The kids hate it, but every year we drag them to the doctor for a physical, and because they have relative free schedules, we always make the appointments over Christmas break. You can imagine how excited they get over the potential for immunizations right before Christmas. This year we delayed it until just before New Year's Eve, when the only one who might be inconvenienced by post-inoculation pain and malaise would be Alex. We're fair parents like that.

We dragged them out of bed early today, shoved them each toward a shower, then fed them, and amidst a plethora of complaining pushed them into the car and took them for the annual end-of-the-year exam and emotional torture. They've seen the same pediatrician since birth, and while they grumble the entire ride, once they're in the waiting room (the same place where Alex once dropped his pants to demonstrate that he was 'a big boy') they're fine and at least partially animated. They go in one at a time; I stay in the waiting room with the kids not being examined and Char goes in with the kid being poked at.

The waiting room was loaded with kids today, mostly hacking and wheezing kids with snot dripping down their faces. Alex sat there with his arms crossed over his chest, watching them with bareky contained repulsion, and I realized this kid was head and shoulders above most of the people in the room, parents included. He tolerated it because he had to be there, but he wasn't happy about it.

Kevin went in first, followed by Rachel; when it was Alex's turn, he asked Char if she would mind if I went back with him. She tried not to grin; she expected it and could hardly blame him for not wanting to strip down to his underwear in front of her. He wasn't thrilled with the idea of sitting there in his briefs with me in the room, either, but that was more tolerable.

But, we were both met with the unexpected; instead of turning left once through the door the nurse took us right, and settled us into the doctor's office instead of an exam room.

It's time, the doctor felt, for Alex to start seeing another physician instead. He was free to stay with the pediatric clinic if he was more comfortable, but the issues he would be facing in the next few years would possibly be better addressed by an adolescent pediatrician, or even the physician his mother and I see. His oldest patients tend to be under 12 (I gathered that after that parents transition their kids to their own doctors) and while he can treat Alex, there are things he may not do as well with (and left unsaid: Alex is 14 stuffed into the body of a 17-18 year old. He probably has more body hair than 10 of his typical patients combined.)

Alex opted to start seeing my doctor; we left there with an appointment for later in the day; once we were there I went to the exam room with him for about 15 minutes, After the doctor came in and introduced himself to Alex, I was invited (pushed) to go back to the waiting room.

Whatever they were going to discuss, I was not going to be a part of it. I was well aware that I could insist on staying, or speak with the doctor after the fact, but Alex made the move to a new doctor for a reason, and I can respect his privacy.

Not that I didn't ask him on the way home how it went.

Same old shit. Breathe deep, exhale. Touch your toes. Turn your head and freaking cough. Does he make you do that? I only had to do that on sports physical before.

He was assured that yes, I have to do that. And was relieved he's far too young to worry about a prostate exam.

Still. Today was another reminder that he's this much closer to being an adult. The kid who dropped his pants in the waiting room when he was two said goodbye to the doctor who hadn't intended to get that sort of response to his questions twelve years ago.

He's another inch taller. He's 6'1". He hit 165 pounds, and it's all muscle.

He needs a haircut, but I'm reticent to suggest it, because that thick moppet hair is about the only thing that suggests he's as young as he is.

This whole getting older thing kind of sucks.

Best part for all the kids: no shots this time.

Around seven years ago Alex wanted a K'Nex set for Christmas. Char was less than thrilled with the idea and kept trying to steer him towards other things, and finally decided that he had a wish list long enough that if he didn't get one, he'd still be happy and she wouldn't be faced with dozens of little toy pieces laying around the house.

Where she saw clutter, I saw construction; I also saw a six or seven year old me wanting Legos in a desperate way and not getting them because I was incapable of picking my stuff up and putting it away, and my mother was just as against those as Char was against the K'Nex set. So I did what any father would do.

I bought them anyway. Only I danced on her last nerve by getting him several sets (tape together so it was technically one gift) and wrapping them before she had a chance to protest. Her tight you did not do this and dammit there must be ten thousand pieces to this smile was tempered by Alex's Christmas morning excitement and she forgave me, though I was farily certain I was not getting what I really wanted for Christmas later that night.

He was good about picking the pieces up when he was done playing and we rarely had to really get on him about it. There were the odd times when we'd step on something in the middle of the night (she could fume; I was not allowed to complain) but nine times out of ten he either left what he'd built connected and in his room, or he deconstructed it and put things away.

Kevin coveted those K'nex toys. He never asked for any of his own (which was good because I was never able to replicate the sets I originally purchased) but occassionally pestered Alex to pull one or two boxes out and let him play with them. I never saw Alex let Kevin have them outright for even an hour; they always built things together, but it was no secret that Kevin wanted those badly.

