my boys' school requires its students to wear uniforms. The upper school girls (there are no upper school boys) wear a blue and white plaid skirt; the middle school kids wear blue shirts and khakis; and the lower schoolers wear red polo shirts and blue pants. There are also dress days, requiring a white button down shirt, tie, vest and khakis. On civvy days, they can wear whatever they want (by "they" I mean me as I use my boys as pint-sized billboards supporting my favorite teams: Patriots, Red Sox, Celtics, assorted soccer jerseys). I had never realized it, but I, too, wear a uniform. This became quite clear to me last Friday.
My wife and I were going to a fancy fundraising event for a hospital where she frequently works. This function necessitated my wearing a coat and tie. (I dress up with the frequency of a total lunar eclipse). In lieu of a babysitter, my boys were going to Kid's Night Out (KNO), a service occasionally offered at my boys' school. At KNO, the high schoolers who board at the school "babysit" (while supervised by two teachers). They have take-out pizza, watch movies, play in the gym; a good time for sure. The only possible downside is that one needs to ferry the boys to school to attend KNO. This was my task. So, I walked my boys to KNO. I was nattily dressed in a blue sports coat and tie. My pants charcoal grey, my loafers jet black, I looked icy cool (or like the millions of people who dress-up daily for work- it's a matter of perspective). The route to school is one that we travel daily, but this night's walk was different. In the fifteen minute walk to school, we were stopped by five different people who addressed my boys or me regarding my dress: "I've never seen you in a tie," "looking good," "are your mom and dad going on a date?" "where's your father?" and "who is this good-looking guy? And what's he done with your dad?" This is not to mention the two neighbors who stared at us mutely, their slightly bemused expressions seemingly asking: what's wrong with this scene?". At school the teachers supervising KNO greeted my boys with "hi guys" and me with, "don't you look dolled up?". My attire had its impact on the other parents dropping their kids odd at KNO. One woman was shocked when she saw it was me. "From a distance," she said, "I saw this gentleman whom I did not know, but it turned out to be you.". I got various other comments complimenting my look, including an enthusiastic "you look great.". My dressing up had quite an impact. Now, one could take this experience and appreciate the compliments or one could read between the lines. If people are falling over themselves to favorably comment on my appearance tonight (on the dressed-up full lunar eclipse), what are they thinking when they see me on a daily basis? "Oh, here's that slouch with the cute boys. Hopefully, they'll be better dressed adults than their father." Or "long sleeve t-shirt and jeans again??!!?? Really!!??!!" One parent passed me in the hallway last week, she looked at my shirt (a Lionel Messi Barcelona jersey!) and chuckled, "oh, my ten-year old has that same shirt."
The whole dressing-up experience made me evaluate my stay-at-home uniform. From September to mid October (and any sunny fifty degree-plus day following, I wear shorts (khaki, olive, or blue), an athletic shirt (long-sleeve t, soccer jersey, polo shirt, a Patriot or Red Sox t-shirt), and sneakers (cool sneakers, mind you- Nike Air Max cross-trainers or some throw-back Adidas shell-toes). As the weather grows colder and wetter, the shorts become jeans (various shades of blue, and black) or Nike Sportswear pants (I prefer these to the Adidas pants as the Adidas have no back pocket). Very Occasionally, I'll wear a button-down shirt and nice pants, but this can only happen when my wife has the day off and can drive us to school. The walk to and from school is only a mile and a half, but the hills are steep; this requires exertion and who wants to sweat in nice clothes?
The stay-at-home father uniform should allow for proper execution of stay-at-home dad duties. Helping with homework and violin can be done in any garb; loving, supporting and nurturing one's children similarly involves no set dress, but all the sports that I play with my boys? That, my friends, requires forethought. I will keep this truth with me like a shield, deflecting all the negative thoughts sent my way. Slouch? Ten year-old appearing? These words bounce off me. Tired of seeing my long-sleeved t and jeans? Tough! A Surgeon is not mocked for wearing scrubs, a scientist is not ridiculed for wearing a lab coat, a gladiator receives no jeers for wearing armor, a stay-at-home father should not be looked down on for wearing his uniform. As I am writing this, I am wearing my Nike sneakers, some blue shorts, and a Real Madrid jersey. And I look sharp, and ready to parent, a stay-at-home dad primed for battle.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Friday, September 24, 2010
Intensity, Part II: Ways to deal with it
Last post, I discussed the treacherous waters of intensity. Dabbling in intensity can, of course, be fruitful: the more intense one is in a certain activity, the more chance for them to develop skills therein. However, how does one deal with intensity when one doesn't want to embrace it fully? I believe that one afternoon/evening two days ago could provide some insight.
The boys and I were enjoying a boys' night (when my wife works late, and we watch movies and eat chinese food in front of the TV). The movie was over, but it wasn't quite bed-time. The boys (and I am referring to all three of us) decided that we needed to play a little soccer before bed.
It was sons versus father. This is always a good idea. The goal of any athletic endeavor with young children should be, in my opinion, to make sure that they enjoy themselves, thus assuring further playing later. One essential key to a young child's enjoying a sporting event is having them enjoy success. This is much easier with both boys on the same team. If their team wins (i.e. if you lose), they are happy. This happiness is harder to attain when one child plays on the father's team. If the father's team wins, the lone player (usually my older son) feels cheated because he was alone; if the lone players wins, my team-mate (usually my 5-year old) feels cheated because he thinks I didn't try hard enough. With both boys on one team, my task was easy: let them win (although as I posted earlier: my "letting them win" is not so much a personal choice anymore; they are winning, but I am not sure that I am "letting" them). Our games are always good-hearted and played with much love, however, my older boy, perhaps the most susceptible to intensity, can become cut-throat competitive at the drop of a hat (or "way too hype" as my younger son puts it). He has his own way of dealing with his tendency to become too intense. His strategy? Win, or assure that the game will be played giving him a chance of winning. He had initially argued against playing with his brother (for fear that it would lessen his chances of winning). "He's not good enough," my older son complained, seemingly oblivious to his callous comments' effect on his brother's psyche. "Wait a minute," I said, "are you trying to say that, as a five-year old, your brother might not be at an eight-year old level? Are you insinuating that if you, my older son, were five and your brother was eight, you would not be good enough?" My older son grudgingly agreed that it was a matter of athletic development due to age and not an inherent "he's not good enough" from which his complaints emanated. My younger son didn't seem terribly distressed by his brother's original comment or mollified by my clarifying exactly what his older brother was trying to say. But, I had done my part as a parent to assure that no feelings were hurt. Before the game began, I made sure to inform my older son that I would adjust my play to the age of my opponents (i.e. I wouldn't shoot with as much force as I do when my eight-year old is in goal). Now, my older boy was eager to play. Once, he had been assured that the game would be fair, that he would carry no unfair burden he was fine. (I need to mention that my five-year old is actually a really good player; I am not intending to diminish his skills but merely to convey how my older son sees his younger brother's ability). For my older, his being intense in regard to a game is manageable so long as he feels the game is fair.
