A Christmas Story

The Goddess is in a musical right now. A Christmas Story, based on the movie.

Now, I have loved this movie for a long time, back when there weren't many people who had seen it. My college roommate had a copy of it on VHS that his parents had taped from television, and we watched it 27 times our sophomore year, commercials and all.

It's extremely quotable and I do so frequently, even among people who have never seen the movie. They just look at me like I have lobsters crawling out of my ears.

One of the best written lines in the story comes from the narrator: "Sometimes, at the height of our revelries, when our joy is at its zenith, when all is most right with the world, the most unthinkable disasters descend upon us!"

So it is.

It's been a pretty good few weeks. The Goddess has been busy with rehearsals and the opening of her show. A few weeks back we were really stretched on money, but even that has picked up. I've been getting overtime, the Goddess has been substitute teaching, we've both gotten paid to do some writing, and I've been gigging a lot. This past weekend I even had a show at the Greenbrier resort and got a room to myself.

Neither one of us is great with money. That's probably the understatement of the year. We always seem to be a few bills behind, dodging cut-offs and making urgent payments. It's not just being broke. It's also that we can never seem to breathe long enough to get everything organized.

"Hey, I just got a call from the gas company." "The Internet isn't working. Did you pay the bill?" "We're behind on the car payment. When do you get paid next?"

"First world problems." I know. But I don't have any experience in any other world. 

My brother has helped us out a lot over the years. He saw me bitching about bills on Facebook and transferred money into our bank account. I am grateful for him.

So, we were doing alright. For the moment.

Yesterday was our one month wedding anniversary. Incidentally, it was also the 20th anniversary of my first marriage. I got home late. I had a rehearsal with a new guitarist and we had a beer afterward.

After I came home, the Goddess and I got into an argument. It was about the seven-year-old and her punishment for using the iPad when she was told not to. It really wasn't that big of an argument, but you know how things feel when you are tired. She thinks I was too tough on her. Maybe I was. I thought she was making me look like the bad guy. Maybe I am. 

The Goddess fell asleep while we were talking and I left her on the couch. (In my defense, I had asked her repeatedly to go to bed.)

I dozed for about an hour and then I heard her screaming for me to come downstairs.

There are not many things that can send your heart racing than being woken from a dead sleep by screaming.

I threw on some pants and ran downstairs. She wasn't there. I opened the front door.

She was sitting on the porch steps, crying. There were two men standing in the yard, looking up at me.

"They are here to repossess the van."

My stomach dropped.

We aren't the type of people things like this happen to, or so we thought. We don't live extravagantly. We work hard. We pay the bills we can, usually at the last possible minute. Sometimes after that.

The van is in the Goddess' name. She had bought it before we were together. She takes care of the bills. She knew the van payment was overdue, but we hadn't had the money to pay all of our bills.

Then we had to have a stupid wedding.

But we had money now. She had just forgotten to pay the bill since we had money come in last week. We could pay it now, right?

No, we couldn't. It doesn't work like that, they said. They were here to do a job -- collect the van. They don't work for the finance company. You'll have to call them, they said.

But I can pay it right now, she said. I'll call the company and pay it and you can talk to them and leave the van.

We can't do that, ma'am, they said. We have a contract and if we don't do what we're supposed to do, we'll lose it. We have families to take care of, too. 

Besides, they said, we didn't have to let you know we were taking it. We just saw that there were children's things inside and wanted to let you take them out.

I could just give you some cash and you could say you didn't get to it tonight, she said. That way, I'll have time to pay it.

No, ma'am.

This went on for about twenty minutes, then things intensified.

The Goddess refused to empty the car or hand over her keys. She stood in front of the van, blocking the tow truck. They threatened to call the police.

She cried. A lot. There were threats exchanged. She pleaded with them. She was a good person. We have kids. We need the van to take the baby to the doctor tomorrow. She had never been in trouble before. She hadn't even had detention when she was in school.

They understood. They didn't think she was a bad person. One of them had a sick kid, too, in the hospital. The other said he had his truck repossessed when he was at work one day.

I eventually turned over the van key, so that we could get our things out. The Goddess was angry with me.

We cleaned out the van. We took out the baby seats and the double stroller. We got the kids' blankets and books and small toys. We cleaned out some of the trash, too. 

Somewhere during the process, the Goddess came completely unglued.

She ran to the backyard with some items and I followed her back there. She began throwing things. Then she started banging her head against a glass patio table. I tried to restrain her. She screamed bloody murder at the top of her lungs for several minutes. She bit me.

"I hate everyone and everything! I can't do this anymore!" She screamed more, her eyes bloodshot and swollen from crying.

I held her by the wrists for about ten minutes while she screamed at the repo men who had already left with the van and at me and at her anger at herself. She was worthless, she said. 

Once I thought she was calmed down somewhat, I let go of her and we went inside. I poured us each a glass of wine. She didn't drink hers. I finished the whole bottle while we talked.

I won't recount the whole conversation. A lot of it was personal. There was some anger and shame and blame and guilt. But mostly, I think, there was fear.

It is hard to watch someone you love so much at such a low point, even if you are there with them. 

We slept just two or three hours. She got up and called the finance company. They were not helpful. 

Can we just pay for everything now and get the van?, she asked.

No. They may just sell it at auction. They will send a letter in about a week. You can call then. Maybe you can get your van back then. No promises.

"I can't believe I've become this person." The Goddess said this several times last night. I know what she means.

We got into this because we didn't have the money. It's not that we are big spenders. We really aren't. Four kids are expensive. $1600-a-month for daycare alone is enough to break us.

And we also suck with money. I don't know if it's because we're both just artsy-fartsy, or if there is something we really are missing. I know the Goddess missed the payment because she's thinking about kids and musicals and dance. 

The absurd part is that we have the cash now, but can't solve the problem.

So we're down to one car, a four-seater for our family of six. "First world problems." Yeah, but it's our world.

This morning is just somber. I'm home from work because of a sick baby who now can't make it to the doctor. The kids don't know, of course, and haven't even noticed the missing van.

We can't even make a plan until after the holidays. Maybe we can get it back. Or maybe we'll have to get a new one. Or maybe that's not possible and we'll just have to learn to do without.

Deep down I know we don't need "things" -- even cars -- to make us happy as a family. I also know that this is just the way the world works and I guess we're just not the types of people who navigate these things well.

We'll huddle and regroup, try to organize and see what we did wrong. We'll work harder and try to get more cash flowing through this place. We'll love each other more and try not to think too much about the van and all our problems for the next week and try not to let the other four who live here know the fear that we feel this Christmas.

God Bless Us, Everyone.

I've been working a lot of overtime recently. I've been getting about 45-50 hours a week, and I make a pretty reasonable wage. I've also had a lot of gigs this month and have even more coming up. In addition, I've started writing for a local magazine and making some extra money that way.

The Goddess has started working again. She's looking for something permanent, but right now she's substitute teaching. She's also had some photography gigs, which pay pretty decently.

You would think with all that work, a family could live pretty comfortably. You would be wrong.

Payday was last Monday. On Friday I stopped by the drug store. I needed soap and I was going to pick up a bottle of bourbon for the weekend. Crystal was working the register. She was a student of mine about 15 years ago, when she was in middle school. I handed her my card.

"It says it was declined."

"Really?" I try to sound more incredulous and surprised than I actually am.

"Do you want to try to run it as a credit?"

I'm not sure what effect this will have, so I say yes. You never know.

Declined again.

"Huh. I'll have to figure out what's going on with my bank." I try to make eye contact so I don't look too ashamed.

"Yeah. Our system has been acting funny all day."

I am grateful for this young woman's willingness to go along with the charade.

What's going on with my bank is that they won't allow me to spend more money than I have in my account. Even at Christmas. They are total dicks that way.

So it's Friday night and I'm out of money. I've got a weekend and another whole week before another payday.

Only I think the Goddess has a gig Saturday night, which is good, because most of them pay cash.

"How much is your gig tomorrow?"

"I think it's canceled. The girl hasn't gotten back to me," she says.

Dammit.

Luckily, I'm meeting my editor (I'll call him Tony) Sunday morning to go over some things for the magazine. I'll get paid then, because I've done a couple of articles. And he usually pays cash, too.

Sunday morning I wake up (late, because I stayed up all night watching Christopher Hitchens debates on YouTube) and my phone is dead. I get it in the charger and then a text comes through. It's from Tony at 6:20 that morning.

