Tag Archives: Aidan

By the book

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One of the best things about being a parent is that you get to watch your kids learn to do new things. When they are babies, the learning and the “firsts” come fast and furious. They roll over, and crawl, and eat real food, and clap, and walk. There is new stuff to celebrate all of the time.

As the kids get older, obviously, the fun of watching them conquer new things comes less frequently. (When it comes to learning to urinate into the toilet bowl, not around it, it actually seems that none of my boys will ever achieve mastery.) But there is still that jolt every once in a while, when they surprise you by doing something you didn’t know they could do. Today, Reid made his own peanut butter and jelly sandwich at lunch, from start to finish. I don’t know which of us was more tickled.

There are certain things that I always knew would be important for me to teach my kids, or have others teach them. It was imperative to me that my kids learn how to swim, and swim well, at an early age. They have all done that, and I love to watch them as they improve and learn new strokes. I wanted my kids to have an appreciation for United States history. Through our conditioning, they’ve all become little history buffs, who nerdily collect and display their National Parks Junior Ranger badges.

I also was adamant, before I ever had kids, that I wanted them to learn a second language while they were still young. On that one, sadly, I totally failed. Turns out it’s pretty hard to do if you, yourself, don’t speak another language.

One thing I was bound and determined to pass to my kids was my love for reading. I am a written-word junkie. I pretty much don’t go anywhere – even from room to room in my house – without a book in tow. I’ve been that way since I was a kid. I took a lot of grief from my peers for reading instead of playing at recess, but I think most of them were impressed by how I could ride my bike home from school while reading at the same time. Like Thomas Jefferson, I cannot live without books; I wanted to make sure I passed this love to my kids. Once I had all male children, I was even more determined, because I’ve known so many men who never read for pleasure.

So I made sure to expose my kids to books from an early age. I hit a hundred yard sales, and bought a thousand children’s books. I read to them, although never as much as I should have. (Evening reading time often dovetailed with “If I spend one more minute dealing with you, I’m going to jump out the bedroom window” time. Reading lost to wine many times.) I also read my own books in front of them, thinking that eventually they would realize, “If Mommy does this all day every day, there must be something to it.”

Frustratingly, however, my oldest son had no interest in books for years. When Mack was in preschool we did flashcards and learned sound blends. He learned to sight read the most common words, but he didn’t care to push it any farther. All through kindergarten, he was disinterested in really learning to put words together. In first grade he had a better teacher, and he began to read well. But he still never, ever, chose it as a leisure activity at home. He showed no interest in books. It made me so sad.

When he was in second grade, we found the key to unlocking the bibliophile within Mack. His class participated in Accelerated Reader (AR), a reading program where each child reads independently, then takes a test every time he finishes a book. They earn points and compete against their classmates. At the end of each quarter, the kids in each grade with the highest point totals were announced over the school loudspeaker, and they won prizes. Aha! Competition – the one thing that could make Mack pick up a book when he didn’t have to. Next thing we knew, Mack was going to the school library every day, sometimes more than once a day. He polished off the contents of the non-fiction shelves and then grudgingly tried some fiction. (Who knew? There was a whole world of books outside those about the greatest NFL quarterbacks in history and the coolest mammals of the sea.)

Funny thing, but the side effect of all that reading was that Mack got better and better at it. His books became increasingly advanced and eventually, without realizing how, he found that he loved to read. Now he reads – by choice – every night before he goes to bed. He’s devoured most of the series that his teacher Aunt Emily has recommended, and occasionally asks me to reserve new books for him at the public library.

His classes don’t do the AR program much anymore, but Mack did recently get the highest AR point total for the whole school, for the first quarter of this year. I asked how that was possible, and he reminded me that he read books one through five in the Harry Potter series this summer. I guess he took all those tests back-to-back, and they amassed a giant point total. Turns out one 800-page Harry Potter book is equal to around 40 little books about the animals of North America.

My second son, Aidan, originally seemed even less curious about reading than Mack. He wouldn’t even really learn the words on those flashcards that I dug out of a drawer, although we made a little headway when I gave him a Hershey’s kiss for every word he memorized. But Aidan was fortunate enough to have a wonderful kindergarten teacher, who gave him all the building blocks he needed to learn to read. And suddenly this summer…out of nowhere…he was reading. It literally seemed to happen overnight. He went from maybe knowing a few short words to reading whole sentences to me.

