A Job Well Done

Every so often, those of us in the stay-at-home father community need to take a moment to congratulate ourselves. Frequently a thankless job, stay-at-home fathering is more likely to produce gray hairs than applause. When an investment banker earns millions, she might go to a bar to celebrate; when a lawyer wins a big case, he might treat himself to a nice meal; when a doctor makes a life-saving decision, her colleagues and patients show her respect and appreciation. But the stay-at-home father? He does not earn millions, he is rarely treated to dinner for his expert handling of anything, and his colleagues (children) are not usually forthcoming with respect and praise. Who, then, will acknowledge the stay-at-home father for a job well done. In this case, the stay-at-home father will.

About a month ago, my older boy and I decided that, in order to keep his soccer skills sharp, I would act as his coach/trainer and work with him on drills. We practice dribbling, receiving passes, moving without the ball, shooting and goal-tending. And my boy is good. Very good. Evidence of a job well done? For sure, but I experienced an even more pronounced moment of accomplishment and achievement. Two days ago, my son and I were wrapping up our "training session" with some shots on goals. My son was in goal. I am now in the habit of kicking the ball at my nine-year old as hard as I can. And he saves my shots nine times out of ten. When he returns the favor (kicking at me with power) I am terrified. I almost always cringe, so intimidated am I by his kicks. He scores on me nine times out of ten. I am truly impressed by him. "How do you not get scared?" I asked him, "every time you kick the ball at me, I have to resist the urge to duck. You're never scared and you always block my shots. I don't get it." My son looked at me, genuine amusement on his face. "Dad," he said as if explaining something to someone very dense, "it's called having a dad scream 'Don't be afraid of the ball,' a thousand times a day." He said this slowly and clearly as if he were talking to someone for whom english was not a first language. But he spoke without any bitterness. The feeling conveyed by his words was pride. And the pride was contagious. I blinked back tears, as I thought, "this is how Iker Cassillas' dad must have felt when Iker was nine." I am sure that a young Casey Keller practiced daily with his father who drove 'don't be afraid of the ball' into his head. I looked at his proud, satisfied face, at his glowing smile; I helped put that satisfied expression on his face. By helping him achieve for himself. Damn good stay-at-home fathering. (Even if I do say so myself).

My younger son's baseball game this morning was more proof of a job well-done. He went three for three with three RBIs and a double. The team we played were not push-overs. The Lightning Bolts are comprised of mostly second graders (and we're talking big, heavy-hitting, skilled seven year-olds). They were pleasant and polite, but they carried with them a distinctly menacing air. Our team was bracing for trouble. Our coach even said at practice last night, "tomorrow's team is a good one. They're heavy hitters. So let's give it our best effort." For those of you not fluent in coachese, he was telling us we were going to lose. We were the home team today, and so were in the field first. Our opponents opened with a pair of singles. A laser shot was hit down the first-base line next. Our first baseman scooped the ball up and tagged the base. One out. Men (boys) on second and third. The next hitter hit a scorching line-drive up the middle. Our pitcher leapt into the air, snagged the ball, and tagged out the runner who'd been on second for a double-play. In our half of the inning, we scored four runs. This included a solidly hit, run-scoring single by my boy. In the top of the third inning, my boy cleanly fielded a ball hit to him. He confidently threw the ball into first base. In the bottom of the third, we added two more runs. My son had another single that drove in another run. We were ahead 6-2. We ran into trouble in the top of the fourth inning. The Lightning Bolts are a big-hitting team. They proved it, scoring five runs to take a 7-6 lead going into our last at-bat. I began to compose the speech that I was going to give my son, that we were under-dogs and nearly beat the heavily favored Lightning Bolts. No need for the consolation speech, however. We loaded the bases on three straight singles to start the bottom of the 4th. Our next hitter hit a single that scored the tying run. Then my boy strode to the plate. He got into his batting stance. He took a mighty swing at the first pitch. Strike one. I shouted (lovingly), "spread your legs, get lower, hold your bat at the ready...." The next pitch came in. Strike 2. Two strikes, bases-loaded, game on the line: has a kindergartener ever faced such pressure??!!!?? The next pitch came in, and my son drilled it. He nailed a screaming grounder down the third-base line into left field. His double scored the winning runs. From my position as first-base coach, I did a 180 degree spinning jump, punctuated by a fist-pump. My boy stood on second base, beaming. A hero at such a young age. Great baseball players raced through my mind. Who should I compare my younger boy to.... Williams? Yastremski? Rice? Lynn? Ramirez? Ortiz? I quickly found reasons why my boy is better than all those great ball-players. Then my breath caught. I knew who he reminded me of. One of the greatest ever. His older brother.

Let us look closer at the protagonists in this tale. Two boys, two brothers, two sports heroes, and the stay-at-home father who made the athletic heroics possible. To that dad, let us raise our glasses. Well done, stay-at-home father. Tributes indeed for a job well done.

