Standing there in our apartment, looking like a million bucks. Mommy taking photographs of him from every angle.

First day of school and there are premonitions of frost in the morning air. But overhead, an endless, vividly blue sky, sunlight touching everything.

Jones is goofing up the street with his friend Vivian. Cracking her up by doing funny walks. Vivian, beautiful in her new dress, giggling and smiling. Her hair like Kurt Cobain, her eyes mischief. They’re having so much fun. Jones stops dead on the street, throws his body into wild spasms, “I’m a man getting electrocuted with blood on his hand!” he shouts. And then he stops. “Hi friend!” he calls out to a stranger drifting past on a skateboard.

And all of us parents are nested around them, shuffling up the street, snapping photographs like paparazzi.

And when we turn the corner, Rachelle says to him, “Look Jones, there’s your new school!” Right before him is a playing field glowing green and gold. It’s like a dream, a prize, and when I look at it, into Jones’s future, I can hear music playing in my head. Sweet Thing by Van Morrison. And it is here on this field where Jones will inhabit some of his most perfect memories.

He shouts, “Yay!” at the sight of it.

Jones. His oversized yellow backpack. His determined, happy walk into the world. This boy. So fresh. So genuinely excited. The way he lives inside and outside of us at the same time. And as we’re saying goodbye to him, he just charges into the school. He doesn’t look back. He jumps in.

And we are left standing on the sidewalk with all the other parents. Young mothers hiding tears behind sunglasses. Flowers swaying as the wind moves through a bush. Everyone smiling, everybody a little melancholy. A ladybug glistens in the sun on a bright, yellow fire hydrant. Such a small, astonishingly beautiful thing. Each one of us passing such miracles as we walk slowly home, each one feeling a little different now, humbled, and so very, very, absurdly lucky to get to be a part of it all.

Each day just waiting to be written.

My hand on the knob of the front door. Jone’s body pushing against it, his legs restless, twitching, like a bull waiting to be released. I open the door and the world is cool and bright and thin, and the first thing Jones sees is an abandoned door lying face down on the ground. He is lifting it, like Hercules, “Come, Daddy, Come!!”

We enter into worlds unseen. Down cobwebbed staircases by candlelight we travel with Superman, a friendly werewolf and sticks. Spiders join us in the forest beyond the waters. And then we are back before our house, slamming the door down on the zombie armies in their moaning pursuit. I catch my breath, look up the street toward daycare. Right at eye level, not three inches away from my face, two sparrows rocket by. One after the other. Like two kids chasing one another on bikes. When was the last time you had that feeling? To be traveling at full and effortless velocity, your body stretched to the perfection of its desire, of its necessity? And Jones, glowing beneath me, now identifying the chalk faces on a brick wall—this world always unfolding in the smallest, most beautiful ways.

******************************************

Rachelle: I’m sorry, honey, that’s just not the way that it works.

Rachelle: Although you identify as a two-lunged person, it does not change the fact that you only have one lung.

Rachelle: Yes.

Rachelle: Yes, I think it would likely disqualify you from being hired as a bodyguard.

Rachelle: Hate speech?

Rachelle: Really? You think that’s hate speech?

Rachelle: Well, yes! You should Tweet about it then!

Rachelle: That will really help get things done!

Rachelle: I like the way you fight for justice, you really are the sharp end of the spear!

Rachelle: Oh Pickle, if it’s of any consolation, there are all sorts of reasons beyond you needing supplemental oxygen that would likely stop a person from hiring you as a bodyguard.

Rachelle: Well, you’re pretty weak.

Rachelle: I know.

Rachelle: That rope hang test back in primary school was hard!

Rachelle: I don’t know what they were thinking.

Rachelle: I agree.

Rachelle: It was biased against those with upper body strength issues.

Rachelle: I’m sure you would have gotten a gold star if not for that test.

Rachelle: Well, bronze for sure.

Rachelle: Regardless, my love, I think it’s time to let that go now.

Rachelle: It was a long time ago.

Rachelle: Okay. If Tweeting about it will make you feel better, you Tweet away!

Rachelle: I’ll wait.

Rachelle: What did you Tweet?

Rachelle: FUCK THE ROPE!

Rachelle: Well, that will show them!

Rachelle: Do you think people will know what that means?

Rachelle: Yes. I am very naive.

Rachelle: I believe you. It probably will go viral.

Rachelle: But look, there are other reasons you might not flourish as bodyguard.

Rachelle: You’re kind of clumsy. You move like a pigeon, all jerky and unpredictable.

Rachelle: Also, you don’t enunciate very clearly. I think people would have a hard time understanding the things you reported into your lapel microphone.

Rachelle: Yes. There could be confusion.

