After undergraduate school, I lived in a basement apartment about the size and shape of a phone booth. At one end was a twin bed, and at the other end was a love seat. Next to the bed was a narrow, wooden crate. I kept my alarm clock on that shelf and my TV — an appliance I received as a pity loan — balanced on top. At the foot of the bed was a closet so shallow that the corners of the hangers bumped the back of the door.

Between the bed and the love seat was what I called the kitchen. A white enamel counter top followed the wall for about five feet before bending into an “L” and extending for another two feet. In the center was a sink about the size of a large dictionary. Next to that were two electric burners — a glorified hot plate.

Beneath the stove, just before the “L,” was a small refrigerator that may have been designed by Fischer-Price. Inside was a freezer about the size of a shoebox that sealed itself closed with ice every seven to ten days. Typically, people place things into a freezer for long-term storage. If I failed to eat my frozen goods quickly, I had to free them with a hammer.

I had no phone (I used a pay phone in town) and no car.

What I did have was food.

For first time, I alone was responsible for what I ate. In college I went to the cafeteria. Before that, I lived at home. So I started cooking. Each weekend, I’d grab my backpack, climb onto my bike and ride to the small grocery store about a mile away. With my haul strapped down with bungie cord, I’d ride home.

Combine 1/4 oz. 2 lbs. cremini mushrooms (halved if small, quartered if large); 1 onion halved and sliced thin; 2 tsp. olive oil; 1/4 rinsed and dried porcini mushrooms; 1 tsp. minced fresh rosemary; 1/4 tsp. salt in a large Dutch oven. Cover and cook over medium-low heat, stirring occasionally, until the vegetables are softened, about 10 minutes. Uncover, increase the heat to medium-high, and continue to cook, stirring occasionally, until vegetables are slightly browned, 5-6 minutes longer.

At first, I prepared the simple foods I enjoy; chili, hot wings, fried chicken. The chili gave me food poisoning and the smell of greasy fried chicken was in the air for a week.

Elaborate cooking was difficult (with only two seven-inch electric burners, almost everything qualified as “elaborate”), but I still held dinner parties for my non-claustrophobic friends. One particular summer evening my girlfriend, her friend and my sister visited to eat lobsters. I bought several sticks of butter for dipping and a large bag of oyster crackers. I was very proud of the huge lobster pot I had bought just for the occasion and filled it 3/4 full of water, set it on a burner and turned up the heat.

Half an hour later, small bubbles had just started to form at the bottom of the pot, we had eaten all of the crackers (after dipping them in the melted butter) and my girlfriend suggested that we ask my landlord the caterer if we could use her “normal” stove to boil the lobsters, who had begun to show signs of hope and relief on their little faces.

Eventually, I returned to the foods I enjoyed on cozy Pennsylvania evenings: soft string beans in steaming cream of mushroom soup, topped with crunchy, fried onions; dry toast dipped in hot coffee for breakfast; elbow macaroni with butter and grated cheese; my grandmother’s creamy polenta with vegetables. With each plate I remembered not only how to prepare these dishes, but why.

Stir in 2 minced cloves of garlic and cook until fragrant, about 30 seconds. Add 12 ounces of spinach, one handful at a time, and cook until wilted. Stir in 2 cups of halved cherry tomatoes and cook until softened, about 2 minutes. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Cover and take off the heat.

My mother made green bean casserole because her mother did, and maybe even her mother before her. The ingredients were inexpensive and could feed a hungry family. That’s all they had, and that’s what they used.

Meanwhile, bring 4 cups of water and 1/2 tsp. salt to a boil in a heavy-bottomed pan. Slowly add 1 cup coarsely ground cornmeal, whisking constantly.

Today, we eat these dishes because we ought to. We eat them to know where we came from, to acknowledge the sacrifices that our parents and our parents’ parents made to feed their children, their spouses, their friends. We dip our bread into simmering pots of pasta sauce to taste our family culture. We eat meatloaf sandwiches to remember the simple meals that nourished our forebearers. We sit at the table to honor our grandparents, our parents, ourselves and our children.

Bring to a simmer, stirring constantly. Reduce heat to low, cover and cook, stirring vigorously (be sure to stir the corners of the pot), until the polenta becomes soft and smooth, about 10-15 minutes. Off the heat, vigorously stir in 6 tbsp. of grated Parmesan cheese and 1/2 stick of butter, cut into 1/2 pieces. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Divide the polenta among 4 bowls. Cover it with the vegetable mixture and sprinkle on some additional cheese. Serve hot.