"I can't make it today. Just going to bed now."

Fuck.

Okay. But I'm just finishing up four nights of gigs and the band contractor, my friend (I'll call him Joe), will pay me for the rehearsal and three shows. And he still owes me $50 for a paid rehearsal a couple weeks back.

He pays me. So I'm pretty sure I've got enough to get through the week.

Only this guy Chris messages the lead singer of my band (I'll call him X) who is also my cousin and wants to know where the money is for our rehearsal space for November and December. So X gives him my number and he calls me. I tell him I'll get it to him, but it sucks because the bassist and one of the guitar players still have to get their share to me. They both sent it Monday, but that means I have to eat that cost for most of the week until their checks get here.

Then I remember that my auto insurance is going to be taken out on the 15th, which is Tuesday.

Also, I've been ducking calls from the gas company, who I'm pretty sure is telling me they're going to shut off service at some point. I don't listen to the messages because I can't pay it right now anyway and I don't really need another automated reminder of my failure to take care of my responsibilities.

We don't live extravagant lives. We really don't. But we also are trying to live without any consumer debt right now, and we're doing pretty well there.

Childcare kills us. Since we got married, the rules have changed. The Goddess used to get subsidy for childcare. Now we don't qualify. The uptake of this is that she is essentially working to pay for childcare so that she can go to work.

She could stay home with the kids, but we're hoping her income hits a point in the future where she earns more than childcare costs.

And I gotta be honest: Christmas seems designed to remind you how broke you are. Other times of the year you can get by. But no coins at Christmas means no parties and no gifts for the people you love. If you have kids, this is really hard.

Our kids don't need a thing. And they've got lots of people looking out for them. Granny S is helping us out a lot, because the eleven-year-old wants a laptop for video editing. That's okay. I'm not an overly proud person.

But the Monkey is two this Christmas. This is really the first one where he's really aware of what's going on. I'd like to get him something -- I don't even know what yet -- just from me, or from me and the Goddess. Maybe a classic toy, nothing large. Something I bought myself that says, "You are a special little boy and I hope your life is wonderful."

I want this to be special for them, because Christmas was special for me when I was a kid. Sunday night we put up the tree and had cocoa while watching "A Very Murray Christmas." I was dancing with the Goddess and thinking just about how lucky I am. I really get that. We have beautiful kids and a nice house and none of us are starving. We could be floating on a raft in the Mediterranean right now, fleeing oppression, like some of our fellow creatures are doing. Or I could be married to an ugly woman instead.

So I guess I'll suck it up and Bob Cratchit the fuck out of Christmas this year. We say we want to teach the kids to not be materialistic. This seems like a good chance.

But at least I've got another gig tonight. I hope it pays cash.

"Jingle Bells" and Hard Lessons

About a year and a half ago, the seven-year-old (then six) asked if she could take violin lessons. She's a pretty musical kid naturally and she had seen the violin at the music store where I work. We talked about it and I guess I fantasized a bit about having a child prodigy. It could happen, right? We made her promise that she wouldn't argue with us about practicing and she said she wouldn't.

So I rented a violin for her at $30 a month and we started lessons with a young violin teacher we know from the store -- another $20 a week.

Like most kids, there was a lot of initial enthusiasm. And like a lot of kids, there was a lot of push back once the practice became a little more work.

There was a recital last year. She had been playing only a few months at that point and she didn't do too well. She forgot where she was in the piece and just kept repeating.

This year, she's playing "Jingle Bells." Still pizzicato, but I think that's because her teacher thinks she'll fuck up the bowing too much.

We've asked her to practice every day -- just ten minutes. When I was her age, I had to practice piano thirty minutes a day. Ten minutes is nothing.

Except apparently it is. Because when those ten minutes come around, she would rather scream, cry, beg, scowl, and lay in the floor for an hour rather than run through "Go Tell Aunt Rhody" for ten minutes.

I've been there. I know what it's like. I remember sitting at the piano with an egg timer set to thirty minutes and just crying. But my mom never let me off the hook.

I guess we're just pussies. I'm especially embarrassed about this because I'm a musician and I've taught music. I know you're supposed to tow the line on practicing. And I can't just blame her mom either, because I totally get it. You've got a crying baby, a toddler eating pennies, and a middle schooler acting like an asshole because you won't let him watch another four hours of Ben 10 because you just might lose your fucking mind if you hear that theme song again. Then you've got this first grader laying in the floor, wailing at the top of her lungs after you told her to get her bow and you are just sure the neighbors are calling CPS because it sounds like you're pulling out her fingernails.

Some days, you just say, "Fuck it. It's not worth it."

Other people do this better. That's hard to admit. My sister has four boys and she got all of them taking music lessons and they all practiced. The two older ones are quite accomplished musicians now.

This is a failure. I know that.

Her recital is this afternoon. All week she's been talking about it like she's marching to the death camps. Her teacher is moving after Christmas, so driving home from her lesson Thursday she informed me that after the recital, she was never playing violin again. Last night when I asked her to help put away dishes, she started crying. "What's up?" "I'm too sad to put away dishes. I get sad thinking about having to play my recital." Yeah. I know. Manipulative, right?

This morning I suggested she get out her violin and run through "Jingle Bells." "I don't want to!" Whining. Tears. Fine. Fuck it.

Thirty minutes ago, her mom told her to start getting ready. "But I want to run through my song!!" Grrrrr. She cried. She didn't want to go. We reminded her of all the times she refused to practice. I reminded her that I told her to practice this morning. More tears. "Why are you guys so mean?!" I finally told her to get ready or she is grounded till Christmas day.

So, in about an hour, I imagine this seven-year-old (who I do love, I want to emphasize at this point) is going to be standing on the stage at a church in front of about fifty people, completely shitting in her hat. Crashing and burning. She's going to freeze up and she's going to be embarrassed.

And we are going to let it happen.

I know a lot of you are going to disagree with that decision. You may even think it's a little cruel. It's not. It would be really easy just to let her skip out. It would save her embarrassment. It would save us embarrassment.

Full disclosure here: I'm not going to the recital.

I promise it's not because I would be embarrassed. We just decided it would be easier. Her biological dad is coming. We have a toddler and a baby, and it makes more sense to leave them here than to pack up six people to hear a thirty-second rendition of "Jingle Bells."

On some level, I would spare her the pain. But some pain is worth it -- including the pain of failure. The thing is, you can't always opt out of your responsibilities. And you need to learn the lesson that if you don't prepare, you will fail.

She has lots of other activities -- children's chorus, gymnastics, etc. She has had mostly success. But this is a lesson she needs to learn.

And frankly, it is a lesson we need to learn, too. We need to learn to tow the line better maybe. Or make things clearer about our expectations. Or that we need to not over-extend the kids. I'm not sure, but it seems like we need to learn something.

I guess I haven't learned it yet.

Little Shoes

It's been a few weeks since I last posted, but in fairness, a lot has gone on since my last post. The Monkey celebrated his second birthday. I got a paid writing gig. I had a bachelor party, a wedding, and a honeymoon. We celebrated Thanksgiving.

And there were these attacks in Paris by ISIS, the "Islamic State."

I started this blog largely to have someplace to reflect on family life, but I'll be honest, world affairs and politics have kept me pretty sleepless for several nights. I made the mistake one Sunday evening of reading some lengthy analysis of the Islamic terrorist group and it became something of an obsession with me. (I think everyone should read this analysis of ISIS from The Atlantic. Just be prepared for how disturbing of a reality it is.) "We will conquer your Rome, break your crosses, and enslave your women,” one of the group's spokesmen has said to the West. “If we do not reach that time, then our children and grandchildren will reach it, and they will sell your sons as slaves at the slave market."

The response here in the United States has given me no comfort. There is a humanitarian crisis of huge proportions brewing in Syria and Iraq, and the indifference of many of our leaders is difficult for me to comprehend. We keep seeing images of all of these people -- men, women, and children -- floating on boats, seeking asylum in Europe. Something like 2,500 have died trying to make the passage by water. Yet 31 governors and every single Republican presidential candidate has said we should close the door to refugees fleeing persecution by religious zealots. A few have gone further and said we should deport the ones who have already arrived. And one has made overtly fascist overtures, calling for the closure of mosques and monitoring all Muslims in the U.S.

