the senior

It's just some Thursday in the dregs of February. A day after day after day.  But then she sits down and asks to talk, and it becomes something else. 

She starts in the middle of the discussion, right where we left off last time we plotted her strategy. She is inclined to believe that she is destined for a lifetime of taking orders for sweet and sour chicken, and she does have reason to think so.  The restaurant is the be all and end for her parents, and for good reason: it is their income, their hope, their come-to-America story. 

I am not going to call it a dream

As she launches into her doubts, any twinge of been-there, done-that evaporates in the suddenly serious atmosphere.  On another day in this same spot we'd pasted together a delicate framework of if-this, maybe-that intended to bridge the gap between her college hopes and her parents' expectations. If she went part-time, if just took English. . .we'd hoped the mutual benefit would be a toe-hold. 

Alas. 

Alas they are steadfast. They are intent. Whether out of belief or need they have offered up a steady stream of reasons why she could not, should not go to the community college she's mapped out.  They tell the girl who's breezing through pre-calc that she's not smart enough to try. They tell the best writer I have that her English is not sufficient. They tell her there's no point, no hope, that she cannot work, that she'd be taking a job from an American. They tell her-- and this is the crux-- that if she were to go it'd be doubly expensive because then they'd have to pay a worker. 

"I understand," I say a thousand times.  


And then I tell her what I know about her smarts and her potential. I tell her why I know she can do it, and despite all truths about Asians and eye contact she looks at me directly when I say, "I am not wrong. I believe in you."  


My heart breaks when she says I'm the only person who does. "You and me," I remind her. "That's two." 


As we sit huddled across the corner of the desk, we acknowledge all realities and my encouragement is tempered except for my urging to have faith. What she wants is possible, eventually, if she does not concede the dream. I make no promises to this girl I met in August except to be there for her long past her May graduation. I give her my phone numbers and addresses. She takes the card and cries.

electronica

It's a late-night sibling confab: urgent messages sent, and instantly returned.

"Did you know?" exchanged for "What?!" and "Now what?!" Solutions grasped for, a work-around suggested. The hour is no matter for choosing an approach, uniting a front.

It's not a crisis, but it feels like a situation: Mom's lurking on Facebook. Heaven help she finds the blog.

Iowa joins teacher-student sex craze

That's right. Even in this wholesome, family-friendly state, we've got teachers hooking up with students.

Granted, this is no Pamela Short affair. But still. When did this become fashionable?

Here's the gist from the Des Moines Register:

A Des Moines Dowling Catholic High School teacher has been arrested on a charge of sexual exploitation by a school employee.

West Des Moines police said today that Erin Marie Rohwer, 27, had a sexual relationship with an 18-year-old male student.

Rohwer was arrested at her home at 3900 Bel Aire Road in Des Moines. She was released on a $5,000 bond.

School president Jerry Deegan said at a press conference today that a member of the "Dowling community" called him to report "a possible inappropriate relationship."

He declined to say whether the tip came from a student, parent or teacher.

Sexual contact between any school employee and a student, regardless of age, is against the law in Iowa. A one-time encounter is an aggravated misdemeanor, while a pattern of sexual contact is a felony punishable by up to five years in prison.

Rohwer faces the felony-level charge.

Polk County Attorney John Sarcone said his office has prosecuted teachers, ministers, counselors and a psychiatrist in recent years. He declined to comment about specifically about Rohwer’s case.

“It’s not a daily thing,” Sarcone said. “But it’s not all that unusual."

Deegan confirmed that Rohwer is the daughter-in-law of Dowling choral director Karl Rohwer. She is the head of the English department and has taught at Dowling since 2003. Deegan called her a "very good and effective" teacher.

In a note to parents, Deegan wrote that Rohwer has been suspended.

"It is our understanding from law enforcement that this matter occurred off campus and outside of school hours," he wrote.

