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well-meaning neighbors to call Child Protective Services.
    In Nic's dream, he and his friends line up for the morning vampire check. Gloved teachers lift the sides of their lips to see if fangs have replaced their eyeteeth. The children who are vampires are instantly struck dead with a stake through the heart. Nic, recounting the dream in the car one morning, says it is unfair to the vampires, because they can't help themselves.
    I don't know if it is our constant watchfulness, the faces of missing children on milk cartons, or terrifying stories they overhear, but Nic and his friends seem unduly afraid. There is a small yard behind our apartment, but they won't play outside unless I come along. I hear other parents fret that their children are scared of the dark, cry at night, will not sleep alone, or fear sleeping over at friends' houses. After a story, before Nic goes to sleep, he asks me to check on him every fifteen minutes.
    I sing to him.
    Close your eyes

Have no fears

The monster's gone

He's on the run and your daddy's here

2
Waaaake up!

Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!

Up y a wake! Up ya wake! Up ya wake!

This is Mister Señor Love Daddy.

Your voice of choice.

The world's only twelve-hour strongman, here on

WE LOVE radio, 108 FM. The last on

your dial, but the first in ya

hearts. And that's the truth, Ruth.
    The crisp fall morning begins with Nic's recitation of the opening soliloquy from
Do the Right Thing,
one of his favorite movies. We dress and go for a walk in Golden Gate Park. "Look at those orangies," Nic says as we walk by the conservatory of flowers. "And, oh, the greenies and reddies and goldies! It's like last night the world was finger-painted by giants." Back home, Nic helps make pancake batter. He does everything but crack the eggs—he doesn't want to get "gunky" stuff on his hands. He says that the pancakes should be Uncle Buck-sized. In the movie of the same name, they are so large that Uncle Buck uses a snow shovel in place of a spatula.
    Our apartment is a child's domain, no matter how much I try to isolate Nic's influence to his room. The place may have been cleaned the day before, but kid-sized clothes are scattered everywhere. There are board games (he trounced me last night in Stratego) and video games (we are on the penultimate level of the Legend of Zelda) and a multicolored sea of Lego in the center of the living room. In fact, Legos are everywhere—in the silverware drawer, under couch cushions, hidden among the roots of potted plants. Once, when my printer didn't work, a serviceman determined that the problem was a Lego cog jammed behind the daisy wheel.
    Awaiting the pancakes under a gallery of his paintings taped to the walls, Nic sits at the breakfast table, where he writes on lined paper with a fat red pencil. "We got to make our own pizza at school yesterday," he says. "We could choose cheddar cheese or modern jack. Hey, do you know how to spell the
ooo
word? They said that Jake kissed Elena and all the kids said, 'Oooooo.' Did you know that owls can turn their heads all the way around?"
    I place a pancake, disappointingly average-sized, in front of him. He pours on maple syrup, making sound effects—"eeeyaaa! hot lava!"—as I fix him a bag lunch of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, carrot sticks, an apple, a cookie, and a juice box.
    He dresses for school. While tying his shoes, he hums "Eensy Weensy Spider." We're running late, so I hurry him along, and he's soon in the backseat of the car, spitting on his Papa Bear doll.
    "What are you doing?"
    "He's in the slime pit. Would you tickle my knee?"
    I reach back and dig my fingers into the sides of his knee, which causes hysterics.
    "OK, OK, stop. I just wanted to remember what it feels like when you're tickled."
    Changing the subject, Nic asks if he can take Klingon instead of Spanish in school.
    "Why Klingon?"
    "So I won't have to read the subtitles in
Star Trek
movies."
    When I park in front of the school,