I keep coming back to one image though, from a couple months ago. It's of a small, three-year-old boy named Aylan Kurdi. He is laying face down in the sand on the Turkish shore. He is dead.

It's one of those images I'd like to scrub from my head. I mean, I watch horror films by the score. I've watched decapitations, mutilations, and stabbings for pure entertainment purposes. Yet this is so much different. It's a child. It is real.

There is nothing graphic about the image. The boy could be sleeping. The thing that bothers me most are his shoes. They are Velcro.

We have lots of Velcro shoes at our house. Both the Monkey and the Ape are too young to tie their shoes, so most of theirs have Velcro instead of laces.

The thing I keep thinking is that someone had put those shoes on Aylan Kurdi's feet that morning. Someone helped him get dressed because he is too little to dress himself. Someone held his little feet and slipped on those shoes and thought, "I hope these keep his toes dry on the boat."

But life goes on. The Goddess and I went ahead with our plans and were married this past Sunday.

The wedding was really something pretty incredible. We had decided on a Gothic theme, held in a 150-year-old abandoned chapel. The Goddess was extraordinarily beautiful in a white gown covered in black lace. The wedding party walked the aisle to gypsy violin music. Our friend Eva performed the ceremony in full voodoo regalia. My cousin sang a solo to the accompaniment of an ancient pump organ, played by my sister. And we all wore Gothic/steampunk attire, much of it made by my costumer-cum-mother-in-law.

The kids stole the show, really. They all looked great, the eleven-year-old in a black suit and fedora; the seven-year-old in a silver and black dress, wearing a jeweled and feathered mask; the Monkey in a little sports jacket and bow-tie; and the Ape in black velvet and white lace, complete with black velvet newsboy cap.

Monkey and Ape had new shoes, too. Black. With Velcro.

Yesterday we celebrated our first Thanksgiving as a"legal" family. All six of us went to Granny's house and ate dinner with her and the Goddess' grandfather.

I have so much to be thankful for this year, but I've also never felt the weight of responsibility the way I do now. I look at the five faces here at Crackerbox Palace and I'm sometimes overwhelmed by how dependent they are on me. The food they eat, the house they sleep in, their safety -- all of it comes apart if I'm not there. Then I start reading the news and my sense of alarm grows minute by minute, reading about fascists abroad and fascists at home.

Maybe it is universal with parents, I don't know, but the world seems to have gotten more dangerous since I had kids. Yet my instinct is not just to keep them safe. It is also to teach them to be wide open to all the world is and to make it a better place. I don't want them to cower from the deranged, the lunatic religious fringe, the rich and powerful, or the princes of this world. I want them to meet them on their own terms, to shake their fists in their faces, and to scream, "This is my world, too, motherfuckers!"

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I thought I would include below our actual wedding ceremony, for a couple of reasons. One is that a few people asked me for it, curious about what was said. The other was to help anyone who might be looking for a form for a wedding but isn't traditionally religious.

We are avowed secularists, with a love of science. Yet we are also (rather confusingly) deeply spiritual and a bit religious. We strongly believe in the power of the human spirit and feel a need to mark important life milestones with both pomp and introspection.

The ceremony reflects all of that, I think. In a lot of ways it retains the form of a traditional Christian ceremony, with a sprinkle of Luciferian mischief and a touch of voodoo, all within a secular/atheistic worldview. Most of all, we wanted it to reflect our belief that life is brief and love only for a moment, so we should live and love as hard as we can.

(Officiant)

We welcome you gathered today, honored friends and family, and ask you to bear witness to the love shared between this man and this woman and join with them in celebration of their marriage vows. Whether you have known them for just a few weeks or for many years, you are an important part of their lives and they thank you for your presence.

We also call forth the spirits of those no longer with us -- not in a supernatural sense, but in a very real way, seeing their faces in the faces of their children and their children’s children, knowing their blood passes through our veins, and that they live in the memories and imaginations of those present.

And we call forth the Cosmos to witness today -- the mountains and rivers, the seas and the skies, and every living thing in them; the sun, the moon, and the eight planets; the stars and galaxies and the unseen and unimaginable universes that lay beyond ours. We invoke them knowing that the elements that form our blood and bones were made in the hearts of collapsing stars untold eons past, and that they truly are our brothers and sisters.

(Turning to the bride.)

(Name), are you coming freely to be married, solely for the love that is in your heart, not under any compulsion, but only to enjoy the benefits of a shared life -- and also a lower taxable income?

(Bride)
I am.

(Turning to groom.)

And you, (Name), are you coming freely to be married, solely for the love that is in your heart, not under any compulsion, but only to enjoy the benefits of a shared life -- and also a lower taxable income?

(Groom)

I am.


("Hallelujah," by Leonard Cohen, sung by the best man, accompanied by the groom's sister.)

I've heard there was a secret chord
That David played and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?
It goes like this... the fourth, the fifth
The minor fall, The major lift
The baffled King composing Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah,
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you.
She tied you to a kitchen chair
She broke your throne, She cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah,
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Maybe I have been here before
I know this room, I've walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew you.
I've seen your flag on the marble arch
Love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah,
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

There was a time you let me know
What's real and going on below
But now you never show it to me, do you?
And remember when I moved in you
The holy dark was moving too
And every breath we drew was Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah,
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Maybe there's a God above
But all I ever learned from love
Was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you.
And it's not a cry you can hear at night
it's not somebody who's seen the light
it's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah,
Hallelujah, Hallelujah


(Officiant. William Shakespeare's "Sonnet 73.")

That time of year thou may'st in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day,
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by-and-by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire
Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by.
     This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
     To love that well which thou must leave ere long.


A vow is a promise, made sacred by your love for each other, and kept only through commitment and a good deal of labor, so I ask . . .

(To groom)

Do you, (groom's name), take (bride's name) to be your wife?
Do you promise to love her and adore her,
To comfort her in times of sickness and sorrow,
To delight in her joys and pleasures,
To share in both riches and poverty,
To love the children who call her mother,
To make a home with her, no matter how crazy she gets,
To nurture her hopes and plans,
And to worship her as the rock-and-roll goddess of your dreams?

(Groom)

I do.

(To bride)

Do you, (bride's name), take (groom's name) to be your husband?
Do you promise to love him and adore him,
To comfort him in times of sickness and sorrow,
To delight in his joys and pleasures,
To share in both riches and poverty,
To love those he loves,
To make a home with him, no matter headstrong he gets,
To nurture his hopes and plans,
And always treat him like a rock star?

(Bride)

I do.

(To best man.)

Do you have the rings?

(Best man gives the rings to officiant, if he has not lost them, trying not to drop them.)

(Officiant)

Rings have been used in many cultures and places as symbols of the eternity of love and one spouse’s ownership of the other. The bride and groom would, however, remind us that the joys of love and family are fleeting, that they should be enjoyed in that full knowledge; and that love is not slavery, for no one can truly own the heart of another.

Therefore these rings symbolize the fleeting nature of our time together, for the very elements with which they were made were born in distant stars and will someday return to them; and that love is beautiful and precious, though only for this life.

(Groom takes bride’s ring from officiant. Officiant turns to groom.)

(Groom's name), take (bride's name's) hand and repeat after me:
With this hand, I will lift your sorrows.
Your cup will never empty, for I will be your wine.
With my love, I will light your way into darkness.
With this ring, I ask you to be mine.

(Bride takes groom’s ring from Officiant. Officiant turns to bride.)

(Bride's name), take (groom's name's) hand and repeat after me:
With this hand, I will lift your sorrows.
Your cup will never empty, for I will be your wine.
With my love, I will light your way into darkness.
With this ring, I ask you to be mine.

You expressed your love with vows given and rings exchanged. You have kissed a thousand times and will kiss thousands of thousands more, but we ask you today to share a kiss, sealing your love and your life together.

(The kiss.)

Present to you now, for the first time, (groom's name) and (bride's name) as husband and wife!

(Exit back of house.)

Wherein I Crush My Entire Family's Hopes of Getting a Pool. Or Hot Tub.

I find myself saying this repeatedly, but this week has just been nuts.

First off: Halloween. Best. Halloween. Ever. I will emphasize here that all four kids spent Halloween with someone besides us. You may infer what you wish about the quality of the holiday and the absence of the kids, but its the truth. For my band, Halloween is the biggest night of the year, and it was truly stellar. It was followed by the Goddess and me enjoying ourselves in a proper debauched fashion and didn't end until about 7:30 A.M.

