Thank you for eating the monsters!

When I was growing up, my family always had a dog. From the big white german shepherd, to the little white poodle, to the ferocious looking (but super sweet) doberman, the family dog was always an integral part of my childhood memories.

I couldn't wait until I got older so that I could have a dog of my own. I always knew that I would have a yellow dog, and that I would name her "Daisy" after my favorite flower.

About a year after I moved to Virginia to go to grad school with my now husband, Jud, I started my campaign to convince him to let me have a puppy. I used all of the usual techniques -- I'll feed her, I'll train her, I'll take her to all of her vet appointments. Please, please, please, can we get a puppy? Can we? Can we? Can we??? His roommates were very helpful with my campaign -- they suggested that now was the perfect time to get a dog, while we had flexible schedules and roommates who could help us take care of her. Once we graduated and went out into the "real world," we would be working long hours, and we wouldn't have time to housebreak a puppy.

It turns out that Jud had never really had a dog when he was growing up, so he needed some time to warm up to the idea of a pet. Eventually, he agreed that we could LOOK at some dogs. JUST LOOK.

We started off at the local animal shelter, where I wanted to take home every dog that I saw. Not because they were perfect, but because it made me sad to see them in those little cages.

After a few failed shelter trips and some further discussion, we agreed that we wanted a yellow lab, so we started looking at local breeders. I found one in our area, and the dogs were reasonably priced, so we went off to LOOK. JUST LOOK.

As soon as Daisy came around the corner, I knew that she was the puppy for us. She strutted around like she owned the place, unlike her meek little sister, who cowered in the corner of the dusty outdoor fenced-in area that was their home. We whisked her away from the trailer park (where her former owner informed us that she had named her "Sara Lee" -- yes, like the pastries), and straight home into the bathtub, where we discovered that she was actually a much lighter shade of yellow than we had originally thought.

The first night that she was home with us, she was whimpering in her crate, and Jud (the formerly reluctant pet owner) uttered the fateful words: "Can somebody small and yellow come and sleep with us?" I warned him that when she was older and weighed 80 pounds, he would regret this day. But she was cute, so I agreed, and she snuggled right in.

Daisy quickly became a part of the family, and everyone who met her fell in love with her. She was so cute, and so sweet, and so friendly -- it was hard not to become smitten with her! Our parents thought that we were crazy for getting a dog, but as soon as we brought her home the first time, they changed their minds. Daisy made herself comfortable on the floor in front of my dad's armchair, and he would pet her with his feet while he rocked, and sneak her snacks when he thought that we weren't looking. My mother-in-law once saved our dog from what could have been a very unfortunate encounter with a skunk, and Daisy rewarded her by deeming her to be the "person of honor" in that household, always sitting at her feet whenever they were in the same room together.

When Daisy was nine months old, she started limping when she ran, and her front legs started cracking whenever she walked. Our regular vet didn't seem to see this as a problem, so after two months of arguing with him, we decided to bring her to the Virginia Tech Vet School, where she received a complete work over from a gaggle of eager vet students and residents. They diagnosed her with arthritis, and they recommended surgery on her two front legs.

The surgery ended up being scheduled on the Friday that Jud had made arrangements to whisk me away for a surprise weekend in the Blue Ridge Mountains, where he planned to propose to me. He knew that if we went through with the surgery, I would spend the entire weekend worrying about the dog. So he made up an excuse to talk with the vet privately, and then he begged the doctor to re-schedule. I didn't think twice about the call that I later received from the Vet School, asking to postpone the surgery due to a "large animal emergency" (whatever that might mean!). I was just happy to delay the inevitable pain for a little while longer! Daisy came through her surgery with flying colors, although she never really ran and jumped like other labs that we knew, and she tended to tire easily.

As we neared completion of our graduate programs, Jud was offered a job in Upstate New York, and we decided to accept. He still had a dissertation to complete and a defense to prepare, so I was tasked with travelling to our new home to find a place to live. I checked out a few "dog friendly" apartments, and I decided that the conditions in some of the animal shelters that I had seen would have been better for us!