My younger son's approach to dealing with intensity is genius. He injects every competitive (or intense for these purposes) venture with a healthy dose of imaginary play. During our soccer game, for example, he would, after every save he made, twirl and slash an imaginary sword or punch the air twice, shoot a pretend bow, and kick the air. This was really funny, and made even more so by my older son's passionate pleas to "focus" or "pass me the ball" or "would you stop attacking imaginary foes! PLEASE!!!" I had to step in at one point and calmly tell my 5-year old that "if he wants to play soccer, he really needs to stop his pretend battles- at least until half-time." But this is my younger boy's way of dealing with an intense event. My younger boy avoids the intensity by refusing to completely commit to the intense event. Rather than engage fully in a game that is getting "way too hype," he keeps a healthy distance, battling his way to a peaceful spot. When the intensity is getting too much, my younger boy goes to perhaps his most comfortable spot: battling countless invisible enemies. If he can ever harness that energy and put it toward sports, he will be the next Bo Jackson or Deion Sanders (professional in multiple sports).
I have my own method of avoiding intensity. I don't like to acknowledge it, but I can be a tad competitive. This has made my playing tennis enjoyable, but often stressful. I think that I have found the perfect answer. My new tennis partners, whom I play with every Monday and Wednesday, are all 75-years old and older. Now, this may sound like a cop-out (playing much older players), but they are actually really good. Also, they play hard, but are not competitive at all. This is exactly the athletic environment that I enjoy. Also, they have the most prized time spot at the courts. They have the elusive 1:30 time spot. So treasured because it ends at 2:45, giving me the perfect amount of time to shower and walk next door to my boys' school for pick-up at 3:10. There are other rewards. Even players my own age have commented on my speed on the court, but people in their seventies- PLEASE. They are floored by my quickness. One of the guys I played with looked at me wistfully after I had run down a lob: "you're like a gazelle," he marveled. Perhaps the thing that I like most about my new tennis partners has nothing to do with athletics at all. They have a really cool nick name for themselves; for us, I guess. One of the players turned to me after tennis the other day. "Welcome to the AOFs," he said. "AOFs?" I asked. "We're the Awesome Old Farts," he said, "now we're the AOFs plus one."
The boys and I were enjoying a boys' night (when my wife works late, and we watch movies and eat chinese food in front of the TV). The movie was over, but it wasn't quite bed-time. The boys (and I am referring to all three of us) decided that we needed to play a little soccer before bed.
It was sons versus father. This is always a good idea. The goal of any athletic endeavor with young children should be, in my opinion, to make sure that they enjoy themselves, thus assuring further playing later. One essential key to a young child's enjoying a sporting event is having them enjoy success. This is much easier with both boys on the same team. If their team wins (i.e. if you lose), they are happy. This happiness is harder to attain when one child plays on the father's team. If the father's team wins, the lone player (usually my older son) feels cheated because he was alone; if the lone players wins, my team-mate (usually my 5-year old) feels cheated because he thinks I didn't try hard enough. With both boys on one team, my task was easy: let them win (although as I posted earlier: my "letting them win" is not so much a personal choice anymore; they are winning, but I am not sure that I am "letting" them). Our games are always good-hearted and played with much love, however, my older boy, perhaps the most susceptible to intensity, can become cut-throat competitive at the drop of a hat (or "way too hype" as my younger son puts it). He has his own way of dealing with his tendency to become too intense. His strategy? Win, or assure that the game will be played giving him a chance of winning. He had initially argued against playing with his brother (for fear that it would lessen his chances of winning). "He's not good enough," my older son complained, seemingly oblivious to his callous comments' effect on his brother's psyche. "Wait a minute," I said, "are you trying to say that, as a five-year old, your brother might not be at an eight-year old level? Are you insinuating that if you, my older son, were five and your brother was eight, you would not be good enough?" My older son grudgingly agreed that it was a matter of athletic development due to age and not an inherent "he's not good enough" from which his complaints emanated. My younger son didn't seem terribly distressed by his brother's original comment or mollified by my clarifying exactly what his older brother was trying to say. But, I had done my part as a parent to assure that no feelings were hurt. Before the game began, I made sure to inform my older son that I would adjust my play to the age of my opponents (i.e. I wouldn't shoot with as much force as I do when my eight-year old is in goal). Now, my older boy was eager to play. Once, he had been assured that the game would be fair, that he would carry no unfair burden he was fine. (I need to mention that my five-year old is actually a really good player; I am not intending to diminish his skills but merely to convey how my older son sees his younger brother's ability). For my older, his being intense in regard to a game is manageable so long as he feels the game is fair.
My younger son's approach to dealing with intensity is genius. He injects every competitive (or intense for these purposes) venture with a healthy dose of imaginary play. During our soccer game, for example, he would, after every save he made, twirl and slash an imaginary sword or punch the air twice, shoot a pretend bow, and kick the air. This was really funny, and made even more so by my older son's passionate pleas to "focus" or "pass me the ball" or "would you stop attacking imaginary foes! PLEASE!!!" I had to step in at one point and calmly tell my 5-year old that "if he wants to play soccer, he really needs to stop his pretend battles- at least until half-time." But this is my younger boy's way of dealing with an intense event. My younger boy avoids the intensity by refusing to completely commit to the intense event. Rather than engage fully in a game that is getting "way too hype," he keeps a healthy distance, battling his way to a peaceful spot. When the intensity is getting too much, my younger boy goes to perhaps his most comfortable spot: battling countless invisible enemies. If he can ever harness that energy and put it toward sports, he will be the next Bo Jackson or Deion Sanders (professional in multiple sports).
I have my own method of avoiding intensity. I don't like to acknowledge it, but I can be a tad competitive. This has made my playing tennis enjoyable, but often stressful. I think that I have found the perfect answer. My new tennis partners, whom I play with every Monday and Wednesday, are all 75-years old and older. Now, this may sound like a cop-out (playing much older players), but they are actually really good. Also, they play hard, but are not competitive at all. This is exactly the athletic environment that I enjoy. Also, they have the most prized time spot at the courts. They have the elusive 1:30 time spot. So treasured because it ends at 2:45, giving me the perfect amount of time to shower and walk next door to my boys' school for pick-up at 3:10. There are other rewards. Even players my own age have commented on my speed on the court, but people in their seventies- PLEASE. They are floored by my quickness. One of the guys I played with looked at me wistfully after I had run down a lob: "you're like a gazelle," he marveled. Perhaps the thing that I like most about my new tennis partners has nothing to do with athletics at all. They have a really cool nick name for themselves; for us, I guess. One of the players turned to me after tennis the other day. "Welcome to the AOFs," he said. "AOFs?" I asked. "We're the Awesome Old Farts," he said, "now we're the AOFs plus one."