Rachelle: Communication is key for a bodyguard.

Rachelle: You’d have to repeat yourself all the time. Lots of wasted time. A terrorist only needs a second to blow himself up.

Rachelle: Oh Michael, I am not “shitting on your dreams.”

Rachelle: His name is Richard Madden. He’s the star of the tv show Bodyguard.

Rachelle: THAT IS NOT TRUE!

Rachelle: He is not an asshole.

Rachelle: He’s just very organized and knows what he wants.

Rachelle: It’s called confidence and strength, and it can be very, very sexy.

Rachelle: A commanding, strong man.

Rachelle: No.

Rachelle: That’s not hate speech either.

Rachelle: If I was an “Alt-Right Nazi” who wanted to “exterminate” those who lacked confidence and strength, do you really think I would have married you, Pickle?

Rachelle: Yes, it is true.

Rachelle: Your potential was, and still remains great. Very great.

Rachelle: You’re my favourite bodyguard.

Rachelle: No.

Rachelle: Sorry.

Rachelle: I was mistaken when I wrote that.

Rachelle: Richard Madden is still my favourite bodyguard.

Rachelle: He could guard my body any time.

Rachelle: Yes.

Rachelle: Sexually.

Rachelle: Well, as much as it would pain me, if a beautiful actress asked you to be her bodyguard, I wouldn’t stand in the way.

Rachelle: I expect Jennifer Lawrence already has a security team in place, though.

Rachelle: But maybe she’d still hire you on. I hear she has a big heart.

Rachelle: You could be The Littlest Bodyguard.

Rachelle: Maybe get on Ellen.

Rachelle: Yes, it would be the Christmas story the world needs right now.

It was an autumn cool morning, the dew still hanging off leaves. The air was light and clean and felt as if it came from very far away, and Jones’ eyes were so wide and bright they were like gravity– everything bending and speeding toward him.

A plane flew overhead and he froze on the sidewalk, pointing at the sky. He was blown-away and kept looking over at me to make sure I was seeing this miracle, too, this burning bush. I did not know how to explain the sky, or tell the story of how humans achieved flight, and so I just said, “Plane!”

He blinked into the sun and sky, continuing to look up through the green infinity of leaves, waiting for whatever else might streak across the sky. Squirrels, like shadows, jumped from branch to branch, and as this early light hit the red brick of the houses across the street, an old, prosperous looking man stepped out of his front door and got into his sports car. He’d traveled great distances to get to this beautiful autumn day, and he might have been wondering how many more of these good days he had left. He started the car and pulled out of the driveway, at which point three birds suddenly burst from a tree. Jones was amazed again. “Tree!”, he shouted, but his eyes were following the birds, each one of them off to unknowable adventures.

Jones stopped to examine every bush on our little journey, every forgotten thing on the sidewalk. He was so happy and slow up the street, so mindful. He wanted to meet it all– the college-aged woman struggling slowly along on her morning run, the two dogs being taken for a walk, the discarded table left broken on a tuft of grass, and the truck, the dazzling truck that rolled heavily by like some sort of glittering robot. All of it, each and every precious thing. And then we came upon some flowers and he stopped again, pointing at them, “Mommy!” he declared, “Mommy!”

And yes, yes, of course mommy was a flower. Nothing in this universe yet separate from anything else, and everything proof of magic.

Whenever I’m in one I think of some punitive elementary school. There’s an entire galaxy of largely symbolic rules, and everything associated with us is measured, weighed and timed. And as you stand in line you find yourself worrying about whether you remembered to bring your phone charger. Or your cool sneakers. Or your medicine. And so it goes, and never for a second do you forget that what you are about to do may be the last thing you ever do in your life.

Flying is something of a miracle, and we’re all, at least partially, expecting it to fail. And who can blame us for this suppressed expectation? Any time a plane crashes it’s international news. When the story breaks, people all over the world, those doing dishes or clicking “like,” are wondering just how they would have behaved in their last terrified moments as fire, cloud and sky sped by.

And please don’t forget the terrorists.

They might materialize at any moment. If you forget this, there is a terror alert, like a goal-thermometer on a fundraising marathon, warning you that today, the day you’re to give your first professional speech, the terror alert is ORANGE.

So air transit, even in a best case scenario, is a tense thing.

I imagine that Dr. Dao, the man who was dragged bleeding off a United flight earlier this week, was feeling some of this tension and uncertainty as he waited for his plane to fly him home to Kentucky.

Now we’ve all seen the video, and everybody knows that what took place was wrong.

