The What If Quest

Today, Tyler and I made our first trek beyond a one-mile radius of Lesley Avenue since we've been back in England--and the journey was peppered with the newest question his Frontal Lobes have learned to employ: What If?

Quest is a playground/park/shallow-brown-river-filled-with-47-ducks/field about two miles from our house. I'm actually not even sure that it's actually called Quest, except that word stands boldly out in the middle of the playground in letters that are bubbly and set against a rock wall.

En route to Quest, Tyler wanted to walk rather than ride in his stroller. After twenty minutes to make it five-hundred feet, I began attempting various ploys to try and get Tyler into his stroller.

Daddy: Your stroller is ready to go fast, WITH YOU  IN IT!

Tyler: What if my stroller goes fast WITHOUT ME IN IT?

Daddy: Then your stroller would be WAY UP THERE and you and I would be WAY BACK HERE.

Silence for contemplative time.

Tyler: Daddy, What if I was that truck driving right there?

Daddy: If you were that truck driving right there, you would be zooming down the road, away from right here.

Silence for more contemplation.

We saunter ahead another five feet, until Tyler spots a series of rocks all embedded into the side of the sidewalk.

Tyler: Daddy, what if we could pull all of these rocks out of here?

Daddy: Then there would be no more rocks there, and the people who designed this sidewalk said, WHOA, THIS IS SO BEAUTIFUL WITH ALL OF THESE ROCKS RIGHT HERE.

Contemplation time. We saunter ahead two more feet.

And an inner voice bubbled up inside of me, suggesting, You're never going to make it the two miles to Quest at this pace! Move! MOVE NOW OR GIVE UP ON QUEST ALTOGETHER!

I contemplated this inner voice as Tyler gazed back at those embedded rocks, probably wondering what the people who put them there were really thinking.

The inner voice I'd just heard didn't sound very peaceful; it didn't sound very calm; in fact, it sounded downright unquesty, and if were were on a quest for Quest, another voice suggested the following: Shouldn't you attempt a more questy approach to today's journey?

Fast forward one hour: we still have yet to arrive at Quest, but our journey thus far has afforded Tyler and I ample time to consider more What Ifs than I'd previously thought possible to articulate in a single walk:

• What if that man was a woman?
• What if a digger tried to pick us both up, Daddy?
• What if this airplane [toy airplane] was really a REAL airplane?
• What if I had wheels on my feet and my feet were not feet, but they were just wheels that did like vrrooooommmmshh?
• What if Quest was that place right THERE [Tyler points at run-down, neon-lit Cash Advance Loan Store Front]?
• What if I was the REAL Spiderman?

By the time we arrived at Quest, my inner voice had turned questy. Highly questy. And after a picnic on the grass (food prepared lovingly by Mommy, complete with two love notes for Tyler and I--of which Tyler held his super-tight the rest of the day, (as did I)), a couple of hours on the swings and play equipment, we finally made it to the small river where 47 ducks darted in search of bread.

Seriously, they darted. I had previously assumed ducks waded here and there--but these ducks darted everywhere. Tyler tossed chunks of bread into the water, and then called the ducks boldly to come and get it (though they needed no encouragement).

Befitting a day of what-iffing, Tyler looked up at me as the ducks became arrows, and asked, "Daddy, what if we went in there and swam with all of those ducks?"

I laughed in a questy kind of way. And it dawned on me then that all of these what ifs had nothing to do with goals or results or desires. In fact, they were totally void of ambition. Which is vastly unlike the what-if questions I often find myself posing--wondering about what vocations might work out, what opportunities will present themselves, how finances will unfold.

But, truth be told, the kinds of what-ifs I normally ask aren't very questy at all. Rationality and aspiration often trump imagination and randonimity. And sometimes, this is a good thing. In fact, it's probably what classifies me as an adult.

But the balance can become skewed, and when this happens the questiness goes of out life, out of the very endeavors that most crave that kind of imaginative attitude.

