Christmas snuck up on me this year. It often does, and I know I’m not alone. The older I get, the faster time accelerates. I fully expect to wake up any day and find out it’s 2025. Which will be cool, because surely by then we’ll be able to teleport.

But Christmas snuck up on me in a new way this year. It snuck up on me in the form of Owen, almost four and 1/2, asking questions about God. Pesky Christmas carols.

Lisa and I are both singers, so when the holiday season rolls around, you’ll find us humming, whistling, and often belting out one Christmas carol or another. We even sing the occasional Hanukkah song, and I’m told I do a pretty decent Grinch. So there we were, innocently trading verses of Joy To The World, and I get to the part about “He rules the world, with truth and grace.”

Owen: “Who?”

Me: “Who what?”

Owen: “Who rules the world?”

Me: “He does.”

Owen: “He who?”

Me: “He God.”

Owen: “Hegod?”

Me: “No, God. Just God.”

Owen: “Who’s God?”

Me (inside my head): “Fuck. Really? Have we actually not covered this? Shit, I guess we haven’t. Crap, crap, crap. What do I say? I totally should have rehearsed this.”

Me (out loud, nodding head and looking thoughtful): ” … ”

Owen: “Who’s God?”

Me (still looking thoughtful): “Uh.”

Owen: “Can I watch TV?”

Me: “Totally! What do you want to watch?”

Ha! Dodged that bullet. Barely. And clearly we can’t leave this question unanswered. The kid needs to know who/what God is, but here’s the rub: I’m not sure I know who/what God is. More to the point, I don’t believe there is a God. At least, not in the Judeo-Christian, monotheistic, omnipotent, personified sense of the word.

I suppose this makes me an atheist. I have a hard time calling myself an atheist, because in modern American culture, calling yourself an atheist is a like proclaiming yourself as some kind of activist. It implies advocacy. Membership in a club. Part of the reason I’m an atheist is because I don’t really want to be in any of the clubs. I just don’t believe there’s a God. Which, by definition, means I’m an atheist. So there you are.

My wife and I are in different places about this. As I mentioned in my anniversary post, I basically excised Jesus from our wedding. Lisa didn’t fight me on this, but if it were left to her she wouldn’t have done it. We don’t go to church or actively practice religion, but if you ask her, she’ll tell you she believes in God. She was raised Christian. She went to Sunday school and attended church with her parents. I wasn’t, and didn’t. My family celebrated Christmas and Easter in our secular-humanist/consumerist way, but God didn’t much factor in.

So we come from different angles, but we’re not THAT far apart. My moral and ethical sense is basically in line with Christianity. Love thy neighbor, do unto others, have a few hundred wives, and live to be 350. All this stuff sounds OK to me. And as I said, I’m not an activist atheist. If you believe in God, that’s cool. I’m not going to try and talk you out of that belief. Unless you try and talk me in to something, in which case we may have a problem. A friend of mine who actually is Christian has a great bumper sticker on his refrigerator door (because there’s no way he’s sticking it on his Audi). It’s attributed to Gandhi and says “I like your Christ. I do not like your Christians. They are so unlike your Christ.” This isn’t why I don’t believe in God, but it goes a long way toward why I don’t spend much time in church. That, and the whole don’t-believe-in-God thing. That tends to get in the way for the Christians. Apparently it’s not a requirement for the Jews, though, so there’s always that route. But I’m getting off track.

So, back to the issue at hand. What to tell my son about God? God is an important concept to understand, regardless what you believe. You can’t live in the world and not know what God is. So, like saying please and thank you, crossing the street, and the Beatles, I need to teach my son about God. And at some point he’ll need to make up his own mind about whether he thinks there is such a thing. But that’s for later. For starters, he needs to know what it means.

As you might expect, my escape from this discussion was short-lived. It wasn’t long before Owen brought it up again, likely in response to some other Christmas carol–related incident. But this time, I was slightly more prepared.

Owen: “Who is God?”

Me: “OK. You know that episode of The Backyardigans where Pablo and Tyrone go up above the clouds to see the goddess of weather to ask her to make it stop raining so they can play basketball?

Owen: “Yeah.”

Me: “And while they’re there they meet the goddess of naps and the god of laughter?”

