Fear Or ...

           So I was driving down to my parents’ house in Cape May on Friday, and I had a lot on my mind. First of all, I kept hearing this one guy’s voice in my head. He’s from New York, like I am, but he’s running for president, and he had given a convention speech the night before, which I had heard in part. It kind of freaked me out, because there was so much darkness in his words. He was saying in his speech that “our very way of life” is threatened in America, and that the person he’s running against leaves a legacy of “death, destruction and weakness.” He said these are very difficult days in America, and that we need to take care of our country first. The thing that upset me the most was when he told America, “I am your voice.” I have never lived under a dictator, but when I study them, they usually say things like that, tapping into our fears and convincing us that they know what we need.

            I was wondering what drew people to this guy and his rhetoric of fear and passion. I was wondering if this was the message I’d keep hearing in the days and months ahead. I had music playing on my iPod, and was paying tribute to the late Prince by listening to his tunes. In between songs about little red Corvettes, raspberry berets and purple rain, I listened to the lyrics from the song 7, which is the closest Prince every got to predicting the future when he released it almost 25 years ago. “I saw an angel come down unto me,” he sang. “In her hand she holds the very key / Words of compassion, words of peace.” In his Book of Revelation-type lyrics, Prince sings of a world in which “the young” are “so educated they never grow old.” He even sings of “a voice of many colors” singing a song “that’s so bold.” Well, I thought, that’s a different person with different ideas than the one I’d heard the night before. But I kind of like this vision of a world where compassion and combined voices lead the way, better than I like the sound of footsteps approaching.

            I arrived in Cape May and went down to the beach the next day. Every day, there are teenagers on the beach who sell umbrellas and beach chairs, then pick them up at the end of the afternoon. I’d noticed that the chair seller on our stretch of the beach had a tattoo on his upper chest. I stopped him and asked what the tattoo said. He read it to me: “Fear is nothing more than a mental monster you have created, a negative stream of consciousness.” I looked that up later, and saw that it comes from Robin Sharma, a Canadian writer. This young man, dragging umbrellas and chairs through the soft sand, seemed to have already arrived at a very different way of looking at fear than those words I heard on Thursday night. In fact, he’s so confident in these words that he wears them on his tanned torso.

            As I lay on the beach, I read a book by New York Times columnist Charles M. Blow, titled Fire Shut Up in My Bones. In terms of coming-of-age memoirs, they don’t get much better. I read about Blow’s attempts to find inner peace after a childhood incident left him violated and afraid. Earlier in the week, the author’s most recent Times column had spoken of the recent violence against civilians and police with the words, “It’s not either/or, but both/and.” As someone who has lived through tragedy, Blow is well-suited to help guide our country out of the struggles we face. He chooses to do so through words of love.

            After arriving back from the beach, I gathered up my dog and took her for an early-evening walk. Around the corner, I saw several yellow and orange pieces of paper tied to a tree with pieces of string. As I walked closer, I saw a sign in front of the tree, identifying it as a “Poet-Tree,” and inviting passersby to take one. My dog and I stood in front of the tree for a while, reading poems, many of them about nature, lots of them by Robert Frost and Mary Oliver. I took a poem from Oliver titled Wild Geese, whose beautiful lines speak of shared pain, shared progress, and shared tomorrows. “Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, / the world offers itself to your imagination, / calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting -- / over and over announcing your place / in the family of things.”

            There are strong words of fear in America today. But wherever my wheels and feet seem to take me, I keep hearing reassuring words of grace. There’s a lot to talk about at those presidential conventions – our country has as much room for improvement as any. But we had a president once who said something about fear, something many have echoed in the 83 years since he said it. And it remains as true as the morning sun: The only thing we have to fear, my friends, is fear itself. The rest is today’s challenge, tomorrow’s triumph, and the music of life. 