12/24

The family has come and gone, the dinner has been eaten. The kitchen is more-or-less clean, the living room cluttered with the first round of gifts. It's twenty-four minutes to Christmas-- and I have nothing much to do. No train track to snake around the bottom of the tree, no plastic bits to assemble and sticker, no doll house to arrange. No milk to drink or cookies to crumble-- no Santa, finally, for the very first time. (The girl is six months past eleven.) I wonder if she forgot, or if, until now, she truly did choose to believe. It's possible, as is anything. Apparently she was lately recounting a story of how she had once awoken to the sound of hooves over her head, and when her fellow sixth graders responded that "it was [her] parents," her firm rejoinder was that her parents would never get on the roof (no kidding), so therefore her memory must have been real. Oh goodness. Score another one for her campaign to be thought of as weird. Or just herself, which she so firmly is. To think I was so anxious for her to let go, for her to stop playing the extended bonus rounds of the Santa game. Don't know what I was thinking.

Merry Christmas

Here's hoping your halls are already decked and you don't wind up at a Chinese restaurant on Christmas.

Biggest Loser indeed

Tonight brought the grand finale of the third of my trio of guilty pleasures -- reality TV. First went The Amazing Race, Sunday night Survivor ended, and tonight the Biggest Loser was crowned. I'm pretty pleased with all three outcomes:

--brother-and-sister team Nick and Starr Spangler (she's now dating someone from the show who I hope is surnamed Banner, or that he'll change to it)
--high school physics teacher Bob Crowley became the oldest (and perhaps most genuine) Survivor winner
--and Michelle Aguilar gave Biggest Loser it's biggest misnomer. Michelle is no loser.

Not after patching things up with her mother, who joined her on the show. They hadn't spoken in 5-1/2 years after mom left her daughter and husband for another man, taking Michelle's siblings with her.

Not after nearly leaving the show for the guilt she felt about leaving her dad at home, not to mention many years of pent up guilt and feelings of inadequacy.

Certainly not after sharing the same household as Icky Vicky and Hippo Heba. I know it's a game, but Vicky showed her true colors through her behavior and should have been sent home by Shellay when she had the chance. Heba was her all-too-willing partner in crime.

All's well that ends well though as Michelle won despite not having the highest percentage of weight loss. That distinction falls on Heba, who lost 46.93 percent dropping from 294 pounds to 156 (contestants spend about three months at the ranch for the taped episodes and nearly that long before the live finale).

Michelle "only" lost 45.45 percent, going from 242 to 132. You could always see the beauty in her and her mom, but tonight you could tell they both finally saw it themselves. You have to love a reality show that rewards those that it brings the best out of.

In a perfect twist of the game that restored my faith in the voting public, America got to choose between Heba and her husband Ed to be the third finalist to join Michelle and Vicky. Ed pleaded with viewers to vote for Heba, and both seem to have spent the last three months assuming we'd listen.

Not so fast, my friends. A very pregnant Allison Sweeney revealed that Ed received 84 percent of the vote. Talk about profound rejection!

Heba wound up winning the $100,000 consolation prize, which is probably fair. And Vicky got shut out, finishing third among the finalists. Reality can be harsh.

To his credit, Ed lost 139 pounds (one more than Heba), but started out at 335 (41 pounds higher). Yes, losing weight is easier for men, but in his defense he's a chef. How can you know if it's good if you don't taste it?

Pounds-wise, Phil, who took the most crap from Vicky and Heba -- until he was voted out and they turned their wrath on Shellay -- led with 180 pounds. Can you imagine?

Phil's wife Amy nosed him out for second place in the consolations with 45.85 percent to his 45.62. That couple is nearly half the size it was six months ago!

Kid gloves

It never ceases to amaze me how two children born of the same parents can be so different. Not good and bad, although both have been each at one time or another, just different. It's taken me all of 15 1/2 years -- give or take -- to learn you can't parent them the same way either. Also, I recently discovered, my "tough love" approach worked for neither.