Owen: “Yeah.”

Me: “Well, some people believe there’s just one God in charge of everything.”

Owen: “Oh. OK. Is there?”

Me (inside my head): “Fuck.”

Me (out loud): “Some people think so. Some people believe … different things.”

Owen: “Do you think so, or do you believe … different things?”

Me: “Well, I guess I believe … different things.”

And he basically let it go at that. For now. I’m sure this won’t be the last conversation we have about it, so I’m sorting out how to help him understand, so when it does come up again, I’m more prepared. I can’t fake this. I need an honest, true answer for my son about God. I think I’ll tell him I don’t believe there is such a being, but a lot of people do, and the truth is, I don’t really know.

I mentioned this to my friend Becky, who has three girls and has been my friend since junior high.

Becky: “Hm. That’s a tough one. Wait till he asks where you go when you die. I like, ‘When you die, you go back to where you were before you were born.’”

Me (channeling Owen): “In mommy’s tummy?”

Becky: “Before that.”

Me (still channeling Owen): “In daddy’s penis?”

She’s gonna need to flesh out this line of reasoning, I think. For my part, I’m open to any and all suggestions or advice.

My grandma would yell “Don’t run!” whenever she spotted me moving at any pace faster than a stroll. I swear she said it every time I saw her. I thought she was being ridiculous. Clearly she didn’t want me to have any fun. Maybe I should blame her for my sedentary tendencies? But that’s another post.

When I watch my children playing — running, climbing, jumping, hurling heavy objects at each other — I can understand where she was coming from. It’s scary watching people you love do things that could harm them. But I try to remember the kid I was as I watch my own. Running is fun (which it’s taken me close to 30 years to rediscover). Risks are a part of learning about the world. So the question I keep coming back to is, when to intervene?

I suppose this is one of the essential questions of parenthood. It’s easy enough in the beginning, knowing when to get hands-on. With newborns, the answer to when to intervene is, pretty much always. They’re helpless. It’s all on you. One of the first tests of parenting is getting a baby to sleep. I’m watching good friends go through this again with their 4-month old. How long do you let her cry before you go in and do something? Every instinct says, “Go to the baby, pick up the baby, soothe the baby.” But at some point, the baby has to go to sleep on her own. This cycle plays out over and over for the rest of our children’s lives, with constantly evolving challenges, and steadily increasing consequences for failure.

With our two boys, three years apart, we get to navigate two different sets of overlapping issues as we work out how to parent them. With the 18-month old, right now it’s mostly about keeping him from falling to his death, electrocuting or drowning himself, or destroying our house. Most recently he’s taken to whacking his brother in the head with anything he can get his hands on (see: bam bam). At his age, it’s still mostly black and white. You step in to prevent the kid doing harm to himself or others. There’s a little grey area around how high to let him climb or how quickly to jump to the bigger boy’s rescue, but not much.

With the 4-year old, it’s already getting more complicated. He’s clearly much more self-sufficient, and, in our case, a much more cautious child than his little brother. He rarely does things that are truly dangerous, and usually operates pretty well within his capabilities. Sometimes he actually needs to be pushed a little outside his comfort zone. (I mean, really, how hard should it be to get a kid to try PIZZA?). Lately, with him, the question of when to intervene comes up more in social situations. Owen has lots of friends his age. With a few of his best friends, particularly the boys, everything is suddenly a competition. Who gets to be first? Whose is better? Who’s smarter? Faster? Stronger? You name it, they’ll turn it into a contest. Sometimes it’s all fun and games, but sometimes it turns into real conflict, complete with tears and even hitting. So, again the question — when do we get involved?

Sometimes they make it clear they WANT you involved, by coming and “telling on” the other for something he did or said. But even this isn’t a clear indication that stepping in is the right move. Sometimes they just need to work it out. I find myself saying, “Why are you telling ME? Why don’t you tell HIM to stop hitting/teasing/rubbing-his-string-cheese-on you?”

It’s part of our job description as parents to protect our children from real danger as much as we can. But that’s not the same as making sure they never have a bad experience. “Life is pain, highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something.” (Bonus points to the first one to name that movie in the comments WITHOUT resorting to Google). Wise words, those, and something to remember as we decide how quickly to get involved in our children’s conflicts.