We did retrieve the kids the next day and it seems they had a pretty good holiday, too, which is good, I suppose. I mean, kids should get in on the fun, too.

The week was spent mostly planning a wedding, which is honestly a bit of an extension of Halloween.

We hit the party supply shops' post-Halloween sales and got some things for the wedding: toasting glasses, masks, a couple gallons of blood. If you're like me and basically celebrate all year long, these places are a gold mine on November 1.

Eva agreed to officiate for the wedding. She had to become ordained, which is remarkably easy online, and then register with the state. I think she's going to play it as some sort of combination voodoo/pagan priestess. We worked with her a bit on the ceremony, which is something I especially enjoy.

The Goddess' mother is designing and making a lot of the clothes for the wedding, including a vest and frock coat for me. There will be just a touch of steampunk flavor to the event, and that's right up her alley.

We found a location, too, which is excellent. It's an historic chapel that is no longer in use -- which is good, because we have lots of sacrilege planned for the ceremony. It was built in the early 19th century and has a very picturesque graveyard adjoining the building. It took several hours of emails and phone calls to find who was in charge, but reserving it was easy and very cheap.

The moment that we were most nervous about was telling the older kids we were getting married.

The Goddess brought herself and the two older kids to live here almost two years ago. Like a lot of "blended families," we've had our ups and downs. As a "step-dad," it's difficult to figure out your role. You aren't replacing their father (unless he has died, I suppose), and I feel very strongly that you tread lightly on that topic with them. The kids talk about their biological father whenever they feel like it. I listen and try to reinforce their positive feelings about him because he is very much a part of them.

A lot of advice about step-parenting says, "Don't assume the role of disciplinarian," which is all well and good, to a point. But when the Goddess has her hands full with a screaming baby, a toddler who keeps dumping jars of herbs and spices in the floor, a seven-year-old who is having an emotional breakdown because she was asked to practice ten minutes of violin, and an eleven-year-old who lied about homework again, I feel like I should probably do more than see what's on Netflix. So while I'm certainly not the primary disciplinarian, I've assumed a role as "the other adult" in the house.

I suppose I hope they also manage to see the other roles I play, at least to a certain extent: "breadwinner," occasional cook, dishwasher, and the like.

One day a few months after they moved in, the evening discussion centered around "How Do We Refer to You to Our Friends at School?" After some time, it was decided that they both would say that I was their roommate and butler.

A few months after that, the seven-year-old (then six) told me that she tells everyone I'm her step-dad. I literally cried the first time she brought home art work from school depicting each member of the family with the word "DAD" under my face. (She doesn't call me "Dad," by the way, I'm just guessing that was simpler to spell in kindergarten.)

The issue honestly doesn't come up as often as you might think. When we first discussed getting married to the kids, the eleven-year-old (then ten) said he didn't want anything to change. He didn't seem distraught or anything -- just expressing an opinion. When I gave the Goddess an engagement ring last Christmas, he asked about it and what it meant. Then he asked if it was real diamond. Then he asked if it meant I was rich. Then he talked about how diamonds are used in Minecraft. Then he asked how much an actual sword made out of diamonds would cost.

The Goddess was extremely nervous about telling them about the actual wedding -- that we had a date picked, that it was soon, and that we would be married. I didn't think it would be that big of a deal, but I've been known to be wrong.

We sat them down on the couch Tuesday night and told them we needed to talk to them about something important. I waited for the Goddess to begin. She looked at me, expectantly. We did that for about five minutes while the kids looked at iPads and asked if they could be excused. Finally, she began.

The Goddess: "You know that I've been wearing an engagement ring for awhile now. Well, we've decided to get married." 

Seven-year-old: "When?" 

The Goddess: "In just a few weeks." 

Eleven-year-old: "Why?" 

Me: "Well, the reasons are mostly financial. Do you guys know what income taxes are? Well, I would have to pay a lot more if your mom and I weren't married. That would mean that we would have less money to pay bills -- and less money for iPads and vacations and all that sort of thing." 

Seven-year-old: "So you'll have more money if you get married?" 

Me: "Yes." 

Eleven-year-old: "So can we get a pool now?" 

Me <confused>: "Well, I don't know if we'll have that much money. And the back yard is really small anyway. And it's uneven." 

Eleven-year-old: "My friend at school has a pool in his back yard and their yard is smaller than ours." 

Me: "I don't think we could dig into the ground deep enough --" 

Eleven-year-old: "Their pool is above ground." 

The Goddess: "I'd want a hot tub before we got a pool." 

Seven-year-old: "So we're getting a hot tub?" 

The Goddess: "That's what I'd prefer." 

Me: "No one said we're getting a hot tub." 

Eleven-year-old: "Mom said we were." 

Seven-year-old: "Yay! We're getting a hot tub!" 

The Goddess: "I'd worry that the babies would fall into a pool and get hurt." 

Eleven-year-old: "Not if it is above ground." 

Seven-year-old: "We should get a pool and a hot tub!" 

Etc.

This continued for some time. So the conversation about getting married consisted of about thirty seconds of marriage discussion and fifteen minutes of explaining why we can't get a pool to the Goddess and her children.

Sometimes your role in the family becomes clear all by itself.

Wherein We Break into the Palace, Go Trick-or-Treating, and Begin Planning a Wedding

It's a typical whirlwind at Crackerbox Palace this week.

Our friend Eva came over on Tuesday. The Goddess made a big pot of chili. I bought some bourbon, and we got everyone in bed on time so that the three of us could enjoy a conversation without talking about MonkeyBoo or Doctor Who.

Eva stepped out to smoke on the porch and I walked out with her. The Goddess was just behind me. When she'd finished, the Goddess turned the door knob to go back in the house. It was locked.

"Is there an extra key -- like under the mat?" I asked.

"No. I used it to get back in when I locked myself out last week."

Hmmm.

The three of us walked around the house trying every single door and window in the place. Nothing was open. We tried knocking on the front door. We tried banging the front door down. We threw balls and rocks at the kids' second floor windows to wake them. Those people sleep like the dead. We fetched our ladder to try the roof, but our ladder wasn't long enough.

Eventually, we woke our neighbor. She's an older lady -- nice in her way -- but frequently annoyed with us. Apparently Eva had pushed open her garden gate the wrong way while stumbling through the dark and she was quite put out. We explained the situation and she looked at us like we were drunken panhandlers.

"I've got a longer ladder," she finally said. "You can try it."

Eva volunteered, as she is both smaller and younger than the two of us. By this point it had started to rain, so I began wondering what my liability was in this situation, having a non-family member climbing on my wet roof in the dark to try to break in to my children's rooms.

She made it to the seven-year-old's window and began knocking loudly while shouting her name. I was fairly certain that the seven-year-old would assume it was a vampire or perhaps a dead spirit and begin screaming bloody murder at the top of her lungs.

Nothing. She rolled over and covered her head with her pillow.

Our neighbor Crystal was sneaking behind her house for a cigarette, so she came over when she heard the racket. We had decided to fetch the tools and the Goddess was doing her best to pick the lock on the front door. We discuss calling a locksmith.

Crystal has a neighbor in school with the eleven-year-old. She asked me what team he was on.

"Cobalt," I said.

"Well, let me ask you a question," she said. "What do you think of Mrs. T.?" 

Well, at this point, I had to decide if I wanted to tell Crystal that I think Mrs. T. is a bully and a cunt. But I wanted to test the waters.

"We've had a few problems with her," I say.

Crystal then unloads on me. She doesn't like Mrs. T. She thinks she is mean and picks on certain kids. She talks down to parents. And Crystal hates the way she wears her hair. I agree.

We talk for about twenty minutes about school, about our school, about how we think it does a poor job of serving children -- especially boys -- who don't like to "play school." Eva and the Goddess eventually wander off, trying to pick other locks, while Crystal and I continue our conversation.

Then the Goddess comes through the front door from the inside.

"How'd you get in?" I ask.

"Oh, I tried to remove a panel from the French doors in the dining room."

"That worked?"

"Kind of," she says, holding out shattered pieces of glass.

In any event, we are back inside after two hours of the ordeal. The kids were still dead to the world.

