Tag: brothers

Lost in Translation

Published on by Laura Nicole Diamond4 Comments

It was the vehemence of the assault that surprised me. The attacker: my son. His weapon: my birthday cake.

My birthday was last week. With Maria in our family now, I knew this year would be different than the usual last-minute birthday cards. Birthday celebrations in Guatemala have unique traditions, which I learned about one afternoon during a front yard soccer game a few days before my husband’s birthday.

Maria, who had joined our family two weeks earlier, called me over and whispered in Spanish, “I have an idea for Christopher’s birthday. I’ll wake up at 4 a.m….” Wow, I thought, is she going to prepare a feast for when he awakes two hours later? She’s amazing! “And I’ll wake up the boys at 4 a.m.,” she continued, “and we’ll come into your room at 4 a.m. and sing songs and pour ice water on him!” Her face was overtaken by a huge smile.

Which I had to snuff out, even if it was culturally insensitive. “No. No way. Do NOT do that. He will not like that.” She took the note, and instead made a huge, colorful birthday banner, taped to the dining room wall after he went to bed. Lovely. Two weeks later, we celebrated my older son’s birthday in a similar way. No middle of the night birthday anarchy. I had protected them from this particular cultural exchange.

Cue my birthday. I had seen hints that Maria and the boys were at work on an art project, heard giggling and whispers, and was happy the three of them were getting along so well. On the morning of my birthday, I woke up to the sounds of them scampering about. I felt content, not only because I knew there was something special planned for me, but because this experiment of welcoming a stranger into our family was succeeding beyond my wildest dreams. I had never expected my boys to come to love Maria, nor so quickly.

At 6:30 a.m. Maria and the boys entered our bedroom. Aaron held a beautiful cake that read “Happy Birthday Laura” in flowing red icing script, and candle flames lit the dark bedroom. Maria held an iPad playing “Happy Birthday” in mariachi style. Emmett held a camera, recording the moment. I felt loved and appreciated.

I made my wish, and then I blew out my candles. Before I could inhale my next breath, I was inhaling my cake and my son’s fist behind it. He pushed the entire quarter-sheet cake up onto my chest and chin. That was their plan. Ha ha ha. Feliz cumpleanos.

But my 14-year-old kept going. He grabbed the cake and shoved it at my head. Cake flew everywhere: on me, my pillow, the bed, the floor, the rug. When he finally stopped, the cake was destroyed. I was crestfallen. Either he had misunderstood Maria’s instructions and innocently taken it too far, or he had become overcome by aggression over every fight about too much screentime.

It felt like the latter — “Does he hate me that much?” I wondered. I tried not to cry. The kids sort of helped Christopher clean up. I got in the shower. Though I tried not to let it, it colored the rest of my day, a charcoal hue that came with me on a hike underneath otherwise blue skies. I tried to shake it off. By day’s end, we had moved on, and eaten the entire cake.

A few days have passed, and I’ve recovered from the hurt feelings. I still don’t know if the intensity of the cake attack was motivated by suppressed anger, or the thrill of permission to run amok. I look for a lesson regardless, something to salvage.

Perhaps it is this: I have entered the era of Mother to an Adolescent. There will be friction and misunderstandings, disagreements and disputes. But at the end of the day, we come together. We share the ample sweetness there is, in all its delicious imperfection.

birthday cake

Best Birthday Gifts for Mom

Published on by Laura Nicole DiamondLeave a comment

Does a mom experience any sweeter feeling than watching quietly from the staircase as her child, unknowing that he is being observed, makes French Toast for her birthday? Dad is out of town, and this is my boy’s own idea. “I thought of it last night before I went to bed. If you were still upstairs, I would have cut a flower from the garden for you.” He is his father’s son.

His brother comes downstairs sleepily, “You woke me up!” He is his mother’s son. He needs ample sleep and many reminders of things like other people’s birthdays. Consoled by news that his brother has made French toast, he lumbers to the table and puts his head down on his beloved Calvin and Hobbes anthology. His brother and I don’t mention the occasion for the French toast, giving him a chance to remember on his own. After a while I figure I won’t hide the ball, I’ll put it right in front of him, give him a break.

“Can I tell you something?” I ask. I lean in to his warm body wrapped in footed pajamas and reveal, “Today’s my birthday!” He consents to a hug, a smile, and a “Happy birthday.” That’s a whole lotta lovin’ from this one, in his current phase, and I know it. It’s a good reminder to accept my boys as the people they are, brilliantly unique.

