The mental exercise referred to as "Schrodinger's Cat" has become a part of our everyday conversations thanks to its appearance in The Big Bang Theory TV show.  The thought experiment was designed to help understanding of how quantum physics interacts with our more observable Newtonian physics based reality.  In the experiment a cat is placed in a box (I'm guessing a solid, soundproof box) with a radioactive isotope detector that is connected to a device that can smash a vial of poison.  The moment the detector senses an isotope (a random occurrence that may never happen), it signals the device to break the vial, which releases the poison and kills the cat.  Without observation, after a period of time it becomes impossible to know if the cat is alive or dead, and can thus be thought of as existing as both alive AND dead until someone opens the box and observes the cat's current state.  Quantum particles work the same way, existing in multiple states until forced to come into contact with our Newtonian universe.

Leave it to a male scientist to come up with such a grim experiment when the same point could have been easily made with a common, life-affirming event: pregnancy.  From the moment a woman discovers that she is pregnant, her child exists in multiple states: male or female, looking more like the mother or the father, healthy or not, etc.  Until the child is directly observed (through ultrasound, other sorts of testing, or birth), that child exists in all states at once.  While people might make guesses about the outcome, only the direct observation brings the child's state into certainty.

Women have known this long before Schrodinger patted himself on the back for his disturbing scenario.  This is why the birth of a child, beyond its physical and hormonal issues, can bring such trauma to a woman despite it being a happy event.  For the mother, the birth of the child reveals that child's ultimate form, but also puts to "death" the other possibilities that the child could have been (not to mention ending the mother's intimate and continual contact with the child).  Even an ultrasound determining a baby's gender can give both joy and sadness; while the parents might rejoice in knowing they are going to have a beautiful baby boy, that knowledge also "kills" the gorgeous baby girl who might have been.

While I connected these ideas, I can't take full credit for them.  It was the second book in the Outlander series, Dragonfly in Amber, by Diana Gabaldon that took me down this line of thought.  As much as some of the scenes in her books disturb me (I almost didn't make it through the first book), I have found a number of gems that have made me examine my world in different ways, which is exactly what good literature should do.

As for Schrodinger, perhaps he should have consulted with a mother before making people think about zombie cats.

It wasn't until my first child was born that I realized how deeply I could care for someone.  My love for my family is boundless.  Especially considering how vulnerable they are when they enter the world, my natural protectiveness towards my children is entirely understandable.  

What might be less understandable is that this protectiveness extends to my students as well.  Although not quite to the same degree as my feelings for my own children, my desire to help my students and keep them safe from the dangers of the world is still embedded deeply in the very fiber of my being.  I know that I can't protect all of them, but I hurt when they are hurting.

I know that part of this is also due to my "hero complex," the condition where I want to solve everyone's problems even though I don't have the qualifications to do so.  I want to be a hero for my students, to give them the chance to be the best possible versions of themselves.  When I hear stories of children who encounter terrible trials, painful events, and early deaths, I can feel the pain keenly as if something has punctured my heart.

This is why teachers at Newtown, Connecticut, stood between a crazed gunman and the children in their care.  Despite the politics, the bad press, insufficient compensation, and sometimes terrible working conditions, teachers still walk into their classrooms every day in the hopes of making their students' lives better.  You might think that I'm being overly dramatic, but I guarantee you that I am not.

Don't mess with my students.

As I have a bit more time on my hands for the first time in over eight years, I have decided to spend a bit more of it outside.  Otherwise we have all been spending too much of our time either watching TV or playing computer games (especially now that Connor has caught the video game addiction).  And so for the past few days, my boys and I have been taking walks around our neighborhood and finishing with a few shots with the basketball.  

Connor is riding his new, but already too small, bike.  He's still getting the hang of the pedals, and today was the first day that he made it up the first hill by himself (I still had to push him up the second hill).  The training wheels are still on, but he needs a bit more practice with the steering and pedaling before they should come off.  Rowen, meanwhile, is learning to stay to the side of the road and is able to run for quite a while.  It is cute to see him bend a bit and rest his hands on his knees when he gets a bit winded.  Trevor still likes to prove that he can beat all of us home.

My basketball skills have certainly atrophied, but my boys make me look like a pro star.  Connor can nearly get the ball up to the basket, Rowen just throws the ball randomly, and Trevor thinks hitting the post makes his shot a "close one."  Today, a neighbor child came over with his football as well, and so I found myself juggling a football and basketball as I seemed to be the boys' favorite target.

I have also liked our walks and time outside as I've been seeing more of my neighbors these past few days than I have almost the entire time that we have lived here.  I truly did not realize how much my extra work was isolating me from ... well ... everything.  It is clear that I need to get us all out even more often.