William stars at me from across the table, a steaming plate of creamy polenta with vegetables before him. “Why do I have to eat this?” he whines, crinkling his nose into a knot.

“Because that’s what we do,” I say.

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“Moms, don’t pay attention to the way Dad does things.”

Now let me make it very clear that this is NOT one of those “silly fumbling Daddy just can’t get the poopy diaper right” deals that seems to pass as comedy these days. I detest that nonsense and, frankly, find it insulting. However, it is true that my wife and I do certain things differently. For example:

• I have washed my son off with the sprayer in the kitchen sink. I’m pretty sure my wife has not.
• I told Grace that sticking raspberries on the ends of her fingers is “funny.” I think “rude” was the word my wife used.

• I’ve noted that I think it’s a riot when Grace’s  poo-poo “looks like tortellini,” and encourage her to compare it to other nouns in her world: Animals, toys, even Dora the Explorer.

The biggest discrepancy is hair. I suck at girl hair. I can pull it up into some semblance of a ponytail, but there are always wispy stragglers waving about her face. I defend my “daddy-do,” as it’s called, as “natural-looking.”

My wife, on the other hand, brushes that mop until it gleams and manages to get all of Grace’s hair into the elastic through what I suspect is a miracle. Plus, once up, her hair stays in place all day. It’s really something to see.

Dress is another issue. William has a T-shirt that I absolutely love to put on him. It says “For Sale: $75 or best offer.” It’s a hit at story hour and really shocks the blue hairs at the grocery store. My preferred outfit for Grace is a New England Patriots jersey and some jeans. My wife prefers to, “dress her like a girl.” She is cute in a dress, but does she really need to look like Holly Hobby every day?

Finally, let’s talk about the nighttime routine. I admit that I’m a sucker. Our routine is, roughly:
• jammies
• teeth
• books
• kiss and hug
• bed

Grace is extremely skilled at suckering me into “just one more book.” She blinks those little Bambi eyes and next thing I know we’re on book number seven. I emerge from the room wiped, and my wife is smirking on the couch. “How many books did you read tonight, dear?”

“Three,” I say.

“Liar,” she says. “You’re a sucker.”

Yeah, I probably am.  But the way I figure it, that makes up for everything else.

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First of all, the outdoor shower is up and running to rinse the kids. As soon as we get home it’s swimsuits off and under the shower. Also, the clothesline has been strung up for the swimsuits and Strawberry Shortcake beach towels (as an aside, nothing says “Manhood” like pinning Strawberry Shortcake beach towels and princess swimsuits to a clothesline). I’ve also mounted several hooks to the ceiling of the tool shed to hang bags of toys, beach chairs and so on.

It sounds like we’re well prepared, but Bill still manages to smuggle sand into the house.

In his butt.

The kid eats sand. I don’t mean a few stray grains make their way into his mouth, I mean he’s shoving it in like it’s cotton candy. I can only guess that it’s salty, and that’s what he likes. Or maybe dried seaweed and stray hermit crab parts make quite a nice seafood salad. Either way, we tell him, “No, William, we don’t eat sand,” to which he grins and shoves sand into his mouth. I’m fairly certain I don’t have to tell you what happens at diaper-changing time.

I’ve been on Google researching “eating sand” (because I’ve convinced myself there’s something “wrong” with him), and it seems that it’s rather common and eventually goes away.

What has your experience been, dear readers? Do your kids treat the beach or sandbox as their personal buffet?

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Years later my aunt brought me to an Indy Car race. I saw Mario Andretti’s car up close, stuffed myself with junk food and then threw it all up again on the way home.

As the years went on my sisters and I buried three dogs, two cats, and a brown rabbit named Rainbow. These are the things that a child remembers: Feeling special with dad; a fun outing with a favorite aunt; burying the family pet.

Last week Grace piped up from the car seat. “Dad, remember when you played that funny game where you put my green coat on your head and marched up and down the hallway? That was funny.”

“Yeah,” I said, and the weight of what happened in that instant was suddenly overwhelming.

“Dear God,” I thought. “I’m responsible for their childhood memories.”