So I'm experimenting with a "kid glove" approach. Ignoring the fact that I communicated via e-mail, only because I worked late and they were asleep when I got home, how did I do on report card day?

First, the straight-A sixth-grader:

Way to go! I was so proud and impressed when I looked at your report card tonight. Of course, I wasn't surprised after seeing your continued stellar ITBS scores. Your mathematics total equates to a student in your brother's grade! And your problem solving and data interpretation scores are off the chart. Maybe you will be president some day -- or a detective like Nancy Drew.

Anyway, congratulations. You've done very well. Now keep it up.

Your reward? I don't believe in paying for grades and, though we set up a plan for Zach, it wasn't until he was in high school. (So far, it hasn't provided him much incentive anyway.) But we should discuss an appropriate reward for your accomplishment. What do you think? I'm sure you have ideas. Let's talk about it.

Meanwhile, remember I love you no matter what. And at the moment, you've made me
very, very proud.

Now, the underachieving 10th-grader:

Don't worry. I'm not going to yell at you. I've learned that doesn't accomplish the intended goal. I'm trying to look at the positives and I have to say, you kept your word about getting your geometry grade up. Good job! Unfortunately, it seems to have come at the expense of your Spanish grade. Not exactly what we're looking for.

I hope you will take Mrs. Stiles comment to heart and "report for extra help."

Your GPA of 2.715 isn't horrible. But 3.0 is well within your reach, and I hope
you'll strive for that this trimester.

The C+ in driver's ed kind of surprised me. I guess you should have taken it pass/fail. Regardless, it's good to have it out of the way. Now you won't have it to distract you from your other studies. You need to find out the procedures for getting a school permit and we'll get that done. I still don't know what we'll do for a vehicle, but we'll work on it.

Financially, here's how the payout works (PE and Driver's ed do not count). $10 for each A that isn't canceled by a D. $5 for each B that isn't canceled out by a C. Obviously, straight A's or A's and B's is not applicable. So your A- in Biology is canceled by the D+ in Spanish, or you'd have earned $10. The B+ in LA (though I'm really proud of you improvement in this class) is canceled by the C- in Geometry. That leaves a B- in world history, for which you've earned a grand total of $5. I think you can easily see how eliminating the D's and reducing/eliminating the C's would be much more profitable.

I would like for us to meet with your counselor to discuss your educational goals. If you'd rather meet with her alone, that is fine, as long as you do it. Please let me know how you'd like to proceed.

Keep working hard, buddy, and don't slack off between now and Christmas break. You've learned how hard it is to make up ground when you've fallen behind. And please, please, please make sure you turn in all of your assignments.

Don't be afraid to ask for help, whether from your teachers, your classmates or even your parents. We love you and only want the best for you.

Homecoming

Tonight is the high school homecoming dance and my son has taken an interest, in his second year. He's got a date, even, from a cross-town school, just like dear old dad way back when.

So I'm a nervous parent, after all, I was once his age. But I'm really not concerned. Zach may not always live up to his dad's impossible expectations, but he never let's me down. Besides, he's got a game tomorrow.

McCain imPalin?

Not after what I just saw.

After all the media vetting this week, I can only conclude John McCain may be on to something with his choice of Sarah Palin as his running mate. She can certainly deliver a fine speech -- maybe a bit sarcastic, but consider the target audience -- and, as a Repugnant friend said, ain't bad to look at.

I never fell for the theory that she was selected to woo Hillary Clinton supporters. They couldn't be more different. Except in this respect. After all the suppositions and innuendo of the past week, Palin hung tough and delivered a rousing speech. At it's conclusion, she was joined on stage by her typical American family (except none were obese).

Even with a friendly audience, that's tough duty after what they've been through. The same could be said of the Clintons.

So I take back my assertion that McCain doesn't really want to be president. I still think, hope, expect, demand, etc. that Barack Obama wins. But at least now the VP debate will be compelling.

Empirical Proof of Osmosis

"So I'm kind of surprised your uncle wanted to go." My brother is going to take my daughter to see Obama announce his running mate, whatever second or third choice he--surely not she--may be. This outing was totally his idea.

