“You go back to school tomorrow, yay!” I said to my boy.

“Boo,” he replied.

“It’s only for a few hours a week.  No big deal.”

“What do you mean?  It’s so many hours.”

“Not really.  Look, sure, five days times seven hours, that’s thirty-five hours a week, right?”

“Yeah. Too many.”

“Your lunch period is a half hour a day.  That’s 2 and a half hours a week.  Then recesses, probably an hour a day.  That’s five hours.  We’re already down around 28 hours a week.”

“So?”

“Bathroom breaks, say fifteen minutes a day, that’s another hour and a half a week.  Except for those long ones on the toilet, make it two hours a week.  Twenty six hours a week now.”

“No, haha, I don’t take that long.”

“That’s not what your mom says about us.  How much time do you spend daydreaming per class?  At least fifteen minutes, you need to work on that.  Focus.  That’s 15 times 5 classes a day times 5 days a week.  That’s around six hours a week of non-school activity.  We’re down to twenty-two hours of school per week.

“You like gym and art, right?  That’s like fun time for you.  We don’t need to count that either.  Minus five hours.  Seventeen hours a week now.”

“No, wait a minute.”

“How about putting your winter boots and coat on and off before recess.  Another hour a week, easy.  Sixteen hours.”

“That doesn’t count.”

“Oh and quiet library time looking for books.  More fun stuff during school.  Minus two hours.  And computer time at school.  All play.  Minus another two hours.   We’re down to twelve hours of actual school work per week now. That’s like half a day, boy.  That’s it.”

“Haha, no appah, this isn’t right.”

“What about just walking from one room to another several times a day?  Easy fifteen minutes a day, or… an hour or so a week.  Eleven hours.

“Talking to your friends?  Five minutes per class?  Ten?  Easy two hours a week.  Nine hours a week now.”

“Noooooo,” he said putting his pillow over his face, “It is a lot more than nine hours a week.”

“History may lie.  People may lie.  But math, my boy, doesn’t lie.  We’re not even done yet.

“What about farting?”

“Hahaha!  What?  It doesn’t take long!”

“I mean when you and your friends cut one in class and you play the Blame Game for ten minutes blaming each other and denying it.  Then sniffing to try and track down the suspect.  Don’t tell me fourth graders don’t do that because I know.”

“HAHAHA!  No, we don’t!  You do, I don’t do that.”

“Minus one hour a week for sniffing, blaming, and tracking farts.  That is definitely NOT school work.”

He was still laughing.

“So that leaves eight hours of actual school work per week.  That’s like one school day.  You could do that in your sleep.  Spread out over the week, it’s less than two hours a day of real learning and focusing.  Now go to sleep and get ready for your one actual day of school this week.”

“I don’t sniff farts!  Haha!”

“You better not.  You’re only hurting yourself.”

(Reading non-peer reviewed “studies” on the internet is a lot like the “logic and calculations” above sometimes.)

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“This one reminds me of … The LIGER!” I said pointing to the profile on the Humane Society webpage.

“Are we really going to get a cat?” 00seung’s eyes shone.

“This weekend, if they’ve got this cat, we’re bringing it home.  We can’t tell ummah (mom) until we have the cat.”

“Heheh, ummah’s going to be mad,” my eight-year old grinned.

The conspiracy began there. It wasn’t my idea, really.  I mean, I have been kind of planting the idea in the kids’ heads for a year or so but it was more like wishful thinking.  Then one night while tucking in my little girl, she said, “Can we go to the Humane Society this weekend?”

I had told her about animal shelters and rescues several months ago.  How sometimes homeless animals had to be “put to sleep” if no one ever claimed them.  It was difficult for her to understand and difficult for me to explain but I felt I had to.  Life is bound by harsh and cold practicality.  Love and warmth are the parts you have to bring yourself.  [Caveat: Since then I've read that the Michigan Humane Society does not exterminate animals due to overcrowding.]

The morning of Operation: Tawny Kitaen (’80s reference to the max), I was about to discuss the plans and contingencies when my responsible and considerate 9-year old boy, 5un 5u, expressed his reservations about going against ummah’s wishes.

“Maybe it’s too soon. What if we go on vacation, who will take care of the cat?”

“We have neighbors or grandma. We’re ready for a new cat.  Don’t worry, okay?

“Now look.  Plan A is we try to distract ummah from coming with us because she’ll just say no.”

“How are we going to do that?” 00seung whispered dramatically, enjoying the subterfuge.  Her older brother, not so much.

“We’ll say it’s a long trip and maybe she can have some time to herself while we’re gone.  Now if she comes with us, we go to Plan B: we have to convince her there to let us get a cat.”

“We should let her play with one!” 00seung added.

“Good. Physical and emotional bonding. I like it,” I confirmed.

“What if ummah still won’t let us get a cat?” my little girl asked.

“That’s Plan C.  Then we don’t get it.  Next week, when ummah’s at work, I go back by myself and get our cat then.  One way or another, we are adopting a cat.”

00seung and I smiled.  5un 5u, who normally loves a well-organized battle plan (of the Halo or Lego variety), remained conspicuously quiet.

