(Stop … stop that. Stop. Really. You look ridiculous all doubled over in laughter like that.)

Granted, what I do isn’t exactly “running” at the moment. It’s probably closer to “shuffling.” Perhaps “ambling.” I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. What matters is my assistant coach has convinced me to give the Cadillac Festival of Races 5K Run (PDF) a shot on Labor Day (and boy, will I be laboring — RIMSHOT!) by turning it into a competition, something I have trouble resisting. Since I would have to actually train for this race, it would serve the dual purpose of getting me prepared (or as close to prepared as one can get in a little under five weeks) for the race and providing me with exercise, something I fervently avoid when it doesn’t involve scorekeeping.

(No doubt there are experienced runners reading this all aghast and wondering why I think I can “train” to run a 3.1-mile race in just five weeks. Well, the truth is I can’t train to run a 3.1-mile race in five weeks. I can only train to survive a 3.1-mile race. Which is all I’m trying to do.)

Over the last couple of years, I’ve started and quickly abandoned something called the Couch-to-5K Running Plan, an eight-week method for torturing unsuspecting fools getting the novice runner to a point where they are capable (allegedly) of running an actual 5K race. It’s designed to help one avoid the typical pitfall that often causes new runners to trip up (pardon the pun) — running too much, too soon. In fact, the first week’s three workouts (there are three per week) call for just a five-minute brisk walking warm-up, followed by 20 minutes of alternating jogging for 60 seconds and walking for 90. On paper, it looks pretty easy.

(Friends, we call the preceding sentence “foreshadowing” in the literary world.)

As I don’t have a personal trainer, and have no better knowledge with regard to training for a 5K than the aforementioned plan, I decided to go with it again. Last night, around 9 p.m., I set out for my first run. Er, shuffle.

The street I live on dead ends into another street, which runs uphill to the main drag into town. From that main street back to the street on which my employer’s building rests, is very close to exactly one half mile. From my house to the main drag is entirely uphill with a few flat stretches, and obviously reverse coming back.

I started off exactly as the C2t5K plan calls for, with a five-minute walking warmup. It took me down to the street I work on, then back past my street and partway up the biggest hill on the course (I’m going to refer to it as a course, because it makes me feel more important). I then jogged for 60 seconds. Once the first 60 seconds were up, I immediately began checking for pain in my left arm because MY GOODNESS I WAS DYING. I’d just JOGGED for a MINUTE, and I thought my chest was going to burst. I had a knot in the center and couldn’t catch my breath. I kept expecting a coppery taste in my mouth as the heart attack took hold.

I walked for 90 seconds and felt marginally better, so I jogged again. I felt even worse, if that’s possible. The 90 second walk went by faster than a jackrabbit with a jetpack as I approached the main street. I turned around for the downhill portion and noticed I had about 10 seconds to go before I had to jog again. I genuinely wondered if I could do it. As the final second ticked away, I picked up my pace into what could safely be called a jog, but might have been referred to by the casual observer as a “quick walk.” I did leave the ground, so we’ll stick with “jog.” I assume because it was downhill, I didn’t feel quite as bad as I had after the second jogging portion coming uphill, and after that next 90 second walk, I’d actually caught my breath and didn’t actively fear the jog.

The rest of the session was more of the same — I no longer felt like I’d have a heart attack, but I was definitely feeling exhausted. I finished the first mile in something around 16 minutes, so I knew my 25 total minutes would be up before I finished another mile, but I resolved to just finish a second mile and see how long it took. Since I alternated jogging and walking that second mile for the entire time (i.e., there was no five-minute warm-up walk), it took me about 14 minutes, as the 30-minute mark hit just as I walked up to my street.

Thirty minutes to traverse two miles. That’s around a 47-minute pace for a 5K, if I’m not mistaken (Ben will let me know). Forty-seven minutes is the kind of time you see from … well, I don’t want to insult any particular demographic, so let’s just say it’s not terribly good.

But it’s only Day 1 (of what should be … doing the math … thirty-four. Day 35 will be Race Day), and it’s not like I’ve taken good care of myself up to this point. Nutrition is a key; I’ve once again (for the millionth time) sworn off soda, and am trying to at least limit portions if not consume proper foods. You tend to look at food a little differently knowing you have to go out torture yourself on the pavement later that night.