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Intensity versus enthusiasm: a parent's perspective
My wife and I had dinner last weekend with a couple whom we do not know very well. I usually handle these circumstances very well as I, either, monopolize the talking so as to avoid any awkward silences or use the therapeutic technique of mirroring (when you aren't sure what to say, repeat exactly what was said to you; the person with whom you are talking will feel that they are being listened to and will be happy). This particular dinner, however, was a dud. The couple was nice, and the food was delicious, but the conversation left me speechless. I felt as I did when, at a family reunion of my wife's, one of her distant cousins approached me and began to babble in Basque, a very confusing language whose only relatives are Finnish and Hungarian. I looked at the cousin with a confused, befuddled half-smile. This is how I looked during the dinner, as if some incomprehensible language was being spoken. I literally had nothing to say. In retrospect, this is bizarre because many of the themes that we were discussing are ones with which I can relate. P, the husband in the couple, is passionate about debate just as I am passionate about sports. His children are really good debaters, and he practices with them daily just as my children are good athletes, and I practice with them. (I am leaving out the obvious emphasis and time that any good parent puts on academics). So, why was our dinner conversation (my end, anyhow) so lacking? Why couldn't I relate to him on the obvious similarities (enthusiasm/passion) that we share?
I believe that the problem relating can be attributed to a fundamental (but subtle) difference in our respective zeal. P is intense. He "has and shows firm purpose and great seriousness" regarding music and his children's involvement in debate. I, on the other hand, am very enthusiastic, even passionate, regarding athletics. I'm "an ardent supporter" who has "strong intense feelings," but I do not treat athletics with "a great seriousness." Where's the fun in that? To be fair, it needs to be noted that P's children are older than mine (15 and 12 as opposed to 8 and 5). Maybe their being older requires a greater seriousness. I can, perhaps, afford to be less intense because my boys and I are simply playing sports. Just games, right?
But maybe I should take a page out of T's book. Is it time for me to pump up the intensity in regards to my children's athletic lives? I have documented the frequency with which we played soccer this summer (and are continuing to after-school). This has garnered tangible results. At this Saturday's game, three different parents approached me to compliment my son's playing. My younger son, whose season has not yet started, is excelling at practice and in our playroom (he likes pretending to be Iker Cassillas, making diving saves- landing safely on strategically placed bean-bags). However, there are negatives that go along with my pumping up the intensity. One obvious negative that leaps to mind regards my muscles, which always seem to be aching after vain attempts to match an 8- and 5-year old's ability to sustain to play endlessly. Another negative concerns intensity's communicable nature. My older son is particularly sensitive to this. During one game of one-on-one soccer, he burst into tears after I had scored (he was beating me 6-0 when I scored). We stopped the game so I could figure out what was troubling him. "I should beat you 10-0," he wailed, "even letting in one goal is to much." Did someone say arts-and-crafts? The negative qualities of athletic intensity have appeared vis-a-vis my younger son, as well. I help out at his soccer practices, and the kids were participating in a shielding/dribbling drill. I was supposed to approach a child, allow him or her to shield the ball with his/her body, and then allow them to dribble away. Not a difficult task, yet somehow the athletically-intense me showed up and caused problems. After one little boy had successfully shielded the ball with his body, he began to dribble away from me, happy in his accomplishment. Enter intense-me. I, somehow, decided that it would be a good idea to take one last poke at the ball with my foot. It was more realistic, I figured, defenders aren't just going to let the opposing player dribble away. Anyhow, I ended up tripping this boy. With a spectacular thud, he face-planted into the grass. He was fine, and the whole incident went unnoticed, but the danger signs were clear. Too much athletic intensity can cloud one's judgement.
To be intense or not to be intense, that is the question. I am not sure that I know the answer. It seems, like so much else in life, to have caused some positives and some negatives. It seems to me, however, that any intensity regarding activities should wait until children are older. One must be careful. A child should choose the arena into which he will pour his intensity. A younger child is, obviously, not yet in the position to make such a decision. So, vis-a-vis my boys: we'll keep it light. Enjoying the sports without causing tears, tripping youngsters or tearing my muscles.
I believe that the problem relating can be attributed to a fundamental (but subtle) difference in our respective zeal. P is intense. He "has and shows firm purpose and great seriousness" regarding music and his children's involvement in debate. I, on the other hand, am very enthusiastic, even passionate, regarding athletics. I'm "an ardent supporter" who has "strong intense feelings," but I do not treat athletics with "a great seriousness." Where's the fun in that? To be fair, it needs to be noted that P's children are older than mine (15 and 12 as opposed to 8 and 5). Maybe their being older requires a greater seriousness. I can, perhaps, afford to be less intense because my boys and I are simply playing sports. Just games, right?
But maybe I should take a page out of T's book. Is it time for me to pump up the intensity in regards to my children's athletic lives? I have documented the frequency with which we played soccer this summer (and are continuing to after-school). This has garnered tangible results. At this Saturday's game, three different parents approached me to compliment my son's playing. My younger son, whose season has not yet started, is excelling at practice and in our playroom (he likes pretending to be Iker Cassillas, making diving saves- landing safely on strategically placed bean-bags). However, there are negatives that go along with my pumping up the intensity. One obvious negative that leaps to mind regards my muscles, which always seem to be aching after vain attempts to match an 8- and 5-year old's ability to sustain to play endlessly. Another negative concerns intensity's communicable nature. My older son is particularly sensitive to this. During one game of one-on-one soccer, he burst into tears after I had scored (he was beating me 6-0 when I scored). We stopped the game so I could figure out what was troubling him. "I should beat you 10-0," he wailed, "even letting in one goal is to much." Did someone say arts-and-crafts? The negative qualities of athletic intensity have appeared vis-a-vis my younger son, as well. I help out at his soccer practices, and the kids were participating in a shielding/dribbling drill. I was supposed to approach a child, allow him or her to shield the ball with his/her body, and then allow them to dribble away. Not a difficult task, yet somehow the athletically-intense me showed up and caused problems. After one little boy had successfully shielded the ball with his body, he began to dribble away from me, happy in his accomplishment. Enter intense-me. I, somehow, decided that it would be a good idea to take one last poke at the ball with my foot. It was more realistic, I figured, defenders aren't just going to let the opposing player dribble away. Anyhow, I ended up tripping this boy. With a spectacular thud, he face-planted into the grass. He was fine, and the whole incident went unnoticed, but the danger signs were clear. Too much athletic intensity can cloud one's judgement.
To be intense or not to be intense, that is the question. I am not sure that I know the answer. It seems, like so much else in life, to have caused some positives and some negatives. It seems to me, however, that any intensity regarding activities should wait until children are older. One must be careful. A child should choose the arena into which he will pour his intensity. A younger child is, obviously, not yet in the position to make such a decision. So, vis-a-vis my boys: we'll keep it light. Enjoying the sports without causing tears, tripping youngsters or tearing my muscles.
Monday, September 13, 2010
The Start of Soccer Season or Enthusiasm, and Its Benefits
Soccer season began this weekend, and my natural inclination is to spend this entire posting crowing about the game. However, to cater to the less sports-inclined among my readers I will focus on enthusiasm, an attitude with which I'm well acquainted. Webster's Dictionary defines enthusiasm as "supernatural inspiration or possession; inspired ecstasy; intense or eager interest; fervor or zeal." To be an enthusiast is to be "an ardent supporter." Enthusiasm, meet your human relatives: me and my family.
