We’re about to leave our colleagues at Yankee Publishing here in New Hampshire to start the long and circuitous journey home.

First we drive down to Boston for the night.  Then it’s an early water-taxi to Logan Airport, a flight to Toronto Island Airport on Porter, a bus to Pearson Airport, and, finally, a WestJet flight to Charlottetown.

In all it will take us just under 24 hours to get home.

Then, after an 18 hour rest, sleep, rapid-fire parenting and Farmer’s Market break, I head out just after lunch on Saturday back to Toronto, have a brief layover, and then fly overnight to Frankfurt, switch planes and fly to Copenhagen, get on a train and take the brief hop over to Malmö where I’ll spend the day with Olle and Luisa before heading back to Copenhagen where the TH!NK2 launch starts on Monday morning.

It will, in other words, be a minor caffeine-aided miracle if I’m in any shape to drink in a two day’s worth of climate change wisdom (PDF of programme).

While I’ve got a cocktail party a week Saturday and a Coworkingboat Hackfest a week Sunday, my time from Wednesday to Sunday next is my own, and I’m going to try hard to unplug and lay around somewhere, neither thinking nor working nor hacking.  Nor traveling.

Before I do it all — or at least some of it — in reverse the following Monday.

See you on the other side.

I think I have a pretty normal suite of dreams — the usual “old girlfriend shows up and wants to make out,” “local property developer runs me over in his car,” “webserver load average spirals out of control” that everyone has — but it perplexes me that I tend to dream only when I travel.

This is likely due, at least in part, to the sub-par pillows one encounters on the road. There’s nothing like a bad pillow to keep you in a suspended state between reality and fiction while sleeping. And the psychological turmoil of travel — different places, different foods, the need to conduct an active social life — likely take their toll too (the brain has to work through all of that somehow).

But it’s still disconcerting.

As if a different time zone, a radically different diet, a modified coffee routine, and the absence of those I hold dear isn’t enough, I’ve got to endure a nightly playbill of Tim Banks pursuing me in a Kia Rio, “oh, that lesbian thing was just a phase,” and Apache eating up all available memory. 

It doesn’t make for a well-rested start to the day, especially a day on the road that involves the need to, well, think.

I just sat down and reviewed my travel schedule for the next two weeks — a week in New Hampshire with our colleagues at Yankee Publishing followed by a week in Copenhagen for TH!NK2 — and realized that next weekend I’m flying from Toronto to Charlottetown on Friday afternoon and then, 18 hours later, flying back to Toronto, en route to Copenhagen via Frankfurt.

The ironic of this becomes somewhat more rollicking when you factor in that I’m going to Copenhagen to write about climate change.

And yet, rather than doing the sensible thing and staying overnight in Toronto, I’m going to follow through on my plans, simply to be able to spent 18 hours with Oliver and Catherine.

Family trumps planet.

It doesn’t make sense. Or it does.

Those of you who’ve been here since the 60s may recall the seminal post Getting a Two Year Old to Sleep, most remarkable for the heart-wrenching string of comments that followed it from parents stuck in a similar situation.

I’m happy to report that the years from age 3 to age 8 went pretty well, sleep-wise, for our Oliver.  There were occasional battles over the degree of light dimming, some sleep-walking, and a nightmare here and there, but generally bedtime was a gentle happy time.

Then, in the middle of this summer on a very, very hot night, everything went to hell: Oliver got the idea in his head that he couldn’t get to sleep.  Likely because he actually couldn’t get to sleep, what with the 32 degree temperature and the 98% humidity.  But such ideas have a way of amplifying themselves, and even though the heat melted away a few days later, the “I can’t get to sleep” idea was stuck on Oliver’s head, and was joined by a gang of “I’m afraid of monsters,” and other revelations that were likely always there, but sufficiently latent as to not be a practical issue.

Suffice to say that the last few months have been, well, not a gentle happy time.  And I think we all got a little crazy about it, and it became a stand-in for things that had nothing to do with sleep at all.

