I’m a good example of the Clark Kent effect. Wearing glasses makes me look meeker, nerdier, smarter, and more mild-mannered than I really am. In fact, I wear glasses because it’s just easier than popping in contact lenses. I cannot do contact lenses. I have some kind of cognitive deficit in which my brain says, Hey, get your finger out of my eye.

Joy was fitted for glasses a month ago. And they just arrived. I think Joy is about the cutest girl on planet Earth. But I think glasses make her look even cuter.

She refuses to wear them for more than two or three minutes. But we are working on it.

“Ice cream,” Joy often says after dinner.

“I’ll get you some if you put on your glasses….”

Many parents I know discourage scribbling on walls with permanent Sharpie, but it’s actually a very important step in a child’s development. Just as early babbling leads to the development of language, scribbling on kitchen walls leads to the development of letter-like shapes, symbols, and artistic expression. Scribbling is deeply satisfying and beneficial for kids, engaging them emotionally, physically, and cognitively. Children like Joy can be quite intent about their scribbling, concentrating for twenty minutes or longer, especially if they are encouraged by parents or perhaps Dad is asleep and Mom is in Chesterfield. Developing the ability to sustain concentration is a great tool for life.

“Look,” Joy apparently said to herself last Tuesday, “Mom left the bag of pens on the kitchen island. That black Sharpie is just the tool I need to make my art.”

As soon as children can pick up and hold a marker of some sort—crayon, pen, pencil, or permanent SHARPIE—they take pleasure in making marks. At first, their scribbling is random and disordered. But as children practice, the marks become a bit more intentional. In fact, I have noticed that Joy’s art is reminiscent of the work of artist Melanie Matranga. Joy’s technique is to stand on tiptoes and reach as high as she can on the wall, making broad, bold strokes that manage to evoke a sense of confidence and strength—saying: THIS IS WHO I AM.

Adults can reinforce this process by showing delight in their child’s scribbles. “What a good wiggly line you made, sweetheart!” is something a thoughtful parent might say. What I said when I woke up from my nap is, “Holy f&@k! Really, Joy!? Really?”

I got out the 100-count box of magic erasers and quickly discovered that there is not enough magic in these erasers to get Sharpie off “Toasted Yellow” Behr Premium Plus interior paint. Like, the erasers did nothing at all. So for a week we had an art exhibition in the kitchen, dining room, and living room.

The paint department person at Home Depot told me that they cannot reproduce the “Toasted Yellow” and “Greywood” colors that we had mixed at Home Depot 18 months ago, but Menards was able to do it in three minutes.

If you are looking for a marker that is absolutely permanent and makes drawings that will not smudge, erase, or fade, Sharpie is the best!

If you are looking for an ultra-contemporary artist whose work includes four-feet-tall abstract murals done in black Sharpie, Joy is available.

Four Weddings and a Funeral is a 1994 rom-com with Hugh Grant and Andie MacDowell. I’m going to say that I never saw the movie, but it’s possible I did and it was simply unremarkable. Or it’s possible that I don’t remember seeing it because it was thirty years ago. In any case, last week I saw the movie mentioned in something I read. I don’t remember where.

(As I’m writing this, the clock at the library is speeding up. Literally. The second hand seems to be moving at the correct speed, but the minute hand and hour hand are accelerating. It was 4:10 p.m. a few minutes ago. Now it’s 2:00 a.m. tomorrow, according to the clock. It’s weirdly emblematic of how my week is going.)

So, you might ask, why are you discussing a film that you never saw or that you saw but don’t remember? Well, first, I think the title tells me all I need to know. The assuredly predictable plot involves four hilarious weddings and a not-so-hilarious funeral. Hugh Grant’s character perhaps meets someone at wedding number one. Then, somehow, they both attend a subsequent wedding. There is drama and jealousy and lighthearted scenes, and at some point there is a “speak now or forever hold your peace” moment. And in the end, Hugh gets the girl. Or something like that. Weddings are known for being places where a new romance can blossom. Everyone is in a good mood. Everyone is dressed up. Everyone is drinking and dancing. The weather is often sunny with a chance of hookup. There is also someone attending the wedding who watches the love of their life marry someone else.