Eventually, I found the perfect townhouse. It was in the town where we wanted to live, the price was right, and the master bedroom had a HUGE walk-in closet -- perfect! There was only one catch -- no dogs allowed. I convinced the landlord to hold off on his decision until he had actually met our Daisy. One full-body wag, and he was sold -- the place was ours!

The weekend that we scheduled our move was the same weekend that Jud had planned to defend his dissertation, so Daisy and I drove to New York on our own to meet the movers. We spent the night before the move in the empty townhouse, and after the first strange noise, I called her over to come and sleep next to me so that I wouldn't be so freaked out (who knew that toilets could make such creepy noises!)

This was the first of many times that Daisy kept me company while Jud was away on business. When he went to China for two weeks, she sat on the couch with me and let me hug her while I cried. When we moved to our new house, she was in charge of checking the basement any time I heard strange noises down there (why is it that houses only make strange noises when you're home alone?).

Every night, she would wait by the front door for Jud to come home. He had to start having talks with her before he went away, telling her when he would be back, and explaining to her that she couldn't wait by the door every night, because it made me sad. She seemed to understand, and she learned to only wait on the nights when he was actually due to come home (how she knew which night this was, I will never know, but she was never wrong).

After our son, Max, was born, I am sad to say that Daisy did not get as much attention as she had in the past. In fact, there were a few nights when one of us would let her out to "get busy," and we would become so consumed with the crying baby that we would forget to let her back in again. We would then hop in the car and take the crying baby for a ride around the neighborhood, where we would eventually find the wandering puppy and take her (and the now sleeping baby) safely back home again.

Despite this, Daisy never seemed to resent the presence of the new noisy funny-smelling person in our home. In fact, she decided that it was her job to protect Max like he was one of her own. When visitors would come to the house to hold the baby, she would plant herself right at their feet, not letting anyone out of her sight with "her boy."

Her reward for all of her hard work came in the form of Max's first words. Not "Mommy." Not "Daddy." Not even "baba" (his word for bottle) or "shashi" (his word for pacifier). No, Max's first intelligible words were "Hi Day-shee." He, too, was smitten.

When she was six years old, Daisy tore a ligament in one of her rear legs, and she again required surgery. This was followed by twelve weeks of intensive outpatient rehab, which consisted of us walking her slowly around the neighborhood for gradually increasing distances. She re-learned to walk right around the same time that Max was taking his first steps, and the three of us were quite the sight -- walking slowly up and down the street, a limping dog on one side of me, and a bumbling toddler on the other side. She made a complete recovery, but we never really allowed her to run around for long periods of time again, for fear that she might tear the ligament on her other leg.

When Max was three years old, he developed a fear of monsters. There was no convincing him that there were no monsters, because he was absolutely 100% positive that the monsters were real and that they were lurking in his dark bedroom at night. He insisted on sleeping in our bed so that he would be safe, but he also insisted on wiggling around and kicking us all night long. Desperate for sleep, we turned to the dog, who didn't need to get up to go to work in the morning. She was more than happy to sleep on the foot of his comfy bed, and he accepted without question our explanation that "Daisy eats monsters." He felt safe, she felt comfortable, and we all finally got some much needed sleep!

After Bella was born, Daisy was back on guard duty again. She sniffed every person who walked into the house, and she never let anyone out of her sight when that person was holding the baby. Bella rewarded her by growing up to drop bits of food on the ground, and then giggling when Daisy would lick up her offerings. "No people food!" we would scold the two of them, but they would wait until we stepped out of the room, and then Bella would feed Daisy her leftover bits of donut. Joy!

A couple of months ago, we noticed that Daisy, the perpetually hungry dog, was not eating her food. We took her to the vet, who ran some tests and informed us that her liver was failing. We tried some different medications, but nothing seemed to help, and her appetite got worse and worse. She also seemed to be groaning a lot more frequently, and she was having difficulty finding a comfortable position in which to sleep. Eventually, when we were down to feeding her donuts and potato chips, because she wouldn't eat anything else, we called the vet and told her that the time had come to let Daisy go.

