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WRITE ABOUT KIDS

I can always claim ignorance. Last Wednesday, I was asked to declare an assignment for next week's writing group. "Who, me?" I thought, as my teacher Nora stared me down.

A few minutes before, we had discussed some obstacles to writing. The most common seemed to be our "committees"-in my case the imagined judgments of my wife and mother. I was resolved to shake the fear of finger wags and head shakes-ready to unleash my world of snakes, dreams and private thoughts.

"So what are you going to write about this week Michael?" asked Nora.

Innovative thoughts escaped me. The soft-spoken woman that stood before me had suddenly grown about 12 feet and breathed fire. She was framed with a hopelessly gigantic panorama of every committee member in my life.

I did what I had to do-what I always do. "Uh, kids. I'll write about kids," I said, as I retreated to my comfort zone.

"Ok, so you are going to write about kids," she verified, giving me the chance to change my mind.

"Sure," I said. "Kids are good."

And easy, and safe, I thought.

On the drive home, I pondered the assignment. What could I write that hasn't already been said? Sure I have four kids-yes they're cuddly-of course they say cute stuff. They have changed my wicked ways, taught me love-blah, blah, blah.

This is tougher than I thought.

At home, as I type, my children surround me. Stephen King says he plays loud rock music while he writes. He claims that the distraction gives him something to concentrate against, which apparently sharpens his skills. Great theory, except for a couple of flaws. I am no Stephen King and I can't turn off my kids.

I work anyway. My 13-year-old son Jeff has just completed a short story of his own, and wants me to read it. "Of course I will," I say.
Right after Jeff testifies his respect and admiration for my wisdom and perspective, he bums five bucks.

Next comes five-year-old Nick. He wants to play guys, which means, let his action figure beat up the one he gives me. Again and again.
After 15 minutes of Spiderman versus the Hulk, I am ready to move on. In a fit of proactive wisdom, I give Nick a big red lollipop and a promise of park action before bedtime.

Eric is my oldest child, at 16. He has recently taken up the guitar. I have encouraged him repeatedly-after all anything that isn't drugs or sex and holds his interest is a good thing. He sits on the couch and strums a short riff. "Sounds good," I tell him.

"Thanks," he says.

He plays the same riff a second time, then a third. Within

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