My shoulders are sore.

Growing up, I loved spending time hanging from trees, running obstacle courses in my yard, and jumping around playground equipment.  I climbed up the outside of spiral (actually helical, but what's in a name?) slides, dangled from the outside railings around my grandparents' deck, and used any narrow flat surface as a balance beam.  By the time I was in middle school, I felt that there wasn't anything that I couldn't do.  

Today, the closest that I get to the same feeling is when playing Assassin's Creed.  There is a middle-school portion of my brain that believes the actions of Altair, Ezio, Connor, and Edward are realistic, and that (with mild practice) I would be capable of doing the same things.

On Tuesday, I watched as my youngest child had similar thoughts while playing on various playground equipment at both Ella Sharp Park and the St. Mary's school parking lot.  Watching him play with enthusiasm (and still some caution in higher locations), filled me with nostalgia.  One set of monkey bars was built sturdily enough to hold my weight, so I dangled from them for a few moments, quickly coming to the realization that I could not even pull myself up half way to a chin up, let alone swing from one bar to the other.  In my mind, I remembered being able to pull myself up and flip over to the top of the bars.

It seemed so tantalizingly close, but instead I think I might have pulled something.

We went to the Renaissance Festival in Holly, Michigan, as is our annual tradition (aside from my years in Alaska, I have gone every year since 1990).  We went with Janelle's brother (who is only in town until next week) and sister (and her family).  Despite a dire weather forecast, no storms (let alone major ones) marred our visit.  Here's the quick run-down:

A Zucchini Brother is back.  While still one of my favorite shows, his final act just seems desperate.

Ded Bob is still funny.  It's been a few years since I've watched the show, but although his voice seems slightly different and his "dummy" is considerably smaller than before, the old act still holds a massive audience.

One Step Further, the show that proceeded Ded Bob, was pretty entertaining, especially the "wall of jorgoling."  Some of their pop references went over my head; I feel old.

Prices are getting even higher: $2 pickles, $7 turkey legs, $6 bag of kettle corn (which I did not purchase) and $3 for a 1/4 pound of fudge (which I also didn't get).

Trevor bought a wooden sword to replace the one we bought him last year that he then broke by trying to smash ice with it.  I bought the other two boys wooden swords.  This was Rowen's first, and the one Connor wanted just looked cool to me.

We brought canteen backpacks that only hold about two water bottles worth of water but were well worth bringing due to their convenience.

My want list from the festival: a cool (in more than one way) hat, a leather (brown?) pirate overcoat, sturdy pirate-ish boots, comfortable pirate pants (are you sensing a theme?), and a new shirt (although the one Jenni made still works pretty well).  I like my current garb, and I really cant justify getting another outfit that I only wear one day out of the year, but I have been wearing it for about 15 years.  Still, see the note about higher prices ...

I have gotten spoiled ... well, more spoiled.  Earlier this year the toilet seat which we had used since soon after buying our house finally cracked and had to be replaced.  As long as I was replacing one, I decided to replace the one in the kids' bathroom since they were complaining about the current one anyway.  For them, since Rowen was in potty-training, I got a more expensive seat that included a built-in potty chair (which he hardly ever used since he insisted on using the "big" seat) and a "no-slam" lid.  Considering the abuse my children put their toilet through, I felt the no-slam feature was a good investment.

A few months later, the cheaper seat which we purchased for our own toilet cracked (please, don't comment).  While some might make jokes about my weight, the culprits included the seat itself, which was not the most sturdy to begin with, and a young child or two who were slamming the lid.  Despite my wife's concern about the cost, I again went with a no-slam lid and a higher quality seat.  Now, I haven't had the chance to use it during cold months, but thus far it is the best toilet seat that I've used.

There is, however, one small problem.  I am in the habit of shutting the lid before I flush, a habit I developed after watching demonstrations of how much fecal material ends up on bathroom ceilings if the lid is up.  Because the lid is "no-slam" (and because I am a bit impatient), I have to use a little more force to get the seat to a spot where I am comfortable flushing.  This does not cause any real difficulty while I use the toilets in my house.  Unfortunately, few other places have no-slam lids, and I now find myself using more force than necessary (or at least not being as cautious) when closing other toilet lids.  I have become a toilet-lid-slammer.

I am guessing that this is why my cheap toilet seat took so much abuse in such a short period of time; the boys were used to the no-slam lid on their toilet and had forgotten that we didn't have one on ours.  I now have to give myself a mental reminder when I go to other people's bathrooms that I need to be careful when closing their toilet seats.  I think that I'm getting better about it, but I still have lapses.  I now find myself wishing that everyone got the no-slam lids.

