memorial Day was simply a place to joyously jump into and swim by Labor Day. There was a week in Wisconsin, three weekends in Michigan, five hours in Canada, one weekend in Springfield celebrating my grandmother’s 94th birthday, lots of days at the beach, visits to the zoo, and bike rides with me towing the twins in a trailer and Owen trailing Deanna on a tagalong. We went to the horseraces, car shows and cruise nights, to parks and parades and picnics, watched fireworks, hung out at the pool, ran through sprinklers, slid down slip and slides, rode the rides at Kiddieland, climbed on tanks at Cantigny, saw the sights at Navy Pier, went up in the Sears Tower, and visited Millennium Park and Buckingham Fountain. We ate hundreds of cherry tomatoes off of the vine, grew sunflowers from seed, and picked blueberries at a farm. We bought a new car (2004 Toyota Corolla) and said goodbye to our beloved old one (1993 Camry). Owen played t-ball and took swimming lessons, I ran a 5-K and went kayaking. We went to concerts, barbecued, spent many happy hours visiting with family and friends, and drank to excess a couple of times. We gathered around a fire pit with friends, telling ghost stories and roasting marshmallows. We endured floodwaters in our Village and were caught in a torrential downpour at the beach in Michigan after lingering too long watching the rain and lightning roll in from Lake Michigan. We watched sunsets, slept in hammocks, and Owen and I spent a great night camping in a tent in the backyard, where we read old Calvin and Hobbes cartoons and ate junk food. All in all, not a bad way to spend four or so months. Here are a few final pictures – soon, all that will be left to warm us up until Spring:

Of 10 photos in the giant chair at Julie's in Fish Creek, Wisconsin, this is the only one where everyone is vaguely looking in the same direction.

Awesome Norwegian flag tattoo sent to Owen by CloudEight reader Gail in Minnesota. Thanks Gail! Owen wore it on his head for 4 days straight until we made him wash it off for the start of the school year.

Hayden goes full on patriotic, right down to his NASCAR sippy cup, the toddler equivalent of the American flag lapel pin.

Buckingham Fountain!

Summer takes its toll.