I have running friends, and to a man (woman) they have all said the same thing — they didn’t enjoy it when they started, but now it’s a part of who they are and they look forward to “going for a run.” I believe them, and can only hope the same someday happens to me.

In the meantime, I’ll call it what it is each night:

“Honey, I’m going for a shuffle.”

I’ve been moved to first base this season — Al claims he wanted someone “athletic” to man the bag, whereas I’m pretty sure he wanted someone younger chasing those slicing drives in right field (and he got his wish — our new right fielder is just 17-years-old and very good). In fact, I am now officially the second oldest person on the team, something I find a bit stunning. Then again, as my dad will point out, I am “nearly forty.” (I’ve been telling him for three years that he’s “nearly sixty.”) I played first once last year, with mixed results, but I’ve always had trouble seeing the ball during the late game in the lights while playing outfield, so I’m hopeful that a move to the infield will be beneficial.

You’ll recall that last season I never had a multi-hit game, and had just eight hits all year (though I did have a pretty solid slugging percentage, since five of my eight hits were for extra bases). Well, the great Willie Keeler says to “hit ‘em where they ain’t,” and that’s what I’ve been incredibly fortunate to do through two and a half games this season. I already have seven hits in 11 at-bats (though my 2-for-2 effort in our opener may end up being unofficial, depending on if the game is finished or replayed), including a pair of doubles. I have to share some detail about one hit, though, to illustrate just how aging affects the mind and body. (And though I try very hard to not be a superstitious person, I can’t help but wonder if my telling you about my good fortune to date will have a detrimental effect on tonight’s game — let’s hope not.)

In our second game two weeks ago, I doubled to the left-center gap in my second at-bat. Well, I should’ve doubled to the left-center gap; instead, as I approached second base, I noticed the center fielder was just picking up the ball at the fence. In my mind, I figured he’d need to make a perfect throw to get me at third, so I rounded the bag and kept on going. Unfortunately, as Pastor Chad recently discovered, one just doesn’t have that extra gear anymore when one is in one’s late thirties (or “nearly forty”), and the youngster (who has a cannon left arm that I was fully aware of and conveniently forgot) made that perfect throw, gunning me down by a good two steps with a one-hop strike. (Naturally, later in the game, he launched another throw to third over the eight-foot fence that separates the field from the stands and into the parking lot — where was that throw when I needed it?) I should be happy I didn’t pull something, but I’ll admit it was pretty embarrassing.

Still, we’re 2-0 (and we were leading in that first game after three-and-a-half innings), my boneheaded errors in the field haven’t actually cost us a game yet, and it’s still more fun than paying $15 a week to golf poorly, so I really can’t complain.

And I still haven’t hurt myself.

(Anyone got some wood on which to knock?)

My friend has two immediate neighbors, one of which he gets along with famously.

The other, not so much.

It’s not that the other neighbor is all that difficult for my friend to deal with. He’s more of an annoyance, I suppose. But a recent run-in escalated into something a little more wild.

A couple of weeks ago, my friend was mowing his lawn. When he went to his garage to retrieve his trimmer, he discovered it was missing. In its place was a note from my friend’s neighbor. The note indicated that the neighbor had taken the trimmer.

My friend, assuming the neighbor simply borrowed the trimmer while my friend wasn’t home (though a little disturbed that the neighbor had seen fit to enter his garage unannounced), walked over to the short fence separating their properties and called out.

“Say, friend, did you borrow my trimmer?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Do you think you could return it — I just finished mowing, and was hoping to finish up.”

“No, I can’t.”

Now, understand that despite their differences, my friend’s neighbor had never been outright confrontational in the past. This reaction was a little strange.

“What’s wrong?” asked my friend. “Is it perhaps broken?”

“No, it’s fine,” replied the neighbor.

“Then why can’t you return it?”

“Because,” replied the neighbor, “I’m waiting for you to return what is rightfully mine.”

My friend was very confused. He’d never borrowed anything from his neighbor, and couldn’t think of a single thing he was in possession of that rightfully belonged to his neighbor. But having dealt with the odd antics of the man before, my friend thought it best to drop the subject and ask for the trimmer another time.