Ah, first world problems ...

For the first time in over eight years, I will not be teaching a class at Baker College of Jackson in a fall semester.  With my wife's broadening schedule and some changes in my school schedule this year, it was not practical to teach an evening class, and due to lower student enrollment, they are not offering the Saturday classes that I used to teach.

It did not fully hit me until I sent the email declining a class this fall, but I have been at Baker for quite a while now.  I have been teaching classes there nearly every term since only two months after we moved to Jackson.  I have been teaching there since almost a year before Connor was born, let alone Rowen.  When I first started working there, George W. Bush was still President, Jennifer Granholm was in her first term as Governor of Michigan, we had not hit the "great recession," and the first iPhone had not yet been introduced.

I am concerned about how this will affect our overall finances, but I hope that I will see an improvement in my health during this reprieve.  Last year at this time, I was teaching two classes (although one was independent study).  The issue with teaching extra classes during the school year isn't just the class time, but the number of hours that I spend every week preparing for class and grading assignments.  During weeks when papers are due, I often lose the entire weekend.

One way or another, this fall is going to be different than any other fall semester than I've had at Lincoln.  I hope that it works out for the best.

While were in the middle of watching a movie, Connor told us that the moon was purple, and that we needed to lock the windows and doors because the "blood moon" meant that the zombies were coming.  He wasn't being serious, but was making a reference to the video game Terraria that has especially hooked Trevor.  Janelle went outside to see what Connor was talking about and, after a minute, asked for me to join her.

We didn't see the "blood moon," but the clouds near the sunset reflected a brilliant crimson.  We were standing on the deck, watching the red sky, and for a moment everything seemed ... right.  I looked around our tiny back yard that now seemed to glow in the way that nature does at twilight.  All of the colors seemed deeper.  I looked back into our house through the back windows and screen door, and the sight was one of comfort and welcoming.

That was the feeling I had at that moment: contentment.  Sure there are things that I would like to change, or add, or even do completely differently, but my life is a good one.  This evening, under the red sky, I recognized that fact.  And while the perfection of the moment was fleeting, and mosquitos ended some of the enchantment, it was a good feeling to have.

Today's Gospel places Peter in the preeminent role of the Church that Jesus establishes.  Peter is the first of the disciples to acknowledge Jesus as the Messiah, and for this is rewarded with a tremendous responsibility.  Jesus gives Peter the keys to the Gates of Heaven, an awe-inspiring role if there ever was one.  

This is one of the cruxes of being a Christian: our reward for faithfulness is often more work and responsibility.  There are rules to follow, ideals to achieve, and examples to be set.  Being human, we will fall short from time to time, often to the derision of others.  Yet we need to keep in mind that God knows this.  Jesus handed Peter the keys to Heaven, but yet Peter's faith couldn't keep him above water.  Jesus knew that this same man who proclaimed Him as the Messiah would also disavow any knowledge of Him in His darkest hour.  Yet He still entrusts such a heavy responsibility of him.

While we hope to understand why God does what He does, we need to remember that we cannot see all that He sees, let alone all that He knows.  Today's homily compared God to a parent and us to a child needing surgery.  The child does not understand the suffering of the moment, but the parent (who is also agonizing over the pain and discomfort of the child) knows that the surgery must be done to save the child's life.  God wants to save all of us.  He feels anguish at our sufferings, but promises a greater reward.

Yesterday, a friend of mine was explaining how he needed to change one of the questions on the opening survey he gives to students for statistical purposes.  The question was "How many of the Lord of the Rings movies have you seen?"  This summer, for the first time, not a single student in his classes answered "All three".  He asked me if I remembered watching Happy Days as a kid, and if I thought then that the 1950s seemed like they were so long ago.  He then pointed out that the 1950s were closer in time to us when we were watching Happy Days than we are now to when we were children.  Time seems to be moving so quickly now.

This made me think about some other issues of time that make me feel old.  Trevor was born the year before the 9/11 attacks and he's now in the eighth grade.  I have now lived more of my life being married than not, and more of my life being a father than not.  None of my children have lived in a world without the World Wide Web.  I have had my Yahoo email account for nearly half of my life.  Connor and Rowen have always lived in our current house.  Rowen never rode in our Green Silhouette.  Should my daughters have children, those children will probably be closer in age to Rowen than Rowen is to them.