The next evening I left the Goddess to watch the kids by herself. I had a rehearsal that lasted till almost midnight because we have two new band members and two shows this weekend. They are our Halloween shows, which are the biggest ones of the year.

Wednesday I went in to work early, because I'm trying to pick up some extra hours. The Goddess texts me just a few minutes after I arrive.

"I've been looking at next year's taxes."

I don't ask why.

"Well, it looks like you made too much money this year."

For reasons I won't go into, I made a little extra money this year -- a one time thing -- which I used to dig myself out of debt. Even though I'd already paid the taxes, it apparently put me in a different tax bracket.

"You may owe about $5000." 

I have literally never owed income tax after filing each year. $5000 seems like a nearly impossible sum. They might as well ask for $50,000, because I don't have it. 

"If we got married, you'd probably get something back."

"How much?" I ask her.

"Looks like about $5000."

I'm suddenly feeling very romantic.

"Maybe we should get married."

"Yeah. Probably."

Now, the Goddess has been wearing an engagement ring since Christmas. We've been planning on getting married for a couple of years. It's just not been a big priority. We've had two kids, bought a house, and moved everyone in together. We also just haven't had much money for a wedding.

We had told friends that we were getting married this November, but honestly, we've just let it slip. We've gotten no license, reserved no venues, hired no band. 

After some discussion, we decide to keep the November date. It's on a Sunday. Three weeks from now.

We talk about what we want to do since we have no money.

The answer is pretty obvious. We are going to have a Gothic-themed wedding.

Because, I'll be honest, we really don't get enough Halloween. And we like dressing up. And it's a second marriage for both of us, so we might as well have some fun.

I make a big announcement on Facebook and we chat back and forth all day, trying to work out details. It's fun. I'm excited.

I left work a few minutes early, because our city decided to do trick-or-treat on the 29th instead of the 31st. The seven-year-old was already dressed ("rock singer") and she and her older brother were carving jack-o'-lanterns. We get the Ape and the Monkey dressed in their costumes -- and ape and a monkey. The eleven-year-old decides (last minute) to wear his Doctor Who attire.

This is the first time I've been trick-or-treating since I was a child. The Monkey went last year, but my band was on tour and I couldn't go. The Ape is just 8 months, so it's his first time. He literally sleeps in the stroller the entire two hours. The Monkey gets out a few times and manages to walk up to a few houses to get his bucket filled. The seven-year-old goes with her friend Moriah and we catch up with her later. The eleven-year-old uses a British accent all night. We see Crystal out with her son, who is carrying a Scream mask, because he decided 6th grade was too old to go in costume. 

We eventually catch up with the seven-year-old, who is now walking with no shoes, because her rock-singer boots hurt her feet. We go to a few more houses and then it's back home.

"I just saw Rayanna," the seven-year-old says, "but I thought it was Layanna because she had on her mask."

"Are they sisters?" I ask.

"No, why?"

After the kids are in bed, I start packing up for my Friday show in Cincinnati with the band. Then I spend about an hour doing a trial run on my make-up for my Halloween costume: the Wolfman.

The Goddess had planned to go with me, but her mom called and told us she couldn't watch the kids. She is a teacher and was going to take the day off so that she could make the two-hour trip to our house in time. But her substitute backed out at the last minute, so she would arrive too late. 

I'm pretty bummed, but there's always Halloween.

And a wedding to plan.

I'm Not a Doctor, but I Play One in Middle School

October got away from me.

Last year, we did this whole "31 Days of Halloween" during October. We had activities with the kids planned every day: story-telling, going to the pumpkin patch, decorating, scary movies, you name it. Somewhere in the middle of all that, I also managed to tour for nine days with my band. It's not that we didn't do any of those things this year, but everything seemed so rushed. Halloween is almost on us and I haven't had time to enjoy it.

I'm sure that part of it is because we didn't have the Ape last year. Having a toddler and a baby seems to make every family activity exponentially more complicated. The older two can manage themselves to a degree, but the babies need constant attention.

The last few days have been notably hectic.

Friday night, the Goddess had a burlesque show. She does this cool magic and tap dance number that's a lot of fun. We dropped all four kids with Granny S and honestly, I felt a bit panicky for her when we did. She's watched all four of them before, but the Monkey is more "toddly" than ever, the Ape is teething, and the older two have been very demanding about their costumes recently.

Still, we went to the show and had a good night without them.

The next day we drove to Granny S' and went to the fall carnival/Octoberfest/Halloween party/chili night in her small town. It was a bit mad. The whole town turns out in costume and walk in a line through tent after tent where you can get free samples of chili and/or candy. Everyone votes on who has the best chili and there is a costume contest. There's live music and a bouncy house and people selling crafts and a cakewalk.

Half of us were wearing costumes made by Granny S. She herself was wearing this steampunk get-up she made, I was in my mad scientist gear, and the eleven-year-old was wearing his Foxy (from "Five Nights at Freddy's) costume. (She really out-did herself on that one. It's pretty incredible and the kid got lots of compliments and photos taken.) The seven-year-old was a "rock star," which mostly consisted of neon spandex, rhinestones, and a toy microphone. Ape and Monkey were dressed as an ape and a monkey, respectively, in costumes the Goddess found online.

It started raining and we had a long drive ahead of us, so we skipped the costume contest. Granny S was a judge in the adult category, but the eleven-year-old decided it wasn't fair for him to enter since his was on the professional level.

We were meant to have a "lazy Sunday" as the eleven-year-old calls it, but at our house, that mostly means we stay in pajamas and don't do shit other people want us to do.

The eleven-year-old and I spent a good deal of the say in the basement, he (with his mother's help) re-creating the inside of the TARDIS for a fan film he is creating and me playing with synthesizers. The seven-year-old wrote some original songs and did origami. The babies focused their efforts on destroying our home.

Yesterday was Monday, so that meant choir practice for the seven-year-old, late work for me, and a musical rehearsal for the Goddess. I got home about 6:45 and she was out the door. The kids and I ate the dinner she made but didn't get to eat herself and talked about their day.

More questions from the eleven-year-old, who was dressed again as the eleventh Doctor, complete with bow tie:

"How big is a cell compared to a hair?"

"Is there anything smaller than an atom?"

"How many atoms are in the universe?"

"How long would it take to count to a million? What about a billion?"

"How many seconds have I been alive?"

We talked about sub-atomic particles and numbers so large they were expressed exponentially and calculated how long it would take to count to a million and a billion and how many seconds he'd been alive. Approximately.

I watched "MonkeyBoo" videos on YouTube with the younger kids -- "MonkeyBoo Castrated and Canines Removed." (That sounds much more graphic than it was.) The eleven-year-old worked on his TARDIS and fan film.

Finally, it was time for baths and bed, and after wrangling the Monkey (who has been unusually grumpy), I read to the seven-year-old and then went downstairs. The eleven-year-old was watching a Doctor Who episode from the early 70s. It was an episode where the third Doctor has to be aided by the first and second Doctors.

"What are you doing?" I asked. Technically, he's grounded and although we let him watch TV with us, we haven't been letting him watch it by himself.

"I dunno," he said.

"Turn that off. Let's look at your grades online."

He got his mom's laptop and started signing in.

"I'm really looking forward to school tomorrow. You wanna know why?"

"Sure."

"Because tomorrow is dress-up day. I'm going as the Doctor." He was disappointed he didn't have a fez, but figured he could make do.

We looked at his grades. All Ds. He had one small "homework" assignment last week that he missed in Science, but the rest were in-class grades.

"I'm not doing too well right now," he said.

We talked about strategies, but honestly, I have no fucking idea what to do at this point. There is literally no information about the assignments online, no communication from the teachers, no sense of why he is struggling or how to help him.

"Let me see your video," I finally say.

He tells me he only has the opening finished and goes to get his iPad.

The screen fades in on the TARDIS spinning through space, then cuts to a shot on our street. We hear it grind to a halt and then there is a slow fade in and we see the time machine in front of our neighbor's house. The scene cuts to the inside of the TARDIS and you hear the eleven-year-old in voice-over talking about the nature of time and space. It's original, but a variation on familiar Doctor Who scripts, talking about "timey whimey, wibbly wobbly bits." Then he walks on, right of screen, dressed in his tweed jacket and bow tie, continuing the narrative. "That's where I come in," he says. Fast cut to the blue police box spinning through space and the credits over the familiar theme music. He lists himself and his little girlfriend as the actors and credits his own production company.