I remember going to weddings when I was in my twenties and thirties. It was fun.

Nowadays, though, I’m more likely to attend four funerals and a wedding.

In fact, over the past few months I have seen four death notices posted on Facebook—all of them for grade school and high school classmates of mine.

I attended a funeral for a grade school classmate two months ago. He was a grade or two behind me, so I didn’t know him well, but I knew his older sisters and brothers and their mom and dad. I cared deeply for this family when I was a kid. And for that reason, I attended the visitation and service.

Many classmates attended. There were men and women in attendance whom I had not seen since 1976. Think about that. I was mingling with and chatting with sixty-one-year-olds whom I had not seen since we were fourteen. It was surreal.

Every time I see my doctor, he says, “Have you completed a living will?” And I say, “No. I feel fine. And I’m kinda busy.” I suppose I really don’t want to think about it. But I need to think about it. There are issues that I need to address so that my family doesn’t have to.

Today I was distracted, thinking about deadlines, money, and grievances. Joy approached me, looked up, and said, “I love you.” I didn’t even hear her. Deb said, “Mike, did you not hear her? She said ‘I love you.’”

I said, “Oh no. I’m sorry, baby.” I picked her up and held her, and she gave me great big hugs and kisses. I needed to be present in the moment, and I failed. I’m often worrying about something or thinking about something that happened hours ago. But when I hold Joy, those thoughts disappear. Clearly, I need to hold Joy all day long.

The Stoics say, “Live each day as if it were your last.” I think it’s wise advice, even if I live many more years. Pretending I will die today will make me a better person.

I have five daughters, all of whom are unmarried. So I am hopeful I will attend at least four weddings. And I hope not to attend so many funerals next year (or be the guest of honor at one).

The little boy who visits next door (who is maybe seven) has a scooter. Joy loves her scooter, and she recently saw the boy next door doing some pretty fancy riding on his. His scooter is aluminum with a rear fender brake and has just two rubber wheels, and those wheels can go. He does two forceful pushes from the top of the driveway, and he is suddenly zooming down the street at fifteen or twenty miles an hour.

Joy has a scooter that is mostly plastic. Her scooter has three wheels and is really just a training toy for toddlers. It can pick up speed on a downhill slope, but we have been keeping Joy on level areas of the sidewalk. For safety.

But apparently Joy has been watching the boy wonder next door. A few days ago, she did two strong pushes with her right leg, and then stood on the deck with both feet. Almost immediately she was standing still because she is on level ground. She tried again. She went about four inches and then stopped.

I encouraged Joy to keep pushing. “Come on, Joy! Push-push-push!”

And so she pushed. She scootered a block east and then came back home as I walked beside her.

I mentioned it to Deb. She said, “Maybe we should get her a faster scooter.”

I said, “I really don’t want her going fifteen miles an hour. She doesn’t have the skills to handle a scooter going that fast.” Plus, Joy doesn’t like wearing a helmet or knee pads.

And I started thinking. Eventually, Joy will understand that she does not have the same abilities as other kids her age.

And I’m not looking forward to that day. I don’t want to see the disappointment on her face when she realizes that she is different.

But we’re all different, aren’t we? And I love Joy’s differences. I love her uniqueness.

And if Joy had the words to ask me why she can’t ride a scooter at fifteen miles per hour, I might say, “Joy, you are on your own journey, at your own pace. I love that you scooter along at a pace so that I can walk with you. I get to talk to you and watch out for cars. When you get tired, I can pick you up with one arm and carry the scooter with the other. If you want to go fast, we can get on the bike together and zip around the block at twenty-five miles per hour. And I can listen to you laugh and giggle as you bounce around in the trailer. Joy, you are exactly where you need to be. And I know for certain that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be, because I’m right next to you.”