"Are you kidding me???!!!???": an examination of parental respect

My wife and I recently went out to dinner with some friends. One friend, a funny, animated guy, told repeated stories that he punctuated with, "are you kidding me???!!!???" His question/comment served as the punchline to many stories. Some were good like, "the bill came- and it was cheap. Really cheap. I was like, "are you kidding me???!!!???" Or "and then my son kicked the ball and I was like 'are you kidding me???!!!???" Occasionally he referenced negative events. "So I asked my co-worker to be patient and help me with this thing. And he just left. I was like, 'are you kidding me???!!!???'" Or "I expect this teacher to know her stuff. And she doesn't. I was like 'are you kidding me???!!!???'"

I thought that 'are you kidding me???!!!???' is a good way to conceptualize the respect or lack thereof that all parents experience. Recently, I have had moments to reflect on my boys' behavior (good or bad). I'm left with one conclusion: "are you kidding me???!!!???" The first 'are you kidding me???!!!???' moment regards my sons' unending cycle of violence towards one another. Nerf weapons, even wrestling, in the privacy of our home, I can deal with. But full-on brother-on-brother warfare while we're with others! Are you kidding me???!!!??? My boys and I frequently rely on the kindness of friends to drive us to various activities (Tae Kwon Do, Soccer, Baseball). An unspoken rule in the world of accepting rides from friends is that one's children do not rock-the-boat (or car in this instance). Three or four times in the last couple of weeks, my children have tested the limits of this truism. During a ride from Tae Kwan Do, I caught my younger son punching my older son. A ride home from school ended with my older son throttling my younger son and banging his head against the inside of the car door. A ride to baseball practice led to, and this couldn't have been choreographed better, a simultaneous slap: both boys striking each other in the face at the same time. Are you kidding me???!!!???
My boys, like many, like to push the limits. My older boy has recently gotten into a stealth stage. He tries to trick us. By sneaking up on us, by hiding while we call his name, by eavesdropping on conversations that he should not hear, by sneakily pouring his milk down the drain s he can move onto lemonade. This behavior, although I am sure that it is developmentally appropriate is terribly vexing. My younger son has decided that his stealth skills aren't as honed as his brother's. But his provoking skills are. He has taken to the next level his ability to physically or orally provoke his brother. This happens while reading on the couch, while playing in the playroom, while eating, at bed-time. To both boys: Are you kidding me???!!!???

But with the bad comes the good. My younger boys' baseball team is 2-0 (against much bigger opponents); my older boys' soccer skills continue to progress and impress; my older boy recently ran the 400 meter dash in school; today, he runs the mile. My boys' tennis skills are still awesome. Sports-wise: are you kidding me???!!!??? Their sports appreciation is also superb. I have season tickets for the local MLS soccer team. Both boys have accompanied me to two games so far this year. They understand the rules of the game, the different positions, strategy. They reference European soccer while watching the game (which never fails to draw impressed looks from those sitting near us). And they're always enhusiastic. Are you kidding me???!!!???

Recently, the lower school strings orchestra at my boys had a concert. The 3rd, 4th, and 5th graders played some complicated songs unaccompanied by the younger musicians. As the songs progressed, some 1st and 2nd graders joined. Then, on Lightly Wind Rhody (Lightly Row, Song of the Wind, and Go Tell Aunt Rhody played back to back to back), one kindergartener joined the orchestra. My boy. We were proud of him, but he was so proud of himself. Are you kidding me???!!!???

Recently, there have been a number of pictures put up in the main hallway at my boys' school. These photos are 8X10 color, framed images of the students. In our many years at the school, my children have never been featured. Of the ten photos on display at present, two would stand out to the knowledgable observer. The first is a shot of a young, very handsome 3rd grade scholar/musician/athlete hard at work, playing piano. My older boy looking both smooth and concentrated. The final of the ten photos shows my youngest, a keen, handsome, and intellectual youth, peering into a microscope. Viewing the pictures, I am filled with such pride: ARE YOU KDDING ME???!!!???