The first quarter of this school year has been even more remarkable. Every night when we sit down to read, I’m amazed at how he does. He’s gone from reading readiness to chapter books in two months. Aidan has always been a kid who just has to do things at his own pace, and who doesn’t want to be taught. He wants to get there on his own. But I didn’t think he’d be able to do that with reading! I don’t know if I have ever had as much fun, watching one of my kids learn something new, as I have had watching Aidan discover the world of words this fall. It makes me happy every day. And I’m starting to think that maybe I’ve succeeded, at least with the first two boys, in creating book lovers, after all.

Of course, by far the most important aspect of Aidan learning to read is that he is so much better at our Rock Band video game. When he used to sing, he didn’t know the words and he would just kind of scream and hum into the microphone. Now he can read the lyrics and we get such better scores on our performances. Priorities, folks.


Who let the dogs out?

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Okay, so I am not a “dog person.” Actually, I’m not an animal person of any kind. Maybe it’s because we didn’t have any pets when I was growing up. But when I think of dogs, what comes to mind is all the negatives – the slobbering, the poop, the financial cost, the having to find someone to watch them when you go away, their constant need for care and attention.

This is why I don’t question my friends who have chosen not to have children. I totally get that when they think of having kids, they think of all these same things.

Anyway, I can appreciate that there are also a lot of benefits to owning a dog. Dogs can be really fun and affectionate. They keep you from being lonely and they can keep you safe. I never question anyone as to why they would want a dog. I just don’t want one myself. When my kids pester me to get a dog, I tell them that maybe we can get a pet once I don’t have to spend so many hours a day taking care of the humans who live with me.

Now, not all of my kids want to get a dog. Aidan sometimes says he’d like a fish, or a hamster, or a unicorn. But he doesn’t ask for a dog…because he is terrified of them. He always has been. He’s not just scared of big dogs. He’s scared of every dog, even if it is on a leash, even if it is shaking and appears to be 150 years old, even if it is wearing a tiny Burberry sweater and sitting in an heiress’s purse.

Aidan’s fear seems perfectly reasonable to me. I have always been afraid of big dogs, myself. Sure, most dogs are sweet and tame. But some of them aren’t, and you can’t always tell just by looking at them. Seriously, let me describe something to you: Imagine a big, hairy creature with tons of really sharp teeth and drool coming out of its mouth. It is probably going to jump all over you, and may knock you down. You won’t be able to communicate with the creature, but – be careful! – it will get more aggressive if it smells your fear. Oh, but don’t run! If you run it will chase you, and it is very fast.

Are you thinking, “Boy! That sounds like something I want to let sleep in my bed!”

So I have no problem with the fact that Aidan is afraid of dogs. It seems eminently reasonable to me. But I am always amazed at how many people seem to think that this fear is something for him to be ashamed of. They ask, “Why is he afraid of dogs? He needs to get over that. Was he bitten by a dog once?” I always want to reply, “Isn’t the fact that you’re wondering whether one of these things bit him enough explanation for his fear?” Seriously, if he was afraid of dandelions, I would understand it if people thought that was weird.

Because dandelions are not known for biting children.

But usually I just kind of chuckle and say, “Oh, you know, dogs make a lot of people nervous.” Then I pry Aidan off of my leg, where he has assuredly plastered himself in fear, and walk him home.

I’m also amazed at the people who will bring their dogs, even really big dogs, around kids without showing any sensitivity to the fact that cynophobia is very common among the soft, vulnerable people under five feet tall. Of course, many dog owners are great about this. We used to go to the home of DwC’s very own Erinn every week, for a playdate. She always made sure any dogs currently in residence were shut away, so my kids wouldn’t be terrorized. And I can’t complain when we go trick or treating and someone sits on his porch with his dog, giving out candy. (Which is when Mack has to say, “Can I have a piece for my brother?” and point to the costumed fellow cowering at the edge of the sidewalk.)

No, I’m talking about the people who bring their dogs to an area with tons of kids, and let the dog run around without a leash. At our school, we have parents who bring their dogs right up to the doors when the kids are released, so every kid who leaves has to walk right by them. They seem to think nothing of it. At Reid’s soccer practices all year, there was a lady who would come to the field with her dog and a big bucket of tennis balls. She would throw the balls, right across the fields dotted with dozens of three-, four-, and five-year olds (and their older brothers), and the dog would fetch them. The dog was obviously a sweetheart, and well trained. But the kids don’t necessarily know this, and some of them were visibly scared. (One even had to go sit in my his mom’s minivan every time.)