A few days ago, Joy was napping in our king-size bed, alone, with lights off and drapes closed. It was around 4 p.m., and some light was entering the room from the top of the drapes.

Joy was in the center of the bed on her back, with the duvet pulled up to her chest. I lay down next to her and pushed my right arm under her neck. I was on my side, facing her. And I took her right hand in my left. And I just lay there quietly, watching her. But Joy began to stir. Just a bit. Her eyes were still closed, but her mouth moved and her head turned from side to side. Then she was still.

A minute later, with eyes still closed, she raised her left arm and brushed the back of her hand against my chin. I typically have two or three days of stubble on my face, and that day was no different. She rubbed the back of her hand on my chin stubble, back and forth, for several seconds. She has done this before, and I have assumed that when she’s too tired to open her eyes (or when it’s dark), she uses this maneuver to determine who is holding her.

There’s only one person in her house who has facial hair, so she very quickly determined that Dad was holding her. If she had felt a smooth chin, there’s at least a 90 percent chance that Mom was holding her.

Joy fell back into a deep sleep for a few minutes. Then she was back to rubbing my chin. Dad is still holding me, she’s thinking. But she kept rubbing my chin, over and over. What is she thinking now? I wondered. Maybe: Hi, Dad, I like you holding me. Don’t you dare stop holding me. I will continue to rub your chin to make sure you are here. Or something like that.

Then I fell asleep.

Joy is a preschool student at Meadows Parkway in O’Fallon. The teachers love her. The bus drivers adore her. And Joy loves school. She is learning new ways to communicate. She is speaking new words at school, learning matching games, drawing, painting, making friends, and overall, she is getting a lot out of the experience.

Each day we receive a one-page report card from her teacher. It’s pretty simple. There is a multiple-choice section that reads: I had a …

• “Great day”
• “Good day”
• “Okay day”

Joy’s report card almost always has “Great day” circled.

Then there is a checklist that reads: Today I did well with …

•  Following directions
•  Following my schedule
•  Working independently
•  Working in groups
•  Completing my classroom/school jobs

Again, Joy’s teacher almost always ticks off every box.

But one day last week, the teacher circled “Good day,” and most of the boxes in the checklist remained unchecked.

Uh-oh.

The teacher, though, helpfully left us a note about Joy’s behavior.

She wrote: “In a silly mood today, wanted to crawl under table and chairs instead of sitting w/ group, laughing and giggling the whole time.”

Thankfully, Joy had not bitten anyone. She hadn’t hit a classmate with a spatula. She hadn’t knocked over someone’s blocks. She wasn’t caught throwing her toys.

But clearly she had not followed the program. She’d refused to listen and obey the teacher. And I can empathize with that. When Joy goes into the front yard at home, she is seemingly unable/unwilling to stop any unwanted behavior, no matter how many times we say “STOP!”

In my mind, I can see Joy crawling under the group table, laughing loudly, daring anyone to get her to come out. I can visualize the teachers getting frustrated because Joy is keeping everyone from doing the group activity.

But I also know that Joy lives up to her name every day. There is nothing contrived about Joy. She loves exploring this tiny world that is her home, her neighborhood, her school, her family. Joy knows no fear, no danger, no worry, no hesitation, no boundaries, no hatred, no exclusion, no disability. At home we have rules, of course. I say “Stop!” and “Not now, Joy!” dozens of times a day. And not every day is a “Great day.” But Joy is determined to fill our lives with joy.

And at home, at least, I will never scold Joy for sitting under a table and giggling. In fact, she does this quite often. Just after a bath, she will often run to Deb’s desk and sit underneath, dripping on the floor and giggling. When I get down on my knees and approach her, she runs, laughing, to a closet or her bedroom. By the time I catch her, she is mostly dry.

So my checklist for Joy might read as follows: Today I did well with…

•  Following my heart
•  Getting Dad to follow my schedule
•  Working on being an independent girl
•  Snuggling Mom or Dad at naptime
•  Experiencing complete joy

With that list, Joy will get a perfect score every day.