My boys awoke this past Saturday at 7AM. My older boy dressed quickly for his soccer game and entered my room. "Daddy," he said breathlessly,"get up! We're missing Chelsea versus West Ham." He was referring to the English Premier League match. He was excited. We had been discussing European professional football at great length this summer (see my earlier postings), but had yet to see a match televised. I, then, heard my younger son approach. I expected him to enter with his Saturday fixture: "can we watch Hotwheels Battle Force Five?" What I saw near moved me to tears. Fully dressed in his Brazilian Football Kit (official jersey, official shorts, and official socks), he said, "daddy, get up. Soccer." I was feeling very excited about the pro-soccer vibe, but my youngest son's next question made me even happier. "Daddy, can I wear my cleats while we watch the game?" With contented smiles, we went downstairs to watch Chelsea versus West Ham. It was a Rockwellian scene if there's ever been one. A proud father and his two boys (both in full soccer uniforms).
After watching the soccer game for a little bit, it was time to go to my older son's soccer match. It was a thrilling affair for various reasons. On a personal level, I was juggling the soccer ball like a seasoned pro. With ease, I dribbled the ball around my younger son and one of his kindergarten friends. I looked and felt good. I belonged on the football pitch. Perhaps more important from a paternal/mature adult level was my younger son's skill. He can really kick the ball, he's fast, and gives off a loose, relaxed, yet talented vibe that evokes Ronaldhino. Most importantly of the various factors that made my eldest son's match a thrilling affair was his play. We played a team with exceptional goal-tenders. Still, our best player (and my son's best friend) scored the first goal. I recognized this game plan. My son's friend would score a bunch of goals and we would coast to victory on his coattails. Or would we? My sons' opponents were well-coached and battle-worn. They did not give up easyily. Indeed, they scored the next three goals. One of these goals was scored on my son, but he still acquitted himself well in goal. Into half-time we went, down 3-1. In my head, I was repeating the mantra "it's not about winning or losing; it's about having fun." Second half starts. My son gets off a couple of excellent shots on goals. Both blocked. My son's good friend (our, as of yet, sole goal-scorer) blasted an excellent shot that bounces off of the back of the goalie's head. No goal. It seems we will have to go home with the bitter taste of defeat in our mouth's. Nay and nay. My son, no longer playing goalie, received the ball to the right of the opposing goalie (from the edge of the goalie's box). With tremendous force and velocity, he blasted the ball off his foot as if shot from a cannon. GOAL GOAL GOAL GOAL GOAL GOAL GOAL GOAL. But we still trailed by one point. Surely, someone would step up and score the trying goal. But who? Soon the answer came. My son received (poetically enough) a crisp pass from his friend. But at too sharp an angle for a clear shot on goal. With a slight step to the right, my boy once again uncorks a vicious strike . Once again, the sweet satisfaction of a goal. He tied the game. It remained tied. There is true honor in a draw. Particularly in a draw secured in such exciting fashion.
Now, can one draw a direct line from my enthusiastically pushing soccer all summer and the wonderful events of this Saturday morning? Did enthusiasm play a role? I'll let others decide, but one cannot deny that the "inspired ecstasy" [of my boys' and I] had created a "fervor and zeal" that facilitated frequent practicing and thinking about soccer that lead to some very favorable results. Also, being "ardent supporters" of the sport made watching Chelsea versus West Ham fun.
Later Saturday afternoon, I was playing (believe it or not) soccer with my boys when I decided we needed a rest (I did anyway). I told my boys that there was a video on the computer that I wanted them to see. I had been reading an article in Sports Illustrated about big wave surfing, an awe-inspiring endeavor in which people attempt to surf waves of up to 100 feet. I had decided to find footage of this sport on Youtube to show my boys. I thought that the combination of the surfer's bravery and skill and the wave's awesome power would appeal to my boys. My older boy declined to watch the video. He stayed downstairs to continue kicking the soccer ball. My younger son and I went to watch the videos of Laird Hamilton, best big wave surfer of all time. As we watched the video, I was describing to my son just how powerful and dangerous these waves were. I told him that while these waves are cresting the space created is so huge that an office building could fit inside. I told him a story of a surfer who was sucked under by one of these huge waves and shot underwater 500 meters by the force created. (There's nothing like a good Sports Illustrated article to engender the proper sense of wonder in an event). So, we watched in silence as this incredibly brave man surfed through this monstrous wave. After a time, I looked over my shoulder to see if my son was equally awed by what we were seeing. I turned more fully, to find my son in a perfect surfer's pose (we don't surf, but he looked like the guy we were watching). His legs were bent at the knees, his hamstrings flexing. He had his front arm extended as if trying to point toward the shore. His back arm was stretched behind him at an 120 degree angle, feeling for the wave just as Laird Hamilton was. His concentration was absolute. He was feeling this moment. He was riding the big wave. In our study, on the rug, in safety, he was surfing the biggest wave in the world. Once he was done with the wave, he looked at me. The expression in my boy's face could only be described as inspired ecstasy.
My wife has begun running recently, and yesterday, she had a 5K race. There was a 1K race for kids that was run just prior to the adults' race. My younger son did not feel like participating. He was probably a little overwhelmed by the hubbub. My older boy did run. And he ran really well. He was so inspired that he wants to run in a 5K that my wife is doing in November (many parents run 5Ks with their kids). "That was so awesome," he gushed to my wife as we drove home, "can we go on a run this afternoon?" Yes, occasionally enthusiasm can be exhausting, but the good outweighs the bad by far.
Sports-related enthusiasm is not the only sort that is in the air. My boys, due entirely to my wife's passion for it, are very enthusiastic gardeners. My younger boy, oddly, loves to participate in the growing of and eating, raw, of Swiss Chard. The truism different strokes for different folks applies to enthusiasm as well. On the topic of different strokes for different folks, my older boy LOVES going to our neighbor's house to help her pull weeds. She is an excellent gardener and often shares her spoils with us. Yesterday, my older boy said, in response to her suggestion that he pick some blueberries that she had grown, "but I feel so bad. We're always taking the stuff that you grow." "It's a pleasure," she said, "I love giving the fruit to you because you're always so enthusiastic!" Score yet another point for the virtues of enthusiasm.
Enthusiasm benefitted our house in another way, yesterday. My wife asked my boys and I what we wanted for dinner. She had run the 5K race earlier in the day, so I suggested that we make something easy. Both boys had a different opinion. "Make paella," they screamed in cheerful unison, "we love your paella. It's so good. So delicious. So wonderful. We need it. Please." At this, my younger son raised his pointer and middle fingers to his lips, kissed them, then sent off peace signs to display his approval/love of paella. He did this rapidly, sending out kissed peace-signs by the hundreds. Simultaneously, my older boy got up and joyfully, for lack of a better word, shook his booty. He danced his affirmation of the dinner choice. My wife, who had looked pretty tired beforehand, smiled and was given energy from the boys' reaction to her question. "Alright," she said, "we'll have paella."