I can’t understand being so oblivious. My guess is that most of these people aren’t actually oblivious, but rather don’t care that their dogs scare kids, because they think the fear is stupid. On the few occasions when I have asked dog owners to leash their dogs or take them away – something I have only done a couple of times, even though our local leash laws are very strict – they’ve always given me attitude.

I can understand that if you are a dog person, and you have a pet that seems practically like a member of your family, you want to take that dog out to have fun. I also get that when you know your dog is well trained, you think being afraid of it is just silly. But I wish those people could hold Aidan after a big dog gets close to him, or chases him – to feel him shake and see the terror in his eyes. It is a real thing, this fear. It should be treated with respect.


Could you share some of that with your brother?

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Parenting three boys is an eternally frustrating experience. With most things I’ve had to learn in my life, there was a learning curve, but eventually I was able to succeed. (Cooking, playing basketball and getting along with small-minded people being three big exceptions to this rule.)

But the learning curve in parenting seems to be still heading up, up, up. Even if I figure out how to handle a challenge with one son, the next son comes along and I find that my first solution is completely worthless with that one. You’d think that kids would all be somewhat the same, and that with all boys my kids would be even more similar to each other. But I keep finding, as my kids march through Middle Childhood, that they are each as unique as snowflakes…although not nearly as fluffy and delightful.

For example, I feel like I have given all my boys the same amount of positive encouragement and the same absurd number of compliments every day of their lives. As a mother of sons, I feel it is my sworn duty to make sure all of them are just stuffed full of confidence. That way, no future girlfriend or wife will ever be able convince them that they aren’t perfect. In this way I make sure that my boys will always love Mommy best. (You’re welcome, future girlfriend or wife.)

Yet, despite the equal helpings of “You’re so handsome!” and “Has there ever been a boy as smart/athletic/funny/sweet as you?” my two older sons view themselves vastly differently.

Nine-year-old Mack is, in many ways, an absolute mess. He’s hyper and loud and never works up to his full potential. He fights with his friends constantly and has never met a jacket he couldn’t lose and, sadly, seems to have inherited his physical coordination from me, not his dad. His teacher hates him and one of his football coaches this year actually physically attacked him. He drives people crazy.

But Mack has more self-confidence than any person you have ever met in your life. He enters every room with the assumption that he is the coolest, most fabulous person there. And if you don’t agree with him, he just feels sorry for you for being so sadly mistaken. (Here is where I stop to point out that despite his foibles, Mack is also truly exceptional and wonderful in a myriad of ways, and I’m proud that he is my son, blah blah blah.)

Then there is Aidan, who recently turned seven. All of the things that come hard for Mack come easy for Aidan. He enjoys school and loves his teachers and works hard to please. He’s a natural at every sport he’s ever tried, hears it immediately when he plays a wrong note during piano practice, and loves to make a room neat and tidy. Sure, Aidan is a bit nuts, but he’s so sweet and earnest that people can’t help but forgive him when he acts up.

And Aidan, sweet Aidan, is a teeming mass of insecurity. If I tell him he’s a great reader he replies, “I’m not as good as Lauren.” If I admire a drawing he made, he’ll say, “You should see how Caroline can draw.” Any time he gets a haircut or wears a new shirt for the first time, he frets that the other kids will make fun of him. He seems inherently unable to see how wonderful he as.

How can two boys who have been raised by the same parents see themselves so differently? It’s especially strange considering that they both have so many of the same gifts and do so many of the same things. Why does Mack seem to absorb only the good things he hears about himself, why Aidan seems to block out all but the negative? How can I teach Mack some humility and Aidan some confidence when I don’t know why their outlooks diverged so far to begin with?

I’ll close with the specific anecdote that got me thinking about this topic, just because I think it is funny. As part of an anti-bullying program at school, both Mack and Aidan recently completed a form about tolerance and self respect. The first part of the form listed various behaviors and asked the kids to rank how often they did well at these things (“I am responsible,” “I am a good citizen of my school”). At the end of the form were four blank lines for the kids to fill in an answer to the question, “I also respect myself because…”

Aidan wrote about how he always treats his friends nicely, and he works hard and always does his best.