Today's quest with Tyler showed me that it's possible for neither to trump the other: stuff can get done--places can be reached--in a questy manner that is peppered with What Ifs as long as we're content to watch things unfold slowly, watch events and experiences occur less in the light of lightning, more in the glow of lightning bugs.

Interview with Author Peter Adam Salomon

I'm especially delighted today to share the wise words of debut author Peter Adam Salomon, whose thrilling book Henry Franks has just been released from Flux. Peter is an incredibly inspiring guy whose commitment to writing, writers, and words is both heartening and beautiful, so I'm honored to have had the chance to ask him some questions about his book, his writing process, and how he sustains his belief in the power of words.

Can you share the process of writing HENRY FRANKS? How did you progress through the various stages of writing and revision, and what was your timeline like?

When I first started writing HENRY FRANKS, back in 2007, I had a very different book in mind. The original idea focused on the father, and how he was purposely raising a child with false information (ie: if you are taught different words for common objects, it's almost like learning a foreign language: if you believe that 'hair' refers to the stuff growing on your front lawn then that is the word you will use for 'mowing your hair'). As that first draft progressed however I became far more fascinated with the reactions of the son as he began to doubt what his father was teaching him. So I started over, trying to figure out a scenario where a teenager would need to be retaught everything about himself. Due to this switch in focus the book went from Adult Fiction to YA and then to YA Horror as the 'creepy/haunting' factor kept getting ramped up the deeper I delved into the story.

That 'first' draft with HENRY FRANKS as a YA was finished fairly quickly, then I spent almost two years in revision, trying to amp up the creepy and, most specifically, trying to make the ending 'fit' the story. The original had a 70 page flashback into the father's point of view, completely leaving the YA characters and it simply didn't work. By this time, we're talking two plus years of writing and editing. Then, after signing with my wonderful agent, Ammi-Joan Paquette, there was another year of revision, including almost another year of revision to weave that flashback into the story properly so that the ending would work before the book sold. At which point there was yet another year of edits to get the book to what is in book stores.

Looking back, of course, it's as if those years just flew right on by! At the time, obviously, it was anything but that. Still, it was worth it. The book works so much better as it is now and I hope the reader appreciates the care that everyone associated with the book has taken on it.

What excites you most about your book being released in September, and what make you the most nervous?
I love the fact that other people will be introduced to Henry and Justine. I adore these characters and am thrilled that more people will get to meet them and, hopefully, fall in love with them as well. By far, what makes me most nervous is the fear that people will not find the book as creepy as it hopefully is. Having the genre 'YA Horror' placed on the book scares me because I definitely do not want to disappoint anyone who might be expecting MORE horror in the book. HENRY FRANKS is (hopefully) a subtle, haunting type of horror, unsettling and creepy. I hope I accomplished something that respects and honors the YA Horror genre and its wonderful fans.

How did you persevere along your writing path through ups and downs to reach this moment in your career?
HENRY FRANKS is my fifth completed manuscript. My second YA. While some of the previous manuscripts aren't 'ready for prime time' and some are 'close' to publishable, it's been a long time working on getting published. It's been my dream for this since I was about twelve and to have it finally come true is surreal and wonderful and worth every moment of the years in between where I wondered if it was worth it. It most definitely was. With that said, it's important for any one who wants to write to keep one thing in mind: just keep writing. No matter what, never stop writing.
Oh, and learn to love revising! Very important!!

What makes you sit back in your chair and smile?

There was just something indescribable about seeing the cover art for the first time. Someone spent a very long time all for my book (yes, that's their job but still...), trying to capture in a single image the heart and soul of something I wrote. It encapsulates something beyond words, the work put into creating the cover and it means something to me that I'm probably not defining very well. So now, every time I see that cover, whether its online or on the book itself I can't help but smile.

And I'd be remiss not to mention here my wife, Anna, and our 3 sons: Andy, Josh and Adin. All of whom have that 'sit back in your chair and smile' affect.


