If you say their names together, they make an action hero.

Last week, I managed to bring Finwe with me to the beach once. The rest of the time, my mother spoiled him mercilessly, but as she also taught him valuable skills and required him to say please, I will allow her to keep Finwe other times.

The reason for leaving him behind was that four equally-abled children are easier to parent than four plus one who needs much more attention or he'll cause some calamity. That sentence is unfair to Finwe, but nearly three-year-olds are not to be trusted.

Cirdan, who has labled even four-year-olds as babies, took Finwe under his wing. He taught him about the monster trucks (I tried not to cringe. My boy will not like monster trucks. Got it? Good. Not NASCAR, either. You remember that, people.), pointed out the things on the beach to the younger boy, and totally taught him to jump into the pool without a mommy to catch him. Water wings were on his arms. Right there. On. His. Arms.

We ate dinner there. Finwe next to Cirdan. Our own Tom Clancy hero, split into two. That is something I also miss about our neighbors in C'ville. That Cirdan and Finwe would have dug a trench between the yards for some reason. Phill and I would have supplied the shovels just to see Mr. MaddJones cringe, but in a nice, neighborly fashion.

While we love New Orleans, there is no substitute for friends made in the beginning, when the children still suckled. Any idiosyncracies are viewed as part of that kid, whether it be shyness, drama, a tendency to shove, or the spark of mischief glittering in their eyes. We'll build other friendships here. Sure. Yet, hmm. There are those that shall remain gold.