Our Devices, Ourselves, & Our Communities

I finally got around to reading Alone Together, Sherry Turkle’s influential study of technology in the modern day, and I can’t praise it enough. When you’re living through a seismic cultural change, it can be so difficult to step away and study the frenetic movement around you. But Turkle, a psychologist and MIT professor, has managed to use her academic training and pinpoint perspective to provide a deeply important view of the technological changes around us. I can’t think of many books more relevant to our world today than this one.

The book was published just last year, so its content is current. But most important, Turkle uses her psychological training to ask questions that will remain pertinent throughout the years to come. Are we, first and foremost, coming to expect more from our devices and less from the people around us? Are we really living a full life, or are we setting up moments so we can chronicle them on our Facebook wall? Is that Facebook wall an accurate portrayal of who we are, or is it a pose meant to showcase us in ways that make us look cool?

Are we interacting with one another in ways that bespeak community, or are we communicating in isolation, from a distance? Do we hesitate to call each other now, deferring to the text, e-mail or tweet in lieu of a real-life voice? Are we able to put the devices away, or have they changed us so much that we’re unable to leave them behind? An interview subject tells Turkle, “Technology is bad because people are not as strong as its pull” (242).

I picked up this book partly because of the changes I’ve seen in others, and partly because of the changes I’ve seen in myself. In the past decade, I know I’ve been influenced heavily by the devices around me – none moreso than the one I’m typing on right now. I don’t have a smartphone, so I’m not yet addicted to apps and don’t have constant access to the Internet. But when I turn on my laptop, it seems as if there is a magnetic pull to it, drawing me to respond to e-mails, check my “favorite” web sites, and research things I’ve been thinking about lately.

This technology is fascinating, of course, and I can spend all day listing ways in which the computer and Internet have helped me or others I know with information, education and communication. But as Turkle reminds us, we have lost a lot to these devices as well. She argues that we have every right to desire solitude, privacy, downtime, attention, and the ability to live in the moment. We can’t just cede these essential virtues to the technological revolution. “We deserve better,” the author writes. “When we remind ourselves that it is we who decide how to keep technology busy, we shall have better” (296).

My parents like their e-mail and their iPad, and they go to classes at the Apple store for help with using their devices. But overall, they are old school when it comes to communication. They like to call their friends on the phone, and they especially like to hang out with their friends in person. I’ve spent the past few days with them in their house on the Jersey Shore, and we’ve had a constant stream of visitors knocking on the door to stop in for a while. There are moments when I hear the knocking and think to myself, “Couldn’t they have texted to say they were coming over?” But then I realize that I’m missing the point. They step in, and moments of sharing and spontaneity take place.

These moments spread beyond the house itself, as evidenced when we found ourselves at the beach on July 4^th, waiting for the annual fireworks display at sunset. My wife, daughters and I were there along with my parents. But so were our friends Laura and Mark, who have been close with my parents for nearly 20 years and were inspired to move to this Shore town because of their visits to my parents. This week, Laura’s brother and his family were vacationing here as well, so they joined us on the beach. And Laura’s friends from New York were in town, staying in a hotel my parents had suggested, so they also joined us. My older daughter, Katie, had brought along her face paint and was drawing fireworks and flags on kids’ faces. Another girl, whom we didn’t know, stopped over to our blanket for a face-painting as well.

I had the Wiffle ball in hand, and was tossing pitches to a 2-year-old boy named Gabriel, the son of Laura’s friends. He smacked some nice line drives back to me with the yellow Wiffle bat. His dad helped him with the batting grip, and Mark helped catch the balls Gabriel hit.

There was a lot of fellowship in that sand on a Wednesday night in July. Flashes sparkled as folks took pictures of the activity. Some of those photos might be on someone’s Facebook page by now. I understand that, and accept it. But an evening like this is typical for my parents – computers take a backseat to conversation and communion. It’s a real-life version of what Sherry Turkle is asking us to consider preserving. As I sit here at my laptop, with the cell phone and iPod beside me and the Internet a click of the mouse away, I have food for thought. I think I’ll post a blog – then go outside for a quiet walk. 