I started to do the math. “Okay,” I thought. “William is only four ….” I searched for the oldest files in my mind — what I could recall from being 4. I clearly remember the boy who ate all the purple crayons — and ONLY the purple crayons — in kindergarten. I must have been 4 or 5 years old at the time, which means that William is in The Danger Zone: he might recall what I do from here on out. I felt a mild rising panic as I proceeded to try to identify any “standout” events from the past year.

There was the night I inadvertently dropped the F-bomb in front of him (not that there’s anything wrong with that), which he was thrilled to repeat. I’ve been known to let him paint shoulder-length “gloves” on himself, but only for formal occasions. I’m still regretting the night I laughed hysterically as he compared his poo to tortellini.

I was still obsessing over all of this as I put the kids to bed. Usually, my wife tucks William in, sings his lullabies, and asks about his favorite part of the day. But since she was stuck at a PTA meeting, I had to do it. I followed William into his room. He got into bed and I turned out the light.

“Mom’s not here,” I said, “so I’ll sing your lullabies tonight. What songs does mommy sing?”

“She sings that mommy one,” He answered.

“Well, what’s it called?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s just a mommy one.”

I could see that I was on a dead-end street, so I changed tactics. “Well, I know ‘Rainbow Connection,’” I said. “Would you like me to sing that?” He nodded, and I sang.

When I finished, he said, “Okay, that’s the Daddy Lullaby.”

I smiled, and asked him, “So what was your favorite part of the day?”

He said, “Your lullaby.”

It ain’t pulling the guts from a fish, but it’s a start.

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“I shall call him…Mini Me.” – Dr. Evil

“Join me, and together we can rule the galaxy as father and son.” – Darth Vader

I’m a nerd. Before you say, “Oh, Dave, no you’re not,” let me stop you. Yes, I am, and I love it.

I watch Nova. I’ve seen the Star Wars movies more often than George Lucas has. Charts and graphs make me happy. I long for my days in band (not “a band” like Van Halen, but “band,” like “ride the bus with the woodwind section.”).

My iPod is full of audio books, not music, and our basement is brimming with vintage computers in various states of repair, especially the room I’ve cornered off as my Man Cave. Furthermore, I believe that everything in the world is a knowable system. For a thorough description of a nerd’s perspective, look here.

As a kid I spent a lot of time taking things apart, much to my parents’ dismay, to see how they work. Radios, clocks, etc. all ended up a pile of parts on the basement floor. The cool thing is, my kids seem to be future nerds. Nerdettes, if you will. Here is the evidence I put forth.

Exhibit A

I love to watch How It’s Made on The Discovery Channel. If you haven’t seen it, I’ll tell you what you’re missing. Each week, they take their cameras into a factory and shoot the process of constructing several products. One week you’ll get pretzels, cymbals and computer mice. The next, honey baked hams, light bulbs and sail boards. Sound awesome? It is.

Recently, the kids wandered in as I was watching. They were instantly riveted to the screen. Unblinking. William stared at the TV as if it were about to dispense chocolate bars. Now, when I offer them some TV time, I ask, “What would you kids like to watch?” “How It’s Made!” they scream. “How It’s Made!” I tear up a little.

Exhibit B

They’re insane for electronics. When I get the laptop out and plop it on my lap, the kids sprint over. Not only because they think they’ll get a chance to play Starfall, but because they get to press buttons. Tiny fingers peck at the keyboard like seagulls. I decided to test my theory buy giving them a busted computer keyboard to bang on. The love it so much, it’s in the toy box to this day.

Exhibit C

This is the most telling of all. The have an unquenchable thirst for information. I know that’s part of being a toddler, but it’s like they actually derive life-sustaining nourishment from facts and figures.

For example, William’s favorite words are “What’s” and “that.” He never stops asking, nor is he ever satisfied with the answer.

“Daddy, what’s that?”

“That’s a bird, honey.”

“But what IS that?”

“Um…oh, a toucan.”

“But how can that be a toucan?”

“Well, a toucan is a kind of a bird.”

He scrunches his face. “But what IS that?”

Exactly, my young nerd. The world is a knowable system. You may anticipate a future of Sci-Fi, logic puzzles and more. It’s going to be awesome.

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And, wouldn’t you know — I paused when I found the shot you see above.

The picture was taken in December of 2005, on the first of three nights we spent without power, following a terrible wind and ice storm that tossed a pine tree onto my wife’s Nissan. Ah, New England. It’s so nice here.