PLAN A

“So, I’m going to take the kids to the animal shelter now.  What are you going to be doing while we’re gone?” I asked.

“I’m going with you,” Amy said.

“… I thought 00seung said you were staying home,” I said as I shot a glance at my little misinformant.

“You said you were staying home, ummah!” 00seung said, far too obviously.

“I’m going with you to make sure you don’t buy the place out.  Why can’t I go?”

“Alright, let’s go,” I said with a cocked eyebrow directed at my little girl.

PLAN B

“He’s not here!” 00seung said in the pet cage room.

“Who isn’t?” 5un 5u asked.

“Archer.  The cat we wanted,” she answered with Her Angry Face.

“The cat we wanted to pet,” I corrected.

Archer was a brown and black striped tabby we saw online and from the personality description and picture, he was practically a clone of … The LIGER! (rest in peace).  He was five years old, which is another reason I wanted him.  No one adopts cats that old.  After having a 20-year old cat, that was a well-trained youngster to us.  We found out from the desk that someone indeed had adopted Archer.  I was happy that he was adopted and disappointed that it couldn’t be me.

We picked out another tabby to play with.  It wasn’t all that friendly and tended to hide in the corner or under chairs too much.  Then one of the workers suggested a kitten that they just got.   I wasn’t planning on getting a kitten but it got along great with the kids, playing, zipping back and forth, letting them pick him up.

After a while in the play room, I finally said,

“Do you guys like this one?  Are we ready?”

“Ready for what?” Amy asked.

“Nothing.  I’ll just tell the desk we’re leaving.”

A few minutes later I came back, the kids were watching me expectantly.

“Alright, let’s go,” Amy said.

“We have to wait for a bit.”

“Why?”

“We, uh… just adopted this kitten.”

“… Sigh.”

And to my utter amazement, that was it.

On the drive home, I opened the lid of the box while the kids and Amy (driving) made a fuss as if it belonged to Pandora herself.  I put my hand in.  The box purred the whole way home.

I was surprised my wife didn’t put up more resistance since she had declared many times in the past that another cat was not an option.  “Did you know we were going there to adopt a cat?” I asked her later.

“No,” she said, “but you better clean up after him every day and we aren’t getting another one.”

Then I remembered she had a weakness for kittens, puppies, and little babies.  The two years and up versions, not so much though.

The shelter had named him Herbie.  Seriously, Herbie.  Like the car, or some cartoon mascot, or a pug-nosed dog.  Something with a little more respect and originality would be needed.   Amy had jokingly suggested “Channel 4″ as a name, since our inquisitive kitten was always putting its nose in someone’s business.  I still liked the name Archer a lot, especially the way the kids said it, “Archuh.”  It was different and fitting for a wizard’s familiar as I used to think of my old cat, so we called him that for a while.

I looked up Korean words for “second chance” but none of them sounded right for a name.  Ever since my first cat, … The LIGER! died, I’ve thought that I could have been nicer to him, especially in the beginning.  I could have loved him more.  I just couldn’t see it until it was too late; love’s cliche.  It was just a cat.  But love doesn’t care about that and death doesn’t care about that.  Although, I honestly think they conspire together, like a playful child and a scheming adult and it’s always the same plan.  To give and to take away and the rest you have to fill in yourself.  In most cases, like when my dad died, you don’t get a second chance, but I still felt that maybe I could this time.  No, I would.

That’s been my wish since he died, to get one more chance.  So I’ll name him, Sowon.  My “wish.”

 
[NOTE:  I've put numbers in for the kids' names to make them less searchable in the future.  In 00seung, zero=O.  In 5un 5u, the 5 is an S.  Also, I've disabled comments lately.  Thank you for reading.]

Just a few things some of my hospital patients have said lately:

Forty year old woman: “I’m not worried about the cancer coming back.  Been through that already.   I’m over the fear.  I’m lucky; some people never get over it.”

Fifty-year old woman: “BRA-A-I-N surgery tomorrow.  They shaved all these patches out of my hair for these weird stickers.  My hair just started growing back too.”

Sixty-year old man:  “Heh, I love when you guys say that, ‘That’s the LEAST of your problems.’”

Eighty-year old woman: “I was on that boat in New York where all those seniors died.  Lost twenty of my friends.  Then I had a heart attack while on a cruise ship and I had the sick bay to myself the whole time.  God likes kickin’ me around.”

(Or maybe he’s telling you to stay off boats.)

Eighty-year old woman: “We’re retired.  We’re taking some time to rest and relax before it’s time for The Big Rest.”

Ninety-year old man: “At my age, if you wake up with vertigo and nausea, that’s a GOOD day.”

——————–

I also got a haircut today (it’s going to be that kind of blog).

This should be an ID badge or drivers license photo, not a blog pic.

Warning: Graphic video of a 40-year old half-naked male vlogger who did not use sunscreen (because it’s “too slimey”).   You’ve been warned.

Late addendum:  This is the video of our day at the beach on Memorial Day (no half-naked me this time, I promise). Mostly the kids playing in the mud to The Killers (one of Amy’s favorite songs), but I had a lot of fun editing it to the song.