This afternoon, after we returned from Brad's house (painting is done, thank God) Kevin asked Alex to help him reach toys on his closet shelf, and for a moment I thought Alex was going to refuse. He was tired, he wanted to take a shower, and he was going to be late walking over to Stephanie's if he didn't start getting ready.

He peeled himself off the sofa and told Kevin he had something better for him to play with, as long as he swore to keep the pieces picked up, because if he didn't, Mom would throw them out. He disappeared into his room for a minute, and when he came out he was carrying most of the boxes of his old K'nex sets and told Kevin he'd get the rest in a few minutes.

You're never allowed to give these away. Someday our kids are going to play with them.

For Christmas we gave Kevin a drum set (I know, what were we thinking), an art set he's wanted for nearly a year, and reservations for a dance camp. Yet I don't think anything meant as much to him as getting those toys from Alex.

I also don't think Alex realizes what he did for his little brother. He dumped everything in Kevin's room, took his shower, yelled at Kevin to get out of his way once or twice, and then left for Stephanie's house. Kevin spent the rest of the afternoon in his room and had to be practically dragged out for dinner. He finally put everthing away half an hour before bedtime and came out to get a snack; we sat at the table with him and listened to him jabber on about Alex this and Alex that, until Alex actually came home.

There are worse heroes Kevin could have, as long as he avoids the lure or the ink.

Holiday lessons learned:

• People do not accept the explanation Ummm...Santa must have thought I had a cold when they find out you got menthol cough drops in your stocking.
  
• There is no explanation for the cough drops that you can give your oldest son, nor your father-in-law, that sounds believeable.
  
• When there are ten other people in the house, you are not alone with your wife even when you think you are alone.
  
• Next time, wear looser sweatpants.
  
• My father-in-law can actually sputter.
  
• The right gift can make my wife cry.
  
• World of Warcraft costs money every month, not just for the software itself.
  
• Waddling pregnant women still make me laugh.
  
• I really should have told Nika that Stoner can open the refrigerator, and meat left on the lowest shelf is fair game.
  
• Half a ham split between two dogs makes for a very Merry Christmas for them.
  
• Happiness is a surprise new template from an old friend.
  

In years past, the house would be quiet at this time of night; the kids typically headed for bed soon after coming home from Christmas Eve Mass, while Char and I settled in the living room to wait for them to be definitely asleep. In our own Rockwell moments, we curled up on the sofa, mugs of hot chocolate in hand, bathed in the lights of the Christmas tree. It was the time we considered to be our Christmas with each other: just being there together in the quiet, no expectations beyond hushed conversation, and while we always discussed the kids and their excitement over the holidays, it was also the time when we took stock of everything we had to be grateful for. And without exception, the thing we have always been most grateful for is each other.

Foolishly I expected the same from this year. We went to an early evening Mass and when we got home the kids rushed toward the kitchen to make cinnamon rolls and hot chocolate, and when everything was ready they invited us to join them at the table. I presumed the conversation would be centered around what they hoped for tomorrow, but I was off the mark by a long shot.

They were certainly talking about Christmas Day, but what they were most excited about was that their grandfather would there when they got up in the morning, with Nika and Peter in tow. Erin and Miko would follow, and they couldn't wait to see how Travis would react to his first Christmas and whether or not Toni would squeal in that high pitched way little girls can.

They sat through the consumption of nearly two dozen cinnamon rolls (hollow teenage legs) and Char made more hot chocolate, and eventually I tried to herd them off toward their bedrooms.

Go to bed so Santa can come.

I was answered with laughter; I could not possibly be serious. Didn't Kevin admit already that he's got the whole Santa thing figured out?

All right. Go to bed so that Santa can, too.

More laughter, and spirited jabs at my age and need to go to bed before sundown.

I just wanted to spend some time alone with my wife.

Char didn't seem to be in any hurry for them to go to bed, and it hit me when the board games came out that this is just the next step in our familial evolution. We can still be wrapped up in each other in the moment and take stock of everything we have to be grateful for. Everything that matters was right there in front of us.

Right now Alex is playing Scrabble with Kevin and Rachel is helping Char get some of the food ready for tomorrow. I'm in the corner (where I belong, according to Rach) watching them all. This is something I could get used to as a new holiday tradition, for however long it lasts.

After the kids have grown and moved away, Char and I can pick up where we left off, on the sofa with each other, wondering how we got so damned lucky. I doubt I'll ever have the answer for that, but I don't think I'll ever shake the feeling of deep gratitude that of all the men she could have chosen, she chose me. And the thankfulness that goes with her still being here.