Grace was just 2 years old at the time and William was an infant. The only candles we had were scented, so our dark, frigid house smelled powerfully of “Fresh Linen,” “Lilac,” and “Mountain Breeze” all at once.

“This must be what it’s like to visit a brothel in northern Alaska,” I told my wife. She didn’t think I was funny.

The house got very cold as soon as the sun went down. We stuffed the children into their entire winter wardrobes, and to quote Jean Shepard, Grace “looked like a tic that was about to pop.”

I fretted about the kids being uncomfortable (or worse), I obsessed about the food that was going bad, I worried that the pipes might burst. The darkness made me increasingly stir-crazy. And I couldn’t bear the uncertainty: How much longer would we be without power? An hour? A week?

‘Ol Dave was coming unhinged.

Staring at that photo of Grace shivering and chewing American Cheese slices by flashlight, I couldn’t help but think of the cold mornings of my own childhood.

Our house in Pennsylvania was heated by a coal furnace. The basement of our thin home had a dirt floor and stone walls, and even as a 9-year-old I had to stoop to avoid scraping the ceiling. At one end was a great blazing furnace that sat next to the “coal bin.” This was no more than a boarded-up corner of the room, filled to the top with apple-sized chunks of coal. A corkscrew device pulled coal out of the coal bin and into the furnace as needed. The spent ash fell into a steel “ash can” beneath the fire that had to be periodically swapped out for an empty one.

If there’s one thing coal fires like to do, it’s extinguish themselves. They’re the most suicidal of all fires. Some mornings I’d wake up and smell smoke, and I’d know my father was in that dank basement, trying to get a new fire going. In the kitchen, my sister would be wrapped in a blanket, perched on a chair in front of the oven, its door wide open and the heat blazing. Pots of water simmered on the stove top burners. I’d climb onto the empty chair that awaited me next to my sister.

My mother would call us to the kitchen sink one at a time, where she’d have us stand on a chair and lean in. She’d wash our hair with just the right blend of warm water from the stove and cold from the tap, and I’d listen to my own breathing in the sink while she scrubbed my soapy head. Then, with our hair washed and dried, we’d eat our Cap’n Crunch or Rice Krispies back in our stove-front seats.

Eventually, my father would return to the kitchen (the basement could only be accessed by first exiting the house, which made these winter morning surprises that much better), covered in soot and aggravation. The fire was lit and soon the house would be warm.

I was jolted from my memory by Grace’s voice. “Remember that, Daddy?” she said, pointing to the picture of herself with the flashlight.

“Yeah,” I said. “What a weekend.”

“That was fun,” she said.

Fun!?! I thought. I was a nervous wreck! I though you two were going to freeze to death! I was going bonkers in all that darkness!

“I like those flashlights,” she said, and then wandered off.

I guess I make a lot of assumptions as a parent. Not only about what the kids’ll want to eat on a given day or what games they’ll want to play, but also about how they process our shared experiences. I wonder if my father did the same.

I really loved those frosty mornings of my childhood — the soap smell and the swirling water; the blue flames in the oven and that hot, dry air on my face; my feet dangling above the cold linoleum. My father, I know for a fact, did not. It’s a funny thing.

And I still haven’t sorted my pictures.

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December brings lists, and MSNBC has published the top baby names of the decade. Thanks to celebrities like Gweneth Paltrow, afflictions like Apple and Nevaeh (“heaven” spelled backward) are more popular than ever. Fortunately, classics like Emma and Emily, Jacob and Matthew are still in the top ten.

I agree with George above: Nine times out of ten, Nicky, Vinny and Tony will beat the shit out of Todd, Kyle and Tucker.

Top 10 girl baby names of the decade

Emma
Emily
Madison
Sophia
Isabella
Kaitlyn
Ava
Hailey
Hannah
Olivia

Top 10 boy baby names of the decade

Aiden
Jacob
Ethan
Matthew
Nicholas
Jack
Joshua
Ryan
Michael
Andrew

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If you missed your show, you were out of luck. Back to snow and M*A*S*H for another week.

That was then.

Thanks to the miracle of TiVo, our kids rewind live TV, hitting the pause button and ask for specific episodes. Darn whipper-snappers.

There are entire networks that air nothing but children’s programming, 24/7. Most are garbage: Twenty-two minutes of programming wrapped around eight minutes of ads or worse, an entire show that promotes a doll, action figure, play set, etc.