The birthday morning brigade

 

It’s no lie that these small gifts from my two vastly different soul-boys fill me up. (The icing on my cake? No morning squabbles, no rushing out the door for school. Birthday miracles is the only rational explanation.)

Arriving at school, another hug is reluctantly offered by the tough guy: “But in the car, mom, where no one can see us.” I take what I can get. But when we are on the sidewalk, I do something dumb. I can’t help myself: I hug him again anyway. I know it’s not good for our relationship. I know I should respect his boundaries. Aachh…I’ll start tomorrow. “Hugging you is like eating a cupcake,” I say, trying to explain my weakness on his terms.

Cupcake and photo by Jessica Heisen

(Cupcake and photo by Jessica Heisen)

His countenance brightens. “Speaking of cupcakes…!?”

I smile and say, “We’ll see.” If I play my cards right, there may be another hug and kiss in this day yet.

That Championship Season

Published on by Laura Nicole Diamond2 Comments

Some balls just get away. They fly over the center fielder’s head, past the white fence, or drop two feet to the left, lost in the sun. Some games get away like that, too.

Never mind that a little brother has dressed like an Oriole, an honorary mascot that the team has allowed in the dugout all season, today decked out in orange face paint, orange and black feathers, and a beak that was painted the perfect shade of orange.

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Everything thought of and arranged and planned for. Everything, that is, but the other team’s bat, their incessant homeruns and ground rule doubles, again and again, unanswered. Sigh.

No matter the few great plays and big hits our team had, no matter the spirit and high hopes they brought to the field; trepidation and fear walked into the dugout, too. Their opponents had come off a week of wins, fighting just to get into this game. Our kids had a week off, too much rest from battle. No taste of vanquished teams on their tongues.

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There will be one more chance. One final championship game.

The team told the little mascot not to dress that way next time: no makeup, no feathers, no beak. It’s simple baseball superstition; whatever was different about this loss is banished, along with it the taint of loss. I hope he doesn’t take it to heart, doesn’t feel he is to blame. My heart’s instinct is to jump out and stand in front of the words fired at him like bullets. He’s too much of a scientist to think his outfit caused the mighty Tigers to hit perfect grounders down the third base line. My protection would draw attention to the attack.

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The mascot runs off the field to the park bathroom and emerges with a remarkably clean face, cleaner than it’s been in days, a pale outline of orange above his ears and eyebrows. He shakes it off. There’s one more chance, he says.

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Recovering from Mother’s Day

Published on by Laura Nicole Diamond2 Comments

I had my worst Mother’s Day, to date. No one woke me with burnt toast. I was awakened by Emmett, actually, but it was with a beautiful hand illustrated book he had made about how much I love him.

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And a bracelet made from paperclips and tape.

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All good. Aaron gave me nothing, because in Middle School the teachers don’t do that shit for you, and he didn’t get around to doing it himself. That’s another discussion.

But I didn’t want gifts for Mother’s Day. What I wanted for Mother’s Day, all I wanted, was to go on a bike ride on the beach.

Aaron was happy to oblige. He was dressed and ready to go. But Emmett, oh that darling, sloooooow and “I don’t wanna do it” Emmett, was not cooperating.

You know what? I can’t even bear to tell you more. It’s too harrowing to relive. So I’m going to let Christopher’s Mom give it to you straight, the story he told her on the phone at the end of the day, which she succinctly boiled down to its essence:

“Laura wanted to go on a bike ride for Mother’s Day to the Farmer’s Market.”

        Okay, I’m piping in. YES, that’s all I wanted!!!

“Somehow, Laura, Aaron and Christopher arrived there in two groups and found that Emmett (who had procrastinated at home) wasn’t with them. Christopher thought he was with Laura and Aaron, and Laura thought he was with Christopher.

“Not only that, but they had all left their cell phones at home.”

       Because we wanted, just for a day, to be unplugged. And we were all supposed to be TOGETHER.

“Laura went to search the Farmer’s Market. The Farmer’s Market manager called the police, who were about to dispatch helicopters, while Christopher raced home on his bike. He found a very shaken up Emmett with his bike in front of their house, who had tried to call all of them, and thank goodness met a nice neighborhood family who helped him!