I remember when Oliver was three years old our paediatrician asked us what our “parenting philosophy” was.  We didn’t have a real answer, so I think we made something up on the spot.  I don’t think it occurred to either of us that we’d actually need a formal philosophy of parenting.  Or at least not to me.  If anything I’m a member of the “everything should just work itself out in the end” school of parenting.

Except, of course, when it doesn’t.

Sleep-wise, it all came to a head on Tuesday night.  Catherine was away for the night, and both Oliver and I were in a grumpy mood, not well-disposed to sober contemplation.  After his bedtime story and tuck-in, I went downstairs and Oliver jumped up and turned on his room light.  I went upstairs and turned it off.  Rinse, repeat. A half a dozen times.

Finally, in a misguided move, I went up and removed the lightbulbs from his light, a move I now see as tantamount to cutting off Oliver’s oxygen.  He did not react well, and tantrums resulted on both sides.  There was some thrashing about on Oliver’s side, and some “lifting up and carrying back to bedroom” action on my side.  I raised my voice for the first time that I can remember (something that came as a shock to both of us).

Fortunately Catherine came home shortly thereafter and brought some sober second thought into the mix: the change of approach worked, helped by the late hour, and Oliver was asleep a while later.

Not my proudest parenting episode, and perhaps evidence that improvisational dictatorship doesn’t always work out.

You know what my greatest weakness as a parent is?  It’s that I want Oliver to do things for the intrinsic rightness of doing them.  I want him to go to bed because it’s the right thing to do.  And when he doesn’t see the same value in it that I do, I get frustrated.

Yes, I realize this is a naive and somewhat crazy approach, but it’s where I’m starting from.

In the post-game analysis that came yesterday, I was guided by three useful pieces of advice.

First, in reading about kids and sleep and their challenges, time and again I ran into the suggestion that children really are afraid of the dark, and that to force them to sleep with their light off is cruel and unusual punishment.  Oops.

Second, my brother Johnny talked to me about his own reading that suggested that kids rarely act out of nefarious hidden agendas: in other words, if they’re distressed and worked up, it’s likely because they’re distressed and worked up, not because they’re trying to ruin your life.

Finally, my old friend Tim, a veteran parent (or at least a parent with 3 years of parenting on me) suggested that maybe Oliver didn’t actually need to go to sleep. At least not when and how I dictated.

Combining all this sage advice into a new approach, I launched a new plan last night.

First, Oliver and I had a talk about the night before and how things had gone.  I asked him for guidance on what really bothered him about getting to sleep, and he said he really wanted to have his light on.  I suggested that maybe we needed to look at getting him a new light, for the table beside his bed, something bright enough to hold off the monsters, but not too bright to prevent him from sleeping.

He thought this was a good idea, so we popped over to Home Hardware, spent $11 on a reading lamp, brought it home and set it up, had the usual bedtime story and tuck-in, and then I left Oliver to his own devices.

Thirty minutes later I went to check up on him and he was still awake, reading The Old Farmer’s Almanac for Kids (he knows what side his bread is buttered on), and very excited to have learned about the invention of television.

Sixty minutes later I went to check up on him and he was fast asleep.

End analysis: bedtime was much more like a gentle happy time than it had been for a long time, nobody was distressed or anxiety ridden, monsters were kept safely at bay, and Oliver, despite his late-nite research into the cosmos, was actually asleep an hour earlier than he’d been during the days of pitched sleep battles.

Now one night’s success isn’t enough to build a new parenting philosophy on.  But it was certainly enough to snap me out of my patterns to listen more carefully to the situation and react with more sense than bravado.

Parenting, it seems, is hard sometimes, and doesn’t always just work itself out.

I used to hear people talk about “becoming involved” with their child’s school and all I could think of was Harper Valley PTA.  And those uncomfortable meetings I used to have with my parents and various school officials about my various aberrant characteristics.

Why would you want to become involved with school? School was something you were supposed to escape from, not look for additional reasons to become involved with.