The arming of America's youth or Little warriors get their start

Recently my eldest child celebrated his ninth birthday. We had a really cool party for him. Devin, the "jenius magician" preformed. He was extremely entertaining. For both parents and children alike. It was wonderful to watch the youthful joy, the innocent wonder on the children's faces as Devin did his tricks. Little did I know that when Devin exited our house after the performance so too went much of the innocence.
Not long after the magician left, my boy opened his presents. The first present, given by my younger son's best friend, was a crystal growing kit. "That's cool," I thought, "scientific, informative, creative, enriching." Just the sort gift one might expect from the parent of a kindergartener, very pro-social. The assembled children gave a tepid response to the gift which was probably too parent-friendly for their taste. The gathered masses did not have to wait long for some true crowd pleasers, though, as my older boys' contemporaries began to dole out their gifts. A steady stream of Nerf weapons were soon to enter our house. My son received two small Nerf pistols. These babies shoot three darts. "That's nice," I thought, "we can have duels." (Controlled duels, to be sure, as these pistols only shoot three darts). A steady excitement began to build among my boys' friends. Pistols are tools of violence, mayhem and destruction- exactly what appeals to the third grade boy. My son next unwrapped a mace. One could hear an appreciative and approving sigh from the boys present. My son's next present was again a nerf product, a two-handed sword. The room's pulse perceptibly quickened. My son received a machete, a thinner (but no less deadly) one-handed sword, and a battle axe. Each of these gifts added to the growing (and distinctly ominous) excitement in the room. Eyes that had been creased in mirthful smiles during the magic act were now glinting with anticipated warfare. His armory was not near complete, however. His next three gifts left me slightly panicked. He received two six-dart pistols, a bow-and-arrow set, an uzi that shoots ten darts in six seconds, and a sniper rifle. A SNIPER RIFLE. The room began to spin. I started to hyper-ventilate. I shot concerned glances at the assembled parents in the room. My first thought: would they judge me? was followed quickly by a second: what are these people trying to do to my boy. To my sweet, loving boy who was now maniacally laughing, draped in his new-found weaponry.
After some deep breaths, I achieved a temporary calm. We went upstairs, ate pizza, had cupcakes. Life was once again, happy, carefree, innocent. My boy and his friends returned downstairs and the more Nerf weapons-savvy amongst them helped my boy assemble his guns. Later, after all the boys' guests had left, my wife and I were upstairs discussing the magician. We agreed that he had put on an awesome show. We were reminiscing the kids' response to the magic. It had been, well, magical. All the children seemed captivated by Devin and his 'jenius.'
"Dad," I heard, "come downstairs. I want to show you something." Sometimes, my boys will try to do magic shows for me. I went downstairs with a smile, expecting an earnest demonstration of juvenile slight-of-hand.
I descended the stairs and turned into our TV room. My younger boy was on the couch, smiling. My older boy was facing me with a malevolent grin. "Reach for the sky, Dad," he said, and shot ten nerf darts off my forehead with astonishing speed. I blinked, confused, and massaged my head. My boy wasn't done. He had thrown down his uzi and reached his one-handed sword. "Fight, knave," he joyfully bellowed as he tossed me the two-handed sword. I caught the sword, and it was on. I swung the mighty blade toward my boy. (Nerf swords are actually quite dense and heavy, so I "swung" the blade slowly- I like my battles safe). My boy deft side-stepped my swing. He thrust at me with his sword. A clean strike to my stomach. I fell to my knees. "You got me," I said. I figured my job was done and I could go upstairs and rest. Then, my younger boy attacked. Nerf machete in his hand, he launched himself at my back. I avoided his attack barely. (I was grazed by his Nerf swipe). I spun to face my little attacker. He crouched as if ready to lunge at me with his vicious blade. I tensed. And was hit in the head with another nerf projectile. "Gotcha," my older boy said from the playroom, "woo-HOO." Using his sniper rifle he had shot me through the door from about fifteen feet away.
My boys and I have engaged in frequent nerf battles of late. But I am proud to report that they are equally dangerous when unarmed. My younger boy has started taking Tae Kwon Do courses at a Dojang (a Tae Kwan Do school). I sat watching him during his class yesterday. In his bright red Tae Kwon Do uniform, my boy exectuted various Tae Kwon Do moves/positions. When the instructors yelled, "Fighting Stance!" my boy crouched, ready to battle. With his left leg bent in front of him and his right leg behind, he raised both fists in the air and shouted "AaaayYUHHHH!" Next, at the instructors bidding, he lunged forward, did a right round-house kick, followed by two rapid punches. Each move punctuated with an "AAaayYuHHHHH"! So bad-ass, so tough, so dangerous. He spent the majority of class practicing 24A (24 Attack). 24 A is made up of a back-hand punch to the head, a forward punch to the chest and a karate chop to the temple. Hard core. And there was my boy (along with ten other pint-sized terrors) punching and chopping with ferocity. The Tae Kwon Do instructors claim that the major focus of their martial art concerns respect, following directions, and manners. I'm not sure that my boy got this memo. He's in it for the fighting. He'll probably practice many of his moves on me. As I watched him, lunge and punch (Aaaay YUUUHHHHH!) and lunge and punch again, followed by the prerequisite kick, my body began to ache.