Who in your life impacted and inspired you, and how did they do it?
I have spoken of my grandfather, Andre Bialolenki, at length in various blog postings and it's difficult to condense the impact he had upon me and my writing in just a few short paragraphs. Suffice it to say that I would not be the writer, or the man, I am today without his support, encouragement and talent in my life. He was a spectacular writer who has left an incredible legacy (both personally with the inspiration he has left his family with and professionally with the work he did to put Miami Beach/South Beach on the map). He taught me to never stop writing, supported my writing when no one else believed, and I wish, so dearly wish, that he was here to see this day arrive.   Thanks so much for sharing your journey, Peter! And if you want to find out more about Peter, do check out his website www.peteradamsalomon.com.

Departure Eve

After nearly a month back in the states, we're preparing to head back to England tomorrow on a red-eye flight that will land us in Manchester at the crack of dawn.

And when I say "preparing" what I mean is: gazing at the mountain pile of clothes on the bed, letting Tyler stay up late to dig in the sand with Poppa and whisper secrets with Nanna, taking note of every single American thing we've missed and making sure to savor it (i.e. free refills on drinks at a restaurant, green road signs, the political fix from CNN, the warmth of family, the laughter of summer nights, and watching Tyler reconnect with grandmas and grandpas and aunts and uncles after two years abroad).

Today, in the car as we left the Cape Cod Potato Chip Factory, I started to cry. Not because of my all-consuming passion for potato chips, but because I had been watching our son giggle as my mother-in-law, Susan, ticked his toes. His laughter touched that part of me that spoke of the importance of watching our own children grow up connected to that web of creation that helps them exist in the first place.

And I'm going to miss it.

This isn't to say we aren't looking forward to Lesley Avenue in York, and the dozen of so children that live on our street, the kind neighbors who always seem to have something odd they no longer need and are kind enough to pass it on to the American next door (a bird feeder, a bottle of wine, a T-shirt, a Gruffalo suitcase). And we're looking forward to our last year abroad as a chance to reflect on all we've learned, the obstacles we've been facing, and the way Isaac Newton's claim about knowledge has really rung true for us. Newton once responded to someone who asked what his years of scientific research had taught him. Paraphrased, his reply was: Everything I have come to know is like a single grain of sand on the shore of knowledge.

This time away from England has afforded not only a lovely reprieve as parents (read: our own parents and brothers and sisters have performed countless changing of the clothes with Tyler, explorations and adventures, and bedtime book-reading), but it has also bequeathed us a chance to reflect on what two years abroad with no money has taught us.

And essentially, our grain of sand is this: grace trumps everything. Grace with our son, with with one another, grace for mistakes, grace for misplanned  possibilities, grace for failures, grace for countless imperfections. England has been both beautiful and hard for us, and the synthesis of these necessities of life has been teaching us that what creates sustainability is grace.

As we embark upon the return flight tomorrow, our fourth passenger, we hope, will be grace. And if he allows Tyler to sleep for any percentage of the red-eye, that would be about the most stunning gift in the world about now. But if not, I hope to be able to redeem the way we first arrived in England two years ago: rather than a panic attack, I want to able to look out at the dawning English day and say, with faith, it's all going to be okay.

The Power of Voice

Two small black and white lemurs have the ability to scare away a whole army of predators--and after seeing these two docile, innocent-looking creatures in action, I believe it.

Today, Jennifer and I had our first parents-on-a-school-field-trip experience as we accompanied Tyler and his pre-school to the Yorkshire Wildlife Park in Doncaster, South Yorkshire. Retaining a heavy conservation mission, the park's ultimate goal is to help endangered species and to, when possible, return them in greater number to their native habitat. Currently, they are raising two rare Amur Leopards with this intention in mind.

And as Tyler and Jen and I saw various species--tigers! lions! meerkats! camels! wallabees!--the most fascinating creatures we encountered today were the two docile, innocent-looking bland and white lemurs. After eating, these two lemurs came close to one another and began shrieking louder than a chorus of toddlers having tantrums. Their shrieks rose to the highest alto equivalent, and the lowest bass depth. The shrieks went on, and on, and on.

I watched wordlessly, unable to pick up my jaw.