Now, I’ve seen parents who take the hands-off approach too far, in my opinion. I know it’s easy to judge how others parent their kids. It’s hard, and everybody’s got to make their choices. But, standing 10 feet away, completely oblivious as your child steals toys from other kids and proceeds to whale on them with said swiped toy? That, to me, is abdicating one’s parental responsibilities.

So I let my kids run, climb, and sometimes even reach out and touch the hot barbecue after I’ve told them 17 times it’s hot because nothing short of a little pain on the fingers is going to convince them it’s not a good idea to touch it. But I try not to allow them to do serious harm to themselves, or to those around them. This doesn’t always work. Sometimes they fall, sometimes they cry, and every day there’s a new challenge. A new question. I guess this is how it goes with parenting. Goodie for us.

As a father of boys, I consider myself lucky. When it comes to buying toys for my kids, I know if I get them something I think is cool, they’ll be totally happy. Spaceships, super heroes, dinosaurs, pirates — none of this is a stretch for me. But what about all the fathers of girls out there?

I have a friend. A single father of an adorable little 4-year old girl. He loves her, and of course like any father wants her to be happy. He mans up and doesn’t balk when she wants unicorns and princesses and frilly dresses and all manner of girly things. So he didn’t think twice about buying her a pink princess bubble wand. All hearts and flowers and little stars, it looked perfectly innocent and completely girly. Everything seemed right in her little pink princess world. Then he turned it upside down.

I like saying parenting is like curling. You know, that sport in the Winter Olympics where they push a big heavy polished stone across ice and then frantically sweep in front of it with brooms to try and guide its course and make it go as far and as straight as possible but they can’t actually touch it? I think parenting is like that. We can try and clear the way, but mostly kids go the way they’re gonna go.

Lately I’ve been wondering how well that analogy holds up. There have been a lot of pretty major changes at our house lately. Not counting babies being born, I’d say these are the biggest changes we’ve gone through as a family. Definitely the biggest Owen’s seen besides his brother being born and changing schools. Here are some of the highlights.

• I got laid off, which means I’m home almost all the time versus being at work 50+ hours a week.
• Lisa has a break from work until October, so she’s home, too.
• We let our nanny go. She was here five days a week for about seven months, spent more waking hours with the kids than either of us, and we all loved her. She was amazing and we miss her.
• Owen took three weeks off preschool then went back for summer school (at the same place). But some of his best friends aren’t there, and some won’t be coming back.
• Michael Jackson died.
• Nicholas turned one, and got serious about walking. He’s a walking machine now.
• Owen turned four, and has agreed to wipe his own butt for a whole month in exchange for the most coveted toy of his young life — Ahsoka’s Starfighter Lego set.

The Michael Jackson thing was mostly to see if you were paying attention, but Owen did come home from school one day and said “Who died?! Michael Jackson died!” Seriously, no idea where that came from.

But besides that pop quiz, the passing of MJ has been a blip compared to other recent milestones. It’s a lot of change for kids to absorb, right? I mean, they’re resilient and probably more durable than many of us when it comes to bouncing back from hard times, but they’re also creatures of habit and routine, and changes like this don’t go unnoticed.

Not surprisingly, Owen’s reaction is the most noticeable. He’s been much quicker to cry lately. When we ask him to do something, he ignores us about 80% of the time. He continues to refuse to try new foods, and completely loses his shit if we try to push him to do it. He’s quicker to get frustrated with his little brother.

But I have to wonder — how much of this is because of what’s going on with our family, and how much of it is just who he is at this moment in his ever evolving and developing life? The level of stress and uncertainty is unquestionably higher than usual. Most of this comes from me and being out of work. I try to keep my sharing of this mostly between Lisa and me (and my blog, of course), but sometimes I’m sure the kids get a taste of it.

Like the day we had this fun family outing to the La Brea Tar Pits (which, by the way, is totally repetitive, since translated it means The The Tar Tar Pits) which stopped being fun when we returned to our car to find it had been towed away because I didn’t pay attention to the “No Parking After 4pm” sign that apparently everyone in LA but me knows are all along Wilshire Blvd. But I’m not used to parking on Wilshire Blvd at 4pm on a weekday because I’M USUALLY AT WORK AT 4PM ON A WEEKDAY!!!! It was a stressful afternoon. I tried to keep my shit together as Owen peppered us with questions the entire way home, in traffic:

“Why’d they take your car away?”