It's really, really, really fucking cool.

71% in English. 66% in Math. 66% in Science. 71% in Social Studies.

This kid, who is writing original scripts, asking questions about exponential numbers, wanting to learn about subatomic particles and the nature of time and space, and use a time machine to travel to new places throughout all of history cannot manage better than Ds at school.

We watched the last five minutes of the episode I had interrupted and then I sent him off to bed. The Goddess came home excited about her new play and finally able to eat some of the dinner she made for everyone else. After a bit, I went and played with synthesizers in the TARDIS before retiring for the night.

Rayanna, Jayanna, Layanna, and Haile Selassie

On Tuesday, I picked up the seven-year-old from gymnastics. I hate gymnastics. Well, I hate all the other parents there. I was walking across the parking lot to enter the building when a white Escalade cut me off about twenty feet from the entrance. As in, pulled in front of me, stopped, and forced me to walk around the vehicle. The waiting area is on the perimeter of the gym and all the parents hover there. They all talk about who the best kids are. It's a competition, even for first graders.

She gets in the car and I ask her what the most interesting thing was that happened to her all day. She tells me that she started a club at school -- The Cheetah Club.

"Who's in it?" I ask.

"Moriah," she says (I know Moriah), "Rayanna, Jayanna, and Layanna."

"Are those sisters?" I ask.

"No. Why?" she says.

We walk through the front door of the house, and it's controlled chaos -- which is the normal state of things. The Monkey is running around in his diaper and a shirt. He's apparently been eating blue and green markers and is also super grumpy. The eleven-year-old is working on a homemade Doctor Who video. The Ape is crying.

After Dinner the Goddess gives baths to the younger kids. I talk to the eleven-year-old about his homework. It's stupid. Social Studies. It's this decoding worksheet with terms related to world events in the 1930s, before war breaks out. Basically, he just unscrambles a code and writes out the words and names. It's from some website called StudentHandouts.com or something.

"Have you talked about any of these words in class?" I ask.

"No," he says.

One of the names he unscrambles is "Haile Selassie." I talk to him about Rastafarianism, Bob Marley, and sacramental marijuana. I'm just doing my part to educate the kid.

I really want to play some music. I'm trying to record this electronic album at home over the next couple of months and I'm anxious to get to work. I sit down with the Goddess to talk to her about a project we're working on together -- this combination burlesque/revue/game show thing that we thought up. While we're talking, her phone rings. It's the director of a show she auditioned for. She crosses her fingers and answers.

Now, the Goddess doesn't get overly enthusiastic about a lot of things, but she was really excited about this show. She hasn't auditioned with this group before, but the part she wanted was perfect for her. She nailed the dance audition the night before and she felt really confident about getting it.

I watched her as she talked on the phone. Her face dropped. She hadn't gotten the part she wanted.

She was upset and it's the worst kind of upset to me, because I'm utterly powerless to do anything about it. We both know how this shit works. It's community theatre and she was the new person. You have to pay your dues with this sort of thing, prove that you aren't a flake, and put in your time playing the "townsperson" or in the chorus.

I just listened while she cried. I'm a terrible listener. It's taking all of my power to not go into problem-solving mode, which is where I normally say something stupid. "Don't talk, Jack. Just listen." I manage to listen for an hour without trying to fix anything or saying something insensitive or horrible. I secretly congratulate myself on acting the way any decent human being naturally would.

Then I play music till about 3:00 A.M.

Wednesday morning came early, but it wasn't hard to find the motivation to get up. We had a lot on our plate.

First off, it was Back to the Future day: October 21, 2015. (Go watch the second movie of the trilogy if you don't know what that is. Also, how have you not seen that movie?)

Also, President Obama was coming to our small city, speaking about two blocks from where I used to live before we moved to Crackerbox Palace.

And I was going to be on the radio that night.

The Obama thing was cool, but received with the typical bigotry I've come to expect living here. I could talk at length about why he was here and what it means, but I'll save that for another time.

My friend Rebecca had asked me to be on her radio show after work and I was really excited about that. It's a new, independent radio station, all volunteer deejays. She wanted to talk about my band and Halloween.

I headed there after work and had a really good time. Rebecca played music from both the band and my new electronic project. We also talked about Halloween candy, horror movies, and Chick tracts.

When I get home, I walk through the front door and I'm overjoyed by what I see: the Goddess has the Monkey (age 2) and the Ape (age 8 months) dressed as Doc Brown and Marty McFly. She's taking photos.

It's hard to explain how much this makes me love the Goddess. She's just perfect. She's a photographer, a dancer, an actress, and an amazing mother who makes life so much fun. Like a lot of creative people, she's very sensitive and is hurt easily. I don't know why she's with me. I'm essentially a bull in a china shop when it comes to emotions. It's not that I don't feel deeply, it's just that I have the empathy of a profoundly autistic child. It's a long-term project for me.

When the older kids get home from the movies, I talk to the eleven-year-old about grades for about the 573rd time in the past week. He's got something like a 58% in Science. One of the grades is "homework," that just consisted of signing on to the grade book online and making note of any missing assignments. We've checked his grades about forty times this week -- but he has somehow managed to not sign in on his own account once. And he has these low scores on tests and assignments about the scientific method, which is weird because when we talk about it, he volunteers all the steps and how he might conduct an experiment on a question he had around the house.

But he's distracted when we talk. He's thinking about Back to the Future and Doctor Who again.

"If you could go back in time, where do you think you would want to go?"

This is followed in quick succession by a series of questions about travel through time and, especially, space.

"Why haven't we sent anyone to Mars?"

"Why haven't we sent any robots to planets besides Mars?"

"How far away is Mars?"

"How fast do you travel through space?"

"How long would it take people to get to Mars?"

"How long would it take to get to Pluto?"

"Do you think they could discover other planets in our solar system?"

"Which is bigger, Pluto or the moon?"

"How many planets the size of Pluto could fit in the sun?"

"Are stars the hottest things there are?"

"Could scientists design a suit that allowed you to touch the sun?"

"Since the sun is gas, if you could stand the heat, could you go through it?"

He asked questions like this for about forty minutes.

This child is failing science right now.

Or maybe I should say, school is failing him.

My family is remarkable -- they are brilliant, funny, beautiful, talented, warm, sensitive, compassionate people, of whom this world is not worthy.

Doctors, Foxes, Cursed Dolls, and Weeping Angels

Sometimes I think I must have the coolest family around.

This past weekend, I played a lot of music. I'm in a horror punk band, where I play keyboards and saxophone. I also have this solo side project playing live electronic horror music. The band had two shows this weekend and I opened one of them with my solo project. It's lots of fun, too, because I get to play dress-up all the time. My alternate persona for the electronic project is named Doktor Steamly and he is a mad scientist. The Goddess dressed as the bride of Frankenstein for the Saturday show, so we had lots of fun together.

The kids play dress-up on a daily basis. It's normal for me to come home and see one of them dressed as Mario (from Mario Bros.), Spider Man, Foxy (from Five Nights at Freddy's), or Kitty Kat Girl (an original character created by the seven-year-old). When I got home from work on Friday, the seven-year-old was dressed as a "rock singer," complete with neon spandex, rhinestones, and fingerless gloves.

We crashed with the Goddess' mother on Saturday night, because my show was in her town. She is an artist and a really amazing costume designer. She did the Foxy costume for the eleven-year-old and an Annabelle (the cursed doll) dress for the seven-year-old. They've both won contests with them. Last year she designed a Chucky costume for the Monkey, who was just eleven-months-old at the time. (We're big on cursed dolls, apparently.) She did my mad scientist lab coat, too. Sunday morning, she was working on a Weeping Angel costume for the Goddess. (For the uninitiated, the Weeping Angels are one of the recurring monsters/villains on Doctor Who. They look like angel statues and only move when you aren't looking at them. If they touch you, they can send you back in time and they suck the life force from you. They're super creepy.) She'd made foam wings and gray dress; she still had to finish the gloves designed to look like stone arms. It's pretty effing spectacular.

The Goddess and I had a long talk on the drive back from her mom's. It was a beautiful autumn day and we talked -- like we do most of the time -- about the kids. We talked a lot about school. We were thinking about some of the things the teachers said to us last week.

