Clay burst in to our bedroom the other night, babbling at the top of his lungs. I fully expected him to belt out a song, Ethel Merman-style. “There’s no business like show business.” He was ready to go, tapped into some powerful energy source. One tiny problem. It was 2:15 a.m. Five minutes earlier, we were all asleep.

Clay is the Typhoid Mary of sleeplessness. Basic rule—if he is awake, I’m awake. Generally, he is out by about 11 p.m., but there are plenty of nights when he can’t settle down. When that happens, he’ll come in for a visit. Sometimes he circles our bed reciting phrases from Dr. Seuss books. Sometimes he burrows under the covers between us, squirming like an eel on a hook. Sometimes he drags his comforter with him and plops on the end of the bed with his feet in our faces. Sometimes he goes downstairs, turns on every light and forages for food. Sometimes he does all of the above. Read the rest of this entry »

We took Clay swimming on Father’s Day, and nearly wound up in a brawl. Let me explain.

Clay, his older brother, my wife and I spent the day at my parent’s house, one of the few homes we visit that calms the little guy. The open floor plan and lack of clutter seems to work for him. He’ll circle through the living room, kitchen and dining area, check out the den, then retreat to the quiet of their finished basement, where he spends most of his time. You always need that escape room. After a few hours of him wandering while we stuffed our faces and caught up with my family, Clay’s usual steady line of patter turned agitated. The keyboard was retrieved. Read the rest of this entry »

Most nights during the week I cook french fries in the oven for Clay. He likes to eat by 5:30, while the rest of the family isn’t home and ready to eat until about an hour later. To keep us all sane, Clay eats a light dinner—french fries and a hot dog or chicken nuggets—at 5:30, then joins us for the full dinner at 6:30. Two dinners? you ask, one eyebrow arching slightly. Yes, two dinners. The little guy is always on the move, burning fuel like a Chevy Suburban. Even when he is eating, he rarely sits down. Two dinners works out just fine, thank you very much.

I used to put the fries in the oven and go off to get some work done on my laptop for 20 minutes. Can’t do that anymore. Clay does not do the waiting thing well. He opens the oven every three minutes to see if the fries are done, yet. I’ve caught him once or twice eating still-frozen fries he swiped off the edge of the pan. Now I stand guard, usually sitting on the counter next to the oven reading the newspaper or a magazine. At long last, the timer dings, and I pull the fries out. This is where the serious wrestling begins. Read the rest of this entry »