Mack used the four lines to write three words: “I am awesome.”


I wish I could just put him in bubble wrap

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I’m told that every family has one of these…the kid who just can’t seem to stay out of the emergency room.

In our family, that kid is Aidan. Mack and Reid have a combined total of zero broken bones, zero times getting stitches, zero times getting their head stapled back together. But Aidan works overtime to pick up his brothers’ slack. As Eva Cassidy was born to sing and Michael Phelps was born to swim, sometimes it seems Aidan was born to visit the emergency room.

Last week, Aidan turned to grab his backpack off the kitchen island, about to head out the door to school. He tripped over his Converse All Stars and fell into the counter. If it had been Mack or Reid, they might have hit their head, but it would have been a minor incident. A minute of tears, a small bruise, and on with the day. But because it was Aidan, he slammed right into the corner of the island and opened a deep, inch-long gash near his eyebrow. He started screaming, and I turned to say, “Come on bud, you’re okay.” (I had thoughts of the ever-approaching school bus on my mind.) He moved his hand away from the cut and I saw that the whole side of his face was covered in blood. I handled this with my usual aplomb…screaming, “Byron! Byron!”

So no school for Aidan, as off we went to the hospital. He was, as always, a fantastic patient as the doctor closed his cut with four sutures. The nurses all commented on how calm and good Aidan was. I replied, “Well, unfortunately, he is an old pro at this.” Aidan added, “One time I had 23 stitches. That took a lot longer.”

Aidan has mixed feelings about his supernatural ability to get injured. Right after he gets hurt, he usually asks, “Why me? Why is it always me?” But after he calms down, he takes obvious pride in his toughness, telling anyone who will listen, “I barely cried. I cried for like one minute.”

He is also extremely proud of the ever-increasing total of ER visits he is racking up. Remember how I said that every family has this kid? Well, when I was growing up, that kid was definitely my sister, Emily. She was famous for taking a seemingly minor fall and then having to go get stitches, usually in her face. I’ve told Aidan many times that he shares this trait with his beloved Auntie Emmy. So when Aidan saw Emily at school a couple of days after his injury, he told her that he had counted, and this was his seventh ER visit. He was tickled when Emily replied that he’d better not beat her family record.

I have a bad feeling that he will, though.


This ain’t NASA, kid

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Aidan and Mack brought home their report cards today.

Aidan had a great report, with good grades, a compliment for his progress in reading, and only two points of concern. Apparently he has trouble “Using the appropriate volume for the situation” when speaking. No big deal. I’ve been to lunch in the cafeteria and, in my opinion, every kid in the school needs an X by that one. The report also said he struggles with “Practicing self-discipline.” What? My Aidan? No!

Actually, practicing self-discipline isn’t one of my strong points either. All in all, I thought my little first grader acquitted himself quite well.

Mack’s report card was a bit more problematic. He has been struggling a great deal this year. The academic rigors of fourth grade and of his particular teacher have been challenges for him. In addition, his teacher has seemingly zero patience for the shortcomings of Mack’s strong and admittedly difficult personality. Mack has always struggled to sit and be quiet in class. He likes to talk, does not like to listen, and doesn’t do well in groups unless he is in charge of them. Many of Mack’s past teachers have had issues with Mack’s behavior. But the others have all taken pains to point out that his personality has positives along with negatives, i.e. “I wish he would raise his hand before talking…but when he does talk he always contributes great ideas.”

But his current teacher seems to have missed the day where they explained sugar-coating. She and Mack have been clashing all year and she hasn’t bothered to soften her critiques with any compliments.

Thus I was thrilled to see that Mack earned straight As on his report card – a wonderful surprise as he struggled with difficult math and science units this quarter. But along with all the As were eight different negative marks in non-academic areas like listening, following directions and conduct. (Shockingly, Mack apparently also struggles to “Practice self-discipline.”)

As a mother, this kind of report card is hard to absorb. On the one hand, I love having a smart kid who did so well academically. On the other hand, it is obvious that his teacher thinks he’s destined to be the smartest convict on death row.

The teacher earned some of my afternoon ire because I honestly felt she was too hard on Mack. I mean, I know he can be incredibly frustrating. But it is rare for me to be in the school and not see some student or another being carried down the hall in the throws of a screaming tantrum. Maybe Mack asks too many questions and talks out of turn, but he never throws desks across the room or attacks fellow students. Can’t we grade on a curve here?