We explained to the kids what was happening, and we gave them the weekend to say goodbye to her. Max asked me to take a picture of him and his sister with the dog, and then he hugged Daisy and thanked her for eating all of his monsters, and for always making him feel safe. Bella gave her a hug and a kiss, and then they both went off to school. When they came home later that night, Daisy was no longer with us.

Even though I was with her when she passed, and even though I know that she is gone, I can't help but look for her wagging body every time I walk around a corner in the house. I still think that I'm hearing the sounds of her toenails tapping on the hardwood floors, or her legs cracking as she walks from room to room. Eleven years is a long time, and Daisy was our first baby.

There is a gap in our life right now, and I'm sad that Daisy is no longer there to fill it. It is especially sad now that Bella is reaching the age where she is starting to be afraid of monsters, and there is no Daisy here to snuggle up in bed with her and protect her.

I am glad for the memories that I have of her, and I am sad for the moments that she will miss.

I imagine her in some sort of Dog Heaven now, running freely and without any pain, like she never could when she was here with us. I also imagine her spending some time with my father, who passed away in June, sitting at his feet while he pets her and feeds her snacks.

And if there is anyone up there in Heaven who is feeling scared or afraid, I would like to advise them to seek out my dog for comfort.

Because Daisy eats monsters.

A Passing Memory

June 23, 2008. It was a Monday. It was cloudy and sunny at the same time, the type of day when Mother Nature just can't quite seem to make up her mind. It was the first day of Max's summer vacation.

It was also the day that my father died.

He was 68 years old, and in fairly decent health. He had been feeling some pains in his chest and his arm, and he had gone to the hospital to see what was going on. While the doctors were trying to figure out what was wrong with him, he crashed, he coded, and he died.

This past week, I have been helping my mother and my brother to prepare for the memorial service that my father never wanted. During the course of these preparations, we have been going through old pictures, looking at videos, and sharing memories. Memories of Dad, memories of each other, and, of course, memories of our own grandfathers.

I was 28 years old when my maternal grandfather died. I have a lot of memories of him. Memories from when I was a child, memories as a teenager, memories as an adult.

I remember when I was little, and he would get down on his hands and knees and let me ride around the house on his back, as though he were my own personal horsey.

I remember the time that I spilled milk on my grandmother's carpet (after she specifically warned me not to do that very thing) and I sprinted out to the garden, bypassed my mother, and spent the better part of the next hour following my grandfather up and down the rows as he plowed, knowing that my grandmother wouldn't dare strangle me if I was standing right next to him.

I remember him at my graduation from high school, at my graduation from college, and at my wedding.

I have many, many pictures, and many, many memories.

I believe that I was in high school when my paternal grandfather died, although I can't remember for certain. I do know that I was younger, and that, because of this, I don't have as many memories.

I remember that he smoked a pipe, and that every time I smell that smell, I am reminded of him.

I remember that he had false teeth, and that he used to drive me crazy by popping the bottom set of teeth out of his mouth and then quickly sucking them back in again. I tried and tried to get my teeth to do the same thing, but alas, it never happened.

I remember that because of the pipe and the false teeth, I could barely understand a word that the man said, other than the fact that he called me "Possum," most likely because of the fact that he frequently found me hanging upside down by my knees on the tree where his hammock hung.

I have a few pictures of him, and I have a few memories.

I worry that my kids are so young, and I worry that they won't have many memories of my father. He was a wonderful photographer, and he could often be found with camera in hand, snapping up memories, and then spending hours in front of his computer, cropping and adjusting and lining everything up just so.

As my mother and brother and I spent time searching through countless stacks of pictures, we came across hundreds of pictures that he had taken, memories that he had captured for us. But we had a difficult time finding any pictures that anyone had actually taken of him.

I know that my children will remember how my father used to take them to see the tractors. When my son, Max, was two, I was convinced that he thought that my father's first name was Tractor. Every time he saw a picture of my father, he would say "Grandpa Tractor! Grandpa Tractor!" As soon as we would arrive in NJ for a visit, my children would tumble out of the car, run up to my father, and ask "Grandpa, can we go to see the tractors?" No matter what he was doing, he would always oblige. Hand in hand, they would wander through the tractor yard, trying out the various machines, pretending to drive, pretending to race with each other. They would always return home covered in dirt, much to my chagrin, and my father would remind me that "Kids are supposed to get dirty. It's how you know that they're having fun."