In one weekend, enthusiasm's finger-prints were all over a super soccer experience, a joyful jogging experience, the getting of tasty berries from our neighbor, and a delicious paella for dinner. This weekend, enthusiasm resulted in positive outcomes. Sometimes, there might not be many positive outcomes to be found. Yet still, enthusiasm is of great use. One can skirt the treacherous depths of sadness, riding the positive energy of enthusiasm like a young big wave surfer pointing toward shore.
My boys awoke this past Saturday at 7AM. My older boy dressed quickly for his soccer game and entered my room. "Daddy," he said breathlessly,"get up! We're missing Chelsea versus West Ham." He was referring to the English Premier League match. He was excited. We had been discussing European professional football at great length this summer (see my earlier postings), but had yet to see a match televised. I, then, heard my younger son approach. I expected him to enter with his Saturday fixture: "can we watch Hotwheels Battle Force Five?" What I saw near moved me to tears. Fully dressed in his Brazilian Football Kit (official jersey, official shorts, and official socks), he said, "daddy, get up. Soccer." I was feeling very excited about the pro-soccer vibe, but my youngest son's next question made me even happier. "Daddy, can I wear my cleats while we watch the game?" With contented smiles, we went downstairs to watch Chelsea versus West Ham. It was a Rockwellian scene if there's ever been one. A proud father and his two boys (both in full soccer uniforms).
After watching the soccer game for a little bit, it was time to go to my older son's soccer match. It was a thrilling affair for various reasons. On a personal level, I was juggling the soccer ball like a seasoned pro. With ease, I dribbled the ball around my younger son and one of his kindergarten friends. I looked and felt good. I belonged on the football pitch. Perhaps more important from a paternal/mature adult level was my younger son's skill. He can really kick the ball, he's fast, and gives off a loose, relaxed, yet talented vibe that evokes Ronaldhino. Most importantly of the various factors that made my eldest son's match a thrilling affair was his play. We played a team with exceptional goal-tenders. Still, our best player (and my son's best friend) scored the first goal. I recognized this game plan. My son's friend would score a bunch of goals and we would coast to victory on his coattails. Or would we? My sons' opponents were well-coached and battle-worn. They did not give up easyily. Indeed, they scored the next three goals. One of these goals was scored on my son, but he still acquitted himself well in goal. Into half-time we went, down 3-1. In my head, I was repeating the mantra "it's not about winning or losing; it's about having fun." Second half starts. My son gets off a couple of excellent shots on goals. Both blocked. My son's good friend (our, as of yet, sole goal-scorer) blasted an excellent shot that bounces off of the back of the goalie's head. No goal. It seems we will have to go home with the bitter taste of defeat in our mouth's. Nay and nay. My son, no longer playing goalie, received the ball to the right of the opposing goalie (from the edge of the goalie's box). With tremendous force and velocity, he blasted the ball off his foot as if shot from a cannon. GOAL GOAL GOAL GOAL GOAL GOAL GOAL GOAL. But we still trailed by one point. Surely, someone would step up and score the trying goal. But who? Soon the answer came. My son received (poetically enough) a crisp pass from his friend. But at too sharp an angle for a clear shot on goal. With a slight step to the right, my boy once again uncorks a vicious strike . Once again, the sweet satisfaction of a goal. He tied the game. It remained tied. There is true honor in a draw. Particularly in a draw secured in such exciting fashion.
Now, can one draw a direct line from my enthusiastically pushing soccer all summer and the wonderful events of this Saturday morning? Did enthusiasm play a role? I'll let others decide, but one cannot deny that the "inspired ecstasy" [of my boys' and I] had created a "fervor and zeal" that facilitated frequent practicing and thinking about soccer that lead to some very favorable results. Also, being "ardent supporters" of the sport made watching Chelsea versus West Ham fun.
Later Saturday afternoon, I was playing (believe it or not) soccer with my boys when I decided we needed a rest (I did anyway). I told my boys that there was a video on the computer that I wanted them to see. I had been reading an article in Sports Illustrated about big wave surfing, an awe-inspiring endeavor in which people attempt to surf waves of up to 100 feet. I had decided to find footage of this sport on Youtube to show my boys. I thought that the combination of the surfer's bravery and skill and the wave's awesome power would appeal to my boys. My older boy declined to watch the video. He stayed downstairs to continue kicking the soccer ball. My younger son and I went to watch the videos of Laird Hamilton, best big wave surfer of all time. As we watched the video, I was describing to my son just how powerful and dangerous these waves were. I told him that while these waves are cresting the space created is so huge that an office building could fit inside. I told him a story of a surfer who was sucked under by one of these huge waves and shot underwater 500 meters by the force created. (There's nothing like a good Sports Illustrated article to engender the proper sense of wonder in an event). So, we watched in silence as this incredibly brave man surfed through this monstrous wave. After a time, I looked over my shoulder to see if my son was equally awed by what we were seeing. I turned more fully, to find my son in a perfect surfer's pose (we don't surf, but he looked like the guy we were watching). His legs were bent at the knees, his hamstrings flexing. He had his front arm extended as if trying to point toward the shore. His back arm was stretched behind him at an 120 degree angle, feeling for the wave just as Laird Hamilton was. His concentration was absolute. He was feeling this moment. He was riding the big wave. In our study, on the rug, in safety, he was surfing the biggest wave in the world. Once he was done with the wave, he looked at me. The expression in my boy's face could only be described as inspired ecstasy.
My wife has begun running recently, and yesterday, she had a 5K race. There was a 1K race for kids that was run just prior to the adults' race. My younger son did not feel like participating. He was probably a little overwhelmed by the hubbub. My older boy did run. And he ran really well. He was so inspired that he wants to run in a 5K that my wife is doing in November (many parents run 5Ks with their kids). "That was so awesome," he gushed to my wife as we drove home, "can we go on a run this afternoon?" Yes, occasionally enthusiasm can be exhausting, but the good outweighs the bad by far.
Sports-related enthusiasm is not the only sort that is in the air. My boys, due entirely to my wife's passion for it, are very enthusiastic gardeners. My younger boy, oddly, loves to participate in the growing of and eating, raw, of Swiss Chard. The truism different strokes for different folks applies to enthusiasm as well. On the topic of different strokes for different folks, my older boy LOVES going to our neighbor's house to help her pull weeds. She is an excellent gardener and often shares her spoils with us. Yesterday, my older boy said, in response to her suggestion that he pick some blueberries that she had grown, "but I feel so bad. We're always taking the stuff that you grow." "It's a pleasure," she said, "I love giving the fruit to you because you're always so enthusiastic!" Score yet another point for the virtues of enthusiasm.
Enthusiasm benefitted our house in another way, yesterday. My wife asked my boys and I what we wanted for dinner. She had run the 5K race earlier in the day, so I suggested that we make something easy. Both boys had a different opinion. "Make paella," they screamed in cheerful unison, "we love your paella. It's so good. So delicious. So wonderful. We need it. Please." At this, my younger son raised his pointer and middle fingers to his lips, kissed them, then sent off peace signs to display his approval/love of paella. He did this rapidly, sending out kissed peace-signs by the hundreds. Simultaneously, my older boy got up and joyfully, for lack of a better word, shook his booty. He danced his affirmation of the dinner choice. My wife, who had looked pretty tired beforehand, smiled and was given energy from the boys' reaction to her question. "Alright," she said, "we'll have paella."