A few days later, my friend hosted a small gathering of friends in his backyard. About an hour into the festivities, my friend heard a peculiar sound, like a wet “plop.” Turning, he discovered the remains of a rotten tomato on his patio.

“Huh, where’d that come …,” my friend began, before hearing a similar “plop,” followed closely by yet another.

“Hey! Ouch!” exclaimed one of the partygoers. “Who’s throwing tomatoes?”

Looking up, my friend saw that the tomatoes were being launched from beyond the fence that separated his yard from his sometimes annoying neighbor. My friend hurried over.

“What the heck are you doing?” he asked.

“I told you,” said the neighbor, lobbing yet another overripe missle. “You need to return what is rightfully mine.”

“But I’ve never borrowed anything from you,” insisted my friend. “I don’t have anything of yours. Besides,” he added, “you’re hitting my visitors with those tomatoes — and you don’t even know any of them!”

“Doesn’t matter,” said the neighbor. “They’re in your yard.”

By now my friend was beginning to get angry, as you can imagine, and he told his neighbor to stop, or he’d be forced to fight fire with fire.

“Whatever,” said the neighbor. “Bring it on.”

“Fine,” said my friend, and he strode for the garage and his high-powered siding washer. As he returned to the fence, he was startled to find the neighbor standing amid a group of neighborhood children.

“Where did they come from?” asked my friend.

“Who?” asked the neighbor.

“Those kids,” said my friend. “Why are you standing in the middle of a group of kids?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said the neighbor, and he tossed yet another squishy bomb over my friend and at his visitors.

“All right, that’s it,” said my friend, and he turned on his power washer. The spray from the hose knocked over his neighbor, along with a couple of the smaller children in the way, and soaked the majority of the rest. The kids scattered, and the neighbor picked himself up and hobbled into his house.

The following Wednesday, my friend stopped by my house. He was clutching what appeared to be a bit of newspaper in his hand.

“Look at this!” he cried.

The paper turned out to be his association’s weekly newsletter, a bit of fluff that talked about the latest happenings in the sub, along with photos of landscaping or columns from some of the older residents with time on their hands. But the lead story that particular week was a little more … meaty.

SINISTER SENIOR SOAKS SQUIRTS roared the headline. The accompanying photo showed a pitiful closeup of two of the children involved, dripping wet. The story that followed offered a mind-boggling lead:

PRIMROSE LANE — [My friend's name] knocked down two neighborhood children earlier this week with a high-powered water gun and soaked several others in the latest blow-up between neighbors on this usually quiet street of [my friend's suburb], according to several witnesses.

The attack occured after words were exchanged over the fence separating the yards of [my friend] and [my friend's neighbor], say those same witnesses.

“How strange,” I said. “Didn’t the author of the piece even ask you for your side of things?”

“That’s just it,” said my friend. “They did. But they barely used anything I told them! Look further down.”

Skimming the article, I found it. In the ninth paragraph, on an interior page, was a reference to the tomatoes the neighbor had thrown into my friend’s yard.

“Well, at least they mentioned it,” I said helpfully.

“But they make it sound like I just indiscriminately sprayed those kids with my hose!” he lamented. “That guy purposefully stood in the middle of them! I couldn’t help but get some of them wet!”

“And,” he added, “they don’t even mention how he took my trimmer and won’t return it!”

I nodded my head sympathetically. The article was pretty one-sided, assuming my friend’s version of the tale was right. But I didn’t actually see what happened, and the association’s newsletter staff should be neutral about the whole affair — why wouldn’t they report it accurately?

I sure am glad I don’t live in a subdivision like that.

Yes, we’re aware of how foolish that statement sounds in hindsight. Give us a break (and pardon our pun).

As the orthopaedic surgeon who examined Alex said, “Trampolines simply cannot be made safe. We had them in school when I was a boy [he's older than us], but they weren’t safe then, either. We had spotters and used them at gym time. You don’t see them in schools anymore because no one can get insurance. Now they’re in everyone’s backyards. You never saw them in backyards in those days.”

He said his neighbor has one, and the rule for his kids is “one at a time.” If he ever catches them on the tramp with another kid, “they’re done forever.”