But Mack, obviously, earned the majority of my frustration. I sat down with him and said, “What can we do to make this better?” I told him how disappointed I was. His response was that, “Austin got a B in reading!” (“B” pronounced in a tone that makes it sound like “flesh-eating virus.”) I replied that I would far prefer it if Mack had gotten a report card with a B on it, but with positive marks in conduct.

“Why?”

“Because it is good to be smart. But it doesn’t matter how smart you are if you can’t get along with people. Nobody wants to work with someone who is an a-hole all the time. You have to listen and work with people to get anywhere in life.”

He replied, “Buzz Aldrin was an a-hole and he got to go to the moon.”

And you know, I thought that was a good enough response that I let him off the hook on the report card until after dinner.


You can always count on other parents to make you feel better

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This morning, early, my two older boys were signed up to compete in a swim meet. They swim for a local team which recently became the number-one-ranked youth team in the entire nation. This has absolutely nothing to do with Mack and Aidan. It is based mostly on the “senior swimmers,” the teenagers who compete in national events. But the organization is quite a thing to behold, and many of the best young swimmers in the area are a part of it.

Mack and Aidan pretty much just swim for themselves, trying to beat their own best times from previous meets. It is good exercise during the winter, and good practice for their summer season, when they swim with the neighborhood team and have the chance to place much higher.

Knowing that they probably wouldn’t win any ribbons, I felt guilty dragging them out of their beds at what seemed like the crack of dawn this morning. We’ve been experiencing a cold snap here, and the temperature was in the teens – which makes us all want to put on bathing suits, right?

But we had a committment to be at the pool, so I roused Mack and told him he could just wear his pajamas into the car if he wanted to. Then I tried for a couple of minutes to wake Aidan, who when he finally woke, sat straight up, looked at me and said, “Now all the letters in my brain are gray!”

Which is one of the more interesting things one of my kids has ever said to me; I actually came downstairs and wrote it down right away, so I wouldn’t forget exactly what he said. What letters? Letters like A-B-C, or like letters to Santa? What color were they before I woke you? I wanted to know more, but we were late. (We’re always late.)

So we drove to the meet, and I hustled them off (late) to their coaches and found six inches of free space on one of the packed bleachers. I picked up my library book and sighed, feeling kind of guilty that my guys weren’t snuggled warm in their beds. (Like their Dad. But that’s another blog entry altogether.)

As I sat there, I listened to two Swim Dads having a loud conversation in front of the bleachers. Tall Swim Dad was saying, “Oh, I know. I get that too. Ever since she injured her shoulder, every little time she has pain it’s, ‘My shoulder! I can’t swim!’ And a lot of times it isn’t even her shoulder, it’s [holds up arm to demonstrate] like her trapezoid (sic) or her elbow. And I’m like, ‘You have a choice. You can decide you are injured and freak out about it. Or you can decide you’re going to push through, and just get out there and swim. Either way, I can tell you, you are going to get in that water.’”

I was thinking that this guy was pretty over the top. But Other Swim Dad was nodding and listening. Tall Swim Dad went on for a while, as I half listened, about how they still didn’t know what high school his daughter was going to choose (I thought, “She’s not in high school yet and he talks like this!”), and she wanted to go to this one, but he liked this other one because they had a pool right there on site.

Suddenly I heard a child say, “Daddy…” and I looked up to see a girl approaching Tall Swim Dad. He had a quick conversation with her, reminded her to really “work her dolphin” on her flip turn, and sent her on her way. I kid you not, the girl was 45 inches tall. She could not have been older than six, or maybe a really, really petite seven. She is probably in first or second grade.

My jaw dropped. I wanted to grab her and stick her in one of my kids’ gigantic swim bags (she would have fit) and smuggle her out of there. But she probably would have screamed and, really, who needs the hassle.

I felt way, way less guilty about my parenting choices for the rest of the morning.


Innocent bystander

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Those who have spent more than five minutes around my middle son, Aidan, have probably heard his story of the time he was hit in the head with “a metal baseball bat” by his older brother, Mack. (If not, search this site for the items tagged “ouch” and you’ll find it.)

Aidan got 23 stitches in the face that day, and that was just one of the three times Mack has put his little brother in the ER with broken bones or cuts.

