The End

Part of the deal between me and my boys book group was that we would choose a book none of us had read and read it together. I liked the opportunity that our pact gave me to react as I read aloud-- I often asked questions and made predictions as we went, and the boys could see the model of how a pretty good reader interacts with a text in real time.

This morning when we gathered for our last session though, I had to make a confession. "Guys," I started as I poured the hot chocolate, "I have to be honest. I read to the end of the book yesterday."

They were a little outraged, but the cocoa made it somewhat better. "I know, I know," I said, "but let me tell you why I did it. I was afraid I was going to cry at the end, and I wanted to be prepared."

"Oh no!" cried one. "Are you prepared?"

"I'm not sure," I admitted, "but I'm really glad I know what's coming."

With that, they were silent, until they, too, knew what was coming.

And, yes, there were a few tears.

Situation Well in Hand

Even in sixth grade, some kids have

total
meltdowns
at school.

So this morning when I heard high-pitched screaming down the hall and around the corner, I wasn't alarmed, but I knew I should investigate. I had only taken a few steps when I heard the principal's calm voice trying to talk the banshee down. I stopped and listened; I couldn't see them, but I could clearly hear the exchange.

"Get out of my face!" the student cried.

"I'm all the way over here," the principal said evenly, "far away from your face."

The student continued his outburst, though, getting so worked up that at last he dropped his voice to a menacing growl. "I will find you!" he threatened in words he had clearly heard elsewhere. "You'll see! If it's the last thing I do, I'll find you."

"And it won't be hard, either," the principal replied. "My office is right over there, and I'm here every day."

Tantrum?
Over.

Undercover

Because of the parking situation at our school, many mornings I find myself bobbing along in a stream of middle schoolers on the quarter mile journey from car to building. I'm not super tall; I carry a backpack and a lunch bag; I wear jeans to school almost every day. That pretty much makes me invisible, and as such, I am often witness to unadulterated kid culture.

Sometimes I intervene, Drop the snow and walk away!

Sometimes I initiate conversation: Evan! Look how tall you are! I probably won't even recognize you the next time I see you!

And sometimes I just listen: I was processing what she said all night. I am still processing. It seems like all I do is process, process, process!

I feel you, kid.

Escape Artist

The text from our dog walker came a little after noon today:

My girlfriend got out of her cone. She won't talk to me now because I put it back on.

TIBBY!

When You Know It

Sun was gleaming off the frozen Potomac this morning as I took an early morning drive up the parkway. I practically had the road to myself because of the federal holiday, and the monuments and bridges were splendid, pristine against the wintery blue sky. Sometimes it's easy to take such grandeur for granted, to forget that we live in one of the world's most iconic cities, but not on a morning like this.

I Sleep All Night, and I Work All Day

I learned years ago that when the temperatures fall into the teens, it makes splitting wood amazingly easy. It takes little more than a firm rap with a hatchet to make logs leap apart as if they were held together with springs. If I had to, I would guess it has something to do with whatever water is inside them being frozen, but I don't really care, because it is incredibly satisfying to split pretty substantial pieces of wood into elegant lengths of kindling.

The same principle applies to sticks and branches, and so gathering tinder around our house has been kind of fun the last few frigid weeks. In fact, it has put me in touch with my inner lumberjack.

"You know what I really want?" I asked my brother this morning at brunch.

He shook his head with interest.

"A chainsaw!" I told him.

He laughed. "Why?"

"There's a lot of trees and fallen branches in the woods across the way," I said. "I just want to chain saw it up and then split it for firewood. The woods would look better, and I think it would be very pleasing to do the job."

"Okay, Crazy," he said. "Don't you think you have enough to do already?"

I think I could fit it in.

Puppy Party

Lucy was on from the moment she arrived at the party. Her friend, Theo, was turning 1, and so 5 dogs and their 8 people crowded into our neighbor's small condo. There was wine and beer and Arnold Pawmer's to drink, and pupperoni pockets, pawpocorn, pawstachios, and pups in blankets to snack on. Midway through, we sang "Happy Birthday" and all the dogs were treated to a pumpkin-peanut butter cake with yogurt frosting.

As festive as it was, I stood awkwardly in the corner, struggling to make small talk with the humans. But Lucy? She was the belle of the ball. Initiating play by carrying toys from dog to dog, wrestling and wagging with them and perkily attending to their owners as well, that doggy smile never left her face.

"Her teeth are so white!" one of the other guests said.

"That's because they're still new!" I answered.