"I know. I didn't think he was political." The sixth grader is surprisingly excited to go see some living history, despite the hour or so in the car.

"Well, for a while there he thought he was a Republican." In my family, akin to saying, "he thought he was from Mars."

"I guess he just realized what is really going on."

Leavin' on a jet plane

Only appropriate to wedge a John Denver song right into your head as I get ready--well, pretty soon I'll get ready--to fly out of Colorado. Last big trip we took was Florida, during a which a recovery week at Siesta Key was preceded by a planned-to-the-minute week at Disney (but did we stand in any lines during the jammed-packed height of the season? NO!), so this time it feels as if we've done nothing much, which is what vacation should be. On the other hand, we've seen a Rockies game, the state capitol and history museum, albeit accidentally, some friends, Casa Bonita, the Museum of Nature and Science (also with friends, which made it better), a movie or dim sum, Elitch Gardens amusement park, Mile High stadium (or whatever the corporate sponsor calls it), most of the shops in Manitou Springs and some in Old Colorado City, the motel pool, the penny arcade, the penny arcade, the penny arcade, Pikes Peak on the cog railway, the Olympic Training Center, the Garden of the Gods, the Flying W Ranch (nostalgia trip, part II. see Casa Bonita), Royal Gorge from the bridge and the train to the bottom and the aerial tram, an awesomely scenic drive on the way back from the gorge through the gambling wasteland of Cripple Creek because gas is free here, though we never found anywhere to pan for gold that was not basically in a strip mall, and something else but I forget. Ah yes, the lithium water. Oh, to take some home.

When asked to name her favorite part, my daughter ran through that whole list, starting with meeting a new friend, and declared it all equally awesome. I'm glad. I'm also glad to have vacation stories to torture her with for the rest of her life, that being part of my job. There's a ton we didn't do, but considering our pace this morning, I'm assured we'll leave the Bataan Death March of Vacation to the tour groups that we kept running into in between our naps and our trips to the penny arcade.

Who he?

Every time I get to thinking that perhaps the baby brother and I aren't so opposite after all, aren't, perhaps, best represented by a Venn diagram with vast empty spaces in the intersecting middle, I am once again corrected:

Yesterday the early word came that Monday's super-duper extra-ginormous concert announcement is indeed Springsteen on a Saturday night in August, glory hallelujah. The 23rd, to be exact.

Since he at least pretended to consider going with us to the St. Patrick's Day show in M'waukee, I speedily forwarded the news to my only sibling. To which he responded, "my concert calendar for August is Neil Diamond, August 29th."

I'm sorry, what? That's six days apart; what's the conflict? And, more urgently, given his apparent preference, is my baby brother actually an old woman?

The End of The Innocence

To date I've gotten by on having once been a kid as my parental credentials. Results are mixed, but my kids are exactly that -- mine, I mean. As a dad, a son, and a daughter, if we bat .500 we're all-stars.

But I've never been further off the mark than last night, when the man-child shunned tradition for team, Famous Dave's for McDonald's, and a nap for clowning around on a school bus with the guys.

I don't blame him at all, of course, especially after manhandling the opponent and pitching a gem in his first official appearance on the mound as a high school baseball player.

I was once a kid, sure. In many ways, I still am. But I was never a high school athlete, let alone one playing above his grade level -- nor, performing below potential in the classroom.

So I continue to make it up as I go. Hoping to do the right thing. At least that's what I was pondering over lip-smacking barbeque as the boy was devouring a Big Mac somewhere.

Somehow, this didn't happen in Wisconsin

Man fined for buckling in beer, not toddler
Police 'shocked and appalled' after Australian leaves 5-year-old on car floor

DARWIN, Australia - An Australian man has been fined after buckling in a case of beer with a seat belt but leaving a 5-year-old child to sit on the car’s floor, police said Tuesday.