We clearly understand that sentiment. Alex was on the tramploine with another child when he got hurt, simply because he caught the trampoline surface coming up as he came down, thanks to the jumping of the other child. His little leg just couldn’t handle the stress; it was a little like landing on concrete. He has a hairline fracture of his tibia, just below his knee. Monday morning he had a long-leg cast put on, from his mid-thigh down to his toes. Given the options, he opted for “glow-in-the-dark.”

Busted, yo.

Thankfully, Alex has been a little trooper through the entire ordeal. He remains a polite little boy, using “please” and “thank you” whenever he asks for something (and he has to ask for nearly EVERYTHING now, unfortunately), and has understood the need to be careful (the shooting pain up his leg when he isn’t careful is probably a helpful reminder).

His wit has remained intact, as well. He initially received a splint on Thursday (basically a cast-like backing, with Ace bandages wrapped up the length of his leg). Monday morning, the orthopaedic assistant took Alex’s vitals and let him know we needed to remove the bandages in order to take a new x-ray of his leg. Alex wanted to do the unwrapping himself, so the assistant held his leg up by the heel while Alex methodically removed the bandages. That led to this exchange:

The kid is FUNNY, I tell you.

So, today marks Day Six of Operation Mostly Immobile Alexander, and the generals have indicated we’ll be entrenched through June 12. We gave crutches a try on Monday, but settled on an aluminum walker that lowers enough to fit his 46-inch-tall frame. This is obviously a big help, allowing him to use the restroom without being carried there, and has caused more than one conversation about who might be faster, Alex or Great-Grandpa Chappel (the head-to-head sprint has yet to be scheduled). Though he has enough puzzles, coloring books and schoolwork to keep him busy (along with “The Incredibles” video game for the PS2, which has hooked Daddy), he loves to get visitors, so feel free to drop on by.

Finally, we appreciate all the prayers over the weekend, and though God didn’t heal Alex’s leg, we’re confident there are lessons to be learned for all involved. We just pray we learn ‘em.

Stop on by and see the incredible glowing leg!

Nevertheless, I’ll try and gently remind my lovely bride to feel free to indulge in the occasional sweet, but to do it in moderation. For example, we had some of those Little Debbie snacks in the house this past week, the “Ho-Ho” style rollup thingees that come two in a package. I encouraged her to eat just one (single Ho-Ho thingee, not one pack) per day or so (to make them last) by writing on the side of the package in black magic marker, “ONE PER DAY.” (I’m so subtle.) Anyway, she’d done a great job of resisting temptation, and we were down to the last four (two packs) last night after dinner. I split one pack between the kids, and ate a single treat myself, leaving one in the fridge for Deb (either that night or the next day — her choice). She was grateful that I chose to share, and decided to wait till the following afternoon to indulge.

As she’s talked about on her own blog, Deb has kind of “reconnected” with God’s intent for her, taking time each morning to actually ask Him (I’m always afraid He’ll answer in a booming voice, or drop an anvil with a note attached on my head — I’m odd that way). Lately, He’s been refocusing her on her diet and exercise routine. She diligently exercised this morning, and when she went to the fridge for water, she found He’d also used our daughter to help her with her diet:

Abby had eaten the last snack.

Which leads me to an awkward decision — do I punish her for taking something from the fridge without asking, or am I risking God’s wrath for messing with His plan?

All that to say: I have something to offer.

I’m not saying it’s the greatest thing you’ll ever read, but it involves my son, it’s cute, and it’s my blog, so you’ll read it (or go elsewhere, never to return because I’ve been a rude host — I’m SO sorry, please, sit … no, no, here — take the comfy chair, and I’ll get you a lemonade … where was I?).

A couple of weeks ago, I was picking Alex up from school. As we sat in the van, waiting for others to move so we could exit the parking lot, he noticed his Spanish teacher sitting in her van to his right (yes, Alex has been getting instruction in Spanish from his Young 5′s class onward — if he actually picks it up and practices, there’s no reason he couldn’t be conversant in it by high school. More on that later in our blog post). Our side van windows are tinted, so his teacher likely can’t see him, but Alex points her out to me. He then, quite earnestly, says to her, “Hola, Spanish Teacher!”