When the black and white lemurs were finished, the Lemur Expert--a young man whose affable nature and resistance to palm oil because of its destructive sourcing from Madagascar for hair products for Western consumers made him imminently engaging--told us all that this practice was a cultural tradition passed on through the generations of black and white lemurs.

If the sheer volume of the cries weren't enough to scare away predators, the variability in pitch and tone would be enough to make predators think that more than a dozen animals were gathered there rather than just two. In essence, their voices could carry enough power to translate into action--to make predators firmly believe that there'd be no point in attacking.

Contrast such lemur lobbying for life with many of our own visions of protection.

Recently, I finished Jonathan Kozol's groundbreaking book Savage Inequalities. Essentially, Kozol documents with clear facts and zero drama the essence of inequality in America' public education system. Schools in wealthy suburbs often have as much as double to spend per pupil in each school system, while schools in poverty-stricken areas (both rural and inner-city) have far less materials, resources, and sometimes class sizes that double those of their wealthier counterparts.

I was sharing some of my own passion for justice in this area of school funding with a friend on the phone, and he asked a great question, "What would you say to someone who says, it's not my responsibility to ensure that a poor five-year old kid I don't know gets the same education that a wealthy five-year old kid gets?"

I thought about his question for a while, and then realized how often hypothetical questions like these form the basis of a lot of individualized thinking. The essential premise is: it's not my responsibility.

Tax dollars for welfare, education spending, medical insurance? It's not my responsibility.


However, an interesting thing happens when marriage and abortion arise. Then, the stance transmogrifies into It IS my responsibility. Regarding these issues, arguments for protection of life and protection of marriage are promulgated.

What I find fascinating is that such protection is a veiled attack--and what's more, it doesn't cost any real money or any real sacrifice. It doesn't even cost any change in social order, class hierarchy, or systemic understanding. Essentially, it's cheap and easy to attack homosexuals and women who go to an abortion clinic and then claim to protect life and protect marriage.

Ultimately, what I shared regarding my friend's hypothetical question was this, "Isn't someone who asks a question like that saying that life is more valuable in the womb than out of it?" How can someone be outraged regarding abortion but watch a five-year live in poverty and receive an education unequal to her wealthier, suburban counterparts? Isn't that a death as well?

How can someone deride homosexual marriage under the guise of protection, yet not protect a woman's right to live without domestic violence, rape, unequal pay, or unaided childcare?

The answer--as it so often does--amounts to complexities of money and patriarchy. So much of society is predicated upon ways in which those with wealth and power can maintain wealth and power, and those in poverty remain in poverty. The education system, as Kozol writes, bolsters this inequality. Our society becomes more just only as those with wealth and power are willing to fight for those without them.

It's cheap and easy to throw punches. It's difficult to use one's own money and agency towards the ends of creating a more just society. But America is an experiment that is, theoretically, built upon the latter and not on the former.

Even two black and white lemurs are able to raise a chorus of shrieking so loud that the predators wouldn't dare come close. In our current climate, how can we raise our voices to that same effect--so that equal education, counseling services, domestic abuse prevention, community improvements, and the welfare of all children become the new moral imperatives?

How can we use pitches high and low to make the case for the five-year old student who also deserves an education--who deserves the same kind of protection of her life that conservatives are so forceful about in the womb, but seem to forget once she's been born?

If we are going to protect life and love, then we do so by opening our arms wider, not closing our fists around our own money and power tighter and tighter. And even a few black and white lemurs shouting out such a message of equality and justice can scare off a whole army of predators. I've seen it happen.

The Job of a Writer

I've just left a remarkable event entitled Prison Fictions, during which  memoirist Erwin James, academic David Wilson, and novelist Gillian Slovo all shared their experiences and perspectives about imprisonment and writing. Riding my bike to the discussion at the Berrick Saul building on the University of York campus, I felt the sensation of freedom--the wind rushing past my jutting-out hair, the evening sky catching its breath after unrelenting rains throughout the day, and the old bike's wheels taking the hills downward with self-appointed speed.

Ironic, though, considering the issue and the focus for the evening.