Constable Wayne Burnett said he was “shocked and appalled” when he pulled over the unregistered car Friday in the central Australian town of Alice Springs.

The 30-can beer case was strapped in between two adults sitting in the back seat of the car. The child was also in back, but on the car’s floor.

“The child was sitting in the lump in the center, unrestrained,” Burnett told reporters Tuesday.

“I haven’t ever seen something like this before,” he said. “This is the first time that the beer has taken priority over a child.”

The driver was fined 750 Australian dollars — about $710 — for driving an unregistered and uninsured vehicle and for failing to ensure a child was wearing a safety belt.

Who killed Nicole Brown Simpson? Maybe Roger did it

Ok, maybe not. And maybe Mindy was 16 before the did the dirty deed. And maybe those injections were just vitamins. No matter what, I have a hard time seeing Roger Clemens as the victim.

Roger Clemens apologized Monday for unspecified mistakes in his personal life but denied having an affair with a 15-year-old.

The Daily News reported last week Clemens had a decade-long relationship with country star Mindy McCready that began when she was 15 and an aspiring singer. The newspaper also linked Clemens to former Manhattan bartender Angela Moyer and Paulette Dean Daly, a former wife of champion golfer John Daly.

"Even though these articles contain many false accusations and mistakes, I need to say that I have made mistakes in my personal life for which I am sorry," Clemens said in a statement issued by spokesman Patrick Dorton. "I have apologized to my family and apologize to my fans. Like everyone, I have flaws. I have sometimes made choices which have not been right."

Brian McNamee, Clemens' former trainer, accused him in December's Mitchell Report of using performance-enhancing drugs in 1998, 2000 and 2001, before players and owners agreed to ban them from baseball.

Clemens, a seven-time Cy Young Award winner and 354-game winner, has repeatedly denied using steroids and human growth hormone and filed a defamation suit against Brian McNamee.

"I believe my personal life has nothing to do with the accusations of steroid and HGH use," Clemens said. "I have already made clear that I did not use them. Now, I have been accused of having an improper relationship with a 15-year old girl. Nothing could be further from the truth. This relationship has been twisted and distorted far beyond reality. It is just one of many, many accusations that are utterly false.

"I realize that many people want me to simply confess and apologize for the conduct that I have been accused of, but I cannot confess to, nor apologize for, things I did not do. I have apologized to my family for my mistakes, and having offered this apology to the public, I would ask that you let me and my family deal with these matters in private."

Clemens' lawyer, Rusty Hardin, said Friday he will talk with his client about whether to proceed with the defamation suit following a wave of unpleasant publicity.

"He's getting pummeled," attorney Rusty Hardin said then. "I've never seen somebody get beat up like this. In some ways, I think we're on uncharted ground."

The decision on whether to drop the suit rests with Clemens.

"That's always a decision the client has to make," Hardin said. "That's not the lawyer's decision."

Teenage wasteland

It's a shame, really.

Loving parents. All the comforts of home. Anything you need on a silver platter. A free college education there for the taking... if only you would put a tenth of the effort that you give to baseball.

I knew the teenage years would be a parenting challenge. After all, I was once one myself. I think I was prepared to deal with the threats posed by sex, drugs and, well, maybe not rock and roll so much (I'm a rocker myself). Besides, my own upbringing gives me a unique perspective on the father-son relationship.

And for 14 years we've enjoyed the bond I've always dreamed of. Constant companions. Shared passion for all things Packers, Dodgers and Lakers. A common appreciation for a good cheeseburger. Playing catch.

Sadly, it has changed. Maybe I shouldn't have let/made you ride RAGBRAI last year. I was so proud of you. I still am, but, buddy, where have I gone wrong?

If there's a benefit of standardized tests, it's that it reveals potential. You've got it. But you've got to want it. You've got to want it for yourself more than I want it for you.

You go to school at 6:30 in the morning to lift weights... every day. Your baseball starting streak rivals Brett Favre's. You've never missed a meal. Your work ethic is impressive. How it doesn't carry over into the classroom is mind boggling.