I know that my children will always remember the tractors.

But what else will they remember?

Will my son remember how my father built him a tee, and then stood in the backyard with him and put the baseball back on the tee, over and over again, while he taught him how to swing a bat?

Will my daughter remember how my father used to sit at the lunch table and flirt with her, laughing at the faces that she made while she tried the different foods that he encouraged her to eat?

Will they remember that he was always in charge of walking the dogs when we went for walks along the canal path, looking for ducks to feed?

Will they remember him working with my mother to craft their floats for the annual Fourth of July parades? Will they remember him sharing his Fourth of July ice cream, drinking his birch beer, buying his 50/50 tickets?

Will they remember how he put out the Halloween decorations and the Christmas lights for them every year, even though every year he said "This is the last time I'm gonna do this!"

Will they remember how he searched online for the perfect Christmas gifts every year, and then sat in his armchair and assembled them after they were opened? And how he fixed these same toys half an hour later when they inevitably and inexplicably ended up broken?

Will they remember how much he loved cars and motorcycles, and how he bought them their own little battery-powered car to ride around the yard and the neighborhood?

Will they remember how much he loved to ride his bicycle, and how he went out of his way to find bicycles that were perfectly sized for them, so that they could one day ride with him?

Will they remember how much he loved Elvis? (Will they ever even know who Elvis is?)

I suspect that Max will remember some of these things, because he is slightly older, and because he never forgets anything. But I worry that Bella will not be able to remember him, that he died before she had a chance to gather enough memories.

I feel sad that he will not see my children and my nieces graduate from high school and from college. That he will not be able to dance with them at their weddings, the way that my grandfather danced with me. That he will not have the opportunity to see them grow to be the man and the women that I know that they will one day be.

I know that these things happen for a reason. I know that he would be happy that he died quickly, without any suffering, and, more importantly, without any fuss (he really didn't like fuss).

I know that I am supposed to be happy that he has gone on to a better place, and I feel sure that he is still with us, watching over us and wishing that he could give us suggestions about how to do things just a little bit differently.

But I am also sad that he is no longer here with us, and I am sad about all of the memories that he has taken with him.

At least I can rest assured that, no matter what, whenever my children see a tractor, they will always be reminded of Grandpa.

Say "OK" and do it

My sister-in-law (also known as "the other Michelle Marte") has a saying that she uses when it comes to her children:

"We do not negotiate with terrorists."

If our children want something, and they whine, or they scream, or they yell, the answer is an automatic "No." No matter how much they beg and plead, the answer is, was, and always will be a resounding "No." Our minds cannot be changed by poor behavior. We do not negotiate with terrorists.

But what about the times when they're not screaming, yelling, or whining? What about the times when their requests, however unreasonable, are presented in a slightly more reasonable way?

Then the waters become a little but more murky.

I am convinced that my son, Max, is going to be a lawyer when he grows up. Maybe he will specialize in labor management cases. Or, better yet, maybe he'll be a criminal defense attorney who becomes famous for convincing prosecutors to give his clients the best possible deal.

Or maybe he'll use his powers for good instead of evil, and he'll become a hostage negotiator. Or someone who talks people down off of tall, tall buildings.

Whatever he ends up doing, I can be sure that it will somehow involve his powers of persuasion, which he works to perfect on a daily basis.

Max is a negotiator. You know the type -- he's convinced that there's no such thing as a hard "No," and if he can only say or do the right thing, you will change your mind and give in to his demands.

It's partly my fault that he turned out this way. When he was in pre-school and I was tired after being up all night with his newborn sister, I got lazy and I introduced him to the concept of negotiating. He wanted something, I said no, he started to whine, and I, knowing that my brain would explode if I had to listen to even one more second of whining, said,

"Convince me."

Huh?

"If you really want this, and if you think that there's a really good reason why I should let you have it, then tell me what the reason is. Convince me."