To all who followed along my agony right after her accident, I thank you for all those prayers and good thoughts, because that surely helped me have exactly what I have tonight. And for those who found this blog after she began to recover, thanks for sticking around.

I hope for all of you to have even half of what I have, because if you get that, you will be rich beyond measure.

Merry Christmas!

My father in law's house is not huge; I'd estimate it to be about 1500 square feet of uncomplicated space. The kitchen is connected to the living room and the floorplan is absent a family room, which suits him well enough. He bought it following a lengthy visit here, when he decided he wanted to live near his daughter and grandkids; he was goaded into it a bit by my father, who really only wanted a playmate, someone to hang around the bar with. That was over a dozen years ago and he's never done much with the house. He had plans, but never got around to anything, until now. We needed a way to drive home a point to Alex, and Brad had an instant helper getting the house painted and getting the carpet ripped up.

The problem with this is that Alex is enjoying the work far too much; he wasn't terribly enthused with taping the rooms off prior to paint, but he hasn't minded at all the coats of primer followed by a plethora of color (I'm sorry, but Brad has horrible taste in color, and when we're done it's going to look like Revlon jerked off in there and unloaded on the walls.) We're 90% done and Alex shows no signs of slowing down, and is asking questions about how to install the wood floor that's next on the agenda.

While he and Brad are painting, I've been in another room pulling down drywall; Brad wants the wall moved back 5 feet to expand the master bedroom. It will effectively turn one of the other bedrooms into a walk in closet and seriously impede the resale value of the house but he seems certain he's going to die in this house, and then it will be Char and Nika's problem.

Part of the time I've been sitting on the floor, making notes about the things we need to do before we actually tear down the structure of the wall and relocate the electrical; I don't think Alex realizes I can hear them talking from the other room, and I haven't told him. I rarely get to hear him in those unguarded moments, when he's not putting up those walls that all boys do around their fathers. I've been catching snippets of conversations about girls (they have this in common: they're both dating and can't figure out the women they're with) and hearing the questions Alex has that I am not (in his mind) equipped to answer. After all, I know nothing about women, having hatched from a rock at the age of 22, whereupon I immediately married the first female I laid eyes on, and then ten years later pulled another one out of a cracker jack box.

Alex has been vaguely aware that his grandfather has had a few girlfriends over the years; he's been shielded from the sheer volume out of common sense, but there have been times when Brad has has one foot into a relationship and allowed the kids to meet the women. Multiple women equates Grandpa knows.

I've heard a few surprising things (apparently my son has an appointment to lose his virginity on his 16th birthday; good luck with that, son) and some non-news (women are frustrating) but the thing that had me rooted into place, before Alex shared his 16th birthday plans with Brad, was when he began fishing around for definitive advice on birth control.

Exactly how does one use a condom? When does it go on? Pre-lubed or not? Do they come in sizes, or what?

I stayed rooted into place, very quiet and eavesdropping, because I knew what Brad did not: Alex has been armed with the answers to every question he asked for a very long time. While he and I clash more often than we should, we have always been able to talk about this, and any time he's had a question, I've answered it. When it comes to sex, he's asked the same thing more than once, in varying degrees of interest. Early on, it was curiosity; as he's gotten older, it's preparation.

Alex was not asking his grandfather for information on condoms; he was trying to make the old man squirm, and it worked. I rarely hear Brad speechless; he can bullshit his way through anything. But he had no idea what to say to his grandson or if it was something he should even address.

He sputtered. He let Alex go on and on and sputtered while he tried to think of what to say, and in the end only managed, "Just keep it in your pants, son."

When I finally got up and went in there, Alex was damn near laughing his ass off and asked "You can tell me. How does a condom work, Dad?"

How the hell should I know? I've tried one once. And it got stuck. It was this glow in the dark...

Brad put his paintbrush down, grabbed his keys, and said he'd be back in half an hour with lunch.

It's his own fault for not painting when Alex was 4 or 5, I think.

Alex understands why we are so unbelievably annoyed with him right now, but he doesn't regret what he did, and he's not exactly repentant about it. His take, seemingly, is that in this case it was better to ask forgiveness than permission; he knew that not only would we say no to even the idea of a tattoo, but that getting one isn't exactly legal at his age. He also was well aware that he could pull off acting older long enough to get it, but he didn't consider the consequences of his actions, so far as the artist was concerned.

