Leader of the Pack

"You know, I'm really in charge of my school," Luke told me the other day.
"I wonder how your teachers feel about that?" I mused.

But underneath, there may be some kernel of truth to it. He's one of the oldest kids in his class because of his late birthday, so he possibly has an advantage in language or maturity. But he doesn't just want to play on the playground, he wants to be the policeman. He doesn't want to hit the ball or catch it during t-ball, he wants to be the umpire. He gets mad when other people cook, because he wants to be the chef (and even went so far as to wear his chef's apron to a restaurant so he could show the cooks last week). And for the past few nights, he has insisted on being the karate teacher: He rounds up me and Dave and Mom and Dad, gets us to stand in a line in the living room, and instructs us on the fine points of various karate moves. Aside from the fact that up until now he has not actually taken any karate (he observed one class at school), his instruction is surprisingly spot-on. (During a warm-up stretching exercise, he says, "OK, now grab the sky. Very good.") I can't make this stuff up.

Who knew that such an extrovert would emerge from a pair of generally introverted parents? Here's a guy who begs us to let him cross the street to say hi to the workers at our neighbors' house. He wants to talk to the men who are fishing at the end of the pier. And the other day when we were taking what was apparently a too-long Sunday drive, he saw some people standing outside a random house and he pleaded, "Can we stop the car and say hi to those people?"


What's noteworthy about Zach this week is his improved sleeping, improved eating, and (possibly related) improved mood. We even caught him getting in position to crawl this evening. Oh, and his hair is getting thicker and longer - a good thing - but that means his only "flaw" is becoming more apparent: Two spirals of hair on the back of his head collide, like a pair of Category 5 hurricanes, and send a tuft of hair spouting straight upwards out of his head. I don't see how it can be "cured" except for him to shave it down, grow it long, or use up a lifetime's worth of gel. Welcome to the Cowlick Family, Zach.

Also noteworthy this week is what I like to call Dave's "mid-life-crisis-mobile" - a monster wagon to bring to the beach (though as my dad points out, he's not likely to pick up many 'chicks' with this vehicle; and as Dave points out, he's not really having any kind of a crisis). He's been wanting one of these wagons with super-fat tires that can handle the sand, and we finally found one (again, yay Craigslist) that didn't cost an arm and a leg. Bring on the ice chests, the umbrellas, the sand toys, and pile on the kids. We're going to the beach!