Who's Your Daddy? He's a Jock Again

It’s been 22 years since I last wore a jock strap. It was the summer of 1989, and I was playing American Legion baseball with my cousin and a number of other young men at ballfields throughout Staten Island. I was getting ready for college, where I would leave the pitching mound for the sports desk of my school’s newspaper. Before long, I was covering sports on a daily basis.

Twelve years ago, I left daily newspaper work for public-school teaching. At this point, I was no longer interviewing athletes and other individuals during the summer months. Instead, July and August became a time for rest, rejuvenation and reading. Certain summers have also offered time for those medical visits that were put off during the school months. This has been one such summer.

But this year, I didn’t have just any old medical procedure. No, this year was special. This was the summer in which Daddy ensured that he could not become anyone else’s daddy. This was the week that saw a husband trudge through the front door, asking his wife for a pillow and an ice pack. This was the year that found a 40-year-old man wearing a jock strap for the first time since Rick Astley was churning out pop hits and Michael Keaton was Batman.

I haven’t needed the cup, mind you; just the strap, to help ease my way back into manhood. I am learning, as I begin my fifth decade, that there are certain medical procedures that help foster the increased humility that seems to come with age. There are parts of the body that, when prodded, do not leave me feeling like the king of the world, or even of my zip code. This trend, I’m sure, will only increase in scope as the years roll along.

For those of you who would like a little more color to the description, I will give you just this: When the Novocaine wears off a few hours after you leave the urologist, it feels as if you’ve awakened five days after being beaten below the belt with a baseball bat. You never felt the intense pain; just the heavy, please-get-me-some-Tylenol-right-now ache. It subsides, a little each day. But walking is hard. For someone who prefers running four miles to lying in a hammock, it’s probably harder on my state of mind than anything else.

But as I fight the stir-craziness, I’m forced to sit down, relax, and do the things that an on-the-move, to-do-list guy often doesn’t allow himself to do. I have sat down and made playlists for my iPod. I’ve read the newspaper. I’ve watched A League of Their Own with my girls in the backyard, at dusk, while eating ice cream. I’ve read with my girls, and watched them perform G-rated Katy Perry dance routines. I’ve sat down with my wife and planned our summer trips.

It’s not easy being laid up, but there are much more difficult things in life than this. Perhaps the hardest part of all was figuring out how to explain to a 9-year-old why this procedure was even necessary for Daddy. She was too old to just gloss over it, but too young to know everything. So after a brief, scientific discussion about the birds and the bees, she nodded, telling us that all those nature shows we’ve been making her watch make so much more sense now.

So if we got through that dicey discussion, surely I can make it out of this jock strap. It will take some time, I’m sure. But hey, maybe once it’s over I can find myself a men’s baseball or softball league. I’ve got a head start on the equipment already. And you know, as a pitcher, I can even handle it if an opposing team starts to heckle me.

The most creative way to get at a pitcher is to do to him what Yankee fans notoriously did to future Hall of Fame pitcher Pedro Martinez in his later years. “Who’s your daddy?” the Yankee faithful shouted to Martinez, ever since the day he lost to the Yankees in September 2004 and told reporters, “I tip my hat and call the Yankees my daddy.” New Yorkers jumped all over this, and Pedro smiled all the while as 50,000-plus asked him this rhetorical question every time he entered Yankee Stadium.

I was born the same year as Pedro. Beyond that small similarity, our baseball skills have nothing in common. He is a legendary hurler; I am a teacher and writer. But I do think I can handle the heckling just as well as he could.

“Who’s your daddy?” you ask? Most definitely not me. I’ve got the scars to prove it.

Goodwill; Good Grief!

The Charlie Brown / Cliff Lee Christmas Special.

[Scene begins with a dad, once nicknamed “Charlie Brown” by his grandfather, conversing about Christmas with his older daughter.]

So Katie, if Santa could bring you one gift this year, what would it be?

[A pause, then an answer] A dachshund.

Now Katie, you were given a dog for your birthday last year. Daisy isn’t even a year old yet. Let’s move on: If Santa could bring you two gifts this year, what would the second one be?

A bed for my dachshund.

All right now, Katie. Let’s move away from the dog gifts. If Santa could bring you a third gift, what would that be?

A panda bear.

(Sigh.) Good grief.

Sometimes, even the most wonderful time of the year is fraught with negotiation. While there will be no hot dog-shaped canines or black-eyed, bamboo-eating bears under our tree this Christmas, there has to be something. And when the girls finally got serious and gave us their Santa lists, the requests were, well, staggering. In a Sally Brown kind of way.

- An iTouch
- A new backyard playset
- An e-Reader
- An iPod
- A bicycle

They didn’t say it themselves, but I’m sure they’d also be pleased with Sally’s request of “tens and twenties” on her Santa list. What happened to the days when Lite Brite was a lot to ask for? What happened to hoping upon hope that a new Joe Montana jersey lay beneath the tree? What, in the name of Charlie Brown, ever happened to Lincoln Logs? Isn’t there anyone who knows what Christmas is all about?

Linus isn’t home right now, Charlie. Lucy is, though, and she’ll tell you it’s all a big commercial racket. She’s reading the newspaper today, and she’s interested in a story about Cliff Lee, the left-handed pitching ace from Arkansas. Still undecided on what his next team will be, Lee can be certain of one thing – when he does sign, he’ll be at least $150 million richer. There have been a lot of negotiations between Lee’s agent and assorted major-league teams over the past month, and the teams keep piling more money in front of the lefty. If Lee wanted a dachshund and a panda, several teams would happily provide them for him tomorrow.

Of course, Cliff Lee could build his own zoo with the money he’s about to make. He can look at my girls’ list and take care of it tomorrow – with his own shopping assistant, if he so desires. He might even buy himself one of those big aluminum trees. Maybe one painted pink. It’s not the easiest Christmas for some families, but for elite baseball players such as Lee, the stocking is overflowing.

Santa will bring some wonderful gifts to our house on Christmas morning, but he did not spend two weeks shopping in Best Buy or Petco for the 8-year-old and 5-year-old who live here. The gifts will be just fine, and I have a feeling my two girls will be very grateful for what they receive.

In our living room, after all, we have a new holiday ornament this year – a replica of Charlie Brown’s tiny Christmas tree. The girls like it a lot, and I’d like to think it reminds them of one of the many great messages found in Charlie’s holiday classic – that nothing needs to be pricey to be a thing of beauty; all it needs is a little love.

Sure, Charlie Brown, I can tell you what Christmas is all about.

Ah, Linus. There you are. Bring that blanket over here and tell us a story. Lights, please.

Simplify (One Sixty-Two: Day 111)

Writer’s note: One Sixty-Two is a season-long series of blog posts connecting baseball’s major-league players to life’s universal themes. Just as there are 162 games in a season, so there will be 162 posts in this series. Let’s play some ball.

Day One Hundred Eleven: Jorge Posada, New York Yankees

We’ve got some friends over the house, and my wife is on her way home. She calls to tell me she’s picking up the pizza, and that I should call to order. I say no problem, and hang up.

I look for the pizzeria menu we keep in our kitchen drawer, but I can’t find it. And it’s at this point that our friend Stan and I begin some distinct 21st-century behavior. I dial up my wife again, because I know she has the pizzeria number on her cell phone. Stan, meanwhile, takes his BlackBerry out of his pocket. As my wife takes my call, she pulls over to the side of the road to get me the number. By the time I hang up with the number written down, Stan is holding his phone up to show me the number he’s found on-line.

In the next room, a rarely-used phone book sits on a shelf next to our computer. It’s got the pizzeria’s phone number in it, and it’s completely ready for use, anytime. Yet, I didn’t even think of using it until after I’d gotten the number via cell phone and Internet.

Simplifying life. We keep saying we need to do so, yet every year we add more layers of complexity. From smart phones to laptops to GPS devices to iPods to DVRs to 3G networks, we can’t help ourselves. We need to be wired everywhere, and connected to everything. We Facebook, Twitter, text, e-mail and play video games with people in Dubai. It never stops.

But once in awhile, when we find ourselves drowning in data, it hits us. There is a life outside of all the computer chips. We can live in this world without WiFi. We take our inspiration wherever we can.

Take Jorge Posada, for example. The Yankees catcher has never walked up to the plate wearing batting gloves. Almost every baseball player alive wears the gloves to enhance their grip on the bat. But not Jorge. Just a little pine tar and a strong grip is all he asks. As for his helmet, Jorge doesn’t need a sparkling new one every week. He’s got the same weathered helmet he’s been wearing for years. He’s a bit old school in that way, and he doesn’t seem to mind at all.

I would imagine that Jorge has pizza delivered to his home. But when he calls, I bet he’s used that phone book every so often. He’s washed off the pine tar by now, so he can flip through the pages just fine.

It’s OK to simplify, and it always will be. These days, though, most of us seem to be missing that message. We’ve got the batting gloves on, and we’re ready for what’s next.

What a Tangled Web We Weave (One Sixty-Two: Day 47)

Writer’s note: One Sixty-Two is a season-long series of blog posts connecting baseball’s major-league players to life’s universal themes. Just as there are 162 games in a season, so there will be 162 posts in this series. Let’s play some ball.

Day Forty-Seven: Brad Lincoln, Pittsburgh Pirates

I was tempted to turn on my laptop at 6:45 this morning to check my e-mail, my fantasy baseball, and anything else the Internet brought my way. But I decided I needed a simpler, quieter breakfast with a backdrop of birds chirping rather than electronics humming.

I glanced at Monday’s New York Times while starting my bowl of cereal, and there on Page One was a headline that seemed quite fitting to the decision I’d just made: It read “Hooked on Gadgets, and Paying a Mental Price.” The story, by Matt Richtel, focused on technology overload, and the ways in which our attempts to multitask with computers, e-mail, phone calls, iPads, iPods and other assorted media have altered the way we think and behave. In addition, Richtel reports, scientists are finding that the media multitaskers among us struggle to focus.

It’s an article that any adult would do well to read. I was particularly taken by Tara Parker-Pope’s sidebar, titled “Warning Signs of Tech Overload,” when I noticed how many of the signs applied to me. As I think about the degree to which my girls watch and emulate my behavior, this concerned me even more.

But the thrill of information everywhere is so difficult to discard. It is the most tantalizing byproduct of this technological revolution – if we want it, we can find it. And the fact that we can find so much leads us to want to find much more than we would’ve ever thought to look for in generations past. And I’m not sure that helps us in the long run.

So the Pittsburgh Pirates apparently are considering a promotion for their top pitching prospect, a young man named Brad Lincoln. With all the hype over Stephen Strasburg’s debut with the Washington Nationals tonight, you might think that Mr. Lincoln would be overshadowed, with little information about him as the team considers starting him tomorrow.

But oh, how wrong you’d be. Just a quick Google search brings us the following: News stories on Brad Lincoln from ESPN.com, MLB.com, The Associated Press, USA Today and the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette; scouting reports and statistics from Baseball-Reference.com, Yahoo! Sports, CBS Sports and Rotoworld.com; blurbs from Pirates fan sites (“Raise the Jolly Roger” and “Bucco Fans,” to name a couple); Lincoln’s biography on the University of Houston athletics department’s site; and, of course, a Wikipedia entry.

So if you were somehow addicted to both baseball and technology (a combination that I’ve heard something about), you could literally spend hours reading stories about a 25-year-old man who has not yet thrown a single pitch in the major leagues. Hours.

He’s supposed to be a good one, it’s true. And it’s cool to have the opportunity to read about him. But, as Richtel’s story tells us, there are an awful lot of us reading an awful lot of things these days on-line – and we’re having trouble looking away.

Yet those birds, man – they’re chirping. They sounded beautiful this morning. I gave them 15 minutes, felt at ease, and then rushed off to work. The computer went on, and here it is still, 15 hours later.

Tonight, I‘ve gained more knowledge about Brad Lincoln. But what have I lost along the way?

Bringing the Olympics Home

I was admiring the Stephen Colbert Winter Olympics magnet in Ellen’s classroom, and it got us started on how much we miss the Games already. Ellen, who is a friend and colleague, loves the spirit, excitement and intensity of the Olympics so much that she’s still got some events left to watch on her DVR, four days after the Closing Ceremonies. I’m envious.

I have followed sports for as long as I’ve been watching TV, and I’ve followed them closely ever since Santa gave me a subscription to Sports Illustrated just before I turned 11. I’ve worked as a sportswriter and covered everything from the Final Four to Putt-Putt tournaments. Even so, there are really only three sports experiences that bring my enthusiasm to a level that I’d deem passionate: One is the entire baseball season. The other is NCAA basketball in March. And the third is the Olympics, both summer and winter.

I love the Olympic fortnight and all its built-in drama. I love the kid out of nowhere who takes the silver, I respect the favorite who holds on and takes the gold as expected, and I’m inspired by the gutsy athlete who completes the race despite injury. I watch the cheesy NBC profiles, I put my trust in Bob Costas, and I even look forward to the Olympic-themed commercials. Someday, I hope to attend an Olympics in person.

But as March begins, the Vancouver Winter Olympics are finished. Gone. Amy and I have no DVR, so there’s nothing on tape to watch. It’s on to the rest of our lives.

Or is it? Shaun White and Shani Davis may not be here in our house, but the more I look around the more I see some Olympic-caliber events taking place around me. In fact, La Casa Hynes could easily bid for the site of the next Household Olympics. I can’t see the IOC voting against us, really. I think they’d love it.

For one, you’ve got the Bunk Bed Jumping event. See 8-year-old hopping on her top bunk to impress Grandma. Hear Grandma ask 8-year-old to stop horsing around. Watch 8-year-old leap from the top twin-size bunk, only to land on the bottom full-size bunk with all the weight and velocity of a ski jumper. Watch the wood split in half on the side, and see the bottom mattress slither to the ground. Hear Mom yell. Loudly.

After you’ve caught your breath, give Puppy Gate Crashing a try. Walk into the kitchen to greet your 10-week-old golden retriever. Watch the small furry dog dive toward you, only to slam belly-first into a plastic puppy gate. See her fall on her back on the linoleum, only to hop up with tail wagging. Really, who needs a halfpipe?

For the more detail-oriented sportsmen, there is Blankie Searching. Just before bedtime, hear a 5-year-old tell you that she can’t find “Blankie.” What was once a hospital blanket holding an infant is now a small, gray cloth the size of a Girl Scout badge. Search through every room, pick up every pillow, and rummage through each pocket as you try and find this dirty piece of cloth.

Oh, there is so much to savor in these domestic games. For the biathletes among us, try Stain Shooting. Your job here is to wear your nicest school clothes, get through a day of school with the clothes still clean, then figure out a way to spray that tomato sauce directly on the sleeves of each shirt just as you finish your meal. You can’t miss the target, because then Mom and Dad would actually have it easy for once. It’s not just a bowl of penne, kid: It’s everything you’ve ever dreamed of.

As we close out these games, let’s turn our attention to the Dimetapp Marathon. Since it’s winter, we’re trying to see how many consecutive days someone can have a stuffy nose and require two teaspoons of our favorite grape medicine. We’re shooting for a new winter record here, so let’s not stop at three weeks, please.

This is great. I’ve got to get NBC on the phone. Poor station is back to regular programming again, which means more of that Leno-O’Brien nightmare. Notice how no one talked about that these past few weeks? All because they were eating up the hockey, curling, skiing, skating and sledding. Just imagine if they had the chance to watch even juicier events, like Vicks Steam Humidifier Cleaning, Taylor Swift-on-the-iPod Dancing, or the frenetic Grab-the-Coat-and-Leash-Before-the-Puppy-Pees-on-the-Floor race?

Frankly, I’m embarrassed I hadn’t thought of this earlier. But now I’m ready to bring sport to a new level. The Olympics don’t have to end, folks. Just look around you, build a podium in the laundry room, and go for the gold.

Sacrifices & Stuffed Bears

I would love, one day, to see Ryan Howard hit a home run in person. I’ve had tickets to two games in which he was on the field, and he has hit four homers in those two games. I saw him rounding third base after one of the blasts, and the others I missed entirely.

The reason for these misses is simple: I attended those ballgames with my children. And when you’re at a ballpark with young kids, watching the game is typically not their first priority. I was thinking of this yesterday, as my younger one celebrated her fifth birthday. I stood in the Build-a-Bear Workshop at Menlo Park Mall and watched a bunch of 4- and 5-year-olds place little red hearts inside newly stuffed bears, rabbits and dogs, and I recalled the day a few years ago when that Build-a-Bear store on the main concourse of Citizens Bank Park kept us from watching Mr. Howard land his mighty blows against the Atlanta Braves. In that case, the girls were begging for a stuffed Phillie Phanatic. We listened to their pleas, and eventually they settled for a Phanatic picture book over in the nearby souvenir shop.

Sacrifices. We make an awful lot of them when we enter this crazy racket called parenthood. We give up so much for our kids, and most of it is way harder to take than a rabid baseball fan missing a superstar’s home run. We begin by giving up sleep, one of our life’s necessities, for the sake of our kids. And then our free time becomes their own. Then our financial decisions become ruled by their needs. Eventually, our career paths, home decisions and vacation choices all become heavily influenced by the little ones we have.

There are times when it gets to be too much. Times when we find ourselves wondering when we are going to get a full night’s sleep again. Or when we’re ever going to get that weekend away – and if not that, perhaps just dinner and a movie? And if not that, then maybe just at least one hour in which we can get something done without a little creature climbing up our leg?

It can seem endless sometimes. And for moms, it’s even more difficult, as the young child so often looks to the mother as the lead parent. A trip to the gym? An hour at a coffee shop? A night out with friends? These are fantasies, better suited for the Travel section than our daily planner.

And yet, then these little creatures keep growing, and they find a way to climb not only onto your leg, but into your heart as well. They learn how to smile and welcome another kid to their birthday party. They ask you to turn on your iPod so they can dance to the Ting Tings with you. They ask if they can say grace before dinner. And then they actually eat their green beans. You ask them to flex their biceps, and they show you how strong they’re getting. They ask you to read a book, and together you learn something new together.

Tonight, as Chelsea was getting ready for bed on this birthday night of hers, we sat down at the computer and I showed her other famous people who were born on this date. We talked about Isaac Newton, and Louis Braille, and Floyd Patterson. After we looked at Julia Ormond, and the guy who did Winnie-the-Pooh’s voice in the Disney short films, I showed her my personal favorite of the January 4th celebrity birthdays: Michael Stipe. I played her REM’s pop song “Stand” on the iPod, and she smiled and swayed to the music. We watched the video to “Shiny Happy People,” and she wanted to know who the drummer was. I told her, then segued over to a clip of REM singing that same song, but with the words “Furry Happy Monsters,” for their Sesame Street performance. Chelsea had seen that clip before, and she seemed to find it really cool that this man who sang neat songs for a living was born on her birthday. I resisted the urge to play her “Orange Crush” or any of the darker REM songs, and led my shiny happy person off to bed.

So this little kid is cuddling with me on our couch, letting me teach her about the world, listening to songs I like, and singing along with me. Not such a bad night, actually. Pretty much worth about a million and a half sacrifices. I’ll take it, kid. Maybe next time we can even watch some clips of Ryan Howard’s home runs. You might like it.