It's your life, and the choices you make will determine your future. I'll love you regardless. Meanwhile, your choices are making life miserable for all of us while throwing away your future.

You've got to want it.

The Potluck Bride

Once upon a time--so far-- there was a little girl who decided to get married, lack of education or two dimes to call her own or even full-time employment being no barrier. After all, God wanted her to work at Starbucks--this was her pious justification--and her boyfriend would get a teaching job someday, or when he graduated from college on the 12th of Never or in the year 2525, whichever does come first (all the smartest people take 8 or 10 years to graduate; their brains are just that big). Love is awesome and we are in it, they announced to the silly grown-ups: a wedding cannot wait. And also, by the way, could you cater our reception? Outside? On Memorial Day weekend? When it always, always rains except when it tornados. Consider it your gift to us; we have no need for things. Think of it as a potluck, except we'll tell you what to cook. The food must match our theme. (The theme, technically, was something "international," and not Misguided and Potentially Tragic Choices, or How to Send Miss Manners to An Early Grave, but, I digress.)

And thus was born the saga of my niece, The Potluck Bride. For a while there, what humor she did bring us, of the You Can't Do That, Can You? variety. Until it went all to hell. The wedding plans, I mean, and the resulting family secrets, and not the Potluck Couple. They are far too righteous for that. Just ask them if you doubt.

At some point I got disinvited from that wedding. One may think it would have been when I said, "have you asked one of your many restaurant friends to be your 'catering coordinator'? Because no, I'm not going to cook, or keep hot food hot, or cold food cold, outside, on Memorial Day weekend. You may have the celestial connections to keep enchiladas for 200 from turning into the Great Ptomaine Outbreak of '08, but I've never babysat for the infant Jesus myself." But that didn't do it. Then again, I didn't even say the last line aloud, at least not to her, directly.

Apparently the potluck groom's family objected more strongly, and not just to the details. Perchance they thought he'd have done better to continue being a shepherd. In Alabama. Where he was. (I couldn't make any of this up.) At any rate, they advised him to think it over, and the potluck betrothed thought hard. They not only decided to get married anyway, they decided to get married earlier. Spite! How biblical. Perhaps they wanted to see how many relatives assumed a less-than-immaculate conception. Plenty, by my count, though I persisted in giving them the benefit, and so far I seem to be right.

But verily when this wedding was moved to March, it did indeed become intimate. Theoretically. Momentarily. Non-exclusionarily-- or so they insisted. Their motives, they said, were so pure to be holy. Only immediate family, except that his would not be coming. Or, only immediate family plus all of their friends plus the landlord of the bride's basement (it's not an apartment, it's a basement). Plus whomever they chose to invite. But definitely no uncles or aunts--except the one who cut the cake. Apparently my ass (and that of some other second-rate relatives) is just too distracting, and if it were plopped down in a folding chair they'd never focus on their vows. Or that's one version of how they explained the need for their contracted guest list, not that they ever explained it directly to me. It's hard to have that conversation with someone who suddenly began to spend every family function hiding out in a back bedroom as if she were again in 8th grade.

But that was the second-hand gist, that a wedding is serious, and only between the girl and the boy (there's no man and no woman involved here). Anyone who had watched her grow older (though not yet grow up), taken her places, offered advice, shared both serious conversation and laughs, given gifts, tried liked hell to get her to live up to a fraction of her potential? Unwelcome. And if we were hurt, that was our problem, not hers, but she couldn't talk about it now. She had a wedding to plan.

A simple wedding, they kept insisting. A simple wedding that included a bridal tea and a bachelorette party (shhhhh: we're not supposed to know), showers and tuxedos, party favors and a band-- everything that most any wedding could. Except half her family.