“All’s well that ends well.”

I still want my damn bike ride.

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Read between the lines

Published on by Laura Nicole Diamond2 Comments

My sister and I had a favorite sight gag as kids. Hold up your middle three fingers toward someone, palm facing you and say, “Read between the lines.”

This is something different.

Our eight-year-old is assigned to read 20 minutes every night. And every night, as we open a book to read, he rolls over and says, “You read. I’m too tired.” We try gimmicks – “I’ll read one page (or paragraph, or sentence) and then you read one!” Mostly he refuses, and mostly I give in and read to him. With his school reading scores pretty strong, I justify it thusly: it’s a wonderful thing to be read to, we are building cozy memories.

But still I worry (of course I do). “He must do the assignment! He must improve! He could be reading at an even higher level!” (Trust me, as I write this I am even annoying myself.) I continue to pester him about reading, and he continues to resist.

Then, this morning, a most inexplicable turn of events. On the drive to school, the little guy agreed to help his brother practice lines for the balcony scene in Romeo & Juliet. Motoring along the palm tree lined Ocean Avenue and San Vicente Blvd., my son who balks at reading The Hardy Boys aloud, eloquently read aloud the immortal words, “Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art though Romeo?”

He did the entire scene, until he bumped with embarrassment over the word “breast.” It went downhill from there, screeching to a halt at the word “marriage.” He had a problem with saying he would get married to his brother. “Daddy,” he said with no room for negotiation, “you have to say the M-word, cuz I won’t.”

This from a kid who has no qualms spouting words more commonly known by their first letter. Which reminds me, I think he’d enjoy our old sight gag.Image

 

In the distance, an empty nest…

Published on by Laura Nicole Diamond1 Comment

My poor little out-of-the-box Emmett. Every morning, the moment he awakens to the realization that it is not the weekend, that he will have to spend several hours sitting at a desk in his first grade classroom, keeping his mouth and his mind quiet, we have tears: “I don’t want to go to school!” and “Can you call a babysitter?” and “Why did they have to invent school?”

Emmett catches a frog

This morning, and for the past two days, compounding his trauma is the fact that his brother is away for two nights at Astro Camp with the entire 5th grade. Emmett has had this to say about it: “It’s not fair” and “Fifth graders have all the fun” and “I wish they called it ‘2 days of doing boring projects’” and, the bottom line, “I wish I were at Astro Camp.”

Nothing I said could comfort, so I tried not to say too much. Occasionally I couldn’t help myself, and offered motherly wisdom like, “Aaron had to wait until 5th grade to do Astro Camp, too.” Emmett’s woeful response: “But he didn’t have an older brother, so he wasn’t as stressed out about it!”

I couldn’t argue with that.

Aaron, for his part, had been excited for Astro Camp. It is a rite of passage, filled with mystery, and a very big deal. In the days leading up to it, it was he who suggested it was time to pack, he who picked out his clothes, he who stuffed them in a duffel bag. On the morning of Astro Camp, there was no expression of reluctance, no worrying, no timidity. We left the house early; he was eager to be on time for the bus.

This was the boy who, at four years old, would not let me leave him at pre-school, who begged through anxious tears to come home with me, who would only play at another child’s house if I stayed, even when all the other four-year-olds were separating without a wrinkle. I had tried to comfort myself then, that one day that would change. One day we would have a painless separation. One day he would be confident to leave me. One day.

That day had come.

When we got to school, we threw his gear onto the bus, and he went inside to meet his classmates. I waited outside with a smattering of other parents, lingering until the buses were loaded and gone. As the fifth graders emerged from the schoolhouse marching toward the bus that would carry them over the hurdle of Astro Camp into the home stretch of elementary school, we each looked for our triumphant hero. I saw mine, and my heart beat faster. I grabbed a photo with my phone as he approached the bus, then he did something unexpected. He paused in front of me.

Only when I heard a mom beside me say, “Aw, you still get a hug?” did I realize what was happening. He was initiating a last embrace. I quickly hugged him, kissed him, dropping my phone in the befuddled process, then stepped back as he disappeared into the dark-windowed bus. I waited until the bus pulled away, not knowing if he was looking for me, but waving just in case.

For two days and nights I checked my e-mail hourly for photos sent by friends who had volunteered to chaperone the fifth graders. (Aaron had emphatically told me that I was not allowed to come.)

Friday afternoon brought much joy all around: a weekend reprieve from school’s structure for Emmett, and Aaron’s return. I hugged Aaron too hard and too long. “Too much love, Mom,” he counseled me. I let go reluctantly, and grasped my hands together behind my back. He casually wore his new Astro Camp sweatshirt and regaled us with stories of bravery — climbing high towers and ziplining and traversing pitch dark mazes with the help of friends. Emmett listened intently to what the future held in store for him, if he could only survive four more years of the classroom.

I think of all the things that will happen in those years that will lead my boys deeper into the maze of maturity, sometimes groping through the dark, building their bravery with the help of friends. I feel with bittersweet pride my primacy receding. I watch and wait on the side, hoping for that small grace of a kiss, before they roll away.

Philadelphia, American History, and Mini-Golf

Published on by Laura Nicole Diamond2 Comments

“California is the most beautiful state, but Pennsylvania is the most historic.”

Thus spoke my 10-year-old California boy at the end of a day that had him reading the Constitution aloud at the National Constitution Center, strolling past Independence Hall where the Constitution was crafted, watching “Liberty 360” — “the first 360 degree 3D movie about our nation’s founding!” – and, not to be entirely serious, playing a round of mini-golf surrounded by miniature emblems of Philadelphia.

Our first stop, the National Constitution Center, is a temple to America’s foundational document and history. As a daughter of a constitutional lawyer, I was raised to revere the Constitution and the Bill of Rights. As I listened to the core exhibit’s presentation “Freedom Rising”, I was moved to tears by the audacity of the men (yes, only men, but we’re fixing that) who wrestled with the creation of a new government. I was astounded again by their idealism, their indefatigable tenacity, for nearly a decade debating the language of what would become our American bible. For that moment I forgave them their human imperfections and hypocrisies, and thanked them for creating a governing document that left room for improvement in every generation. We are holding true to our tradition when we argue in every generation about what is meant by equal protection of the laws. Whether the issue is women’s suffrage or gay marriage (or whatever it will be 50 years from now), we can be mindful that we are all Americans, we are entitled to different opinions, and our legacy is one of debate, resolution and moving on as one country.

I could have spent hours more in the many interactive exhibits at the National Constitution Center (and will absolutely return), but time was short and I’d promised them mini-golf. I have my priorities straight. And so do the planners of the many activities that make up Historic Philadelphia, who know that you gotta give the kids something sweet to get the medicine to go down.
Our golf-putting took us past mini Art Museum, Ben Franklin Bridge, Independence Hall and even miniature people rowing crew on mini Boathouse Row.

There are so many inventive and interactive activities for families in Historic Philadelphia, we could have spent a full week. But we’d only allotted the day, which means we will be back. Fifth grade field trip, anyone?



Hot enough for ya?

Published on by Laura Nicole Diamond3 Comments

Let me warn you: if you want to find a heat wave in summer, follow us. Two summers ago, our arrival in Barcelona ushered in one of that fair city’s hottest summers ever. Now in the birthplace of our own country, we are at it again, but this time with the blessing of central air conditioning awaiting us at home.

Even sitting inside with a fan blowing on me, simply reading The Weather Channel’s weekend forecast from two days ago is enough to make my skin shimmer with heat goosebumps:

Trenton, NJ: Daily record high of 106 degrees.

Philadelphia, PA: Daily record high of 103 degrees.

It’s not as bad as it sounds, really. (See aforementioned air conditioning.) There is plenty of great local ice cream (hello Zebra Striped Whale!), our great-aunt and -uncle’s swimming pool is right around the corner, and tomorrow — barring the arrival of predicted thunderstorms — there will be tubing in the Delaware River.

This morning, we got an early start for a bike ride along the D&R Canal. The clouds that carried the idle threat of thunderstorms kept the bright sun at bay.

With bikes rented from Greenway Bikes at The Nelson House, just inside the entrance to the Washington Crossing State Park (on the New Jersey side), we rode along a tow path that for most of the 19th century was the “freeway” for commerce from Philadelphia to New York. (I mention this fact to our kids in the hope that some history will seep in, anticipating the 5th grade American history curriculum, but mostly I think they’ll remember the chocolate croissants they later got at the Lambertville Trading Company in Lambertville, New Jersey.)

(An ironic history sidenote: When we arrive in Lambertville, what do we see but the “James Marshall” house? Lo and behold, it is the house where a young James Marshall lived before setting off for California and igniting the California gold rush with his discovery of gold at Sutter’s Mill.

So it seems we are still meant to be reviewing 4th grade history.)

 

 

 

As we continue our bike ride, we pass a pair of joggers or bicyclists only every five minutes or so. It is peaceful enough for me to hear the loud whoosh of cicadas in the trees. Emmett offers me the exoskeleton of one.

As we ride I catch glimpses of the calm Delaware River through the thick green foliage on my right. I can’t help but think of the very different bike ride I took just last Sunday, along the Pacific ocean from Pacific Palisades through bustling Santa Monica, crowded Venice, along the oft-graffitti’d Ballona creek all the way to Culver City, trying to keep up with my father’s quixotic goal of riding to his “ancestral home,” where he lived until he was nine years old.

As we rode along that beach bike path, the spray of the Pacific at our side, my father kept saying, “feel that natural air conditioning” and beaming his widest smile. He knew that those ocean breezes would not be accompanying his daughter, son-in-law and grandsons on our trip, and he wanted to be sure that the refreshing air would be a vivid, sweet reminder of what we have to welcome us when we come back.

Until then, I’m on this path with my family, and we may be sticky, but we’re still smiling.

The X-Rated Birds and Bees

Published on by Laura Nicole Diamond9 Comments

(Names have been changed to protect the innocent, and the moderately-guilty).

As much as we like to think we are our children’s best teachers, it’s the time they spend with friends that provide them with the most “education.” Case in point: the few days our 8-year-old, let’s call him Huck, spent at baseball camp last month. At camp, the counselors teach batting, fielding, throwing and chewing bubble gum. The campers teach scratching, spitting and singing rude songs. Huck comes home singing about Batman peeing on the wall, Scooby Doo eating poo and a word-play game that he generously teaches his five-year-old brother: “Hey, Butch,” he whispers to him with a sly smile, “say ‘X’ really fast, over and over.”

Butch, pleased to be enlisted in his brother’s game, says: “X X X X X X X.”

Huck giggles uncontrollably. “You said, ‘Sex sex sex sex sex sex sex!’”

Butch is unperturbed. To the contrary, he thinks it is the pinnacle of humor. They keep at it. They sling “X X X X” all over the neighborhood. It’s getting a little out of control. My husband, Stud, decides he has been handed a “teachable moment.” It is time to Talk About Sex.

It’s not like we haven’t talked with our children before about where babies come from. They have long known that a man’s sperm fertilizes a woman’s egg, leading to the development of a baby. They have had long chats about the games they played together as lonely eggs in my ovary, waiting to become zygotes and begin their cells dividing. A sleepy, sluggish three-year-old Butch once commented, “I’m not feeling very fertilized right now.” (Truly, I could not make this stuff up.)

They also know that babies, including them, come out through a woman’s vagina, or sometimes her stomach.  But they have never asked The Big One: how do the sperm and ovum end up at the same party?

I always expected to be the one to have The Talk. After all, two years ago Huck asked my husband, “Daddy, how do babies get inside Mommy’s tummy?” and his wise father replied, chin in hand, “Good question. You should ask Mommy about that some time.”

But this time, amidst the chorus of “sex” reverberating through the house, Stud decides to step up to the plate. “Do you know what sex is, guys?”

“Yes.” Butch replies. “It means kissing.”

“No,” Huck counters, “it’s naked cuddling.”

I listen from the other room as Stud takes a swing. “Sex,” he explains, “is when a man puts his penis in a woman’s vagina, because they want to make a baby.”

Silence. No laughter. Shock has set in. For all of us.

I listen for a sound, anything. Finally, Butch speaks: “I’m hungry.”

And so we move on . . . .

The next day the four of us go to see Alvin and the Chipmunks. We are sitting in the dark movie theater waiting for the previews to end. Two on-screen characters kiss. “That’s sex, right mom?” Butch asks.

Thank goodness I overhead their dad’s explanation yesterday. I repeat it, adding for good measure: “ . . . because they love each other and are married.” I consider adding that the man and woman have Ph.D’s, but let it go for now.

“Oh yeah,” Butch says, and the movie begins. Sexy girl chipmunks fawn over Alvin, Simon and Theodore and shake their rumps singing Beyonce’s Single Ladies. Horny teenage boys threaten Alvin because species-blind teenage girls have swooned and sighed over these rodent rock stars. Sex is everywhere.

Walking home later, Butch explores every leaf on every plant. I watch him, marvel at his concentration, wonder at his inner conversation. Out of the silence he asks in the slow, articulated voice he has, “Can I play with Kevin tomorrow?” He considers the leaf in his hand. “I want to tell him what sex is.”

Uh-oh.

I envision him becoming the scourge of the pre-school, the playmate to avoid. “Well, honey,” I try to appeal to his sense of propriety, “that’s something his mommy and daddy want to tell him about. It’s not for friends to tell.” I almost add, “Kind of like Santa Claus,” but that would just complicate matters. Butch seems to understand, but his eyes betray significant disappointment. “I wish I could tell him,” he adds.

“I know, honey. But please don’t.”

We get home and I e-mail Kevin’s mother an advance apology for the things my son will no doubt teach hers, not just in pre-school but over the next thirteen years. I get a frantic reply from her, wanting to know exactly what words she should be prepared for. When I tell her over the phone the words we used, verbatim, I hear the now-expected silence, and wonder if the phone has gone dead. Then I hear her breathe. “Wow,” she sputters. “You guys left nothing to the imagination.” Yeah. We figured it was best that way.

And I wonder as we say goodbye, if maybe we’re all going to be on the “playmates to avoid” list for a while.

More than we wished for.

Published on by Laura Nicole Diamond2 Comments

What could be better than to be eight years old, out at dark, running with friends, getting candy door to door. Not much. Except, perhaps, being five years old and permitted to tag along. Or being their mother, trailing with glass of wine in hand.

Halloween did not disappoint. At first I goofed. Forgot my cup. But a friend at one house on our rounds handed me the glass of wine out of her hand. I took it, not so much because I needed wine on this sweet night, but because I needed to know if the rumours were true. And knowing this friend, it was bound to be good wine. She did not disappoint.

Barely thirty minutes into the candy march, our boys surprised us by telling us they were done. Done? I asked. Done, they answered: their bags were too heavy; they had enough candy; they had had enough of it all. They wanted to go home. Proof, as though I needed more, that they are not me.

Their father was delighted. The World Series was on. Phillies vs. Yankees. Father vs. Sons. The boys poured their candy on the floor and straddled their bounty as the Phillies struggled. They arranged, sorted, counted, traded, and consumed. They put away a few lonely rejects. They graced their parents’ palms with one or two good ones. Such good boys. The one with a tummy ache and heavy eyelids went upstairs for a bath, while his father and older brother watched baseball and monitored the doorbell.

Different treats awaited upstairs: a heated bathroom, oversized plush towels, clean brushed teeth, feet pajamas. But then a protest, “I’m not going to bed until Aaron does.” I picked up those fifty pounds of my baby, entered his bedroom though his hands grabbed the doorframe, and sat with him in the rocking chair. I offered a memory as a distraction, “Did you know that when you were a baby, we used to sit in this chair, and I would rock you and sing you songs and you would fall asleep?” He was listening still, so I kept rocking and began to sing.

Twinkle twinkle little star, How I wonder what you are . . . Shelter us beneath your wings, oh Lord on high . . . Blackbird singing in the dead of night, take these broken wings and learn to fly . . . If you want to sing out sing out, and if you want to be free be free . . . I could have stayed there all night, singing my wishes for him. I stayed longer than I needed to. Then I pulled his blankets back with my outstretched toes, and slipped him onto his bed.

Downstairs, they continued to monitor baseball and trick or treaters. The eight year old treated “God Bless America” and “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” with as much reverence as he did the pitches, hits and outs. Maybe more. He sang along, stopping to comment to his father about the operatic singer in military uniform,“He has a beautiful voice.” I was surprised he would notice. They sang together, “For its root root root for the Phillies,” and I was caught off guard again; could he be rooting for his father’s home team at last? “No,” he explained. “It’s a Phillies home game. I always sing the home team’s name.”

The singing ended, the baseball resumed, the doorbell rang. He ran to get it. “39 Dad!” he exclaimed running back to the game. He was counting the number of kids coming to our door, hoping for 40.

It was a magical night. Candy, friends, a Yankees win. And 47 kids seeking sweets at our door. He got more than he wished for.