However, the corporate face of United used the word “re-accommodation” to describe what happened. This is the kind of soft evil that creeps into our lives each day, and then stays there, existing beneath our skin like some sort of bacteria. We know all about over-booking now, and it all reduces to the airline valuing profit over people. This is the corporate way upon which our society functions. What seems to have shocked the microsystem in this case was that nobody would take a material inducement to give up their seat.

And what’s the corporate ethos in such a situation?

And so they dragged him screaming and bleeding from his seat. The law, of course, is behind United. Trapped in this culture where being busy is seen as a sign of status, we’re all so desperate to escape the heaviness of our lives and get to the beach in Veradaro,

that we accept that we might be “re-accommodated” when we buy our tickets. We sign-off on the fact that although we’ve bought a ticket and made all sorts of arrangements contingent on the timing of that flight, we might still lose our seat.

It’s kind of insane. The law allows a corporation to hedge on their services in order for them to maximize profits, even if it’s a ruinous policy for individual consumers. That the law favours corporate growth over human security is nothing new, but this is a particularly vivid example of the amoral structure that pins over our lives.

In the aftermath, Dr. Dao’s was vilified– a tactic minority communities know all too intimately—and the saga, now diffused through late night talk shows, social media and PR flak, is about to replaced by the next meme-worthy event. And still, the corporations will preside over us like gods, and because we believe we need what they offer, we will ignore our own intuition and continue to be subordinate to them, regardless the cost to human dignity and instinct.

but I recently made an exception when Manor Park Public School asked me to address their students.

I was a pupil there back in the 70’s, dominating the classroom and playground from grade two to six, and I guess it’s fair to say I was a bit of a legend. The current principle, after hearing of my brilliant, game-changing, hugely successful book A VAN FULL OF GIRLS,

wanted to know if I, “a real writer,” would give the commencement speech to her graduating grade six students.

This is the text to my speech:

“Graduating class of 2016, I’m not going to lie to you.

Grade seven is a shit show.

The truth is that you’re really, really going to hate it. So much so that you’re going to wake up each day terrified, jittery and spastic. Bad things will happen every day. Algebra, for instance. Algebra will strike you like a goddamn wasting disease. Girls will become powerful beyond your wildest comprehension. You won’t know what hit you. And without any warning, and for no reason whatsoever, the kids you thought were your friends will turn on you. Look to your right. That kid there? That kid will one day spit on you. To your left now, please. That kid? That kid will tell the person you want to ask to the dance that you have B.O. from your butt. And you won’t have any idea why. You will look and feel ugly. Your parents, before they divorce, will probably take you to a psychiatrist and then you’ll have to take pills that make you a really sad kind of sleepy.

Welcome to the real world, class of 2016

But it’s not all doom and gloom and climate change and dying pets and pimples the size of coins, no, there is some relief to be found. You can read, for instance, taking refuge in make-believe worlds where nobody is going to beat you up each day because they heard your mother speaking french, or something. 

I work as an author, which means I spend all my time constructing these magical realms of make believe! Think of me as a modern-day wizard!

(child yells)

Sorry? I didn’t hear you.

(Inaudible)

No, not Voldemort, the other one.

(Various children yell)

Didn’t Voldemort have a good brother?

(Children shrieking NO!!)

Well, he should have, but whatever. Fine, then. I am like Voldemort–a powerful, powerful, often misunderstood wizard who can conjure great worlds and then shrink them into books like A VAN FULL OF GIRLS, which can be bought online at Indigo Books, and is such a powerful spell that it might just save your life! You should pester your parents until they buy you several copies—remember, your happiness, the entire course of your future depends on you getting this one thing right. Get your parents to buy you A VAN FULL OF GIRLS, and get them to do it now before it’s too late. Tell them it’s for a class or something, it doesn’t matter.

Class of 2016, congratulations, and may you all travel in A VAN FULL OF GIRLS!

Thank you all, and God bless.

It’s been a crazy, inspiring and wildly educational time, and as parents, we’ve discovered things about one another that we never imagined might be true. For instance, I’ve learned that I am AMAZING with babies, and as this parenting stuff is such a breeze for me, I’ve decided to open a daycare.

The Spartan Way: Mike’s Daycare

Welcome to The Spartan Way: Mike’s Daycare! This cutting-edge centre is based on ancient principles and is dedicated to sculpting children aged two weeks to six years to become dominant Alpha leaders in the unpredictable dystopia of tomorrow. We believe that modern daycares are over-certified, and our philosophy is that both infants and the free market will always work things out on their own.

“Sinite illos esse , suus ‘iustus a sanguine vulnus.”

The SWMD is committed to providing a level-playing field for all our little warriors, with special favours or attention being granted to none! Our teachers (Rob L. and Donnie C.) are skilled mixed martial artists, have an unyielding love of strong, predatory children and educations that just cannot be taught in a class.