One of the things they kept saying was that the eleven-year-old draws too much. He won't focus on his schoolwork -- all he wants to do is draw. He later told us that Mrs. T., his English teacher, won't even let him draw after he's completed all of his work.

The Goddess talked about how excited he was making videos. He'd just done one where he took a miniature of the TARDIS from Doctor Who and made it disappear, complete with sound effects. She said it was really good -- he got it to fade gradually and she didn't know how he had done it. When he is working on his art or his movies, he is so focused. You can barely even get him to eat.

The thing is, I know these teachers. Or I know ones like them. They're the type who'll say, "If I could get you to concentrate on your English assignment like you do drawing monsters, you'd be a successful student." They seem to miss an important part of the equation: school is really, really boring.

I mean, it doesn't have to be. There are teachers who bring learning to life. But these aren't them. They want to reward compliant children and punish non-compliant ones. They see a kid drawing and think it's a waste of time.

We got home and I started unloading gear in the basement when the eleven-year-old came running downstairs. He wanted to show me -- his mom had landed him a tweed jacket and bow tie at the Goodwill store and he was toting his sonic screwdriver. He was spot-on for the eleventh doctor. He started talking about the video he was going to make.

I don't want a different kid. I want this kid. I mean, yeah, I want him to be nice to others and learn that sometimes he has to complete work that he doesn't enjoy. But he's not lazy. He's not stupid. I don't want school to break his spirit and I get alternately saddened and angered when I imagine how they could completely crush him. Who are these adults who can't see how creative this kid is? Why can they only see failure where I see real brilliance?

We watched an episode with the eleventh doctor while we ate dinner. The eleven-year-old asked all kinds of questions about how I thought the TARDIS worked and what would really happen if you went back in time. It's easy to see the appeal of stories like these to kids like him. I can see the wheels turning in his mind, imagining what it would be like to have a TARDIS, to get away from everyone who is on his back, away from school, from English class, from Mrs. T., and maybe from parents who just don't understand -- all those Weeping Angels who just can't wait to get their hands on him to suck his life force -- and live a life of adventure and saving the world.

I wouldn't mind going with him, honestly.

Wherein I Describe My First Experience on the Receiving End of a Parent-Teacher Conference

Today I attended my first parent-teacher conference.

Well, that's not really true. I've attended dozens of parent-teacher conferences. But this was the first time I attended as a parent and not a teacher.

I wasn't planning on going. The Goddess started messaging me at work about the conference. She had a slot scheduled for 7:20 and she was nervous. She is uncomfortable in these situations. She feels like she has no power as a parent and that teachers often use the opportunity to be critical of one's parenting rather than trying to help. So I asked if she wanted me to go with her and she typed "yes" almost before I had the question finished. A few messages to get a babysitter, arrangements to leave work at 6:45, and we're all set.

The meeting was about the eleven-year-old. He's not been completing homework. He got in trouble on Friday. It just so happens that there is already a conference planned. Fortuitous timing.

We get to the school and it's nearly deserted. There is no one to greet us, no signs directing us where to go, and no one in the office to ask. So we wander the hallways for ten minutes until we find the spot.

We're ushered in to the "team meeting." I used to do these all the time, so the format is extremely familiar to me. Basically, the child's teachers all sit around a table talking to the parent or parents. I've been on the other side. It's specifically designed to disrupt the balance of power. An angry parent with a single teacher can be an uncontrollable force.

The problem is that the format is actually really intimidating to parents. Not to me -- which is why the Goddess wanted me there. I know the dynamics and understand how it works. But it seems almost designed to make the parent feel as if she knows nothing at all about their own child.

The English teacher, Mrs. T, took the lead. I expected this because the eleven-year-old is failing her class and she wrote the incident report about his behavior last Friday. Mrs. T is dressed in her very best black jogging suit, her hair in a bun. She takes a lecturing tone. I immediately can't stand her.

All of the teachers report similar issues. He's misbehaving, sometimes picking on other kids. He's not doing homework. He runs in the hallways.

I'm on their side, but here's the thing: we've gotten exactly two pieces of communication from his teachers about his behavior. The first was a call that went to his biological father instead of us, so we really heard about it second-hand, in the form of text messages telling the Goddess how she is screwing up. The second was the incident report, just three days ago. Now they are telling us this is a regular behavior from him.

I'm frustrated. The eleven-year-old knows what we expect of him. He had a couple of incidents in elementary school last year, but he didn't skip homework. He can act like a little asshole at times, but that's just another way of saying, "He's an eleven-year-old boy." I mean, I with the teachers on this. We want him to treat other children kindly. We want him to be responsible. But come on, folks. Work with us here. We can't fix problems if we don't know they exist.

As each of the teachers talks, I'm noticing other patterns, too. All of the teachers describe the eleven-year-old acting like a dick sometimes. But the other teachers say, "He jokes with other kids about who they are dating or tells them he is better at something than they are." Mrs. T says, "He is bullying," and "He harasses other students." The other teachers say, "He is really smart," and, "He is not doing as well as I know he can." Mrs. T says, "He's failing."

They also note some of his problems. He likes to draw all the time. He wants to run. He is obsessed with dating and girls.

An eleven-year-old boy who would rather draw picture of robots and run than sit in a school desk and also thinks about girls all the time? I've never heard of such a thing.

I wanted to just say, "You got to be fucking joking. I mean, you've met eleven-year-olds before, right?"

The Goddess is starting to lose it. I can tell she is tearing up. She starts talking. She apologizes for indulging him. It is her fault. She was an overprotective mother. She only fed him organic foods when he was little. She tried to give him a magical life and now he's spoiled.

I squeeze her leg.

Because fuck apologizing to strangers for trying to raise your child the best way you know how. The Goddess is an amazing mother who thinks almost only of her kids all the time and any "errors" she has made have come from trying too hard. Besides, I think the kid is pretty good. I just see some problems we want to fix now rather than later.

I try a different approach.

"Mrs. T, the thing is, when I read the incident report, all I have is a description of the other student's response. You don't actually describe the behavior. It is very difficult for us to correct a behavior at home when the only account we have is from the child himself -- not from any of you. You describe the behavior as 'habitual,' but this is just the second indication we've had from you that there is a problem."

The other teachers shake their head "yes" when I say that I would like to see the behavior described. (This is a pretty fundamental idea in classroom management, by the way. The teacher erred in describing the student and the reaction, but failed to describe the action that needs to be corrected.) I can feel Mrs. T's fur rising on the back of her neck.

"Well, when I spoke to you the first time," (she addresses the Goddess instead of me), "you seemed completely unconcerned with his behavior."

Now, at this point, I want to say, "Fuck you, you self-important twat. You can't even be bothered to dress professionally to meet parents but you presume to speak condescendingly to the Goddess?" I'm trying to decide between "twat" and "bitch" when the Goddess speaks.

"Of course we're concerned, but we have to know about his behavior to correct it! You've only communicated with us twice." She goes on to explain that she actually met with the assistant principal about the child's behavior although this seems to be news to all the teachers there.

Mrs. T answers, "Well, we have 80 students a day! You need to understand that we can't be expected to stay in constant communication with parents about a child's behavior."

The thing is, I taught middle school for nine years. At one point I had 120 students a day and I had one planning period, not two, like the teachers on the "Cobalt Team" have. And you can be damn sure I called a parent every time I saw a child bullying another.

"We know exactly what to expect, Mrs. T. We both used to work in education. I taught middle school."

At this news, the other teachers noticeably relax. A couple of them smile.

"We're on your side," I say. "We just need communication from you so we can address these problems at home."

I'm probably misremembering the meeting. I probably make myself sound like way less of an asshole than I actually was. The thing is, I really am on their side. I know the kid can be a dick at times. I know he lies about homework. But work with us.

The Goddess cried all the way as walked home. She feels like she has failed. She hasn't, but those meetings can sure make you feel that way.

I met with the eleven-year-old. We talked for about an hour. I reiterated that he was grounded for a long time. We worked on an action plan. We discussed empathy and why he may feel like his "joking around" can be hurtful. I told him that we supported his teachers, that they wanted good things for him. I told him we loved him, but that middle school is where people begin deciding what kind of person they are going to be for the rest of their lives and that so far, he's made some terrible choices.