“Why’d you park in the wrong place?”

“Why didn’t you read the sign?”

“Why couldn’t we take a taxi to get the car?”

“Why couldn’t I go with you to get the car?”

“Why was there a man in the only stall in the Koo Koo Roo bathroom when I suddenly had to poop as if my life depended on it while Mommy was off finding us a ride to the impound lot so I crapped standing up while you attempted to catch it with a paper towel while imploring me to hold it just a little longer please?”

(Ok, he didn’t ask me that, but he could have, since it did happen.)

But there haven’t been that many days like that. Mostly we’ve kept things pretty even keeled. So how much should we worry about what this is all doing to our kids? I don’t think we’re scarring them for life, but how can I be sure? The only thing I can think to do besides trying to keep my own cool is talk about what’s going on openly and honestly with them. I don’t think pretending nothing’s changed is the answer, but I also don’t want to make more of it than it is. I remember when my dad told me and my brothers he and mom were getting divorced.

It wasn’t long before I was like, “OK, that sucks, can I go play now?”

If my curling analogy is right, I’d say we’ve hit some rough ice, and the brooms might be showing a little wear and tear. Is this going to dramatically alter the course of our kids lives, or will they come through more or less unscathed? I suspect no one knows for sure, but I’d love to hear anything you care to share about how you’ve helped your kids navigate when the ice gets a little less smooth.

I see myself in my kids. This can be good and this can be bad. Something I’m seeing now in Owen, who will be four in a couple of weeks (and again, where the hell did four years go?), is my tendency to sit around like a lump. Watching TV, playing video games, generally avoiding physical activity. Like right now, as I sit here, writing at my computer. When it’s gorgeous outside. (But, baby Nicholas is napping, and Lisa and Owen are out running errands, so I can’t really leave. So gimme a break). Once we actually get him out of the house he’s happy to run and climb and jump and play. But ask him what he wants to do? The answer will almost always be Lego Star Wars.

This is my fault on several levels. First, there are my genes. He’s his father’s son and his father is at his core a sedentary being. When I was a kid it was books, and also TV. Now it’s the computer, iPhone, TV, Twitter, my blog, other people’s blogs. And occasionally still books. Second, there are the things I’ve introduced him to. TV, movies, video games. I didn’t have to buy them. I didn’t have to let him use them. But I did, because I like them, and thought he would to. And boy, does he.

When Owen was a baby Lisa and I talked about making sure he saw us doing physically active things for fun – walking, hiking, sports – going outside and moving around. These things don’t really come naturally to me, and I already see my son developing what I can only describe as a serious video game addiction. Luckily, so far, he doesn’t have his father’s tendency to eat constantly while sitting around not moving. This gives me hope that in some ways he’ll be better off. And it’s not that I think he should never play video games again, or watch TV or movies, or, eventually, read books! These are things I enjoy and sometimes ya gotta do stuff inside. But when it’s a beautiful sunny day and all the kid wants to do is play video games? It just feels all too familiar.

So again, here before you all, I commit to going outside more. We’ll go for more walks. We’ll go to the park. We’ll hang out in the backyard instead of the living room. And I will stop fighting my wife’s desire to take the family camping. As long as there is indoor plumbing nearby. And WiFi.

I write a dad blog. It says so right up in the title. (A title which, I realize, is not very imaginative. When I started the blog I called it “The Once and Future Badass Dad.” But was both pretentious and totally nonsensical, so now it’s just Badass Dad Blog. Which is lame, but tells it like it is.) So I think the fact I write a dad blog means I have to write a Father’s Day post. So, here it is.

It’s Tuesday.

That means I should write a blog post. Tuesday is blog post day.

Why Tuesday?

Well, weekends are out – I’m usually too busy to write, and everyone’s too busy to read. Monday is too “back to work” and Friday is all “weekend’s here!” Wednesday is “hump day” and Thursday is “almost Friday!” So, Tuesday.