In one weekend, enthusiasm's finger-prints were all over a super soccer experience, a joyful jogging experience, the getting of tasty berries from our neighbor, and a delicious paella for dinner. This weekend, enthusiasm resulted in positive outcomes. Sometimes, there might not be many positive outcomes to be found. Yet still, enthusiasm is of great use. One can skirt the treacherous depths of sadness, riding the positive energy of enthusiasm like a young big wave surfer pointing toward shore.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Responsibility
The subject of this post occurred to me this summer as I was doing dishes. From the sink, I could see my wife helping my older child practice piano. He was not in the mood to practice and was making life difficult. My wife's voice was slowly, but steadily, losing patience. After her fifteenth request that my son 'focus and just play already,' progress seemed near. "Alright, alright," my son said, "I'll do it." A contented silence followed. My wife knew that her goal would soon be achieved. My son would practice. I was delighted, too. It's nice to see one's child do as he's told. My son put his fingers on the keys. He took a deep breath. He started to place the slightest pressure on the piano keys.... He stopped. He looked at my wife with a grin. "I have a new name for my penis," he said, laughing. This is an example of one not living up to his responsibilities.
At the end of school last year, I was approached by a friend who, in the space one sentence (of a mere eight words) thrust me into the uncomfortable position of having to face responsibilities. "Do you want to be in the PA?" She said. PA, I thought, she wants me to be a physician's assistant? I went to school for social work, not being a PA. Plus, I am a stay-at-home father, I can't be burdened with the responsibilities of a PA. I was, obviously, wrong. By PA, my friend was referring to the Parents Association at our school, a position most definitely appropriate for a stay-at-home dad. My initial reaction to her request came without thought. "I don't know," I said, "how much work is involved?" I decided to lob a few doubt grenades to make her rethink the decision to ask me to join. "Will the work involve organization? because I'm terrible at that. Will it require me to devote untold hours? because I fatigue easily. Will it require my interacting with stuffy people? because they probably won't appreciate my free spirit. Will the duties entail my being concise? because I am terribly long-winded. Penmanship? I'm messy." There, I thought, that should buy me some time, at least. I need time to wiggle out of this job. My friend looked at me. She knows me and was not fooled by my assurances that I was actually bad at everything. She tried a different tact. I was clearly too slippery to nail down in a one-on-one conversation. She called over three or four other women. They approached, and my heart sank. I was being confronted by an intimidating cabal of PA mothers. "Come on," they said to me, "it will be fun." My head whirled around. I desperately looked for some means of escape. I contemplated pulling the fire-alarm, but decided that such an action would be a bad example for my boys. I looked at the group of smiling bullies. I had been out-maneuvered. It was clear. "OK," I said, "when do I start?."
At that early point in the PA process, one could not describe me as a person living up to his responsibilities. After all, I had done nothing, been given no tasks, and tried really hard to wiggle out of the who mess. But that changed. Over the summer, I decided that the PA sounded like a good use of my time. After all, what could be more important than working for one's children's school. It was with high spirits, therefore, that I approached my friend at the start of school this year. "When do I start," I said with a smile. She didn't tell me at that time, but I found out yesterday. I am going to be the PA's secretary, in charge of taking notes for the meetings among other duties, I am sure. I am cautiously hopeful. I wasn't joking when I told my friend that I wasn't the most organized person. Being a secratary would, I assume, entail some degree of organization. We'll see how it goes.
I think that I see the whole concept of responsibility through the lens of a younger brother. Do your best and if (when) you don't do the job properly, someone else will step in to make things right. Violin practice is an excellent example of this concept of responsibility with a cushion. My younger son, as a mere kindergartener, is not expected to practice for as much time as a first-grader (or in his brother's case, a third-grader). {This is actually true, as I saw the listing for suggested practice time in my younger boy's violin teacher's room). As suggested by the aforementioned list, my younger boy's violin practices are quite short. This tends to make life easier for both him and me. My older boy, on the other hand, has always (in my memory) had extensive practice sessions (perhaps because he started in first grade or perhaps because he is an older child taking lessons monitored by an older child). Sucks to be the oldest. Responsibilities always fall heaviest on them (I feel obliged to send a shout-out to my father-in-law, mother, sister, wife and oldest boy- all, sadly for them, oldest siblings).
So, how will I do in the PA? Will I overcome my birth order-issues vis-a-vis responsibility? It will be fun to see and I will be sure to let everyone know.
At the end of school last year, I was approached by a friend who, in the space one sentence (of a mere eight words) thrust me into the uncomfortable position of having to face responsibilities. "Do you want to be in the PA?" She said. PA, I thought, she wants me to be a physician's assistant? I went to school for social work, not being a PA. Plus, I am a stay-at-home father, I can't be burdened with the responsibilities of a PA. I was, obviously, wrong. By PA, my friend was referring to the Parents Association at our school, a position most definitely appropriate for a stay-at-home dad. My initial reaction to her request came without thought. "I don't know," I said, "how much work is involved?" I decided to lob a few doubt grenades to make her rethink the decision to ask me to join. "Will the work involve organization? because I'm terrible at that. Will it require me to devote untold hours? because I fatigue easily. Will it require my interacting with stuffy people? because they probably won't appreciate my free spirit. Will the duties entail my being concise? because I am terribly long-winded. Penmanship? I'm messy." There, I thought, that should buy me some time, at least. I need time to wiggle out of this job. My friend looked at me. She knows me and was not fooled by my assurances that I was actually bad at everything. She tried a different tact. I was clearly too slippery to nail down in a one-on-one conversation. She called over three or four other women. They approached, and my heart sank. I was being confronted by an intimidating cabal of PA mothers. "Come on," they said to me, "it will be fun." My head whirled around. I desperately looked for some means of escape. I contemplated pulling the fire-alarm, but decided that such an action would be a bad example for my boys. I looked at the group of smiling bullies. I had been out-maneuvered. It was clear. "OK," I said, "when do I start?."
At that early point in the PA process, one could not describe me as a person living up to his responsibilities. After all, I had done nothing, been given no tasks, and tried really hard to wiggle out of the who mess. But that changed. Over the summer, I decided that the PA sounded like a good use of my time. After all, what could be more important than working for one's children's school. It was with high spirits, therefore, that I approached my friend at the start of school this year. "When do I start," I said with a smile. She didn't tell me at that time, but I found out yesterday. I am going to be the PA's secretary, in charge of taking notes for the meetings among other duties, I am sure. I am cautiously hopeful. I wasn't joking when I told my friend that I wasn't the most organized person. Being a secratary would, I assume, entail some degree of organization. We'll see how it goes.