You’d think Mack would carry around some feelings of guilt about repeatedly brutalizing his younger sibling. But…no.

Today, Mack brought home a project he created in the computer lab. It listed different goods and services, and had descriptive sentences about each one. Under goods, he listed ice cream (“I love ice cream! My favorite flavor is cookie dough.”) and football (“I am a great QB. I want to be a football player when I grow up.”) among others.

Under services, he listed stores (“I like to get footballs and jerseys and toys at stores.”) and the hospital. For the hospital, his descriptive sentence was, “When my brother gets hurt we go to the hospital.”


I owe someone a really big apology

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Last night, our elementary school held its Back to School Night for parents of kindergarteners and first graders. As the proud parents of one of those kindergarteners, Byron and I abandoned our boys in the care of their Grammy and headed over to the school.

I should mention that Byron has severe, chronic back problems. He has had two surgeries on his back and neck, but still has to deal with recurring pain in various levels of intensity. He is currently in the throes of a terrible flare up and has hardly been able to walk for the past week. In fact, he even had to cancel a business trip this week – and if he actually cancels a work trip, you know it is serious. But he managed to make it over to the school and through the principal’s welcome.

Once we moved down to Aidan’s classroom, though, I could tell Byron was in a lot of pain. I looked around and realized that we were all, of course, supposed to sit in those tiny little kindergartener chairs the size of toadstools. Some people chose to stand for the hour, instead. But I knew neither option would work for Byron. So I scurried about, looking for a solution. The teacher was nice enough to pull out her desk chair for Byron to use. (You could see some of the other daddies looking on with envy and wondering if they should have pretended to have back issues.) Byron made it through most of the presentation, and we only had to cut out a few minutes early.

Okay, a successful outcome, right? Not so fast. This morning my sister Emily, who teaches at our school, called me. She said, “Did you write a note for Aidan last night?” Huh? It seems that at some point during those first few minutes in the classroom, the teacher said that each parent should write a little note for his or her child and leave it on the desk. I think I was so busy running around looking for a chair that I missed this entirely. And then Byron and I didn’t sit at Aidan’s desk – we sat up by the teacher’s desk so Byron could use her human-sized chair. So I didn’t notice other parents writing these notes, and get clued in. Finally, we left a couple minutes early, so I didn’t notice notes laid out at each place.

Maybe I should have thought, on my own, to leave Aidan a little note. But the dude can’t really read, so it just didn’t occur to me.

Well, I guess everyone in class got to school today, walked to their seats, and found notes from mommy or daddy. Well, 26 kids did. One kid had nothing.

Aidan’s teacher did her best to control the situation. She explained to Aidan that his mommy and daddy didn’t sit at his desk, so maybe the note was somewhere else. And she even walked him down the hall to my sister’s room, to ask her whether she knew anything about the note. My sister scrambled, called me, and wrote a little note to take down to him. She assured me that Aidan seemed to be handling it well.

But I am not handling it well. I am devastated. Man, you think you know the mistakes you are going to make as a parent. You give them the chocolate Pop-Tart for breakfast and you think, “I am a terrible mother.” You make them play in the soccer game when they are complaining that their stomach hurts and you think, “I am a mean mother.” But the ones like this, the mistakes you didn’t see coming, these are the ones that really break your heart.


Why do we even bother?

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After a particularly busy weekend, I was relieved to ship the kids off to school this morning. But the respite was brief, as we spent the afternoon and early evening running from piano practice to soccer, to the other soccer field, to the playground.

As I pushed Reid on the swings, I finally had a chance to ask Aidan how kindergarten treated him today. He said he had a great day. I asked what his favorite thing was and he replied that it was when each child took a turn telling the class what they did over the weekend.

Oh, wow. Mentally I flashed over the events of Aidan’s weekend. On Friday he had swim team practice, followed by a movie at home. On Saturday he scored a goal in his soccer game, then spent the night at his Grammy’s house as a special late-birthday celebration. Said celebration involved ice cream from Cold Stone Creamery, pizza, fudgsicles and something called chocolate lava cake. On Sunday our whole family went to a local orchard and picked apples. Then Aidan ran in a cross-country invitational and placed second in his age group.

I wondered which of these special activities he would have chosen to share with his class.

“What did you say on your turn?”

“I said I just sat around and played video games.”