David Wilson began, talking to a packed theater about the need for more awareness about what happens within prisons. As a previous prison governor (the equivalent of a warden in the states), David shared passionately about why honest stories need to be told about what occurs behind prison walls, and that media needs to work to "provide some gray to the all-too often black and white of the tabloid media."

Erwin James spoke second--a muscular man with a voice as unassuming as a child's. A convicted murderer, James was sentenced to serve a life-imprisonment of 99 years, but was paroled after 20 years of that sentence. Four years before his parole, he began writing for The Guardian, and eventually wrote two books on his life in prison. An incredible kind of humility, dignity, and transformation bolstered every word James shared. His eyes met an audience leaning forward when he shared that, "I didn't believe I'd been born bad, but I had behaved that way my whole life. In my cell, what I had was time to contemplate how I had become what I had become. I had the time to consider my dysfunction."

James spoke powerfully about his transformation into a writer and a journalist, and how he came to see the human dignity each of us is born with, but often loses in a society that so consistently asserts punitive punishments. James commented that the most important factor for the rehabilitation of a prisoner is "to be able to focus on something positive about oneself." He spoke powerfully about the need to rehabilitate prisoners--considering that so many who are released are repeat offenders.

Finally, novelist Gillian Slovo spoke. As a child of imprisoned white South African parents, Gillian experienced from a young age the pain of prison--watching her parents walk behind closed bars and hearing the shattering sound of slamming doors. Her mother, Ruth First, wrote the acclaimed memoir 117 Days, about her time in solitary confinement without trial in a South African prison for her affiliation with those fighting for justice. The author of 12 novels, including Red Dust which was made into a feature film starring Hillary Swank, Slovo shared deeply about the need for literature, stories, and writing to share the stories of those who are imprisoned. When I asked her about the power literature brings to the conversation regarding structures and systems that perpetuate the status quo, she responded, "Literature doesn't tell people how to think, but it enables empathy to exist."

Her line resonated deeply with me--especially as I considered the plethora of neo-conservative pundits how don't offer anything by way of empathy, but mountains by way of judgment and blame. The absence of empathy in our political discourse, and in our portrayals in media, is a stark and egregious tragedy. Gillian continued, "The job of a writer is to reveal worlds that people may never have imagined."

If there is a more beautiful intersection of literature and social justice, I don't know what it is.

Accepting Different Tides

Out over the buoy that bobs in the water,
Where the waves are only preparing--
Staring hard at you
Is what's true:
Nothing final is coming your way
Except the visions of
Your own manufactured fear.
No longer must you strive for love,
No longer cover eyes and ears
Against reaction--but open all
Your heart to the first action.

Perfectionism's Lies

The thing about Perfectionism is that it often walks and talks like Hard Work. It's adept at dressing up in the clothes that pass it off for a well-meaning, diligent character who only wants what's best for our lives. But the lie of Perfectionism is that it's never fulfilled--like a bucket with a hole in the bottom, so that we pour endless amounts of water into the thing, only to find that the level never rises above a certain point.

Here are five ways I've seen Perfectionism masquerade as a variety of other things--five lies that identify Perfectionism for what it is, along with some ideas on how we can call out these lies with a very loud, silver-ish whistle and a bag of carmelized popcorn (used for throwing, hard, at Perfectionism when he appears, of course):

1. RESULTS: Perfectionism's entire livelihood is built on the result of some project, dream, vision, or endeavor. Where Hard Work is concerned with the actual doing of something, Perfectionism only considers the action-part as a useless requirement in order to get to the result, the outcome. Perfectionism therefore holds the vision of a prize, an achievement, an award as real success and accomplishment, and leaves the fallible, day-to-day work undone. Perfectionism is concerned with glory, where Hard Work is concerned with journey.