As a former latchkey kid who watched more television than a Nielsen family, I’m strict about how much time the kids spend in front of the tube. While flipping past the junk, I’ve identified five shows that I’m happy to let my kids watch. In fact, I think they’re kind of fun myself. Here they are, in no particular order.

Charlie and Lola

The animated series based on the books by Lauren Child is charming in every way. Young Lola Sonner is inquisitive yet cautious. With the help of her older brother Charlie, best friend Lotta, and invisible friend Soren Lorensen, Lola overcomes anxiety about the first day of school, eats a tomato, and learns to watch after Sizzles, a friend’s dog.

The animation is adorable, with beautifully colorful backgrounds. The show places Lola, who reminds me of my own Gracie, in predicaments typical of a five- or six-year-old, and offers age-appropriate solutions. Plus, those tiny voices with English accents are so darn cute you think your head will explode. Charlie and Lola is very definitely, absolutely (as Lola would say) a good show.

The Backyardagins

This show features five friends whose homes stand in a row on the street. As a result, they share a common back yard, and spend each day imagining elaborate, make-believe play scenarios.

It features lots of singing. In fact, you could almost call each episode a musical in the theatrical sense. I’ve noticed that, since getting into the show, my kids sing a lot more. All the time, in fact. They also want to engage in the same imaginative play as the backyard friends.

Our own swing becomes a castle, an Egyptian pyramid, or a simmering volcano. The songs are catchy (I dare you to watch the “Mighty Knights” episode. You’ll be singing “We’re Knights” all day) and fun.

Now, I know that a toddler’s imagination is a fertile ground, and doesn’t need a TV show to get it going, but I have seen Grace’s play scenarios grow more elaborate over the last few weeks.

Nanalan’

Here’s the show William loves. Young Mona is a 2-year-old who spends days with her grandmother, or “Nana,” while her mother works. Sound familiar, anyone? It’s immediately familiar for many.

Each day, Nana has a new activity planned for Mona. Sometimes they cook, paint, use Play-Doh, or draw. Certain things they do every day, like sing a song and watch a puppet show (funny, as they themselves are puppets) as performed by Nana’s next-door neighbor, Mr. Wooka (my wife and I suspect that they’re dating). Each episode ends when Mona’s mother picks her up and they recount the day’s activities in the car.

The puppeteering is very well done, the stories are sweet and the writing is great. There is no fighting, explosions, or anvils — just a young toddler having a fun day with her grandmother.

I’ve used the show as a jumping-off point with William. Recently, Nana and Mona made a Play-Doh duck on a rainy day. After watching that episode, William and I spend most of the afternoon making ducks, cows, and just about every animal we could think of complete with a barn and a tractor. He wanted to do it because Mona did, and once he and I got rocking, it was a veritable Play-Doh Festival.

Curious George

Replace Mona with a monkey and Nana with The Man in the Yellow Hat, and you’ve got Curious George (more or less). George gets into predicaments familiar to many toddlers, as we’ve seen in other shows.

What I like is the focus on George’s problem-solving. The bulk of the show follows George as he is presented with a problem, devises a hypothesis, tests it, and observes the results. He either identifies and addresses what went wrong, or celebrates his success. It’s the Scientific Method for the pre-school set!

Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood

How could you possibly go wrong with Fred Rogers? Also, what can be said that hasn’t been stated or written already? Fred demonstrated the same curiosity that my toddlers express every day. Typically, there’s a sequence of something being manufactured in a factory or workshop, and the kids love those scenes.

So there you have my top five children’s shows. Now, I know that the TV is not a babysitter, that I ought to be on the floor engaging my kids. Believe me, I do. I’m a darn good dad, if I may say so.

I also recognize that, just like the adults I know, my kids need to quietly unwind in the late afternoon. At that time, an hour of TV — good TV — certainly won’t kill them.

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Part 1: Overheard at the Harley Davidson Dealership

William: That’s a motorcycle!
Me: Yes.
William: It’s cool!
Me: Yes.
William:…and pretty.
Me: No. No, no no. No.

———-

Part 2: Overheard from the booster seat

William, upon noticing his runny nose: My nose is coming down.

———-

Part 3: Overheard at breakfast

Grace: Oh, it died.
Me: It “died”?
Grace: Yes.
Me: What died?
Grace: The butter.
Me: The butter died.
Grace: Yes. You need to put more.
Me: On top of your dead butter.
Grace: Yes.
Me: Um, Okay.