But yesterday was a holiday, so this feels more like Monday. We had a lovely long weekend. I took Friday off and went to see Star Trek with Lisa. Much fun. We had sushi for lunch and had a nice relaxing time with no kids in tow. Saturday, Sunday, and Monday were family days. Hanging out with the kids. Seeing friends. Going to the park. Bailing on plans to go to the beach (sorry, Pete). Putting a bench around our tree in the backyard. Other than a marked shortage of naps for me, it was a wonderful long weekend.

Today the California Supreme Court upheld the ban on same-sex marriage put in place last year by Proposition 8.

I 100% expected this, but it still makes me sad.

I expected it because the court wasn’t ruling on the merits of same-sex marriage. They did that already. In spring 2008 when they said it was legal under the state constitution for same-sex couples to marry. So a lot of gay couples got married. Friends of ours. And family. Then some folks with lots of money put an initiative on the ballot last fall and changed the state constitution. So gay marriage was no longer legal. So today the court ruled on whether the process surrounding that ballot initiative was legal, and they said it was, so gay marriage is out. But, since it was legal for a few months, anyone who got married then is still married. Which is nice, I guess. Also, confusing.

This isn’t a political blog. It’s a parenting blog, basically. Which means it’s a family blog. And this is about family. Very close friends and members of my family are gay. Some of them are married. So far this has not caused the destruction of a single straight marriage that I know of. I’ve seen several marriages fall apart recently. It’s terrible to watch friends go through the deconstruction of everything they thought they would be doing for the rest of their lives. It’s heartbreaking. And sad. And not one of them blamed gay marriage.

Prop 8 proved what I’ve believed for a long time: the California ballot initiative process is a disaster. Lawmaking shouldn’t be left to the general public. Politicians are far from perfect, but we elect and pay them to do a job: make laws. We give them that authority and responsibility to understand the implications of the laws they make and to do the right thing. They screw it up a lot, but it’s their job. It’s not our job.

Even if you think we should vote on how to spend money or on taxes or bond measures, civil rights should not be subject to majority rule. The very concept of civil rights hinges on protecting the minority from the tyranny of the majority. If left to voter approval, we’d still have racial segregation in certain parts of the country. There are many more persuasive arguments for gay marriage than any I could make. I doubt I’m going to change anyone’s mind. Sadly, I’m not sure minds can be changed on this issue. I hope I’m wrong. Everyone should have the right to marry the person they love. We need our leaders to lead. This shouldn’t be about what people think. It’s about what’s right.

So, I’m disappointed in California, the only place I’ve ever lived.

But Star Trek was cool. So there’s that.

A friend (who is currently childless, incidentally) sent me this link:Stop worrying about your children! Maybe she thinks I worry too much? It’s an article on Salon.com by Katharine Mieszkowski, profiling Lenore Skenazy of freerangekids.com. Here’s the summary:

Kids today are just as safe as they were in the ’70s, says “Free-Range Kids” author Lenore Skenazy, and what’s really distressing is an alarmist culture that refuses to let them grow up.

I tweeted this link (that’s twitterspeak. if confused, see this post) and set off a really active and passionate discussion about how best to keep our kids safe.

What we all seemed to agree on was this: we must strike a balance between raising our kids in a bubble and letting them run wild without constraint. But the space between those two extremes is vast, and enough to leave this parent scratching his bald head wondering what to do.

I don’t know the answer, but of course I have some thoughts. Here are a few that came up during the discussion, and after.

I had a lot of freedom as a kid, and spent a lot of time hanging out unsupervised with my friends. My parents worked when I was young. I don’t remember exactly how old I was when I started getting myself to and home from school on my own, but I think it was around 10. Well before that I was riding my bike or walking all over the place with my parents not really knowing where I was.

My wife grew up in New York City. She was riding buses alone by age 8 and subways by 11. This was when the crime rate in NYC was much higher than it is today (she’d rather I didn’t say EXACTLY when this was), yet many people who read the article thought it was crazy for her to let her 9-yr old ride the train alone.