Joy loves my iPhone. But is she amazed by this marvel of technological wizardry? Is she stunned that she can Facetime with an aunt who is six hundred miles away? Is she astonished that I can use GPS to find my way to Kat’s apartment in Chicago while 800 million other iPhone users are also navigating by GPS? Nope, nope, and nope.

So I wasn’t sure if she would be amazed at the sight of seventy hot-air balloons getting inflated with fire. But we decided to find out.

Last night I made my way to the eastern end of Forest Park using GPS, and then had two phone calls (with Deb and Peggy) before I met up with everyone to experience the annual Balloon Glow. We ended up around three hundred feet away from the balloons, but they were still impressively large.

In the background were the trees of Forest Park, the skyscrapers along Kingshighway, and the sun setting over Missouri in the southwest.

Suddenly, as the brilliant, vibrant colors of the sunset began to fade into beautiful pastels, the balloon pilots began blasting fire into their balloons, creating a mesmerizing display of color. The balloons remained tethered to the ground, but it was something to see.

Joy enjoyed the blasts of fire and color, but I think she mostly enjoyed mingling with the other kids around us. She played catch with some slightly older kids, wandered into a semicircle of lawn chairs where a family was having dinner, and ran in front of a golf cart that had to brake suddenly.

Aunt Ashley played with Joy while Peggy filmed. I followed Joy as she wandered farther and farther away from home base.

A preteen girl came up to Deb and said, “Does Joy have Down syndrome?”

“Yes, she does.”

“My name is Lilly Kate, and I have autism spectrum disorder. I love kids with special needs!”

Lilly and the other children were very sweet to Joy. Joy, of course, was happy to be able play with so many other kids.

Then it was time to head back to Peggy’s house. We began our walk toward Lindell and the Central West End. As we exited the park, I said to Peggy, “Where are you parked?”

“At my house.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that.” (My car was at the Hi-Pointe Theater. Long story.)

We wandered down Kingshighway to Maryland to Euclid, past busy restaurants, gorgeous homes and apartment buildings, ice cream parlors… and made it back. I had walked over five miles over the past two hours. Joy was fine. She was in the stroller.

The Forest Park balloons launched this morning for a one-hour race. I didn’t witness that. But I think I can imagine what it was like. I have Joy, and she’s the fire that makes me lighter than air.

First, full disclosure: I am not a car mechanic. I almost never open the hood of my car. I know the difference between the front of the car and the back of the car. I know how to add gas and change the oil. If I have a slow leak in a tire, I often add some Fix-A-Flat (which apparently is not good for the tire pressure sensors). But when I do have a flat tire, I can put on the spare within six minutes.

My dad taught me how to change a tire when I was fifteen. And I have used this skill dozens of times, usually for a neighbor or friend. Because I’ve known how to change a tire since I was a kid, it always surprises me when people say they have no idea how to change a tire. “I need to call AAA,” they typically say.

One neighbor came to my door recently and asked me if I would drive her to Auto Zone to get some Fix-A-Flat. When I asked about the spare tire, she told me that she didn’t have a spare. I said, “Did you check your spare tire well?”

“What?” she said.

“Let’s open the trunk,” I said. And the spare tire was there, under the carpeting, along with all the necessary tools.

“Oh my god,” she said. “I’ve got a spare!”

Two weeks ago, I changed a tire for my mother-in-law. She had been three blocks away from our house when it went flat. She didn’t want to bother me but didn’t know what else to do.

I said, “Betsy, put on the emergency brake, and I will put on the spare in five minutes. Easy peasy.”

It was easy. Loosen lug nuts. Raise tire off the ground. Flat tire off. I then put on the compact spare and added the lug nuts. I lowered the car to the ground before tightening the lug nuts all the way. I put all my weight on the tire iron wrench for each nut. Then I stood on the wrench to make sure they were tight.

Deb said, “Why are you tightening them so much?”

I said, “Peggy will never speak to me again if this wheel falls off.”

“What about me? Aren’t you afraid I would never speak to you again?”

“Well,” I said, “I think you, like, legally have to speak to me. And you are the one telling me not to tighten them so much. So when the wheel flies off, she’s also not speaking to you.”

Betsy soon drove off safely and got a set of new tires a few days later.

There are so many hazards on the road—potholes, crazy and inattentive drivers, construction, lack of signs (or too many signs), and golf carts on the road being driven by kids. I worry about Deb and Joy every day. Deb is very much a soccer mom. Except it’s not soccer, it’s volleyball, tennis, track and field, high school stuff, the gym, the mall, Cane’s Chicken, Sports Park, Forest Park, orthodontist, nail salon, and a dozen other places.

We have good cars, good tires, and newer car seats, but we are never 100% safe.

My biggest rule at our house is: Exterior doors must be closed at all times. Once Joy is outside, she can and will run to the street in less than five seconds. Front door to street is 33 feet. Fortunately, we are not on a busy street anymore. When we lived on Big Bend, the only time you could safely cross the street was from 3 a.m. to 4 a.m. Now, at the new house, my guess is that during the day a car passes by about once every two minutes.

So…

Tighten lug nuts = Booshie is safe = Peggy will speak to you.

Keep doors closed = Joy is safe = Mike will not kick your ass.

Schitt’s Creek.

Deb recently started watching the series on Freevee. She wants me to watch it, too. I’ve seen episodes from Season 1 and some scenes from later seasons. After watching Season 1, Episode 4, I said, “Meh.”

While watching the first four episodes from Season 1, I didn’t laugh out loud. But I’m told by reliable sources that later seasons are wonderful. Okay. But I said to Deb, “If there are episodes where the homophobic townies are bullying or menacing the pansexual characters, I don’t want to watch. It’s been done.”

Deb said, “There is zero violence against LGBTQ characters on the show. The people of the town are very accepting of everyone.”

Alrightythen. I will watch more episodes. And to be honest, I am intrigued by the premise of the show because in the early spring of 1979, Mom, Doug, and I found ourselves living in a motel.

You see, in 1978, my mom got engaged to be married (husband #2). She sold her house in South City in the fall. Got married around the same time. Moved us to High Ridge to live with her new husband. Then she got scared. Got separated. Moved us into a motel in Sunset Hills while the husband (soon to be ex-husband) was at work. We stayed around a month until Mom could scrape together enough money to get an apartment and some beds and dressers. The apartment was on Weil St. in  South City, and we were right back into our old school district. We went back to Southwest High School.

The motel wasn’t that interesting. (There certainly was no front desk clerk like Stevie.) But I know what it’s like to have a house one day and be living in a motel the next. And I know what it’s like to be happier living in a motel than in the nicest house on Skyline Drive.

Since Joy came into our lives, we have lived in three different houses. I am aware that the current house can be cluttered, untidy, too hot on the first floor, too cold in the basement. Our furniture does not match, and many of the towels are different colors. The garage is unorganized and full of stuff. The doorknobs need to be replaced. The kitchen flooring is twenty-five-year-old laminate. I don’t weedwack often enough. I don’t own a summer house in Utah. But guess who doesn’t care about those things. Joy doesn’t.

Joy is completely happy with the house. She’ll take a teal towel or the gray one. She loves Aldi donuts and Aldi orange juice. What she thinks is important is love and affection. She loves kisses and hugs and laughter and stroller rides. She is as happy playing in her four-foot pool shaped like a turtle as she is jumping into an Olympic-size pool.

There is nothing contrived about Joy. She always lets us know what she likes and doesn’t like. She likes watching ABBA sing “Dancing Queen” on the iMac. She does not like Lawrence O’Donnell. She likes playing outside; hates coming back in.

“Joy, do you want a stroller ride?” I say. “Yeah,” she says, clapping.

“Joy, can you give Dad the iPhone?”  “AAAAAAAAHHHHHH!” (That’s a no.)