There is a trend of repetition in parenthood. We often parent as our parents did. We might expect the same chores that were expected of us, follow the same bed time routines or repeatedly try to drive home the same messages. I witness this often as we drive in the car. From the back seat, one of my boys will declare that he is going to be rich when he grows up. So rich that he will own the world or be a super-duper quadrillionaire. I always say something non-committal like, "yeah, you will" or "I'm not sure that quadrillion is a number." My wife, however, always says the same thing: "what's important is that you have a family that loves you and a roof over your head." I've heard these same words come out of my mother-n-law's mouth countless times. In fact if I wasn't looking (and my wife had a Spanish accent as opposed to an American one) I might think that I was sitting next to my mother-in-law. I also mimmick what I heard when I was younger. I joke with my boys as my parents joked with me. I try to teach my boys to treat others as I was taught by my parents. Sometimes, however, we repeat mistakes with our children that we came upon all by ourselves.
After my first two forays into basketball coaching (coaching my older son when he was in first grade and second grade), I swore to never coach again. I don't think that I have the right demeanor for coaching. I am good working with my boys one on one as an athletic tutor. But put me in a larger situation where I have to work with lots of kids: not so pretty. During my older son's basketball games, I was constantly bitter. I felt cheated. There was an expectation (who comes up with these things?) that all children participating should have equal playing time. This prevented me from playing my son every minute of every game (I was volunteering, right? doesn't that earn my boy some extra playing time?). Of course, I bowed to the expectations; everyone played the same amount. But I was not pleased. I was also disgusted by what I considered an unfair schedule. For some reason, every team that we played beat us by fifty points. The reason was actually that they were better teams who were better coached and who practiced more than we did. But I wasn't going there. I was just angry (not outwardly so, but it left me an unhappy coach/dad). After my first year coaching, I swore never to do it again. That lasted until the next year. Then, I made the same mistake when my son was in second grade. Surely, I would not fall into this trap again.
My younger son's basketball season just ended. It was by far my most successful coaching venture. Six wins and zero defeats. The team's final game was characterized by excellent shooting, great passing and amazing defense. The kids on the team felt pride in their victories and in their improved skills. Certainly, a rousing success- triumphant even. But triumphs don't come easy.
Every Monday evening, I came home after practice hoarse, from trying to be heard over the aerobics class on the adjacent court, and bone tired from trying to instruct ten kindergarteners in the finer points of basketball. Also particularly fatiguing was the seemingly unending work of trying to achieve amity amongst my players. Five and six-year olds are a tempestuous lot; it doesn't take much to send tempers a-flying. In coaching my son's team, I was confronted with age-old basketball issues. Players who don't pass, players who are too aggressive, players so fascinated by the nets of the baskets that they would hang on them rather than play. I also had to deal with discipline issues. During one practice I asked my son to demonstate for the team how to dribble to the half-court line and back. He refused. "Come on," I pleaded. He stuck his tongue out at me and ran away. Other times, children would intentionally whip the ball at each other's heads (or way over their heads). Bounce pass drills became who could bounce the ball highest drills. Correcting these misbehaviors was made all the more difficult and frustrating because I had to do it over the steady beat of the techno music coming from the aerobics class. Of course shouting over the music was probably preferable to my competing with the amplified voice of the chirpy instructor.
Sounds brutal, huh? So how did I find myself trapped once again in the labyrinth of pain that is youth basketball coaching? The league in which my boy played was organized through the YMCA. Each team was to have a coach provdied by the Y. I would get to sit back and admire my son's athletic acument from a safe distance. I said as much to our friends, J and M, whose son, N, was on the team with my boy. "I am so glad that I am not coaching this season. I coached before and found it very frustrating. It will be liberating to watch the action from afar."
Sadly, the coach who was supposed to manage our team had to back out. So did his replacement.
The teams viability seemed in jeopardy. "More time to practice soccer," I thought. My older son and I were doing just that while my wife took our younger boy to a practice to be held by an interim coach. The interim coach, although a very nice lady, had many other duties at the Y and was too quiet to work with five and six-year olds. Something needed to be done. My wife volunteered me as a coach. "Are you sure?" M asked my wire, "last week Jonah went on at great length as to how pleased he was not to be coaching." My wife told the Y that she would have to check with me to see if I was available. But the die was cast. It was only fair for me to coach my younger boy as I had already coached his brother. Besides, I thought, this time will be different....
And it was different. When my older boy played, basketball was his only afterschool activity (from 3:30-4:30). The practices occurred at his school. My younger boy had Tae Kwan Do, offered at his school, from 3:30-4:15 His practices happened, at the Y, from 5:00-6:00. Just thinking about his day makes me tired as I'm writing this. This sentiment was not lost on him. He was tired and expressed this every Monday. He became quite adept at thinking of reasons that he needed to skip basketball. "Daddy," he earnestly told me one Monday before Tae Kwan Do, "my lip has been bothering me a little today. I don't think I should practice." Another week, he had a slight rip in his shirt. "Can't practice," he reasoned. I made him attend the practices, of course. But he doesn't give up easily and is quite inventive. His reasons for not being able to practice contnued to flow. His shoes were too tight, his teeth hurt, he was worried about the depleting Ozone layer. Despite his protestations, he did practice and he did well. The team did well. And so I suppose, I did well. But I absolutely promise never to repeat this mistake. No more coaching for me. Until next year.