And then two unexpected things happened.

First, I found that the teachers, principal and support staff at Prince Street School, where Oliver starts grade 3 on Tuesday are not jerks. 

I’d simply assumed they would be jerks.  Because I’d always thought of teachers as jerks. When you’re a frustrated kid in the 1970s, it’s hard not to thnk that way.

But, apparently, they are not. 

Today, for example, we had an hour long meeting with Oliver’s new teacher.  He listened to us talk about Oliver, we listened to him talk about grade 3, and we worked out plans for trying to make sure Oliver thrives this year like he did last year.

On the way out the door I popped my head in the principal’s office and he spent 30 minutes with us himself, patiently explaining some things we had questions about, giving no hint of the maelstrom of activity swirling hidden around him with 4 days to go until the school opens.

Here’s the key to understanding teachers and principals, I think: if you demonstrate to them that you want to work with them, not against them, and that you are passionate about your child’s learning, they will return the favour.

So as much as it surprises me, we’re involved now.  We’ve got the teacher’s email address and promise of an open door and a flexible approach.

The other unexpected thing that happened last year was getting involved in the Home and School. 

I am so not a joiner of things.  Especially things involving other parents. 

But last year in a fit of insanity I put my name down on the volunteer list, and ended up as Treasurer.

It turns out that other parents are also not jerks.

In fact the Home and School is the singularly most effective organization I’ve ever been a member of.  It’s all about the practical, with no political intrigue, theoretical sparring, or wasted effort.  The Home and School is more about “what do we need to do to be able to buy a new whiteboard for the grade 2 classroom” than about complaining about the school (which is what I’d assumed it was about). 

And when you spend a lot of your time working on very long-term, multi-year projects, working on doable projects with a timeframe of, say, “next Friday’s movie night,” is incredibly refreshing.

Also — and this is a bonus for those of you of the “too many ideas for your own good” inclination — as long as you’re willing to do the work, the Home and School will get behind almost any idea that’s good for kids and good for the school.  Want to organize a Tuesday night basketball league?  An after-school astronomy program?  Get the playground equipment repaired?  Get more art books into the library?  You’re in.

So here’s my suggestion: if you’re a parent, likely this week or next week or the week after that there will be a meeting at your child’s school.  Something like “meet the teacher” or “school open house.”

Go.

And meet the teacher: get to know them, and let them get to know you.  Ask what you can do to help out in the classroom.  Ask to see the classroom.  Get their email address.  Thank them for all the work they’re about to do.

And then on your way out the door stop by the Home and School table and, despite your better judgment telling you not to, put your name down.  Go to a meeting.  Volunteer for something.

All of this may feel vaguely alien at first.  But if my unexpected experiences are any guide, you will likely be surprised, your child will likely end up with a better education, and you’ll probably have some fun too.

Let’s say I have this friend.  We’ll call him Dwayne.

Dwayne and I have this routine.  Every night at 6 o’clock Dwayne comes over to the house for a chat.  We talk about all sort of things: local events, world issues, the weather.

We’ve been doing this for years, and it’s one of my favourite parts of the day.  As far as I know, Dwayne has always felt the same way.  Indeed Dwayne and I have what I’ve always thought to be one of the stronger friendships around.

Suddenly, at the beginning of this week, Dwayne goes a little weird on me. Says we’ve gotta start getting together at 5 o’clock instead of 6 o’clock.  And we can’t really talk about things so deeply any more, he warns me; gotta keep it light, breezy.

Or maybe we can talk about serious things later.  Like he’ll say “I heard about this crazy thing that happened downtown this morning.  Tell you about it later.”  It’s very off-putting.

To make matters worse, at 5:30 Dwayne suddenly gets up to leave, and this other guy, a guy I don’t know named Maurice, from New Brunswick, shows up.  Tries to go all Dwayne on me, but in a way that makes it clear he’s got no idea about Dwayne, or about me.