I thought that was hilarious.

Cut to last night: at Temple Hill Baptist Church, Heritage held it’s annual variety show. They take a love offering, which goes toward the teachers’ Christmas bonuses, so it’s an important little event. Kids put on skits, sing songs, play piano or violin (including a first grader!) and the teachers get involved as well. All in all, a fine way to spend an hour or so on a weeknight.

Alex’s class performed early in the show, singing three songs (and lousy father that I am, I can’t recall what they were). I watch Alex closely to see if he’s actually singing or not; he has a tendency to wander and lose focus if he’s bored (I can’t IMAGINE where he gets that from). Throughout their performance, he clearly sang along to the tunes, which I think were variations of the ABC and 123 songs.

Afterward, he stayed up front with his class, which I thought was odd; they’re typically “released” to the custody of their parents once they’re through. I checked the program, and sure enough, they were due to perform later in the show.

When they returned to the stage, each carried a flag from another nation, and they were led out by none other than the aforementioned Spanish Teacher. They then promptly sang another variation of the 123 song, only this time — you guessed it — in Spanish. I watched Alex; he was clearly singing along, and knew the words.

Following that segment, they were sent to their parents’ seats. Alex climbed onto the bench next to me, more interested in his classmate behind us than his old man. I was amazed — he rarely tells us anything about school (he’s better this year than last, though — if you’d picked him up from school after Young 5′s and asked him what he did today, you’d have gotten his standard, “I just don’t wanna talk about it” response), so I had no idea he’d learned to count to ten in Spanish. I asked him if he could do it for me right then, without singing the song.

My son — my wonderful, handsome, respectful son — turns ever so slightly toward me, gives me one of those “If this is what it takes to appease you, so be it” looks, and proceeds to rattle off his numbers in Spanish.

Is it too late to ask him to slow down with this whole “growing up” thing?

The AuSable River is perhaps the most well-known river in Michigan, and one of the best in the country for trout fishing. According to the Trout Bums site (what a great name):

The AuSable River is without question Michigan’s most famous trout stream. The four branches–the East, Middle, North and South–draw fly-fishers from around the world. After the confluence of the East and Middle branches just west of the City of Grayling, the Mainstream, as it is called, is joined by the South Branch and then the North Branch before it flows over 200 miles to Lake Huron at the City of Oscoda.

Situated right on top of the AuSable, as mentioned above, is the city of Grayling, a tiny tourist burg with (we swear) just four stoplights. Momma grew up in Grayling, her grandparents own a home on the river, and her parents still live and work in the city. I-75, the main freeway through the center of Michigan, runs past Grayling on its way to Mackinaw and the Sault, but if you get off the freeway at the south end of town, you’re forced to go all the way through the business district to get back on at the north end, the very definition of a “tourist trap.”

During the last full weekend of July, Grayling is host to what’s billed as the “World’s Toughest Spectator Race.” At 120 miles, the AuSable River Canoe Marathon is the longest non-stop canoe race in North America, taking the competitors down the AuSable River from Grayling to Oscoda, near the shores of Lake Huron. Thousands of spectators watch the “Le Mans” style start in Grayling at 9 p.m. on Saturday night, and the more hardy (and less inebriated) of the bunch follow the racers all through the night, through Mio and smaller burgs to the finish in Oscoda, usually about 15 hours later. In Oscoda, upwards of 10,000 spectators line the banks of the river to greet the weary victors.

Much of the history of the Marathon can be found on the website (though I wish it was a little better organized, at least the historical portions), but I’ve personally been familiar with the race since the 1994 contest, when I covered it as a writer for the Roscommon County Herald-News. Our local connection was Bill Torongo, a Roscommon resident who’d never won the race but finished second a few times. His nemesis was Serge Corbin, a Canadian who I believe owns a livery and builds canoes in his native Quebec. Corbin first won the Marathon in 1977 with his brother Claude, and had taken the title another seven times, including the previous four in a row. He’d partnered with Brett Stockton, a Grayling native whose cousin (I believe, or brother) Butch held the record for consecutive victories at five, for a few wins, and Solomon Carriere, a fellow Canadian, for his two most recent. Brett Stockton owned the record for career victories, at nine. Corbin’s four straight put him at eight for his career. A win in ’94 would equal both Stockton men’s records.

The AuSable’s level was very high, making for a fast race. The previous record, set in 1987, was 14 hours 20 minutes flat, and expectations were high that a new mark might be posted. I remember interviewing Torongo after the fact, a difficult task as he and his partner had indeed topped the previous record by (if I recall correctly) eight minutes, only to finish second. Corbin and Carriere had shattered the record by more than 20 minutes and posted the only sub-14-hour marathon in history at 13:58:08.

In ’95 the big story was Corbin’s impending coronation as the career leader in victories at 10, as well as consecutive wins with six. Unfortunately (and I can’t swear this is accurate – maybe someone will comment for me) Corbin and Carriere punctured their canoe, and the mishap was enough to allow Jim Harwood and Patrick Lynch to take the title.

The following year, Corbin hooked up with Grayling native Jeff Kolka (one of Torongo’s former partners, I think) to take his 10th title, and the two went on to win eight straight Marathons before Andy Triebold and Steve Lajoie beat them to the finish line by 13 seconds in 2004 (and only because, according to a couple of accounts I read, Corbin and Kolka made a paddling error that caused them to effectively “spin out” in their canoe about 200 yards from the finish).

This year, we followed the race online Saturday night for a bit, before picking it up again Sunday morning before church. I snuck another peek before service started, and noted that Corbin and Kolka were six seconds behind Triebold and his new partner, Matt Rimer, at the final checkpoint of Foote Dam (one of 15 total timing points). Another six seconds back of Corbin/Kolka were Harwood and partner Allen Limberg (partner switching seems pretty common, though I don’t know for what reasons).

At about 12:30 p.m., I checked online again, and found that Corbin/Kolka had won their ninth Marathon (and Corbin’s 18th – that record’s not likely to be matched anytime soon) by an astounding ONE SECOND over Triebold and Rimer. According to Eric Sharp’s account in the Detroit Free Press, the actual margin of victory was about five feet.

Five feet, after 120 miles and nearly 15 hours.

I also found that at the General Clinton Canoe Regatta in New York, a 70-mile, single-day event held over Memorial Day weekend, where Corbin has never lost in now 28 tries, Triebold and Rimer finished just TWO SECONDS behind Corbin and Kolka.

You gotta feel for the kids, don’t you?

Both of my children have — to my mother’s eternal horror, no doubt — picked up the Simon gene for peanut butter eating, particularly peanut butter on a spoon. My father passed this time-honored tradition on to me, and I’ve passed it on to both of my children, though it’s important to note you must never allow Abby to get her own peanut butter, lest you find it in some highly unusual and inappropriate locations.

This afternoon, when I arrived home for lunch, I overheard my wife attempting to get Abby to say “peanut butter” — the kid wants it, she should learn to ask for it, right? This four-syllable monstrosity is a tough one for any two-year-old, though the abundance of “T” sounds makes it a bit easier than, say, “metaphysics.” My wife, in grand “Hooked on Phonics” fashion, broke it down for my daughter. “Say, ‘Pee. Nut. Butt. Er,’ Abby,” she instructed my cherubic-faced child. “Peen-uh butt,” my daughter enthusiastically replied. “‘Pee. Nut. Butt. Er,’” my wife implored. “Peen-uh butt,” my daughter said again. My wife gave up, at least for the moment, and gave the child what she requested.

Later, we were all four on our way to a store. My wife decided to give “peanut butter” another try, perhaps for Daddy’s amusement.

“Say ‘peanut butter,’ Abby,” my wife said. “‘Pee. Nut. Butt. Er.”

“Peen-uh butt,” my daughter replied. “Peen-uh butt.”

“Peench-uh butt,” she then said, far more emphatically. “Peench-at BUTT!”

Yes, my lovely child had transformed a harmless term for mashed peanuts with sugar into her favorite diaper-changing game, that being Daddy’s call of “PINCH THAT BUTT!” And she proceeded to repeat the mantra a mind-numbing 48 times (no, we didn’t count — I’m guessing).

“PEENCH-AT BUTT!”

“PEENCH-AT BUTT!”

“PEENCH-AT BUTT!”