A Younger Brother's Day in the Sun

My younger boy is an extraordinary individual. He's cute, he's funny, he's good at sports, he's smart, BUT he has an older brother and is therefore outshined in almost everything he does. A fact that my older boy used to flaunt openly, but has learned to pass along in a more subtle fashion. And this is not a knock on my older boy; I think that similar dynamics play out in families all around the world.
This last week was different. My older son, poor guy, had strep throat. It was my younger boy's time to shine. While my older boy convalesced TV-side, treating his sore throat with the soothing balm of movies seen for the hundredth time, my younger boy seized the day (days). On Monday and Wednesday of last week, my boy started Tae Kwon Do. He killed it. The teacher was demanding excellent 'martial-arts manners' from the children in the class. Children who demonstrated such decorum were picked first to spar (flag-spar, not actual fighting). My boy was picked first both days. He demonstrated a restrained ferocity in his sizzling kicks, his hands nearly burst into flame while he was executing his block and punch manoeuvers. And, yes, he looked ultra-smooth in his Tae Kwon Do outfit.
His academics were another source of pride this past week. In journaling (which is done every morning in kindergarten), my son's letters were clear and legible, his ideas creative and inspiring, and yes, his artwork was AWESOME. His, 'This is the Planet Earth,' was particularly evocative. And his, 'My space-craft goes 50 miles per hour,' was dazzling. My little man started the year with 'tornado' as a frequent entry. The picture was scribbled pencil. Now, his sentences are complete and descriptive. And the blues and greens of the earth (he needed to use 5 different colors, so he used different hues) were mesmorizing.
And sports? He was crazy-good. On Monday, he had basketball practice. The coach didn't show up, so no basketball was actually played, but my son's stance, his savoir-faire, his ball handling as he dribbled in impatience: exemplary. Then, on Thursday when I picked my boy up from school, basketball came up again. In response to my asking about his day, my son said (allow me to choke up, here), "daddy, in gym coach G set up baskets for us to shoot at, but they were really short. I asked if I could shoot on the ten foot hoops. I hit my first shot. Coach said I was the only kindergartener to do this. Then, I hit five more shots!"
And I have only covered part of his awesomeness this past week. His Renaissance-man, well-roundedness hit its zenith on Saturday when, for a school open-house, my boy played violin with the fifth grade orchestra. He took, 'Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star,' and made it his own. Strangers came up to me (as did friends and teachers) to comment on my boy's excellent playing, his courage, and his cuteness. Now, to be fair, had my son known he was going to be the only kindergartener, I do not think he would have agreed (we were under the impression that multiple kindergarteners were playing). It also helped my son's already considerable cuteness that it was a dress-uniform occasion. He always looks smooth in khakis with button-down shirt and tie.
It has indeed been quite a week for my younger son. He's excelled in manners (at least at Tae Kwon Do), in academics, in sports, and in music. Still, he shined in a more nuanced area as well: usage of quotes from movies/comedic timing to difuse tense situations.
Last Sunday, my boys and my wife (as they are doing this winter) went skiing. They do this with the family of my younger boy's best friend, N. The fun of skiing has been enhanced because we really like N's family: his mother, M, a friendly interesting woman, and N's father, J, a really nice, laid-back guy with a nice sense of humor. On the way back, N was, as young boys are known to do, misbehaving. His father, J, told him to stop fidgeting and stay in his seat. N fidgeted. J repeated his request; he pointed out that not obeying was a safety issue. His son ignored him. "Stay in your seat," J said, louder. N, unimpressed, fidgeted still. J was truly riled at this point. "STAY IN YOUR SEAT. I MEAN IT," J screamed. This was followed by an awkward silence. J's shouted "I MEAN IT" seemed to reverberate throughout the shocked car. "Does anybody want a peanut?" my boy dead-panned. The humor of this interaction may escape most of you. But for any who love, as my wife and I do, the movie "The Princess Bride," it should resonate. (My son was reciting Andre' the Giant's line, "does anybody want a peanut?" A response to Wallace Shawn's outraged, "STOP RHYMING, I MEAN IT!!") An artful use of humor to disarm a tense moment. Genius. Further proof of a younger brother's day in the sun.

