The enemy's gate is down

I spent this past weekend in paradise with Elder M. There's too much to tell - there's a primordial forest with a fallen log in the middle of it on which two friends can sit and talk and smooch, there's rock band practice, there's talking, just talking, about things both exciting and mundane, there's slugs the size of hippos, there's fits of giggling, there's consuming of bubble liquid and blowing bubbles with the mouth, there's Rice Krispie treats and Star Wars Monopoly, there's change and boldness and surprise and familiarity, there's waking up at seven a.m. to watch Amelie while cuddled under a blanket which he would occasionally pull over our heads to kiss gently and make his little sister run screaming from the room.

Too much to tell. Dear readers, I adore this boy.

I asked Elder M what he wanted to be called now that he's home. He suggested "Spacemonster." His little sister insisted on "Monkey Muffin." I went through a few ideas myself: "Fox", "B-612", and "James Dean" were among the possibilities. Then I stumbled upon the perfect pseudonym. For a multiplicity of fitting reasons, Elder M shall henceforth be known as Ender.