Because they’re frequently mentioned in this monthly column, our youngest kids recently argued with each other about which of them is more famous. Without shifting his attention from the iPad in his lap, our oldest boy muttered that on an island, everybody’s famous.

These semi-regular columns, ostensibly about family life, have become part of our family life. I often read old columns to the kids at bedtime, slouched in a battered peach-plaid wingback chair in the darkened room, squinting at the tiny black type on my laptop as the children turn into slumbering marble statues in the moonlight.

They enjoy the articles I read to them at bedtime, but I’ve not been able to interest the kids in reading my columns in the paper. I think the main problem is that they’re disappointed that my stories are nothing but long strings of words in tiny type; they might be more attractive if they were illustrated like graphic novels, or recited by Daffy Duck over buzzing, burbling Dubstep tracks.

The column is a regular topic of discussion around our supper table. A few days ago I mentioned that I was searching for an idea for an article, and the kids put down their forkfuls of meatballs, eager to brainstorm story concepts for the upcoming column.

Our children have all gone Hollywood.

Our oldest boy pitched a reality-psychodrama about our youngest daughter. His angle was that after supper, she can get pretty Wagnerian; shape-shifting from fits of girly giggles to gape-mouthed red-eyed yawns, to growling demonically at her siblings around the sink at toothbrushing time.

I reminded him that’s she’s often just really sleepy. Most mornings our youngest daughter and I yawn in the wan half-light of the single compact fluorescent bulb over the kitchen sink, waiting for the microwave to chirp with hot water for tea while the rest of the house sleeps. She stands before the open refrigerator door, sleepily inventorying its contents, her red-flannel nightie fluttering in the chilling air. She might place dibs on last night’s leftovers, debating whether she would rather have them for breakfast or packed in snap-top containers in her lunch.

As I leave for work, she stands on tiptoes to give me a kiss and closes the front door behind me, clutching a stuffed animal, waving through the window while I sail down the driveway.

My wife Maria proposed a column about my hair. Trying to be clever, I replied that a column devoted to my alleged hair would be much like the hair itself — thin, threadbare and necessarily cut short. I chuckled for effect.

She’s noticed that lately I’ve become preoccupied with my hair, or more accurately, my ex-hair. She’s caught me Googling images of old bald guys on my iPhone, all grinning like Bruce Willis and in need of a shave. I found that many middle-aged men have dispensed with hair entirely, relying on a shiny-pink scalp and stubbly tufts of beard to let their freak flag fly.

Maria countered dryly that it might be fair and fitting for me to write about my own hair for a change. One of my favorite topics seems to be the unfortunate haircuts I’ve given our children. I think she secretly suspects me of giving the kids terrible haircuts just for the chance to write about it.

Our youngest boy pragmatically offered to do something goofy in front of me. I impatiently explained that these stories are supposed to be about real-life family events that actually happened, spontaneously, beautifully, poignantly. The idea of dreaming up some goofy stunt and then writing about it clearly lacks moral fiber.

Our oldest daughter reminded me that Mom arranged her own breakfast in bed on her birthday two years ago; I wrote about it and didn’t have any particular fiber problems then.

We picked up our forkfuls of meatballs and chewed in silence. I concluded that the really great stories just haven’t happened yet. Maybe our family minivan will get pulled over by the police.

Picture a taut exchange between me and a gruff, no-nonsense police officer. Maria might rescue us from a hefty speeding ticket by feigning some sort of emergent head lice situation, simultaneously eyeing me with a withering glance, while the kids quietly discuss the service revolver buttoned in the officer’s holster. Our youngest boy might advise his siblings in a rasping whisper that once I’m locked up in jail, he’ll place dibs on my side of Mom’s bed.

It hasn’t happened, yet. But it’s going to be gold.

— Kevin Pottinger lives on Vashon with his wife and four children.