A typical weeknight when he was home like this: 1. Sit down and try to do homework. 2. Get interrupted by Jeffrey: “Please play with me!” 3. Ignore brother, try to do homework. 4. Get interrupted by Jeffrey: “Come ON, Steven! I’m BORED!” 5. Beg Jeffrey for five minutes of peace. 6. Get begged for five minutes of play: “Steven, you never, ever play with me—ever!” 7. Move entire homework operations center to different room. 8. Repeat steps #1-7 as directed by small drugged maniac.

It was like seeing Bill Gates at age thirteen, times two. And half of him was wearing a cheerleader uniform. Yes, I know that’s a weird image.

Oh, good lord, Jeff. Don't go getting all emotional on me. I've been getting it from my mom, my dad, my sister, the freaking MAILMAN--I don't need it from you, too. All I ask is that you promise me one thing.' 'What?' 'Just water the plants while I'm gone, all right?' 'You don't have plants, Tad.' 'I know. I just always wanted to say that.

Finally the kitchen clock said 5:17. It was time to roll out. I shouted for my mom, woke Jeffrey up, ran upstairs, changed into my concert clothes, put on my shoes, and was standing by the door to the garage by 5:19—chanting “Let’s go! Come on!” (Feel free to try that at home, by the way; moms love it!)

But nobody ever tells you in advance when you should concentrate on the good times-that's why you're supposed to do it every day.

You are a wonderful son, and a wonderful man. Yet another parent busting forth with the “man” thing! I’d have to check my chest for signs of hair when I got home.

Mr. Watras asked me whether I was practicing, and I told him I was practicing my tissue basketball skills.