A merry season or it's good to celebrate both Hannukah and Christmas

Tis the season to be jolly. particularly if one is a member of that coveted fraternity, the interfaith child. I've had the chance to closely observe this rare bird during this jolly season. My boys, as sons of a Jewish dad and a Catholic mom, have plenty to be thankful for. They had a very happy Hannukah. Moshe Dreidel, my boy's Santaesque-Hannukah figure brought them many awesome gifts. Two Clone Wars action figures. A Ronaldhino AC Milan jersey and shorts for my younger son, a Christiano Ronaldo Real Madrid jersey and shorts for my older boy. Some Bakugans for my little guy; a geometric coloring book for my older boy. Then came a gift that I like to think of as OUR (the boys and I) gift. My parents sent us two 4X6 soccer goals. Though these sturdy beauties are intended for outdoor use, we immediately set them up in our play room. "Why didn't you put the goals under the Christmas tree?" my wife asked, reasonably, "What?!!??!?? And go four days without these nets set up!!!! Are you mad, woman???!!!" came my equally reasonable reply. As soon as we received the nets, they went up. And our soccer games have been taken to another level of awesome. I think that there is a greater sense of achievement when one kicks a ball and actually sees the ball enter the net. Our old system of imaginary nets led to too much inaccuracy. I felt wronged by what I saw as unreliable goals that seemed to shift to accommodate my children's shots ("No daddy. Your shot was over the couch, not to the left of it!!!!"; "Yes daddy, my shot curved inside the ball basket, not wide of it!!!"). The Hannukah gifts were plentiful, and everyone was happily gift-sated. Then came Christmas. My older boy got some books that he really wanted (Owls of Gahool, books 1-8). He got an electric penci-sharpener which, go figure, he was very excited about. He got a mini-planetarium so that he and his brother can see stars on their ceiling (accompanied by a voice- over that explains about constellations and the horoscope). He also received a remote-control helicopter. My younger boy received from Santa a Hex Bugs track along with Hex Bugs (little, mechanical plastic bugs that scurry about an interestingly shaped track), more Bakugans, a book about superheros, some green army guys, and some videos (Home Alone 1-4, Avatar the Last Air-Bender (the cartoon)). My wife and I were a little overwhelmed by the amount of presents, but we tried to cover every item on their wish lists. Perhaps next year, we'll inform the boys that, due to an increase in the price of oats (reindeer fuel), Santa is able to only bring some of the presents on a child's list (lighter load = better gas/oats mileage). My boys really enjoyed their presents. They really loved watching Home Along (1, 2, 3, and 4). How better to pass the vacation? I, perhaps, dwelled on the movies a little too much. Rather than enjoying the hilarity of seeing the bad guys have bricks dropped on their heads, steaming irons pressed on their bodies, etc., I took a more scientific approach. "This is not very realistic," I informed my boys, "a brick dropped from three stories onto someone's head would certainly fracture one's skull; I don't see how a bad guys could get up from that" or "after having an iron forced onto one's hand, merely thrusting the burned hand into snow would not cure it. Think of the blistering, not to mention potential nerve damage." My boys humored me. My older boy, in particular, began to initiate commentary after every grievous blow. "Whoa, Dad! A blow to the head like that!!! Coma time, baby." Nice Holiday bonding over the cartoonish violence of the Home Alone movies. My boys seemed to tire of my ceaseless talking when I lay into Macauly Caulkin's parents. "Honestly," I told my boys, "how could any self-respecting parent leave their child at home when they leave the country. I don't care how many children are visiting the house. Let's be real." Their glare told me that I had perhaps over-analyzed the movie. But I had trouble stopping myself soon after the start of Home Alone 2. "You're trying to tell me," I blustered, "that the same parents left their child again??!!!!!!! Come on, what sort of morons are they? I don't care about their tears once they realized their mistake, they need closer supervision. I can tell you, boys, that in reality parents who leave their kids, even by mistake, and go to France or Florida are visited by CPS- that's Child Protective Services!!!!!" At this point, both boys shouted upstairs to my wife, "Mom, will you please make dad be quiet. He's ruining the movie."