Just as I’m getting over this whole Maurice thing, at 6 o’clock Dwayne’s back, and wants to rehash everything we talked about at 5 o’clock, but now he’s all serious and deep again.  Except he wants to talk about the weather too.

Needless to say, my once close relationship with Dwayne is getting strained.  I feel like I don’t know him any more.  I feel like he’s at the mercy of forces beyond his control.

It may be over for me and Dwayne.  Which is really sad.  Because, like I said, my daily time with Dwayne has always been one of the highlights of my day.

I’ve written before about the excellent isle@sk service, also known as “the only useful project to come out of the Smart Communities pot of gold.”  You ask a question, and within a day one of the Island’s crack reference librarians gets back to you with answer.  I’ve used it several times, and I’ve always been pleased — overwhelmed even — by the results.

If you’ve read The 4-Hour Work Week, you know that “personal outsourcing” is all the rage these days: using the Internet to get “it doesn’t matter where you do the work from” work done for you by pay-as-you-go teams of “virtual assistants.”  GetFriday is a popular example, and I’m just in process now of setting up an account with them for my friend the choreographer, who’s always coming up with questions he needs answered like “I need photos of 6 designer penthouse apartments with skyline views” to fuel his creative pursuits.

Somewhere in the middle between neighbourhood librarians and on-call virtual assistants are the research services that spun off from the erstwhile Google Answers.  I’ve a friend who’s outsourced much of his day-to-day business research to outfits like this, and speaks highly of the results.

So much so that I decided to try out Uclue, one of the better known gathering places for the Google Answers dispossessed.  So I posted my question — the same one I asked here earlier about the closing credits music for the season opener of Mad Men — and, whadyaknow, within 24 hours I had my answer (the music is an original composition by David Carbonara).  Cost me $20.

Was it worth it?

Well, before I thought of Uclue, I spent much, much longer than the 20 or 30 minutes of my own time that would buy futzing around in my amateur way looking for an answer.

So to buy may way out of a diverting obsession, yes, $20 is an excellent price, and a fair deal.

Olle pointed me toward Kulturexpressen, a program of the City of Malmö, Sweden that, machine-translated into English, is described like this:

Creativity of the locals will now have the opportunity to realize their ideas. Culture Express is a scholarship that can quickly take advantage of creativity… Culture Express is a form of “quick coin” … [i]t is intended to facilitate  those who want to realize your creative ideas and projects and get a cultural support with handling and response within a month. It is for those who do not work with a professional culture, but living in Malmo and want to show your cultural projects for more.

In other words, quick-turnaround, low-bureaucracy micro-finance for non-professional creative people.  Like “I want to hire street urchins to follow the Fathers of Confederation actors around Charlottetown.”  Or “Charlottetown needs a subway map.”  (i.e. the kinds of ideas I have)

You can get up to $1500 for a project, you just have to be 13 years old or older, and they turnaround applications in 30 days.

What an amazing program.

Remember back in May when the City of Charlottetown bowed to developer pressure and sacrificed some trees in the name of capitalism?  Well someone should have sent a clipping up to Starbucks headquarters before they sent down the “Coming Soon” sign for the window:

Note the presence of lovely trees setting off the model Starbucks store. What a shame we don’t have any trees like that in front of our new Starbucks.

I first met Bill Coleman almost 20 years ago on a plane to Cuba.  Two years later, while driving up the United States, I visited Bill in Bartlesville, Oklahoma  and met his friend and sometimes co-conspirator Mark Shaub.  And a year after that I saw them perform The Brothers Plaid, their tap dancing paean to the Winnebago lifestyle, on a barge in the Ottawa River.

As if further proof was needed that anything really important in this world happens in Charlottetown, Mark and Bill first met in here in the mid 1980s when they were both part of Montage Dance Theatre, the Island’s erstwhile unlikely modern dance company.

Bill and Mark have been here on the Island since Friday for Montage’s 25th anniversary, and tonight we had the pleasure of seeing The Brothers Plaid return to the stage at The Why: