My children hate it when I call myself "old."  God bless them for it; they're remarkably consistent in their aversion to any indication of my aging.  I'll tell them that I need to take a break from living-room wrestle-mania "because I'm old"...  Or I'll tell them that I prefer to sit in a chair, as opposed to sitting Indian-style on the floor "because I'm getting to be an old man"... And in these situations, Elliot and Olivia will always faithfully interject:  "But Dad!  You're not old!"

This evening, I decided to play out the conversation a little bit further, just for the sake of fun.  I said, "So how old do you think someone has to be before he becomes old?"

Elliot's forehead wrinkled in thought.  "Umm... How old is Opa?" asking about my father's age.

"58, I think," was my answer.

"Well, then I guess you become old when you get to be about 50."  That seemed to settle the question satisfactorily for his eight-year-old mind.  "And, you know, Dad, you're a young kind of grown-up, like with the teenagers and everything"  (I promise I'm not making this up!).

While we were on the subject, I continued probing for other valuable insight into the topic of aging -- and children's perspective on life.  "So how old do you have to be when you become a 'grown-up?'"

"Well, you have to be finished with college first..." and that age, I eventually drew out of Elliot, would seem to typically be about 28 years old.

"And what age are you when you get married?" I asked.

"17" was his confident, immediate, answer.

"What age are you when you start having kids, then?" I asked.

"I don't know.  Like one or two years after you get married?  Or three or four or five."

"But when you're 33, you are..."

"Not old."

Good to know.

It's strange, but I've had a couple of people initiate conversation me in the last month -- pretty much out of the blue -- to talk about the meaning of my last name.  "Hey, I just learned what your last name means," the conversation goes.  "Do you know what your last name means?" I have a few ideas of what my last name means, but having had this conversation numerous times throughout the course of my life, I tell them that it depends.

According to Wikipedia, the word "Asp is the modern Anglicization of the word aspis, which in antiquity referred to any one of several venomous snake species found in the Nile region.  It is believed that the aspis referred to in Egyptian mythology is the modern Egyptian cobra."  This is what most people are getting at, when they say that they've discovered the "secret" meaning of my last name.  An Asp is a kind of snake.  "Which means I better watch out for you!  Har, har, har..." is the standard follow-up joke.  The deadly snake -- perhaps most famous for being the instrument of Queen Cleopatra's suicide -- has also given rise to modern usages of the name "Asp" for (among other things) a type of hand-gun and for the name of (the little orphan) Annie's Chinese chauffeur / body-guard.

As far as I've figured out, however, my last name is actually more closely linked to the Aspen tree than to the Aspis snake.  At least when it comes to Swedish and Norwegian names (there's some confusion about which side of the Scandinavian peninsula our ancestors -- and indeed all people with the surname Asp -- came from), the surname Asp generally indicates "dweller by the aspen trees."  It's a name derived from geography -- from a landmark.  And since this is a lot more peaceful and pleasant and benign than the idea of being named after a deadly snake, this is usually the definition that I typically embrace.

It really goes further than etymology, though, doesn't it?  Ultimately, the public perception of any given name comes down to random word association.  And that's where I've been saddled with a name that sounds unfortunately similar to the English word "ass."  Yes, there are other near-homonyms as well -- "ask" and "as," for instance.  But those sound-alikes are not nearly as fun for experimentation among school-aged children.  Thus through the years, I've picked up a lot of creative permutations of the name Asp, including (but by no means limited to) the following:

• Kick-Asp
• Kiss-Asp
• Jack-Asp
• Dumb-Asp
• Pain-in-the-Asp
• Asp-hole
• Smart Asp
• Hairy Asp
• Rudy-poo candy-Asp (i.e. an adjective, describing anything exceptionally wimpy)
• Big-Asp (i.e. an adjective describing anything exceptionally large)

One of the classic jokes along these lines goes with the naming of children, given the fact that Harry, Jack, and Candy are occasionally used as personal names (and how cruel it would be for me, as a parent, to give one of these names to a child born into our family name!).  But suffice to say:  I've heard these variations on my last name for so long that it's even gotten to the point where I can genuinely appreciate it if anyone comes up with a new one!  It's a whole lot more fun to play along and make light of the situation than it is to become hurt or offended anytime someone pulls one of these word associations out.  So I'm curious:  can any of you think of any other good ones?  I'll give bonus points to anyone who comes up with something original...

And in the meantime, I'll just go on with being an Asp.

Yesterday we received a belated Valentine's Day card in the mail, from my grandparents in North Dakota.  The handwriting on the envelope suggested that maybe one of their in-home care providers had assisted them in getting the card out in the mail -- as they're now in their late 80s -- but it was special to get a little tangible reminder of their love, in the form of that Valentine's Day card.

But even more than the card, I enjoyed the picture that they sent along with the card:  an image from a recent summer, in which my grandparents are sitting on a grassy lawn together, eating corn-dogs and drinking soft drinks bought from the midway of the county fair.  To me, it's such an iconic image of my grandparents, of the American Midwest, and of enduring love.  Every time I look at the picture, I can't help but smile.

So of course, I thought I would share it (see above).

Elliot's home from the hospital now:  tonsils and adenoids removed, small ear tubes inserted.  Medically-speaking, everything went very well; and we are certainly glad for that.

Still, it's been surprising to see how brutal the process was and is.

The last time Elliot had tubes put in his ears (yes, this is the second time that this particular procedure has been performed on my son), he practically bounced out of bed as soon as the anesthesia wore off.  Some of the other kids who had been brought in for pediatric Ear-Nose-Throat surgery at the time woke up groaning or screaming or vomiting blood, but our Elliot was bright as a button -- perhaps because the procedure to place the tubes was not as difficult or as painful for the patient.  But this time, Elliot was one of the "other kids."  He not only had the tubes put in his ears again, but he also had his tonsils and adenoids removed -- and this time, while the other kids seemed to recover relatively quickly, heading home by 10:00 or 11:00, our boy had a much harder go of things, and we didn't get home from the hospital until about one thirty in the afternoon...

When I came into the recovery room, just as Elliot was waking up, the situation was not pretty.  He had blood around his ears and mouth, down his neck, and still coming out of his nose.  A patch of hair above the right side of his forehead was caked with drying blood.  The nurse was working to clean him up, just as he was regaining consciousness.  He was disoriented and panicked.  And then he noticed the pain in his throat.  His throat hurt so much that they eventually had to give him, not one, but two hits of powerful pain-killers to get him to settle down (this is ultimately what kept us at the hospital longer than the other kids).  The nurses kept encouraging him to keep drinking the lemonade that they brought for him -- which Elliot hated, as it stung his throat -- but eventually, Elliot was stable enough to return to the regular hospital room.  His throat pain has remained pretty bad ever since then, but he eventually sucked down four popsicles and was discharged to come home and complete his recovery.

So that's the story up to this point.  We're glad that the much-anticipated surgery is finally over.  We have a few pictures -- and a lot of pain -- by which to remember the occasion.  But hopefully it will get a little better every day from here on out.

I thought I was done with this stage of life.  I thought I had moved on.  Yet here I am, Valentine's Weekend, and I've bought a silly little heart-themed teddy bear for a girl.

I feel so sheepish, as if I'm some kind of pawn of the greeting card corporations.  As if my love is somehow valid only if accompanied by a €2.49 teddy bear.  I feel like I've sold out, and I should be eternally ashamed of myself (not publicizing the fact on the internet!).  But what can I say?  If you would have seen what I saw this morning, I think you would have done the same thing.  You would have realized what a €2.49 teddy bear can mean to a girl.

It all started when I took Elliot and Olivia to school this morning.  Upon entering Elliot's classroom (together with Olivia), his classmate Marije immediately presented him with a cellophane-paper-wrapped gift of a white teddy bear holding a red heart inscribed with the words, "I love you."  There was also a hand-written note attached to the gift, which was signed "x x x kusjes (kisses) - Marije."  When I looked at Marije herself, I noticed that there were tears at the corners of her eyes -- so great was her excitement and anticipation tied up in the gift that she presented to my son.  It was simultaneously beautiful and heart-breaking to see how much energy had been tied up in that little teddy bear, which her mother confided had been sitting on her bedroom dresser for three weeks.  Fortunately, Elliot responded well, with a big smile, a "Dank je wel" (Thank you very much), and a warm hug.  Marije beamed, and Marije's mother gestured as if she was wiping a large quantity of sweat from her forehead in relief.  It was a pretty cute little Valentine's Day scene.

But then I noticed that the eyes of my own little five-year-old girl were welling up with big, crystalline tears.  Her lip was trembling.  Her face was crestfallen.  "What's wrong, Olivia?" I asked her.  "Why are you so sad?"

"Because I don't have anybody giving ME a little bear for Valentine's Day," she wailed.

Perhaps I should have anticipated such a response.  "Oh, Livvie-girl, don't be sad," I said.  "We can be happy for Elliot, and maybe you'll get something else for yourself later."  It was quickly dawning on me how precious a "silly little heart-themed teddy bear" can be to a five-year-old girl.  I wiped her tears and whispered her words of reassurance.  Elliot agreed that she could carry the little teddy bear that he had just been given down to her classroom before I took it home with me for the day.  So the crisis was averted.  Even so, as I was walking through the halls of the school, holding my little girl's hand and remembering her tears, I resolved to myself that I would intentionally cave to the "corporate pressures" as soon as possible and ask Olivia to be my Valentine, with some little plush trinket.  Yes, I felt a little bit foolish, standing at the cash register of the Blokker and exchanging my €2.49 for their little heart-themed teddy bear, which I would give to my daughter.  But as I thought about it, I realized that it's a great privilege that I have -- to capture the heart of a little five-year-old girl, who's still not embarrassed by demonstrations of affection from her father.

Indeed, €2.49 -- and its accompanying loss of dignity -- is a very small price to pay for such an opportunity.