But perhaps the best part was my son’s response to my daughter’s insistent banter. Not really understanding that she’d changed what she was saying (and thinking she was just murdering the pronunciation of “peanut butter”), my son dryly interrupted her with a sidelong, “It’s peanut butter, Abby.”

And rolled his eyes.

Not actual photo of event

You had to see it, I guess.

(A quick sidenote – my sister is SO gifted, it’s a shame American Idol came along too late. It’s not just nepotism that causes me to say she’d blow away the vast majority of the vocalists on those shows – I’ve heard her sing anything from funky, soul-filled gospel tunes to weepy ballads, and she nails it all. Her only weakness is her self-confidence. Her children will someday realize how blessed they were to have that voice sing them to sleep when they’re grown.)

Anyway, I’m lousy with details, so I won’t recall bands and names, but I have vivid memories of lying on a couch in my living room as a child, with these gigantic headphones over my ears, listening to my dad’s stereo. Anytime I listen to an “oldies” station (and when I say “oldies,” I’m referring to the 70′s, not the 50′s), invariably a song will come on that takes me right back to that old house in Southgate, back to that living room couch and those magnificently huge headphones.

I can remember my mother singing to me and my sister, and you haven’t heard ABBA or Bette Midler’s “The Rose” until you’ve heard my mother (you bet your bottom I’m biased).

These days, I get my music fix via the under-cabinet CD player/receiver in the kitchen, or the computer, or my iPod Shuffle, and the genre is almost exclusively Christian. Steven Curtis Chapman, Jars of Clay, Newsboys, DC Talk – these are the bands and singers I enjoy, and I’m hopeful they’re the voices my children will remember fondly when they think back on their own “oldies.” They’re also the songs I sing (in my reasonably-talented-but- can’t-hold-a-candle-to-my-mother-and-sister way) to my children at night, especially my daughter, who went through a phase where nothing but Daddy’s crooning would calm her for bed (yes, I’m sure I was just enabling a behavior, but look at this face:

… and tell me you could’ve resisted).

Abby and Alex both enjoy dancing to the radio as well, and you haven’t seen anything until you see a two-year-old “shakin’ her booty.” The addition of mirrored bi-fold doors in the dining room has only enhanced this effect – both children are hams and love nothing more than to watch themselves boogie.

But the last week has brought on perhaps the oddest (to me) introduction of music in our lives, and it all started with a movie.

Friends of ours apparently own, on DVD VHS, The Sound of Music, that classic 1965 tale of singing Austrian nuns and single dads, starring Mary Poppins … er, sorry … Julie Andrews and Christopher Plummer (yes, that Christopher Plummer). When my wife heard these friends had recently viewed the movie, she got one of the songs stuck in her head. In the interest of fairness, we present those lyrics below in order to hopefully fill YOUR head with the same tune:

My Favorite Things

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens
Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens
Brown paper packages tied up with strings
These are a few of my favorite things

Cream colored ponies and crisp apple streudels
Doorbells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles
Wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings
These are a few of my favorite things

Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes
Snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes
Silver white winters that melt into springs
These are a few of my favorite things

When the dog bites
When the bee stings
When I’m feeling sad
I simply remember my favorite things
And then I don’t feel so bad

Thus, over the last week or so, my lovely wife has been either humming or singing the song above at any time – while emailing at the computer, making dinner, folding laundry; I imagine she was probably singing as she mowed the lawn last night (she loves to mow the lawn – go figure). She has therefore embedded the song in the heads of the rest of the household.

Just how embedded I discovered last night.

My daughter fell asleep as I read the children a couple of books (Dr. Suess, always a fave), so I carried her to her room before tucking in my son and turning out the light. As I walked down the hall, my son hurried past, looking for his mother. I let it go, figuring he just wanted a kiss goodnight and would return to his room. He did, but my wife followed. She returned my questioning look with a matter-of-fact reply: “He wants me to sing to him.”

Sing what? I asked.

“‘My Favorite Things,’” she replied.

Yes, Gentle Readers, my six-year-old son has requested his mother sing him a 40-year-old tune originally warbled by an Austrian governess for three straight nights. Not only does he have her sing it to him, he insists on singing the “when the dog bites” part himself.

What have we done?