If we decided to make a huge issue of it, we could have the guy shut down. If we sued, we would likely win. None of that is on our agenda; Ian dragged Alex down there at noon today to get the tattoo artist's side of the story, and the guy was, Ian says, completely horrified, embarrassed, apologetic, and contrite at what had happened. He never once blamed Alex and accepted it all himself; there's nothing that can be done, though, because whether we like it or not, Alex has a nice red cross embedded in his skin for the rest of his life. He did pull his records to see if Alex had written down an ID number, and he did: his school ID card number. At least he did not try to pass off a fake ID, something we were minutely concerned about.

Even though there's nothing we can do about the actual tattoo short of expensive laser removal that would likely leave a scar (which we won't do; let him live with it, good or bad. There will be reactions from other important adults in his life soon enough) we can't just let this slide by. Alex is a wonderful kid, he's usually mature and thinks things through, but in some things he tends to view himself as an adult and with it comes a sense of entitlement he hasn't yet earned. That bothers both Ian and I, but more than that, we're bothered by the complete disregard for a rule he was very well aware of, and the decption employed to get the tattoo and keep it from us.

My father's house has been badly in need of interior painting since he bought it, but he's never had the time, and the idea of doing it all was a bit overwhelming. He has also wanted to pull up all the carpet and lay down wood floors; for the next couple of weeks, while Alex is on Christmas break, he now has a set of much younger muscles to do all the grunt work. It was the only reasonable thing we could think of; just grounding him wouldn't have an impact, and we're hoping that if he spends what he had hoped was going to be a carefree three weeks working harder than he ever has, he'll understand just how much this bothers us.

The only problem with it is that he's also liable to enjoy the work and the time spent with my dad (and his own; it looks like Ian is going to help since my Dad wants to move a wall.) It may not be the work he does for his grandfather as much as getting to his other obligations that will drive the point home; he still has to help Rachel and Kevin with their TKD (he promised, and this does not absolve him of that) and because he is not technically grounded, he has to find time to pay some attention to his girlfriend, and he has responsibilities in his own home.

If, in the end, he thinks it was all worth it, we'll embrace the tattoo. But he's going to have to suffer for it for a while; those adult decisions he thinks he's entitled to have adult consequences.

He will get Christmas Eve and Christmas day off. We're awful, horrible parents, but we're not mean.

Alex is intelligent. This isn't simple parental bias: Alex's intelligence is quantifiable and has propelled him to do things sooner than other kids his age. He spoke early, he walked early, he potty-trained very early. He was encouraged to skip grades from second grade onward, but resisted until junior high. He understand things I cannot begin to comprehend, and he has the ability to speak about those things on a level that astounds adults who share his intelligence, and he can translate most of those things into simple English that the rest of us can understand.

We take Alex's intelligence for granted; the boy is smart, he understands logic and rules, and even if he disagrees with those rules, for the most part he doesn't give us a hard time about them

So I am having a particularly difficult time understanding how someone whose intelligence has been described as "scary smart" can so something so utterly, profoundly stupid, and then believe that he could hide it from his parents for the rest of his teen years.

Alex, fourteen year old Alex, got a tattoo.

While I have serious issues with the artist who did this, I have bigger issues with my son. I know (and Alex knows) that he doesn't look fourteen; he can easily pass for seventeen, and if he hasn't shaved, he looks older.

Two weeks ago on Friday he was running late and didn't shave before school; I got a call from the office to bring him a razor, but it was already after lunch and I politely declined. One afternoon of stubble was not going to bring the school to its knees. Saturday morning he didn't bother shaving; he had plans to go shopping with a couple of friends, and his girlfriend thinks it's cute when he has stubble.

By Saturday afternoon, he obviously felt like he could pass for old enough.

Today, two weeks later, I walked into the bathroom after he had showered and found a container of Tattoo Goo on the counter. It did not register at first; after all, Char and I both have ink and have used it. It didn't occur to me for nearly an hour that that last time either of us needed tattoo ointment was last May.

My fury erupted with my realization; I'm not proud of it, but I totally lost my shit over this. I've never spanked any of the kids, I've never thought of hitting them; I don't grab, shove, push or pull them. But this afternoon I barged into my oldest son's room and pulled him off his bed by the front of his shirt and told him to take it off, or I would.

On the back of his left shoulder is a nearly healed red cross. If he were eighteen, I'd have absolutely no issues with this, but he's only fourteen. He knows better than this and he had to know how I would react.

His response to why?

You'd just say no.

No shit, Sherlock.

I have no idea what we'll do from here, other than making him cancel his date for tonight. Yes, I'll be having an up close and personal discussion with the person who did the tattoo, but there lies less blame there than with Alex.

Really, how in the hell did he think he could hide it for the next four years?