Need more?

Here’s what hockey superstar and political commentator Wayne Gretzky has to say:

“Hi, I’m Wayne Gretzky! During my hockey career I was known as the “Great One.” Let me tell you, when it comes to daycare facilities, The Spartan Way: Mike’s Daycare is the true Great One! It’s always a shot on goal!”

Wayne Gretzky is just one of our many celebrity supporters!

You should know that we develop our lesson plans based on ancient Spartan childrearing techniques, mixed with some modern, libertarian practices. We provide each one of our little Spartans with experiences that will discipline their young minds and bodies, turning their hearts to cold, unflinching steel. Games and competitions are a big part of our curriculum.

In short, we at The Spartan Way: Mike’s Daycare, make strength and discipline fun!

Still, not satisfied?

“Hi, I’m Colin Powell, American statesman and retired four-star general in the US Army. Mike’s Daycare doesn’t simply provide a safe and encouraging environment for your children, no, it teaches that the world is a dangerous and hostile place, and that the child must learn to kill or be killed. This is an invaluable life plan as we head into a future where anarchy and civil war will be unleashed upon a dying planet.”

We have tremendously competitive rates, and provide one meal* a day for each child who finishes amongst the top three in the daily assignments.

Give us a call, find out if your child is right for The Spartan Way: Mike’s Daycare!

*No dietary changes, regardless of allergies, religion, etc, are made to our meal plan as we believe in absolute, unflinching equality.

After family had left and the remaining adults retreated to their bedrooms, the girls began a dance party in our living room. The bass-heavy music thumped away, with the girls singing along together in a harmony that they might never find again. For that moment, they were a perfectly constituted choir—a constellation of sound, movement, energy and potential.

Studying YouTube, they taught themselves new dance steps.

Gas.

Pedal.

Gas.

Pedal.

And as they gained confidence and expertise, their steps grew louder and more choreographed. They were becoming more like the versions of themselves they wanted to be, and their voices, now high-pitched and excited, rose above the music. Lying back in bed watching TV, Rachelle and I could make out flashes of their tossed hair reflected back from the mirror in the hallway, and it was like catching glimpses of agents of nature, unguarded and fierce in their natural habitat.

As it was getting late, we told them that they’d have to keep it down and mind our neighbours, and so they began to dance softly. Having switched to stealth mode, it was as if they were now in moccasins– their feet falling as soft as whispers. And after 30 minutes they had danced themselves dry and all ran to the kitchen, chugging glass after glass of water from the cutest cups that they could find.

And in 10, 20, 30 years, that song they were listening to will come to them over the radio or in a bar, and it will all return in surprising torrents. The moves, like muscle memory, will return, the pretty, downtown dresses bought on Queen Street, the junk food shared and last names suddenly recalled….Yes, that feeling of the endless summer of youth, of being thirsty and drinking cold, cold water, of a life once so simple, pure and beautiful– everything still imperishable and perfect stretching before them.

This is a very small sample of some of the written complaints the principal has received from concerned parents:

“ When we picked Williamsburg up after school today he told us that he saw that dairy was available in the cafeteria. Is this true? Dairy? In 2013??”

“Our son Balzac was told he was “missing out” and that it was his “loss” by another classmate when he told her that he was on a gluten-free diet and couldn’t have any of the Oreo cookies she offered him. This sort of verbal abuse is unacceptable and it’s our hope that you severely discipline this girl so that this doesn’t become an ongoing problem. Additionally, another pupil scrawled “ballsack” on his binder. Balzac is a very sensitive, artistic and gifted boy, and to have uncertainty, even insecurity creep into his spirit would be nothing short of criminal. ”

“Sand was thrown at Plath during lunch hour, some of which got in her hair. To say the least, it was a VERY bad way to start the school year. We will be home schooling Plath until this matter is resolved and we are assured that nothing of this nature will ever happen again.”

“While performing a puppet show about Medecins Sans Frontieres for his grade three class, Luther was heckled by one student who was unable to follow the simple narrative of his “piece de theatre.” (Surely most children know of this NGO and have some French, no??? Is our education system that bad?!)This disruptive student (behavioural problems caused by poor diet?)kept yelling out, “Medecins Sans Fartieres,” and all the other children laughed, which caused Luther severe trauma. I had to give him half an Ativan when he got home. It is an atrocity when a child is not allowed to flourish and is bullied into subordination. Please consider advancing Luther to grade four, five or six so that he is able to interact with students who might share a similar artistic and intellectual capacity.”

“ While playing dodge ball at recess, our boy Colbert was hit twice, once in the head. Clearly, he was targeted. This is unacceptable. We ask that you look into this immediately and discipline the children involved. They are Droogs.”