2. GROWTH: Perfectionism will often try to convince us that it's only concerned with growth. Improvement is all we're talking about, after all, right!? I remember a student I had once who earned a 94 on her essay. I was so proud of her. I wrote loads of encouraging and congratulatory comments on her paper, as a 94 was a strong showing on a challenging essay assignment. But her reaction was only, "How can I get a 100 next time?" Perfectionism never allows us to enjoy what we have done because it's always screaming at us that we need to do better the next time. It pretends that it's about growth, but really it's an insatiable inability to rest or to be proud of the work we do.

3. PROOF: Perfectionism often tries to convince us that if we can manage to follow it obediently, we'll finally know that we are enough. Finally, you'll be able to feel peaceful inside and understand that you're okay! Because you'll have proof--you'll have evidence! But the lie of this costume of Perfectionism is that there will never be enough evidence. The proof that Perfectionism requires lasts for a few fleeting moments, and then we're forced to gather up new proof. What you accomplished yesterday won't stand in court today. And with Perfectionism, we're always on the stand, daily enlisting a trial lawyer to try and prove that we should be free. The tragedy of this is, of course, that there is no actual court case, no judge, no jury. We harbor the critical voices of others and put these messages on replay to construct a courtroom for ourselves, where we can battle over and over a case that has already been won on our behalf. Perfectionism's need for proof can never be fulfilled.

4. ENERGY: Perfectionism tries hard to convince us that it's a source of energy--a way in which we can find motivation to keep on going. In a way, it is, but it's energy is self-sapping and unsustainable. For a while, Perfectionism may feed a drive to accomplish and achieve, but continued despair over its impossibility eventually yields a feeling of claustrophobia. Perfectionism-as-energy puts us into a room and gives us a bag of balloons. Under its guise, we keep blowing up balloons, believing that we're accomplishing something. Finally, we look around ourselves and feel totally overwhelmed. Stuck. We can't even move. The reality is that the forty balloons that keep us locked in place only feel formidable; but they're just air, zero substance. The obstacles that Perfectionism throws in our path can fill a room with what could be held in the palms of our hands--once the hot air is removed.

5. LOVE: This is Perfectionism's most insidious disguise: to masquerade as a form of love. Sometimes parents send this message to children--it's the conditional claim of love: I do love, you, I just want you to be the best you can be... Essentially, such a claim really says, I don't love you, unless, you can achieve... Conditional love isn't, in fact, love. Vocationally, we start to believe that if we achieve enough (and achieve it in the right manner) we'll earn love or somehow possess an ability to love others better. Neither occurs.

In light of Perfectionism's incredible capacity for shape-shifting, what are we to do? I think one response lies in the remarkable power of Grace. Essentially, Grace responds with You don't have to. But the thing about Grace is that it frees us to want to. Some people claim that Grace is cliched because it tells us that we don;t have to work hard or have big dreams or entertain visions for the future. But the reality is that Grace gives us all these, but it allows us to work from a place of desire rather than a place of need. When we're parenting, writing, working, relating to others from a place of freedom, we can actually feel the joy of desire: we can want to grow, love, create beautiful results, forge proof, and sustain energy. If we need these things to happen, they don't. If we try to live from a place of must, then what happens isn't really ever organic--instead, it's always manipulated.

The power of Grace is that, in a world of people who are desperately trying to shove proof of our worth and lovability in front of the eyes of others, God doesn't need it. He doesn't ask for it. God's radical love instead utters a compelling, constant refrain: work from joy, not from shame.

You are no longer on trial. You have nothing to prove--to yourself or anyone else. In freedom, you can choose the work because you love it, not because you need to do it to earn status, belonging, or love. The lies of Perfectionism will relentlessly try to convince you that these can be obtained via its rigorous program. But Grace offers another avenue--still involving hard work, great sacrifice at times--but a way in which the work you do is liberating, not suffocating. Now is the time to pop the balloons that have been filled with the empty words of others and of yourself. Now is the time to embrace the gospel of Grace over the punishment of Perfectionism. There's a whole room--rooms!--in which you'll find you can move, live, and work.

