We feed our children

Another “dine-in” attempt – this time with Daniel and Samuel, at a Chinese buffet. It was a success. Buttery cabbage on buttery whitefish on buttery, spicy, sugary chicken, on buttery noodles, with dumplings. Daniel ate for free; Samuel’s rate was reduced; the boys mostly stayed in their chairs. You could see the calories rushing through their arteries and veins, draining away their consciousness.

Not the fetus’s, though. “ ‘Pip’ loves this food,” Karin said. “He’s dancing around.”

Daniel heard a very tiny baby crying in the restaurant. He smiled. “Meow, meow,” he said.

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I’m sorry to admit, our sons have terrible eating habits. Daniel wakes up at 6:30 or 7:00 and begs for candy. (No, I don’t give him any.)

He may have finally turned a corner. He’s been asking for meals with more balance: today, peanut-buttered toast, strawberries, and Spanish rice.

Now that Karin is “in pig” (Nancy Mitford’s phrase), our WIC allowance has been raised: At the end of each month, we realize we haven’t claimed anything like our full share of vegetables. So, half-panicked, we go to the store and pick out avocados and other “costly” free items. This month it was dragon fruit, from Ecuador. I wondered if any of the fruit we looked at was descended, nearly or distantly, from Hoku’s parents’ farm.

A flurry of activity

Four school friends:

Hoku, Dan, the Pedro, moi.

I thought we would have just one outing together, but one outing turned into three. Which is just as well. I’d last seen Hoku on my wedding day; and although Dan and the Pedro live nearby, I don’t see them as often as I’d like.

Our wives and children were with us, too.

Yesterday, we were in Michigan, at one of the beaches. Karin waded into the water with Daniel, and I held Samuel’s hands. It was the boys’ first time in the lake – or in any body of water larger than a bathtub.

Samuel wore a full-body swimsuit that Karin found at Goodwill just before we traveled to the lake. It has built-in flotation pads. It made Samuel look like a pint-sized linebacker.

At first, he was nervous in the water; but soon he was floating on his back, kicking gleefully, his wild hair spread out over the surface of the lake.

The sand outside the lake was like a bed of coals. The air was like a furnace. The water was warm and pleasant.

On the other days, we toured Bethel; we bowled; we strolled; we ate and drank; and we supervised the children’s play at various parks. Samuel became acquainted with the splash pad. It was a delightful weekend for him.

It was a delightful weekend for me, with peers I’ve known for decades, from whom I sense acceptance rather than the usual, palpable disdain.

Lots of pictures of Beethoven

When I wrote that Samuel’s been saying “Beethoven is so sleepy,” I didn’t realize he’d go on talking about Beethoven for days and days. When Samuel gets sad, he says, “Beethoven is so sad.” When he’s scared, he says, “Beethoven is so scared.” When he pulls my hair, he says, “Don’t pull Beethoven’s hair.”

Beethoven has become the all-purpose surrogate.

When Samuel wants breakfast, he says: “Let’s go to the kitchen, Beethoven.” “Have some candy corn, Beethoven.” (I’m not sure when we last had candy corn in the house. I think our supply was eaten by the mice.)

Really, what kid wouldn’t be obsessed with Beethoven. There’s the music, of course – Samuel’s favorite compilation is Beethoven for Babies – and then there’s this portrait that comes up on Spotify.

I wondered what Beethoven looked like in other pictures.

I found some.

Little boy Beethoven. Not so unlike Samuel.

Youthful Beethoven.

(These are from the chronological sequence on this webpage.)

Beethoven standing by a park bench.

Beethoven resembling Marcelo Bielsa.

Brooding Beethoven.

A bust of Beethoven: no doubt, the one on Schroeder’s piano.

This artist, Hadi Karimi, makes 3-D likenesses of famous people. Beethoven, appropriately, is a subject.

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My school friend, Hoku, has brought his family for a visit, one county to the north of us. I’ll do my utmost to see him.

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Now, some sadder news. Our congressional representative, Jackie Walorski, died in a car crash today. The South Bend Tribune published this report.

1996, the best year in movie history, pt. 15: Welcome to the dollhouse

I was in college when I first saw Todd Solondz’s Welcome to the Dollhouse. I didn’t enjoy it one bit. All the terror of middle school (or junior high, as it’s called in the movie) came crashing down on me again.

My friend Hoku viewed it with me. Welcome to the Dollhouse turned him white as a ghost.

(His middle school years were harder than mine.)

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Dawn Wiener (Heather Matarazzo) may not be quite at the social bottom of her seventh-grade class at Benjamin Franklin Junior High. But she’s close enough to the bottom that when she tries to commiserate with a classmate who’s just been pounded by bullies, he tells her, “Leave me alone, Wiener Dog!” and runs away.

Dawn wises up after that incident. Never again does she try to aid the powerless. Instead, she toadies up to the powerful and berates and bullies her sixth-grade hanger-on, Ralphy, and her much younger sister, Missy.

Bullying Missy is a mistake. Missy may only be in early grade school, but she knows how to work the system like one of the popular kids.

Her parents always side with her against Dawn. One of the smartest things about the movie is how it shows the adults reinforcing the social hierarchy that keeps Dawn and her older brother, Mark, from breaking away from their peers’ contempt.

Mark directs his efforts toward getting into a good college. This, he supposes, will enable him to finally climb the ladder above his popular, arrogant classmate, Steve Rodgers. Meanwhile, he toadies up to Steve.

Dawn’s strategy is another variant of: If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. She throws herself at Steve.

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Dawn has little going for her, but, astutely, the movie recognizes that someone will find something about her to like.

Enter Brandon (Brendan Sexton III), whose home life is even more troubled than Dawn’s.

This isn’t a movie in which goodness triumphs. Brandon’s reserves of courage and sensitivity don’t carry the day. They’re buried very deep, and the situation is further complicated by his mean streak.

But the fact that Brandon is the tiniest bit hopeful about life, and that Dawn is the person he chooses to share that hopefulness with, suggests that there’s hope for Dawn, too.

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I said I didn’t enjoy my first viewing: it was too painful. But time makes even this sort of pain enjoyable.

The movie is filled with acid humor. It’s all in the details, which I don’t want to ruin. But I can give hints.

Dawn’s and Missy’s rivalry is exquisitely lifelike: the tones of voice, the backstabbing, the parents’ failure to administer justice. (What’s arguably the most horrific scene in the movie has to do with how the parents distribute slices of chocolate cake.)

Then there’s the movie’s use of the vernacular. Certain characters are just learning to swear. They combine their words like hilariously ill-matched fashion accessories.

As in a Bugs Bunny cartoon, the most grotesque, syrupy scenes are set to famous passages of classical music. These are juxtaposed against the garage rock riffs that punctuate angrier scenes.

This juxtaposition is paralleled in one of the subplots. Mark recruits Steve Rodgers to play guitar and sing in his garage rock band. Mark’s instrument in the band is the clarinet. The result is the auditory equivalent of spoiled milk.

This movie isn’t nice. But middle school isn’t nice. Families aren’t always nice. Life isn’t nice. This is one of the best movies of the year.