I think that I see the whole concept of responsibility through the lens of a younger brother. Do your best and if (when) you don't do the job properly, someone else will step in to make things right. Violin practice is an excellent example of this concept of responsibility with a cushion. My younger son, as a mere kindergartener, is not expected to practice for as much time as a first-grader (or in his brother's case, a third-grader). {This is actually true, as I saw the listing for suggested practice time in my younger boy's violin teacher's room). As suggested by the aforementioned list, my younger boy's violin practices are quite short. This tends to make life easier for both him and me. My older boy, on the other hand, has always (in my memory) had extensive practice sessions (perhaps because he started in first grade or perhaps because he is an older child taking lessons monitored by an older child). Sucks to be the oldest. Responsibilities always fall heaviest on them (I feel obliged to send a shout-out to my father-in-law, mother, sister, wife and oldest boy- all, sadly for them, oldest siblings).
So, how will I do in the PA? Will I overcome my birth order-issues vis-a-vis responsibility? It will be fun to see and I will be sure to let everyone know.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Boxers
Good will abounds in my household, at present. From a musical standpoint, my younger son and I have come to a truce (albeit an uneasy truce) regarding violin. We have learned Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. This seemingly small success has made violin, on the whole, significantly more palatable. During today's lesson at school, my boy's strokes sounded smoother, his demeanor more confident although he still suffers from a seemingly incurable case of floppiness. (In the Suzuki method of violin correct posture is very important, so my son's refusal to stand rigidly for more than a couple of seconds is problematic). However, I'm a positive person and will look at the positive. He sounds great. He is doing great in kindergarten as is his brother in third grade. Life is looking good for me and mine.
So replete with joy is the current state of our house that my older son greeted my finishing the laundry last night with arms stretched in a sign of victory. "Yes," he uttered, as if acclaiming some sacred vision, "awesome." What, one might wonder, could lead a typical eight year-old boy to be so delighted with clean laundry? To answer this question, I must take us back in time. It's a late June day, and I have just brought my older son his dry clothes after swimming. I turn and am on my way out of the locker room when I hear a sneering voice enquire of my son, "are those tighty-whities?" "No," my son calmly answered, "they're camouflage-green." Perhaps he had missed the question's mocking tone, perhaps he is a too mature to be bothered by the prattering of some kid. I, however, did not and am not.
As soon as my son had exited the locker room, I approached him. "Did that bother you?" I asked, concerned. "No," he answered, "not really." At that moment, I knew what had to be done. This is a modern age when kids are forced into difficult decisions at very young ages. My eight year-old son needed to leap a hurdle that I, myself, did not until I was twelve. He needed boxers. Now, had I not asked my son if he was bothered, had not made it clear that I heard what went down in the locker room, I'm not sure that my boy would have cared that much. But the combustible combination of my suggesting 'maybe we can get you some boxers' and my son's natural enthusiasm resulted in the creation of a true adherent to the boxers not brief school of thought.
My wife went to Target and purchased two four-packs for my son (one boxer-brief pack, one old-school boxer pack). With the zealotry of the newly converted, my son embraced boxers as they've never been embraced. For the next few weeks after boxers entered his life, my son needed to continually reminded that it was not polite to greet family friends with 'wanna see my boxers?' (said as he pulls down his pants). I had to admit, though, he looked really cool in his boxers. Why not throw modesty to the wind for a little self-promotion (boxer-promotion)? Soon, my boy's eight boxers did not seem enough. This was particularly true while we were traveling, when my son would anxiously say, "if we don't do laundry soon, I'll have to wear regular underwear." Luckily, my wife, boss of Spanish laundry, never let my son fall to that sorry state. There were clean boxers in Spain, always. Still, my son had a point. Could a child survive on a paltry diet of eight boxers? Please. On one of our school-supply shopping trips after returning to the States we revisited Target and bought copious amounts of boxers. I believe, and sadly I am not joking, that my boy has, now, twenty-four pairs of boxers (still with a healthy balance of boxer-brief and traditional boxer).
When I told my son that I had finished the laundry and he broke into his solemn victory pose, he was not so much acknowledging the finishing of the laundry as he was celebrating the very existence of boxers. He is now boxer-rich with a veritable multi-colored coat of boxers. A different color for a different day, a different pattern for a different hour, even a different brand for a different moment. Life is good.
So replete with joy is the current state of our house that my older son greeted my finishing the laundry last night with arms stretched in a sign of victory. "Yes," he uttered, as if acclaiming some sacred vision, "awesome." What, one might wonder, could lead a typical eight year-old boy to be so delighted with clean laundry? To answer this question, I must take us back in time. It's a late June day, and I have just brought my older son his dry clothes after swimming. I turn and am on my way out of the locker room when I hear a sneering voice enquire of my son, "are those tighty-whities?" "No," my son calmly answered, "they're camouflage-green." Perhaps he had missed the question's mocking tone, perhaps he is a too mature to be bothered by the prattering of some kid. I, however, did not and am not.
As soon as my son had exited the locker room, I approached him. "Did that bother you?" I asked, concerned. "No," he answered, "not really." At that moment, I knew what had to be done. This is a modern age when kids are forced into difficult decisions at very young ages. My eight year-old son needed to leap a hurdle that I, myself, did not until I was twelve. He needed boxers. Now, had I not asked my son if he was bothered, had not made it clear that I heard what went down in the locker room, I'm not sure that my boy would have cared that much. But the combustible combination of my suggesting 'maybe we can get you some boxers' and my son's natural enthusiasm resulted in the creation of a true adherent to the boxers not brief school of thought.
My wife went to Target and purchased two four-packs for my son (one boxer-brief pack, one old-school boxer pack). With the zealotry of the newly converted, my son embraced boxers as they've never been embraced. For the next few weeks after boxers entered his life, my son needed to continually reminded that it was not polite to greet family friends with 'wanna see my boxers?' (said as he pulls down his pants). I had to admit, though, he looked really cool in his boxers. Why not throw modesty to the wind for a little self-promotion (boxer-promotion)? Soon, my boy's eight boxers did not seem enough. This was particularly true while we were traveling, when my son would anxiously say, "if we don't do laundry soon, I'll have to wear regular underwear." Luckily, my wife, boss of Spanish laundry, never let my son fall to that sorry state. There were clean boxers in Spain, always. Still, my son had a point. Could a child survive on a paltry diet of eight boxers? Please. On one of our school-supply shopping trips after returning to the States we revisited Target and bought copious amounts of boxers. I believe, and sadly I am not joking, that my boy has, now, twenty-four pairs of boxers (still with a healthy balance of boxer-brief and traditional boxer).
When I told my son that I had finished the laundry and he broke into his solemn victory pose, he was not so much acknowledging the finishing of the laundry as he was celebrating the very existence of boxers. He is now boxer-rich with a veritable multi-colored coat of boxers. A different color for a different day, a different pattern for a different hour, even a different brand for a different moment. Life is good.