So, I've discussed the wonderful presents that my boys received. But I haven't gone into the present delivery system (the fictional one). Moshe Dreidel was first introduced to me in second grade by a classmate. She told me that he traveled the world on a huge spinning dreidel and gave presents to good boys and girls. I found this slightly preposterous as my parents would hand me my Hannukah presents, but I didn't want to kill her buzz. Anyhow, the idea of Moshe Dreidel lay dormant in my subconcious until I had children of my own. Many years ago, I had observed how exciting the idea of a magical gift-giver could be by watching my sister-in-law on Christmas Eve; she's 14 years younger than my wife, and she still believed in Santa when my wife and I were first married. I remember watching her excitement as she anticipated Santa's arrival. My in-laws helped my sister-in-law put out cookies for Santa and salt for his reindeer. To add plausibility to the production, we took bites of the cookies and mussed up the salt (as if reindeer had licked it). It seemed such a fun tradition; but how to share this with my half-Jewish boys? Enter Moshe Dreidel. He wrote/writes notes to my boys detailing his life with Miriam (his wife) and their son David. (Moshe might have other children about whom I have written in a note; I don't remember, but I'm sure my children do.) Moshe's notes arrive with his presents. Moshe, unlike Santa, does not like cookies, but, boy, does he love tangerines. His notes are always accompanied by tangerine rinds. His notes are informal and warm. Here is a copy of the note that he left on the first night of Hannukah this year.
"Just thought I'd write a quick note. Got a lot of houses to visit in the Pacific
Northwest tonight. Yours is such a wonderful family. And you boys are so cute and
special. You remind me of David when he was a little guy. He was an accomplished
harpist and quite a ball player. He could hit a shot consistently from half-court.
As David got older his love of basketball turned to a love of Soccer. Similarly,
you guys are, so I've heard, beginning to love the "beautiful sport." Athletic
skills are, obviously, key to soccer. But you have to look good, too. To that end
I have brought a Ronaldhino AC Milan kit for [my younger son] and a Christiano Ronaldo
Real Madrid kit for [my older son].
Enjoy, be good, and say 'hi' to your mom and dad. I'm always impressed by their
parenting.
Much love,
MD"
His son, David, is actually a pivotal figure in my Moshe Dreidel mythos as he helps Santa with the delivery of presents to children with one Jewish parent and one Christian (Catholic) parent. When Christmas and Hannukah fall on the same day (i.e. one of the Hannukah nights is Dec. 25), David writes long notes to my boys applauding them for good behavior and their academic/sports/musical achievements. This year, Hannukah was long over when Christmas came. So, a note from Santa accompanied my boys' presents. Santa's notes are similar to Moshe Dreidel's. He praises my boys' behavior, kindness, etc. He compliments my wife and I. His writing style is remarkably similar to Moshe's (because, spoiler alert, both letters have the same author). There is a major difference. Santa's letters are slightly more structured than Moshe's. They have to be. Christmas wish-lists are filled with questions/comments directed at Santa. Being the good, jolly soul that he is, Santa likes to answer. So, he cannot freestyle the way that Moshe does. My boys were eager for Santa to answer their questions, and he did.
It turns out that Santa lives in Inari-on-Elf, Finland. (To find a suitable hometown for Santa, I did a web search for a Northern Finnish city). I found Inari, Finland, a presumably icy spot near the North Pole. Unfortunately, the few pictures of Inari only feature a gas station and a deserted construction site. So, I added the '-on-Elf' to add some magic spice- and to protect against the possibility that my son would look up Inari and wonder why Santa lives in such a dump). Anyhow, Santa told the boys where he lived (answering a question of my eldest). He said that the reindeer are doing well (answering a question of my youngest). My older boy had expressed to me (and in his note to Santa) a desire to know Santa's age. Old Cris Cringle described himself as being as having been alive as long as children loved getting presents (sort of cliche and corny, I know). To more specifically answer this question, Santa said, "I am not sure of my exact age, but I can tell you that I'm old." Santa also reported that Mrs. Claus is doing quite well (my older boy wanted to know), that she makes sure that Santa eats well (eating healthy leads to long life), and that they enjoy playing checkers (my addition). I try to write these letters using my left hand so that my children can't recognize my handwriting. My hand-writing is so messy normally, however, that I am not sure how effective my ruse is. For now, however, the boys enjoy receiving the notes from Moshe Dreidel, David Dreidel, and Santa Claus (probably not as much as their gifts, however).