And so it began. He would lay out all of his arguments, and I would determine whether or not he had made a convincing case. If his reasoning was sound, I would change my mind. If his reasons were dumb, my "No" would stand firm.

Most of the time, the "No"s ended up winning. Four-year-olds have a tendency to try to reason with you by saying things like "Because I want it" and "Because I said please." These are reasons, but they are not compelling reasons, and they are not enough to convince me to change my mind.

But his skills have developed over time.

Now, when he predicts that I will say "No" to whatever it is that he wants, he comes in with both guns blaring before he even asks his question.

"I already finished my homework, and my toys are all picked up, and Daddy says that we have half an hour until dinner is ready, so can I please, please play Lego Star Wars?"

How do I say no to that?

For the most part, I think that the negotiations are fine. He's learning a skill that will become useful later on in life (Apparently he started using it with his pre-school classmates prior to moving on to Kindergarten. I once received a report from his teacher stating that Max and another child had had a dispute about something, the other child had threatened to tell the teacher, and Max had said, "Wait! Let's see if we can work something out.")

But sometimes, when "negotiating" starts to feel more like "arguing," I just want him to accept that "No means No."

When it's already half an hour past his bedtime, and I know that he won't want to wake up for school the next morning, I do not want to negotiate about whether he should brush his teeth and go to bed or whether he should be allowed to read "just one more chapter."

When I am tired after a long day at work, and I tell him to go get his clothes off and get ready for his shower, I don't want to debate about why he should be allowed to play his video game BEFORE he takes his shower instead of AFTER he takes his shower.

Sometimes, I just want to give an answer, and I want him to accept it.

This is where our newest favorite phrase comes in.

Say "OK" and do it.

We learned this from Max's Kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Moak, who is also known as the most wonderful woman on Earth (more on her another time). Apparently, she has also been introduced to Max's powers of persuasion. But she, unlike us, has learned through her years of teaching how to deal with such a person.

When she tells Max to do something, and he starts to argue with her, she says, "Max, just say "OK" and do it." And the most amazing thing happens. He says "OK," and then he goes off and does whatever it is that she just asked him to do. No fussing. No "But, but, but..." He just does it.

It's the most wonderful thing I've ever seen!

The first time that we witnessed this phenomenon was during a parent/teacher conference. Jud and I were trying to talk to Mrs. Moak, and I had asked Max to do something for me. He started gearing up to offer me a list of alternatives to whatever I had just requested, and I started gearing up to pull on my Mom Pants and say, "Because I said so, young man" (or something equally parental sounding), when Mrs. Moak said, "Max, say "OK" and do it." And he stopped, mid-sentence, and said "Oh. OK." and then he went off and did what I had just asked him to do.

Our mouths gaping open, we turned to this magical teacher, and we said, "What just happened? How did you do that?"

She explained that she had recently attended a seminar where they had discussed this technique, and she had found it to be interesting, so she had started using it in her classroom. So far, she had met with great success.

By asking the children to say "OK," she was asking them to acknowledge that they had heard and understood what she had just asked them to do. And by adding the "and do it" onto the end, she was giving them an almost hypnotic suggestion: of course they would do whatever it was, why wouldn't they?

We fell in love with this technique, and we started using it immediately.

Like any technique, it has its limits. We try not to use it too often, as we don't want to wear it out. And we don't want to quash the brilliant negotiation skills that Max is developing, as we don't want to be held responsible when he is unable to convince a crazed gunman to stop picking people off from atop a clock tower because we insisted that he do what we told him to do, rather than teaching him how to think for himself.

But when the situation merits, when we are tired of having to assert our parental authority for the fifteenth time in a row, we will stop what we are doing and we will say, "Max, just say "OK" and do it."

And he will.

It's a beautiful thing.

I do it myself!

Max has this little sister, Bella. She is very small, and very funny.

One of our favorite shows on the Playhouse Disney Channel is a cute little cartoon called "Charlie and Lola." The show is about two little children: a boy named Charlie, and his funny little sister, Lola.