The subject of sex offenders came up. Are we better off knowing about registered sex offenders in our neighborhoods? At least the ones that have been a) convicted and b) honest about their current location? It is probably better to know than not know, but it’s also hard to know exactly what to do with the information. I also suspect it’s more important to teach our children how to behave with people they don’t know (and those they do) than it is to keep a constant watch on this house or that apartment building.

I want to be logical and level headed about how I raise my children. But I’m terrified that anything bad might happen to them, and want to do whatever I can to prevent that. At the same time, I want them to be self-reliant, independent, and not live in fear.

And that’s really the biggest issue here: fear. I think we’re much more afraid of all the horrible things that might happen now than our parents were, yet I think the chances of those things happening are generally no higher. In some cases they’re actually lower. But what are odds when it’s your own kids in question? The chances of getting attacked by a shark are ridiculously low. They’re even lower if you never go in the ocean.

Are we more realistic and better educated about the dangers of life, and protecting our kids accordingly? Or are we irrationally influenced by the scare tactics of the media (swine flu, anyone?) into sheltering our kids beyond reason?

I don’t know the answer. I’d love to hear your thoughts. Please comment.

Edit: After I posted this last night I spotted this story about a mom in New York who spent the night in jail after dropping her kids on the side of the road for misbehaving in the car. It reminds me that in addition to the moral, ethical, and just general right-minded parenting questions this issue raises, there are also legal issues to consider. Jeez, as if we didn’t have enough to worry about!

Owen is already learning you can’t go home again, even if he doesn’t understand that yet.

We’ve had pretty good child care luck. When Owen was born in 2005, Lisa took seven months off.

(Before you get all excited and start applying for her job, this was seven months without pay. Lisa’s an opera stage manager who gets contracted per show. So basically she took no contracts for seven months. So didn’t get paid. So we lived on one income, which was not the most fun thing ever, but that’s not what this is about.)

As I was saying, we’ve been lucky. Lisa stayed home longer than many can, and the single income thing didn’t kill us

(Although I’m not super excited we may be doing it again soon. And no, Lisa is not pregnant.)

When she did go back our moms each came to help for several weeks.

(Which also didn’t kill us, though in some ways came closer.)

And with Lisa’s sporadic work schedule and piecing together babysitters here and there (that sounds like we dismembered them. we didn’t) we didn’t put Owen in daycare until he was over a year old. Having seen many friends hand their kids off to infant care at 6 weeks, we were happy we could wait, and Owen thrived (and continues to, thankfully).

When the time did arrive to start him in daycare, we found a place close to where we work in Downtown LA that we were really happy with most of the time he was there. When we did have issues, they addressed them (mostly. took way too long to get me a new keycard for the security gate.). Their hours were RIDICULOUSLY convenient (6am – 6:30pm. That is not a typo.). The location worked well for us (and was right near the train station which Owen loved). The director and staff were friendly and caring, and the teachers Owen had really seemed to love the kids and what they were doing. Oh, and it was cheaper than almost everyone else I knew was paying. I still don’t really know why, but I’m not complaining.

This is the Old School.

(We’ve always called it school with Owen, even when it was really just daycare. Also, I feel strange posting the name of the place, but if you’re in LA and interested email me and I’ll share. If you still want the info by the end of this post.)

Owen LOVED the Old School. Once he got over being left somewhere besides home, and apart from the inevitable tough days now and then, he loved it. He made friends before we knew he was old enough to HAVE friends. It was a strange experience visiting friends whose daughter was in his class and seeing they had something going on which had nothing to do with us or time they’d spent together while we were around. They were tight, and that happened all on their time, not ours. He loved his teachers, and often he didn’t want to leave when one of us showed up to take him home. How could our house compete with all these toys, kids, and a playground right outside? We saw his social skills blossom, and get this – they basically potty trained our kid for us. No kidding, one day they were like, “start sending him in underwear, he’s ready.” I felt like tipping them.

Then we got pregnant with Nicholas.

(Clearly, it was my wife who actually got pregnant, but we’re a team, so I say “we got pregnant” even though I realize she is the one with the uterus and did all the actual gestating and pushing the baby out and it makes me sound like kind of a new age parenting hippie to say “we got pregnant” but there I said it so whatever. Again, this is not what this is about.)

When we started contemplating how to handle the logistics of a second child, we decided two things: We were getting a nanny, and we were moving Owen to a school closer to home. We’ll call this the New School.

The New School is four blocks from our house (Old School: 10 miles). The New School has been lauded by friends since before we had kids as the best thing that ever happened to their kids. It’s only slightly more expensive. Having Owen at the New School would allow the nanny to pickup and dropoff (Car Talk, anyone?), and meant he’d be in school with neighborhood kids, some of whom might end up his classmates for years. Also, as Kindergarten started to loom, we wanted him to have a slightly more academic atmosphere than the Old School provided. Theirs was basically structured play, with crafts and stories and circle time, which is great for little ones, but lacked the beginning reading and math we think is important to at least start introducing somewhere around age three.

(This makes it sound like we’ve spent much more time thinking about educational theory and approach than we have. We basically play this thing by ear and try and do what Owen’s ready for. Honestly, the way notes home from his teachers at the Old School were spelled, I was not sure I wanted them teaching my kid to read, sweet and well meaning as they were. Also (and this probably bothers me the classically trained musician more than most), his teachers could not sing. I don’t mean they didn’t have beautiful voices. I mean they couldn’t carry a tune in a fucking bucket. Owen still has trouble matching pitch and I blame them. We sang to the kid, but they had many more waking hours with him in those early days, and how the hell can a kid learn Twinkle Twinkle Little Star when it sounds like there are only maybe 3 1/2 notes in the song and their relationships to each other are entirely arbitrary and vary from one verse to the next? Does that song even have verses? Whatever, you get the point. And again, this is not what this is about.)

So we decided to move Owen to the New School. We thought a lot about timing this move. Knowing he liked his Old School, we didn’t want him to associate leaving there with the arrival of the baby (fucking baby you came and I had to change schools and I hate you!), so we decided to wait and move him several months after Nicholas was born, while Lisa was still off work (she couldn’t take quite as much time off with #2, further reason why we went with the nanny option). We actually made the switch while out of town on vacation, so when we got home, Owen started in the New School. If he were older I think we’d have wanted him to have a chance to say goodbye, but at 3 we just thought that wouldn’t make sense to him. He’d probably think we were saying goodbye for the day and coming back tomorrow.

The good news is I think we succeeded in making the school move not about the baby. Owen loves his brother and has never connected his arrival with changing schools, that we know of. That said, the school move was a little rough at first. The first few days were great. He was all caught up in the novelty of the new school and the differentness of it all. We naively thought we were home free. But about a week later we heard:

“When can I go back to my Old School?”

My heart sank. Because of course he couldn’t go back. We’d structured our lives around him being close to home, not to mention paid money to the New School and given up his spot at the Old School. It was time to move on, but how do you tell that to a 3-yr old? We told him the New School was his school now, and he was going to keep going there. Thing is, I wanted him to WANT his New School, and by extension to have fond memories of his Old School without actually wanting to go back there again. Which is totally unrealistic, especially since I also have my moments of pining for my past. And I’m 35 — he’s 3.5. I’m a whole power of 10 older than him.

But those moments pass, and before long, he did get past it. Mostly. Pretty soon he wasn’t asking about his Old School anymore, and was really having fun at his new school. He made friends, he likes his teachers, he’s learning all kinds of cool stuff. And the logistics are working out great and we’re really happy about the move.

But now and then, it comes up. We see someone from the Old School – at a birthday party, playdate, etc. – and he asks about going back. But the more time that’s passed, the more his Old School isn’t really the place he knew anymore. Almost all of his friends have moved on. Most of the teachers we knew and liked are no longer there. And, of course, he’s not the same kid he was, either.

And maybe that’s the hardest thing to accept.

He’s changing.

And it’s all good. It’s what’s supposed to happen. He’s growing up. And that is both the best and the hardest thing to watch. He’s the same sweet funny cuddly charming kid, but at the same time, he’s not. He’s different every day. And that is, as much as anything, why none of us can ever go home again. Because not only is home not the place it was when we left, but neither are we the people we were then. We change. And that’s what’s supposed to happen, but sometimes we think back and sigh a little about who we were, and will never be again. At least, Owen and I do.

Owen is obsessed with Star Wars.