There are some positives to this.  I get to watch Star Trek the Next Generation about every six years.  We're doing so right now since Trevor doesn't really remember seeing them and he's now the age I was when I first watched them.  Considering how little Connor and Rowen stay in the room, we will probably be doing this again.  I will get to do the same with other shows and movies that I love.

It's no wonder that so many of my "pop" references seem to go over my students' heads.  Even video game references which I used to think of as recent (e.g. "The cake is a lie" or "Would you kindly") are met now with a completely blank stare.  It's amazing how fast time has gone by.

Connor received several Lego sets for his birthday on Saturday, yesterday we brought back Trevor's blue-ribbon award-winning castle from the fair, and we recently put a corner curio cabinet in our office/library.  These events together brought about a desire to bring out my old Star Wars Lego sets from their storage in the basement.

It's been a while since these sets have seen daylight.  I bought a bunch of them soon after they first came out and then slowly purchased a few more when I saw sets on clearance or other such sale.  I haven't, however, purchased Lego kits for myself for over a decade.

I've always been impressed with the Lego marketing.  The sets that they have tap some inner desire of mine.  When dealing with sets based off of movies, these sets give a physicality to the events which I can otherwise only watch, yet in a cute block-like form.  Something about building them, even though I'm following someone else's directions, also gives me a sense of accomplishment.

Trevor and Katrina helped me go through the sets, rebuilding them and looking for missing pieces and figures.  While many of the sets were missing at least one piece, we managed to get most of them together and put a couple of them on display.  While my legs went numb more than once while I was piecing the sets together on the floor, the experience certainly scratched an itch that I hadn't properly identified before. 

We had Connor's birthday party today even though his birthday is actually next week.  There were balloons, party games, cupcakes, presents, and other standard birthday elements.  He had a number of his relatives and several of his friends (one whose birthday party followed shortly after Connor's) attend.  It was a good day and a fun party full of pizza, play, and laughter.

I realized that Connor is at the age that he will remember, albeit vaguely, these events.  I remember my birthday party during my kindergarten year, and I am sure that he will remember his.  We are at the point that he will be actively remembering the events that shape who he will become.

This is one of the reasons that I support birthday parties.  They serve as a sort of anchor for our memories, which are otherwise such skittish things.  While I don't perfectly remember one birthday to the next, major occurrences between the birthdays and at the birthdays themselves have helped keep a relatively accurate timeline of my past.

I hope that Connor's party was memorable enough to serve as that anchor.  Hopefully, he will remember the Batman/silly-string obstacle course, the new bike, the table of bubbles, and other elements to remember what it was like to be six turning seven.  Too many people forget their own past and the events that helped shape who they are.  They forget what they were like as a child.  May this birthday party help Connor avoid such a fate.

My sons are bouncing on the beds rather than sleeping in them.  For the most part, we did the same things today, yet they are full of energy and I just want to go to bed.  It's a bit worse today because we ate dinner rather late.  While eating seems to put me into a food-coma these days, my sons manage to find whatever bit of sugar that might be in the meal to exponentially increase their energy.

They have now created some sort of game that requires jumping from the bed (thankfully not the upper bunk) to the floor, climbing back up, and jumping again.  Oh, and laser noises are required too.

The thing is that I remember coming up with those games and having the energy to play them.  I created cosmic battles and fantastical quests; invisible armies and monstrous challenges awaited me.  A part of me is tempted to join them even though the rational portion of my brain knows that I would easily break the bed.  

They are climbing into bed after being properly chastised (especially after one of them made a rather loud thump upon hitting the ground).  They are protesting, but I know the protests are half-hearted.  Another irony of life is that they will be asleep in moments while I will be stuck with my thoughts for a while still.  

While I am strong supporter of the idea that many of our dreams are better left unfulfilled (look at the statistics for lottery winners), I also often lament the dreams of mine that have not materialized.  Any time I start thinking in this direction, Langston Hughes' poem "A Dream Deferred" comes to mind.  I think about the dreams I have lost that I regret, that have festered, that I have forgotten, and that still hold a happy memory for me.

I have few regrets as I am happy with my life and I know that changing even a small piece of my past could have seriously changed my life's course.  Still, there are forks in road of my life where, with everything else being equal, I would have liked to follow the other path. 

The greatest of these is following the path of being a full-time writer.  If anything, this summer (and many of those that came before) has shown that I need to work on my self-discipline if I want this to be more than a dream.  Still, I look with longing at people's "writing spaces" and dens.

As I have aged and my children have grown, I find that some of my dreams for them are not to be realized.  That may be for the best.  Many of my dreams for my children are dreams based on my ideas of happiness, which may or may not be their own.

I have few regrets, but I still have dreams that I would prefer if they were not deferred.