There are also books based on these characters, and Bella's favorite of these books is one called "I Can Do Anything That's Everything All on My Own." Bella asks us to read it to her over and over again, and she chants this phrase like it's her own little mantra.

"I do it myself!" is a phrase that is heard frequently around our house these days. Bella is two, and she is desperate to become more independent, just like her Big Brother.

The problem is that Max is 6. And Bella is 2. And two-year-olds just can't do the sorts of things that six-year-olds can.

Of course, there's no explaining that to Bella. If Max can climb up the slide instead of walking up the stairs, so can Bella. And if Max can swing on the Big Boy Swing instead of on the Baby Swing, then so can Bella.

Except that she can't.

And so we battle. Every day, we battle.

I find myself using all of the tricks that I learned when I was studying to be a teacher. How to say "No" without actually using the word "No."

"Yes, you can do that. Later."

And how to give choices that aren't really choices.

"It's time for bed. Do you want to go to bed wearing your pink pajamas, or do you want to go to bed wearing your purple pajamas?"

And then I wait while she tries to put the pajamas on by herself.

And I wait. And I wait.

It takes an incredibly long time to do things when one is two.

Here's my dilemma -- on the one hand, I know that she needs to learn how to do things for herself. I can clearly recall how much easier life became once Max was able to dress himself, and to feed himself, and to take care of toileting on his own. I know that, with time and with practice, she will eventually become faster when she does these things.

On the other hand -- she is SOOOOO slow right now!

It takes me two minutes to change a diaper, and it takes five times as long for her to go to the potty by herself. Yes, I would love not to have to spend money on diapers anymore. But I would also like to dry my hair every once in a while instead of sticking it up in a ponytail every day. Bella can't "do it myself" without adult supervision right now, and there's only so much time in a day. Something has to give, and usually it ends up being something that I want to do.

But I guess I signed up for that when I agreed to become a Mommy.

So I wait. And we battle. And then I wait some more.

And while I am waiting, I hope, and I pray, that I am raising an independent little girl, who will grow up to be a strong, independent woman....who will one day give birth to a child, who will turn two years old, and who will insist on saying "I do it myself!"

Max Skywalker

My son likes Star Wars.

No, that's not quite right. The word "like" doesn't quite describe the level of his fervor.

My son is OBSESSED with Star Wars.

Oh, there have been other obsessions in the past. He was obsessed with Buzz Lightyear, he was obsessed with Scooby Doo, and, for what seemed like an endless period of time, he was obsessed with Larry Boy (of Veggie Tales fame).

But the obsession with Star Wars? This one is different.

This one is my fault.

It all started out innocently enough. He came home from school one day, and he was sad. His two best friends at school had been playing together during free time, and he had been feeling left out.

"Why?" I asked. "What happened?" Did he smell? Had he been mean to them? What was going on?

It turned out that the boys had been pretending to be characters from Star Wars, and Max had never seen a Star Wars movie, so he had been unable to participate.

Immediately I sprang into action. My initial impulse was to rush out to the local Target and buy every Star Wars movie, toy, and book that had ever been made. This, I said to myself, is why I work. So that if my boy wants to learn about Star Wars, I can afford to buy him anything and everything that he might ever need.

After I calmed down, I called my husband, Jud, and explained the situation.

"Honey, Max wants to learn about Star Wars."

I could almost hear the choir music in the background. Like any red-blooded male born during the 70's, my husband had grown up with the Star Wars movies. To hear that his son, the fruit of his loins, his own flesh and blood, now had an interest in these movies? This was a dream come true for Jud.

After a brief debate over whether it was best to watch the movies in chronological order (Episodes 1 through 6 -- my choice) or to watch them in the order in which they had been released (Episodes 4 through 6, followed by Episodes 1 through 3 -- Jud's choice), Jud went off to Target to purchase a box set containing Episodes 4 through 6 (he won), plus an extra disc chock full of bonus features. I contributed to our son's education by purchasing a few Star Wars action figures, a couple of comic books (reading is fundamental, after all), and one or two Lego sets containing various Star Wars space ships (a boy can never have too many Legos!)