Owen is 3 3/4 (he’ll correct you if you say he’s 3 1/2), and obsessed with Star Wars. He’s probably too young for this fairly violent (and completely awesome) series of films (and cartoons – did you know there were cartoons?!). But we love it, and thought he would love it, and he does, so yahtzee! The thing is, I couldn’t take much more Diego. Or the Wiggles, oh my god the Wiggles. If you’ve managed to avoid this particular Australian import, count yourself extremely lucky. I thought we were so clever to have kept Barney out of the house, then the Wiggles flanked us and moved in. Clever Wiggles. Anyway, Owen has now seen all six Star Wars films, the Clone Wars animated feature, and many episodes of the Clone Wars animated TV show. He owns three very realistic, battery operated lightsabers, complete with lights and sounds, and has played Lego Star Wars: The Complete Saga on PlayStation3. He’s definitely too young for THAT. We’re horrible parents.

But that’s not the point. The point is, he’s most obsessed with particular aspects of Star Wars. Much to my wife’s chagrin (“I thought I had more time!”) his fixation is primarily on the female characters who aren’t wearing a lot of clothing. This includes Leia in the early scenes of Return of the Jedi, Padme Amidala after the arena scene in Attack of the Clones, and Asohka (Anakin’s padowan learner) in Clone Wars. All have bare midriffs, shoulders, legs – you get the idea. He also digs Jedi and lightsabers, but likes them best if they are defending (or wielded by) scantily clad females. We think questions about whether he might be gay are pretty much answered.

When Owen wants to watch Star Wars, he usually asks by saying something like, “I want to watch Star Wars, where Princess Leia gets captured by Jabba, and has a tummy.” Having a tummy means her tummy is bare. When he sees someone with their belly showing he asks “Why does she have a tummy?” When he isn’t wearing shoes and doesn’t want to walk on something without them, he’ll object, “But I have feet!” We were driving one day and talking about the beach, and how he wouldn’t need shoes and could run around with bare feet. From the back seat: “Silly Daddy, not bear feet, KID feet!” So it’s just feet. And tummies. So back to that.

The tummy fixation isn’t new. He will consistently notice and comment on anyone with a bare belly. He’s into observing and pointing out body parts, and tummies are special, I suspect because they’re less often spotted than say, heads. Visiting a local motorcycle shop with my stepdad, Owen spotted a poster of a woman in a bikini, leaning suggestively against a motorcycle. He took inventory: “She has legs, and she has a tummy, and she has those, and she has arms …” That was a few months ago. By now I think he knows what “those” are called (his baby brother is breastfeeding, after all). He’s nothing if not observant.

If you aren’t already, you should be reading Tanis Miller’s blog, Attack of the Redneck Mommy. She’s funny, and smart, and Canadian, and often blogs about her boobs. What more do you want? Anyway, I follow her on Twitter and had her avatar up on my screen when Owen walked by. He stopped and looked at the picture for a bit, and then in a slightly shy but impishly smiling way said, “Why isn’t she wearing a shirt?”

I think she might be, you just can’t see it in the picture.

(Impish smile) “She looks like she’s … captured.”

I told Tanis about Owen’s comment. She says this is why she’ll never change her avatar – according to her, her real photo? So not captured. I suspect we may have planted the seeds for a rich sexual fantasy life for our not-yet-four-year old once he’s a bit (read: a LOT) older. I also suspect Redneck Mommy would be proud if that’s true.

So, that brings us back to Star Wars, doesn’t it? I’m king of the segue.

As I mentioned, in addition to the mostly naked women of Star Wars, Owen likes the Jedi. He wants to be a Jedi when he grows up. He holds out his hand and screws up his face and wonders why no people or objects move around the room from his powers. It’s awesome and a little heartbreaking. I’ve given him no reason to think he can’t be a Jedi when he grows up. I hope he never stops believing he can. As Yoda said about not believing, “That is why you fail.”

Star Wars creeps into almost every conversation now. Last week Owen asked, “What kind of car does mommy have?” A Honda.

“What kind of car does daddy have?” A Toyota.

“I like daddy’s car better … because it has Yoda in it.”

My faith in humanity bolstered, I now think introducing him to Star Wars was a pretty good idea. We’re awesome parents.