But I come away convinced that schools fail kids like our eleven-year-old. He's not a "teacher pleaser." He needs art and physical movement almost as much as he needs food and rest. He succeeds most when his instruction is hands-on. These teachers have been working with young adolescents for a long time but they still don't seem to understand some basic developmental issues. Their classrooms seem (from my single impression) pretty teacher-focused. I don't blame the teachers -- necessarily.

I also come away frustrated with my own parenting. I'm missing something in helping him learn to control his behaviors. My dad would've told me he needs an ass-whipping. That might give vent to my frustration, but it would just teach him that negative emotions are soothed by hurting others. (Yeah, I know a bunch of you will disagree there. That's okay.)

But middle school is just three years, right? How bad could it be?

Addendum: Mrs. T also made threats regarding the eleven-year-old's "permanent record." Really? Here's a tip for you non-educators: there's no such thing as a "permanent record." I mean, yes, schools keep educational records and you might even find an old disciplinary referral somewhere. But no one was ever kept out of Harvard because they got in trouble for throwing spit balls in 8th grade. Don't believe me? Call your old junior high and ask to see your "permanent record."

Raising a Middle School Sociopath and the Worst Birthday Ever

I sent a Facebook message from work today to the Goddess. It said, "I need to figure out what my role is in our lives."

I had had such high hopes for this past week.

It's October. I should start by saying that Halloween is a big deal in our family. I mean, I know Halloween is a big deal in everyone's families. But I write horror and play in a horror punk band. Everyone in this house likes dressing up in costumes, even on regular days. Halloween is our time of year.

And last year was really successful. At least, I remember it being really successful. It was our first Halloween together as a family and we did this whole, "31 Days of Halloween" thing. We had an activity of some sort every night and it was so successful, we wanted to replicate it this year.

Last weekend was the first weekend of the month, and we'd planned on going to the local pumpkin farm that has a corn maze and all of these other kid's activities. It just pissed down the rain, so that didn't happen. Instead, I drank Bloody Marys and we overdosed on Netflix: Nightmare before Christmas, Beetlejuice, Hocus Pocus, and Monster Squad. Oh, and a couple of Doctor Who episodes, the ones with the weeping angels, because the Goddess decided that she wants to go as a weeping angel this year, which sounds fantastic, if we can manage to match the color of make-up to the costume.

So it was a pretty good weekend. I was looking forward to the week.

Things started downhill on Monday.

We had all stayed up much too late watching Doctor Who and we overslept. The Goddess had to take the six-year-old to school and she was late. Then I went to pay for the six-year-old's violin at work (I work at a music store) and had my debit card declined for insufficient funds. This was an especial drag as I was seven full days away from another pay day and had actually gotten a lot of overtime on the last check. On the up side, Ape had to go to the doctor and we found he now weighs 22 lbs. at just seven months. (I'm thinking of calling him "Pugsley.") The six-year-old had choir. I worked late. Then the six-year-old had a meltdown -- complete with lying in the floor and crying -- when asked to practice her violin for ten fucking minutes. I'm at a loss at those moments. I had to practice piano for thirty minutes a day at her age and I would have been beaten senseless for lying in the floor. I tired a combination of stern reproach and negotiation which was a complete failure.

On Tuesday, the six-year-old turned seven, so her biological father was picking her up from gymnastics and taking her out for her birthday. At some point, the eleven-year-old asked to use the Goddess' Macbook and we noticed him looking at his grades online -- something not particularly usual for him. So we went and looked, too. He's failing Math and English. Not only that, but he's missing assignments from every single one of his classes.

We are completely failing on this front.

His mom and I both worked in education for years. I get that school is kind of bullshit (more on that later) and that homework is largely pointless (definitely more on that later) and that middle school is like a prison, but come on man.

He's not a stupid kid. He's just really fucking lazy.

Which, you know, so was I at his age and come to think of it, some of my grades started sucking at his age, too.

But the worst part is that he lied all grading period -- nine fucking weeks -- about having homework. And we didn't double-check, because like a couple of schmucks, we believed him.

So he's grounded for like, ever.

Oh, and all three of us got to work on homework that night until about 10:30 trying to turn in incomplete assignments late.

I'm glad I didn't work Wednesday. Instead I stayed in, watched this little indie horror film called Mr. Jones, played with the babies, and then started working on my electronic music project for most of the night. My band's rehearsal got canceled, so I had some extra time for that.

Thursday, the Goddess had an out-of-town performance with her burlesque troupe, so I hustled on home and started making dinner: Chef Boyardee pizza. I thought she wouldn't even make it out the door, because she had a near-breakdown ("I just won't go. I'm going to quit.") because she needed a piece of equipment I'd loaned her and I forgot to put it back. But once she was out the door, the five of us settled in, ate pizza, and watched a couple more episodes of Doctor Who. I got everyone in bed on time (even though I skipped bathing the babies, because they both were falling asleep), and I even read a few Junie B. Jones chapters to the seven-year-old. I put on Day of the Dead and drank wine and felt like a damn super-parent while waiting on the Goddess' return.

Yesterday, we had a birthday party for the seven-year-old. The Goddess had planned all of it, but just asked me to stop by the store on the way home to pick up a few things. Then I get a call at about 4:00. The eleven-year-old got in trouble at school. Bullying.

Fuuuuuuuucccckkkk.

The Goddess' is kind of beside herself, so I did this thing I do where I go into my old middle school teacher mode and talk through the whole situation, kind of telling her how to handle it. I mean, she was asking me at this point, so I thought that was okay.

When I get home, I take the eleven-year-old aside while all of these kids are arriving. I talked to him, super seriously, about his behavior. I make him read his disciplinary referral. I ask him what is meant by the words "habitual" and "no remorse." I tell him we love him but want him to grow up to be a kind person. I write out some words for him like "empathy" and "manipulative." He listens. He looks at me while I'm talking. He doesn't roll his eyes.

Then he tells me his side of the story.

And the thing is, I kind of want to believe it, because it sounds totally believable. Only I remember that he lied to us about his homework and that I just wrote out the word "manipulative" on my mini legal pad. So it looks like we're headed to a meeting with his teachers to determine if we're raising a total sociopath.

Then it's downstairs for the birthday party. Things are going okay. I mean, there are seven six-to-eight-year-old girls screaming like mad over French pop music blaring on the hi-fi (the Goddess had decided on a Gallic theme), the Monkey is running around trying to take everyone's toys, and the eleven-year-old is obnoxiously showing off for everyone, but it's okay. Until the piñata.

We go to the front porch for the piñata and I can tell that the Goddess is going to lose her shit over this. First of all, the girls won't form an orderly line. Then, they keep missing the piñata (is this really a French word?) and manage to damage the porch swing. Then they are getting on the bouncy horse that's really designed for a single toddler, not seven-year-olds, and especially not the fat one and her friend. I'm getting frustrated, too, not just by the kids, but because I think I could probably organize this a little better.

Yeah, I know. Total asshole thing to think, especially about the love of your life. The thing is, I used to work in education and at one point kind of helped teachers work on this sort of thing. And I have a real problem thinking like a parent instead of a teacher, because I haven't been a parent that long.

So, I say a few things to her, which, you know, aren't received really well.

Then I go in with the Monkey and leave the rest of them out on the porch. It takes like 30 minutes to bust this damn thing open, so the Goddess is really irritable when they come back in.

The seven-year-old decides that she wants to have a dance contest, then has a near breakdown ("This is the worst birthday, EVER!") when she fails to force all of her friends to do exactly what she wants on her birthday. But we soldier on through a series of first-grade dance routines to "Watch Me Whip," "Uptown Funk," and "Let It Go" from Frozen.

At one point, we discover that one of our young guests has absconded upstairs. Upon being discovered, she informs us that "she just needs some alone time." My initial reaction is, "Why the fuck did you come to a party then, kid?" which I am about to say to the Goddess when she looks at me and says, "I already know what you're going to say. You're so critical."

Ugh.

So I take the Monkey to bed and pass out myself.

Which brings me to this morning, when I messaged her from work, saying, "I need to figure out what my role is in our lives."

She suggested I try blogging to work through all these issues.

So, here I am, home from work, drinking a really terrible table wine, and finishing up my first blog post. I hope to post regularly, but with a family of six, we'll see how that goes. I'd also hoped to keep the posts to blog length rather than full essays, but I've already failed on that front.

Welcome to Dispatches from Crackerbox Palace. Thanks for stopping by.