That weekend, the education began.

We spent a significant amount of time watching the movies, and even more time fielding Max's questions about the different characters. We perused the comic books, we re-enacted scenes from the movie with the action figures, and we built the Lego ships. At some point, we also purchased a pair of light sabers (one for each child), and, as a special treat, the Lego Star Wars game for our Wii system (Best. Game. EVER!)

Come Monday morning, Max's brain was overflowing with Star Wars knowledge. He was ready to play the HECK out of Star Wars with those boys!

We later learned that one of the boys had watched exactly half of one of the movies, and the other boy had never actually seen any of the movies, he had only played a Lego Star Wars game on his home computer.

Perhaps we overshot the goal just a bit.

But it was too late. The obsession had already taken root, and it has just grown from there.

We have now watched all six of the movies, some of them more than once.

(By the way, for anyone who may have been living under a rock since the early 70's and who, therefore, has not yet seen the Star Wars movies, consider this to be your "**Spoiler Alert**")

We have cleared up the confusion that came from watching Darth Vader die in Episode 6, only to suddenly come back to life as a small child in Episode 1 (part of the reason why I wanted to watch them in chronological order, thank you very much.)

We have discussed why different characters wield different color light sabers (Are blue light sabers better than green ones? And do all of the bad guys have red light sabers?)

And, for several days, we pondered the most difficult topic, the one that is central to the movies -- why did Anakin start out so good, then turn so bad, and then how did he become good again?

We have tackled life vs. death, good vs. evil, and what exactly IS a Wookie anyway?

We have seen countless Star Wars pictures come home from school. We have debated the merits of the light saber vs. the blaster.

And we have sat at the breakfast table and listened as my two-year-old daughter, in all of her nightgowned, pigtailed glory, has hummed the "Darth Vader Theme Song" under her breath, followed by a quick demonstration of how he "breeves."

To say that Max has taken an interest in all things Star Wars would be selling his obsession short. In fact, when our friend Diane recently gave birth to a son and I casually mentioned that she had named him "Luke," Max sprang to attention, like a dog hearing the doorbell ring, as he said "Luke?!? As in, Skywalker?!?" (To be honest, I can't be sure that she didn't name her son after the young Jedi, given that she apparently has her own little obsession with the Star Wars movies.)

I am sure that this obsession will eventually come to an end, just as all of the other ones have. Something new will come along, and he will talk less and less about all things Star Wars.

Unfortunately, I can't do anything to speed up this process, since I was the one who encouraged him to learn about the movies so that he would be able to play with his friends. I brought this on myself, and now I just have to ride it out.

Until then....

May the Force be with you.

My Silly Monkeys

When I was little, I desperately wanted a monkey. Every holiday, every wish list, birthday, Christmas, whatever...

1) A monkey

Oddly, my parents never bought me one. I think they got me a stuffed monkey one year for my birthday, but a real monkey? Nope, never happened.

At one time, I fantasized about becoming a truck driver, like Greg Evigan on "B.J. and the Bear." Not because I liked trucks, and not because I liked travelling long distances, but because B.J. McKay owned a monkey (okay, maybe it was a chimp. But to me, it was the coolest thing ever), and in my little mind, if B.J. McKay had a monkey friend, then ALL truck drivers must have monkey friends, and, therefore, if I were to become a truck driver, then I, too, could have a monkey friend.

Given that I have difficulty parking a minivan, it's probably best that the whole truck driving thing never panned out. But the lust for a monkey? That never passed.

Until.....

I have these two glorious little children. They climb -- oh, how they climb! On tables, on chairs, on couches, on me, on each other -- if there is a surface that can be climbed on, they've climbed it. And they pick -- they pick on each other, they pick on me, they pick up random things that they have no business touching -- sometimes it seems like they have eight hands each!

They giggle, they screech, and, on at least one memorable occasion, my daughter, as an infant, sneezed mid-diaper change and managed to shoot poo all the way across the room (the words "shock" and "awe" come to mind).

In short, they demonstrate monkey-like behavior on a daily basis.

They are my silly little monkey friends.

And they are exactly what I wished for!