Popping Salad Bags

It was Lollipop Day--Thursday--yet the grocery shopping needed doing and Tyler and I needed a Morning Adventure. So: all the pieces fit. I decided I'd take Tyler to Aldi, the grocery store about seven and a half minutes walk from our home. The night before, Tyler hadn't slept well, and Jennifer and I had traded going-into-his-room duties back and forth until neither of us knew what time it was when another call for Mommy and Daddy rang out--only this: Your turn? No, my turn? Okay. My turn? No, your turn? Heaven Pie.

Now, it was eleven in the morning. Grocery shopping time for the little man and me.

The trip to Aldi was relatively uneventful: we saw people, said hello, saw more people, said hello to them, saw some teenagers who seemed like they were probably skipping school, said hello, got laughed at by them, laughed with them about being laughed at, then got a hello from the teens, a 'high five' from Tyler for the teens, and then onward Tyler biked through puddles that lay thick across the sidewalk en route. I jumped over the puddles. Tyler splashed through them, aglow.

We arrived. At Aldi.

And it was Lollipop Day, remember, which carried the designation of an entire day even though the act of purchasing a lollipop takes a mere minute. But in the beginning, I needed a way to designate days--to give Tyler and I a sense that Thursday--yes!--was far different from Monday. (Monday is Playgroup Day.)

So Tyler sat atop the grocery carriage and I pushed him around the store, grabbing the cheapest deals on Aldi-brand hummus, Aldi-brand bread, Aldi-brand baked beans, Aldi-brand free-range eggs, Aldi-brand juice, Aldi-brand frozen chicken breasts, Aldi-brand yogurt.

(We purchased other Aldi-brand items, which have all been excluded from this narrative so as to save us both useful time and mental clarity for a perspicacious look at what really matters here.)

So here's what really matters: the thing is, Aldi doesn't sell lollipops. (At least, last Thursday they didn't have a single licking lollipop available on the premises.) And it was Lollipop Day. We can't notget a lollipop on Lollipop Day. That would be like celebrating President's Day if the United States had never had a single president; like celebrating the Queen's Jubilee here in the UK if the UK didn't have a queen; like going to school on Sunday; like offering advice about ergonomics while pretending to be somebody named Noland who doesn't even exist.

So, Tyler and I are in the checkout line, our massive collection of Aldi-brand items on the conveyor belt, inching ever closer to the cashier as the following conversation ensues between my sleep-deprived three-year old and my sleep-deprived self:

Tyler: I want a lollipop. It's Lollipop Day, Daddy. You said this store would have lollipops.

Daddy: Yes, that's true. All of those things are true. But I was wrong. There are no lollipops. Not even--excuse me, sir, can I ask your name? John, okay, thank you, John--not even John has a lollipop. And believe me, Tyler, IF there was a single lollipop in this store, John would have his hands on it, wouldn't you, John?

John: [Clears throat. Eyes me suspiciously.] Of course.

Tyler: I want a lollipop.

John: [Clears throat, looks away.]

Daddy: Tell you what, T-Man, today will be a VERY SPECIAL Lollipop Day. You can get these Chocolate M and M's instead of a lollipop today; that sounds great, right!?

John: [Continues clearing throat--and John begins to look like someone whose real name is Noland--and shakes his head.]

Tyler: But Daddy, it's not Chocolate Day; it's Lollipop Day!

Daddy: True. But sometimes Lollipop Day can become Chocolate Day, as well---because both of those days are super, super cool.

Cashier: Sir, can you please move forward?

I push the carriage forward, and the conveyor belt stops as our cashier--Daniel--begins to ring up our items. There is no turning back.

And here's the thing about Aldi: the stores have a vendetta against any millisecond of wasted time. They employ one cashier per checkout lane, and they don't allow bagging at the cashier's check-out point. The cashier rings up an item, whoosh!, passes it back to you, at which point you deposit it into your carriage. This procedure is repeated over and over until you both surpass the Speed of Light or all your items have been rung up--whichever occurs first.

Problem: our grocery items are stockpiling on the tiny counter space because I am trying to come to a Resolution about the Lollipop Day / Chocolate Day dilemma. The dirty looks begin. I can hear the venomous voices of the other Aldi=frequenters in our line and even among the lines around us.