Friday, September 3, 2010
vacation
My family had an amazing time in Spain. My experience was enhanced by the fact that I inexplicably experienced no jet lag. We arrived at the apartment where we would be staying at midnight. We went to bed. I woke up about eight hours later, exercised, and read a book for three hours in complete silence as my family, all in the throes of jet lag, slept off the journey from the USA. There is no peace like the peace of a silent house filled with sleeping noisemakers (children). So, I luxuriated whilst my family slept. I went to the local market and bought us cereal, milk and bread. This was a particularly joyful event as, when on vacation in Spain, I am allowed to purchase Frosties (the Spanish name for Frosted Flakes). I am a true connoisseur of sugar cereals. At home, I cannot indulge this expertise because I don't want my children's teeth to fall out. But, when in Spain....
So, I arrived back at the apartment, had a delicious breakfast, and read some more. My family was still asleep. More time for myself generously donated by the gods of jet lag.
I began to meditate on the vacation ahead. My first thought concerned necessities for the passage of time. In other words, I determined that we needed to buy sports equipment of some type to pass our days. We bought a soccer ball. It seemed the best option. One can take a soccer ball most places and play without worrying about equipment. Spain had recently won the World Cup (a wonderful sporting event witnessed in near-entirety by my boys and I- not merely the final game, mind you, but the entire tournament). We decided that soccer was our favorite sport. This realization led, logically, to the next: we needed to go all out in our embracing of this wonderful sport. We needed jerseys (my eldest came home with two, my youngest acquired a jersey/shorts/socks combo, and I purchased three), we needed a knowledge-base sufficient to identify us as true fans, we needed to practice so that we looked cool while kicking the ball around, and finally, and perhaps most significantly, we needed to refer to the sport as football. Sorry Tom Brady. We still love you, but only in an American Football sort-way. Our true heroes now? None other than Fernando "El Nino" Torres, David Villa, Andres Iniesta, Sergio Ramos, Xabi Alonso, Xavi Hernandez, Cesc Fabregas, Carles Puyol, Gerard Pique, and Iker Casillas. I could mention every player on the Spanish team, but I won't bore you. Nor will I drop names like Messi, Robinho, Kaka, Tevez. But I could. We all could. Even my wife is conversant when Spanish football is discussed. And my boys? Totally conversant! We became football (soccer for you Americans) experts in a matter of days. I initially quizzed my boys to test their knowledge of Spanish/European/Brazilian players, but realized, with considerable gratification, that my job had been successfully completed when I found my boys arguing, near blows, as to who would be Ronaldo and who would be Zidane in their match. There is something quite thrilling for the avid sports fan to develop a passion for a previously uninspiring (personally) sport. I have stuffed my (and my boy's) heads so full of soccer information that we appear to have been avidly following the sport for years, not weeks. Now that we're back in the states, I am following La Liga (the Spanish premier league) on the internet. I am in the know. But I digress. Back to our vacation. Every day, we would wake up, go outside and play soccer. We did this at the beach, at the pool, during long lunches (after eating or before). We even played with Spanish kids, and held our own.
Not surprisingly, there was a lot wonderful about this trip besides soccer/football. We spent time with some really close friends who were visiting Spain. We saw my in-laws, sister-in-law, and brother-in-law (and his family) It was awesome. San Sebastian has great food. Much of it can be found in child-friendly restaurants with play areas close by. Therefore, eating out is often a far more pleasant experience with children than eating out at home. It also has an awesome aquarium which is interesting, educational and fun. Perhaps most conducive to family fun are San Sebastian's three beaches where we spent significant time jumping waves (and playing soccer). From a parent's perspective, however, I think that my favorite thing about San Sebastian regards my in-law's apartment. It is in a residential, as opposed to tourist, section of the city. Therefore, eating out, going to parks, going shopping for groceries is all done surrounded by Spaniards. It is really cool to see one's children playing with other children from a completely different culture. Providing one's children with an opportunity to see that the world is bigger than they previously had thought is really cool. It's nice to feel like one is instilling in one's children important life lessons. In the immortal words of EPMD, my favorite rappers when I was in high school, "it feels good, my friends."
So, I arrived back at the apartment, had a delicious breakfast, and read some more. My family was still asleep. More time for myself generously donated by the gods of jet lag.
I began to meditate on the vacation ahead. My first thought concerned necessities for the passage of time. In other words, I determined that we needed to buy sports equipment of some type to pass our days. We bought a soccer ball. It seemed the best option. One can take a soccer ball most places and play without worrying about equipment. Spain had recently won the World Cup (a wonderful sporting event witnessed in near-entirety by my boys and I- not merely the final game, mind you, but the entire tournament). We decided that soccer was our favorite sport. This realization led, logically, to the next: we needed to go all out in our embracing of this wonderful sport. We needed jerseys (my eldest came home with two, my youngest acquired a jersey/shorts/socks combo, and I purchased three), we needed a knowledge-base sufficient to identify us as true fans, we needed to practice so that we looked cool while kicking the ball around, and finally, and perhaps most significantly, we needed to refer to the sport as football. Sorry Tom Brady. We still love you, but only in an American Football sort-way. Our true heroes now? None other than Fernando "El Nino" Torres, David Villa, Andres Iniesta, Sergio Ramos, Xabi Alonso, Xavi Hernandez, Cesc Fabregas, Carles Puyol, Gerard Pique, and Iker Casillas. I could mention every player on the Spanish team, but I won't bore you. Nor will I drop names like Messi, Robinho, Kaka, Tevez. But I could. We all could. Even my wife is conversant when Spanish football is discussed. And my boys? Totally conversant! We became football (soccer for you Americans) experts in a matter of days. I initially quizzed my boys to test their knowledge of Spanish/European/Brazilian players, but realized, with considerable gratification, that my job had been successfully completed when I found my boys arguing, near blows, as to who would be Ronaldo and who would be Zidane in their match. There is something quite thrilling for the avid sports fan to develop a passion for a previously uninspiring (personally) sport. I have stuffed my (and my boy's) heads so full of soccer information that we appear to have been avidly following the sport for years, not weeks. Now that we're back in the states, I am following La Liga (the Spanish premier league) on the internet. I am in the know. But I digress. Back to our vacation. Every day, we would wake up, go outside and play soccer. We did this at the beach, at the pool, during long lunches (after eating or before). We even played with Spanish kids, and held our own.
Not surprisingly, there was a lot wonderful about this trip besides soccer/football. We spent time with some really close friends who were visiting Spain. We saw my in-laws, sister-in-law, and brother-in-law (and his family) It was awesome. San Sebastian has great food. Much of it can be found in child-friendly restaurants with play areas close by. Therefore, eating out is often a far more pleasant experience with children than eating out at home. It also has an awesome aquarium which is interesting, educational and fun. Perhaps most conducive to family fun are San Sebastian's three beaches where we spent significant time jumping waves (and playing soccer). From a parent's perspective, however, I think that my favorite thing about San Sebastian regards my in-law's apartment. It is in a residential, as opposed to tourist, section of the city. Therefore, eating out, going to parks, going shopping for groceries is all done surrounded by Spaniards. It is really cool to see one's children playing with other children from a completely different culture. Providing one's children with an opportunity to see that the world is bigger than they previously had thought is really cool. It's nice to feel like one is instilling in one's children important life lessons. In the immortal words of EPMD, my favorite rappers when I was in high school, "it feels good, my friends."
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