Part 4: Overheard on the couch

Me: When can I have a day when I sleep as late as I want and then do whatever I want?
My wife: In about fifteen years.
Me: Right.

———-

Part 5: Overheard from the playroom

Grace: Dad, I’m almost making a beautiful picture.

———-

Part 6: Overheard in the yard

Grace: Oh, no! My tie came unshoed!

———-

Part 7: Overheard while browsing photos

Me: Look at these new pictures of William
My wife: God, he’s so frickin’ cute.
Me: Yeah. He looks so grown up.
My wife: Don’t you think he’s especially good looking?
Me: Well, of course. But, I’m his father, so…
My wife: No, I mean he’s really amazingly beautiful. When we’re at the playground, with the ugly children…
Me: UGLY CHILDREN?!?
My wife: What? I said “other children.”
Me: No, you totally said “ugly children.”
My wife: No, I did not.

Oh, yes she absolutely did.

———-

Part 8: Overheard outside

William, upon noticing fast-moving clouds:“The sky is moving!”

———-

Part 9: Overheard amid a pile of princess toys

William, after putting on his Batman sunglasses:

“Grace, do I look black?”

———-

Part 10: Overheard from my own mouth:

“Honey, don’t clean that with toast.”

———-

Part 11: Overheard while watching Zaboomafoo:

Grace: “When a turtle makes an egg, it poops it out.”

———-

Part 12: Overheard from Grace

“Daddy, make a silly joke today…PLEASE!”

———-

Part 13: Overheard while coloring.

Me: “Oh, William! That’s pretty!”
William: “It’s not pretty! It’s orange!”

———-

Part 14: Overheard at preschool:

Teacher: “Do you like the Red Sox?”
Grace: “I don’t have any red socks.”

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I didn’t go through a fear of monsters as a boy. I slept with a night light, the hall light on and the door open, but really, I was fine.

When Grace was just about three, she started talking about monsters and a general fear of the dark at bedtime. Being a clever nerd, I decided that I could override the irrational fears of a toddler. I set to work.

One night after stories and lullabies, she offered, “But there are no monsters in here.”

“Monsters,” I said. “You like monsters! Who are the monsters you know?”

I didn’t go through a fear of monsters as a boy. I slept with a night light, the hall light on and the door open, but really, I was fine.

When Grace was just about three, she started talking about monsters and a general fear of the dark at bedtime. Being a clever nerd, I decided that I could override the irrational fears of a toddler. I set to work.

One night after stories and lullabies, she offered, “But there are no monsters in here.”

“Monsters,” I said. “You like monsters! Who are the monsters you know?”

She stared at me as if I had grown a second and third head of my own. “Elmo is a monster. He’s funny. Telly Monster is nice. Don’t forget Cookie Monster.”

She wrinkled her little nose. “Zöe,” she said.

“Right, Zöe!” I said. “Zöe is a ballet monster! Did you know monsters like ballet?”

She laughed, and that was it. No more complaints about monsters. I marched out of that room as if I were about to take the center podium at the Olympic Games. Super Dad, right here. Everyone gaze upon me and know that I am The Man.

When William started with the monster routine, I was ready. “Step aside,” I thought, “and let The Master do his thing.”

Fail.

“Waaaahh! I want Da-deeeeee!”

I went into his room. “What’s the matter, William?”

“I don’t like the dark.”

“Oh, but you’ve got your night light, your dolls. See?” I turned the light on, then off. “The same friends, just in the dark.” I turned the light back on and pointed to the wall. “See your pictures?” (His walls are covered with mini posters of The Boston Red Sox.) I turned the light back off. “The same in the dark.”

I could tell he wasn’t buying it, so I sang another song and he settled down.

The next night brought same thing. “But that monster is going to get me,” he said. This continued for almost a week, and then I broke down. My Super Dad Powers were gone. Just like that. I traded in my cape and mask.

I went downstairs and grabbed the seashell night light we bought while on vacation. (It had been living in the bathroom.) Back in his room, I plugged it in. “That’s my Florida light!” he said, and proceeded to hold each of his friends up in turn so that they could “see” it. He changed his orientation so that he could stare at it while lying there. I closed the door and he went to sleep.

That was about a week ago, and he hasn’t had a disruptive night since. My powers failed, but at least my boy is sleeping. With his Florida light. And his dolls. And the hall light on.

*Apologies to Rod Serling

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