So not only was I deprived of the spectacle of the potluck wedding ceremony--I'm told it included a videoconferenced speech from a deported Mexican, a devotional "over in the corner" for the bride and groom only--I pray they were not distracted--and later,a meal that I'm pretty sure was potluck, complete with plenty of booze (water into wine, don'tcha know)--I'm deprived of a story that ought to be strictly hilarious and not by turns maddening or upsetting. Because she's not only the potluck bride, an icon in the annals of bridal you've-got-to-be-kidding, she's the niece who hurt and disappointed me, who came close to breaking my heart.

Obscene senselessness -- six dead in Iowa

Unlike the 4,000 dead US troops who "volunteered" for their demise, according to Darth Cheney, these children had no choice in the matter.

only Easter

If the Easter bunny is not dead, tomorrow I shall have to kill him. For the chocolate rabbit in the basket to my left came from the market in Milwaukee, and I will be telling that story. "See, child, you got a souvenir. And, by the way, the chocolate covered Oreos were delicious. Perhaps there's even one left in the kitchen." Though I might have to leave that part out. That basket is already a sugar coma in waiting, and those cookies are really very good. Were.

Holidays, for the "lonely child" can be a bit of a spectacle. Or just a little odd. For Easter lunch we will go to my mother's, as always. And as always my brother will have a basket for her, though he knows she gets one at home. And as always the only grandchild, only niece, only everything will go out in the brown Zoysia plain of her grandparents' back yard and hunt for eggs, as much as one can hunt amongst the dormant azaleas and unplowed garden spot that provide the only relief from the flat stretches of dead grass so early in the year. Solo, except for the familial paparazzi. Ridiculous on so many levels, except normal just the same. I suppose that's what family is for.

This week she got a little taste of what most of us know, what it's like to keep being related when you're sick of it. After spending the better part of three days with one of her cousins, a boy a little more than a year older, she got the news that out of necessity he would be coming to spend the night with us the next day. He's not her favorite cousin, but she'd had a great time at his house, and they get along fine. His arrival wasn't dreaded, but it wasn't really welcomed. "He was already starting to get annoying in the car," she said, after I shared the change in plans. For a moment, it was almost as if she had a brother. Perhaps, I thought, this could be my new strategy, the way for her to understand what she's not really missing. Serially invite cousins to stay, and then when everyone's ready for them to go home, have them stay a little longer!

Except really, it's not the same. For better or worse, there's no relationship quite like being a sibling, and yes she has been denied it. This came clear to me when I overheard that twelve year-old boy ask my daughter if they could play with her Littlest Pet Shop toys as she sat down to watch the Apprentice (neither one of us could believe it). No way that exchange happens between brother and sister except as a prelude to a joke or a tease. So much for the cousin theory, on so many levels; so much for knowing about normal.

instant family

I wonder if she ever thinks, "I should have just left her in China." The daughter who had lived there twelve years of fifteen. It happens often enough, the intercontinental "I'll be back for you later," for reasons that sometimes I know about, sometimes I don't. None of my business. But people talk to me, parents and children, and sometimes I wonder what it's like for them when they go home.

"You never say, 'I love you?'" I'm not sure where this conversation came from, or who asked her, but there's a dictionary out.

"I don't like my mother." Her classmates are a little aghast; she might as well have gone out front and stomped hard on a crack. As if that would have meant anything to anyone but me.

"But I love my brother." I know there are two steps, ages seven and three, Chinese-American boys she had met but never lived with before January 7. Instant immersion, both language and familial. And considering that one has busted her iPod and disabled her computer, the fondness in her voice makes me smile. It seems as if it could be so much harder at this point, and perhaps to her mother it is.

After all, she's suddenly parenting a girl 24/7 who not only refuses to give up her Chuck Taylors but insists she will grow up to be a school bus driver instead of the pre-ordained medical professional because, to her, "It's so cool." That's gotta be a phase, but at the moment, she means it; I'd say the fact that it gives her mother apoplexy is only a perk, but I don't think she knows her well enough to deliberately antagonize yet, and isn't concerned regardless. She just is who she is, and for now that's kind of the catch.