Aldi Virgin.

Did you see the MASSIVE SIGN about how to check out properly!?

Promised his kid candy. Big mistake, buddy. B-I-G. Mistake. Massive.

And John-Noland looks back at us as he exits the store: At least I'm safe trickles back to us, and I swear he clears his throat again.

Daddy: Okay, after Aldi, we're going to walk to the Lollipop Store and get our normal lollipop form Vera. Okay?

Tyler: No, I want Chocolate Day instead.

Cashier Daniel: Dirty look dirty look dirty look.

Daddy: Great! Problem solved. Throw those M and M's on the conveyor belt and let's rock it!

Tyler: No, I want Chocolate Day and Lollipop Day.

Daddy: No, we can't do that. One or the other. You choose.

Cashier Daniel: Dirty look multiplied by smug sigh of disgust.

Tyler: No, I want both of them.

Daddy: No.

Tyler: Yes.

Stockpile of Grocery Items Now Falling onto the Floor off the Tiny Counter Space: For goodness sakes', man, at least take care of us! We've got nothing to do with this fiasco!

Daddy: Look--we're going to do Chocolate Day instead of Lollipop Day, and that's the end of it.

I grab the M and M's from Tyler's hands and throw them on the conveyor belt.

Earth and Heaven: [Explosion.]

Tyler: [Undecipherable screaming, crying, sobbing, melting down at the speed of light multiplied by the fastest Aldi Cashier / Customer Tag Team ever.]

Beneath Tyler's massive, screeching, full-blown tantrum screams, Cashier Daniel and I complete our transaction--dirty look dirty look dirty look--and I wheel our grocery cart over to the back of the store which is the Appropriate Place to Bag Your Groceries.

Tyler: [Undecipherable screaming ensues.]

I begin stuffing the groceries into the massive black over-the shoulder reusable bag I've brought with us.

Problem: the groceries won't fit.

I take all of the groceries out of the bag, as Tyler manages to top his previous threshold for volume, and while the two of us garner a prodigious display of various dirty looksfrom customers and cashiers all across the store.

I begin stuffing all of the groceries back into the bag again.

Problem: they still don't fit.

I take all of the groceries out of the bag.

[Screaming; dirty looks.]

And in that moment I wish T.S. Eliot were with me; I wish Gwendolyn Brooks were with me; I wish Robert Frost were with me; I wish Tony Hoagland were with me; I wish bell hooks were with me. I wish there was a chorus of poets with me there in the Appropriate Bagging Section of Aldi, ushering their lines at a volume previously thought unreachable for human vocal chords--their lines just drowning out the tantrum of my three-year old--I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled--and we jazz June--and His house is in the village though.

But there are no poets with me, and I must do this on my own resolve, the lines of these heroes ungrabbable in this instant.

So I glare at the various grocery items now scattered in anger across the floor of the Appropriate Bagging Section and I find the weak link: salad bags. There are five of them, each bag containing at least 67% air. That's almost two-thirds of occupied space in my massive black reusable shoulder bag being spoken for by air.

Nothing but air.

So I pop them. All five bags.

Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! [Pause for dramatic effect.] Pop!

Tyler's screams stop momentarily. The dirty lookscease in exchange for genuine surprised looks by what the American has chosen to do in this predicament looks.

The groceries fit, I throw the bag over my shoulder, and Tyler and I leave the store.Outside, where the air is exponentially increased and sound travels slower, disperses faster, Tyler finally calms down. We talk. I explain with force and might the point of what happened in the store. If T.S./ Eliot were there, I swear he'd be proud.

And while in the past I might have caved, eventually given Tyler the chocolates and forgotten the whole thing. (Yes, certainly, in the past I would have caved--yes--even a few months ago, I would have relented and here come the chocolates!).

No, I do not cave. The Popping of the Salad Bags and given me a taste of how sometimes the most dire of situations call for creative, bold action. I have done so. Therefore, I do not cave and give over the chocolates.

Instead, I pop open a bag of cheese curls and Tyler and Daddy both dig in.