The theory of multiple intelligences as it relates to my boys

Howard Gardner, the noted academician from Harvard, has developed the theory of multiple intelligences. This theory stipulates that there are nine different types of intelligence. The different types of intelligence include linguistic intelligence, mathematical intelligence, spatial intelligence, bodily-kinesthetic intelligence, musical intelligence, interpersonal intelligence, intrapersonal intelligence, naturalistic intelligence, and existential intelligence. During the past couple of weeks, I have been deep in thought regarding multiple intelligences. As a stay-at-home father, I have spent considerable time observing and interacting with my children. I find myself forced to one conclusion. My boys boast extraordinarily high IQs in many of Gardener's intelligences.
Events of the recent past have revealed to me my boys' uncanny deftness regarding musical intelligence, bodily-kinisthetic intelligence, and interpersonal intelligence.
Musical Intelligence:
Musical inteligence "involves skill in the performance, composition, and appreciation of musical patterns." Both my boys had music recitals this past weekend. So, one can deduce that they have musical intelligence. Their "skill in performance" was evident. My older boy's piano recital occurred last Sunday. He created sweet music with rousing renditions of Beethoven's "Fur Elise" and the old classic, "Kum Ba Ya." He was poised and artful in his playing. Certain proof a tremendous musical intelligence. My younger son's choice of music for his violin recital was less complex, yet his performance was exquisite. He absolutely killed the four notes in "Monkey Song." True, many of the other musicians playing violin played more complicated, longer songs, but I would still propose that my boy's musical IQ equals, if not surpasses, many of the others. Why would I make such a bold proposition? My younger boy's musical guide at home is me. I'm the one practicing with him and helping him understand the music. And I have no musical intelligence to speak of (unless the ability to rap counts, and I'm pretty sure it doesn't). Think of the hurdles one would have to overcome if he had to learn to read from an illiterate. My younger boy has done just that. His handling of the Monkey song during his recital led this observer to see a great musical intelligence at work. The ability to perform music is a key component of a high musical IQ. Both my boys meet this standard and ,so, have high musical IQs.
Bodily-Kinesthetic Intelligence:
Next, I will discuss bodily-kinesthetic intelligence. This involves the "use of mental abilities to coordinate bodily movements." Surgeons, dancers,and athletes all have high bodily-kinesthetic intelligence. My boys are not surgeons or dancers (although my older boy has developed a particularly interesting dance move where he shakes his butt wildly while blowing kisses), but they are athletes. My younger boy's soccer season ended a few weeks ago. We arrived a few minutes late to his first game (he was playing a double-header). At the field, we were greeted by my boy's best friend. "We already lost," he reported, "1-0." This was a tad defeatist as the game was only 7 minutes old. Still, life looked bleak for our squad. Until, that is, my boy entered the game. Forty-five seconds later, my boy's team was ahead 3-1, courtesy of my boy's three goals. Forty-five minutes later, the game ended, 9-1. My boy's seven goals spear-heading the rout. While the game was happening, my older boy was holding a soccer clinic for the members of his brothers team not on the field. My younger boy was schooling the other team while my older boy schooled (in a helpful way) his brother's teammates. After the first game, we broke for lunch. The team had a celebratory pizza lunch. All that pizza must have deadened the competitive drive of the crew. For, as we entered the final quarter of the season, my boy's team trailed 2-1. What happened next should come as no surprise to those keen readers who have deduced that I am declaring my boys to be bodily-kinesthetic geniuses. The final quarter started with a bang as my youngest, with a couple of slick moves, dribbled the length of the field for the tying goal. Later, with about two minutes remaining, my boy stole the ball from an opponent. He raced up the field and scored the go-ahead goal from distance. Surrounded by defenders, my son drove the ball into the far corner for the go-ahead goal. Writing about these events now, some three weeks later, still causes my blood to stir. A great day. My boy scored nine goals in two games (and he wasn't playing the whole time either). I've experienced still more evidence of bodily-kinesthetic intelligence in my children (demonstrated in a completely different sport!). We've started private tennis lessons for the boys. As my older boy was hitting with the tennis pro, he elicited some strong praise. "He is so good, so athletic. If he keeps practicing he'll be playing in tournaments in no time." (You may recall from another posting that a different pro once described a shot of my son's as "total Federer). What can I say? Life is sweet for those with high bodily-kinesthetic IQs.
Interpersonal Intelligence:
Interpersonal intelligence is "concerned with the capacity to understand the intentions, motivations, and desires of other people." One can deduce that a person with high interpersonal intelligence should have many friends as he knows how to act to get along with/please/understand others. I observed this intelligence in my children. Starting when they were very young, I've advised my boys, 'be nice to people because if you're nice to others, they want to be nice to you.' With this basic piece of information concerning interpersonal relations, my children have somehow formed a mountain of useful interpersonal knowledge. They've used this aresenal of know-how to their advantage as they have made many good friends. My younger son's store of interpersonal knowledge consists mainly of playground songs and jokes about bodily functions (simple, but real crowd-pleasers). He has taught me the versions of the "I hate Barney" song [the Purple Dinosaur) that he chants with his friends at recess. He has a litany of fart jokes that his friends find hysterical. He has given his friends charming nicknames that they respond to and like. Perhaps not rocket science interpersonally, but age-appropriate for a kindergartener (and effective as evidenced by my boy's many friends). For a more nuanced view of interpersonal intelligence we must turn to my older son who is an ace. A field trip to Northwest Trek, a really cool zoo celebrating the Northwest's animals, was an excellent example of his interpersonal acumen. Within moments, he had organized a game that seemed truly enjoyable to the eight-year olds surrounding us. My son played "the richest, smartest man in the world," and the game consisted of his giving away huge sums of money to his friends. For his friend C, a cute, big-cheeked blonde girl, he had a present of 30 quadrillion dollars. She was over the moon with happiness. For A, another of my son's friends, he promised a castle with a stocked moat (filled, I can only assume, with dolphins- A's favorite animal). This game went on for longer than I would have thought possible. It included eight children, faces aglow. They simply couldn't get enough. Only then did I realize something that my boy, with his keen interpersonal intellect, had grasped instantly. People love getting things. The more expensive and lavish, the better. What, then, could be a more enticing game than "I'm the super-rich guy giving you money"? That my son was a crowd-pleaser seemed sure. My belief was solidified when C took out her digital camera (presumably given her to photograph animals) and began to snap shot after shot of my boy. The camera was out for about twenty minutes and C had it aimed at my boy the whole time (I feel for C's parents who will have had to delete hundreds of pictures of my boy smiling, growling, looking pensive, looking goofy, etc.). Almost lost among all the photographic hubbub was the fact that my boy had proven, once again, his interpersonal expertise.If someone whips out a camera following a make-believe game in which you are the magnaminous, ultra-rich star, they aren't looking for candids. No, he knew that C was seeking some formidable poses and that's what she got.
Once we'd arrived at Northwest Trek, we were divided into smaller groups. It was in this setting that my son took his interpersonal intelligence to the next level. He abandoned words as he and his friend T began to relate (for lack of a better word) completely through action. There we were, walking toward the wolf exhibit when T turned to my boy. With a big smile on her face, she said, "booty block," and preceeded to bend quickly thrusting her bottom into my son's side. A tricky move, and one I'd not seen before. Nor, I later learned had my son. One would never have known this, however, as he mirrored T's smile. "Booty block," he retored, and so it began. The majority of the rest of the field trip was spent in gleeful booty-blocking. With or without words, my eldest demonstrates a deep understanding of what motivates others and appeals to them. His advanced interpersonal skills have made him very likable as evidenced by the positive reactions to his game, his photo session, and his booty blocking.
And my boy knows the how to use his interpersonal skills to his advantage. An examination of his letter to Santa makes this clear:
Dear Santa,
Hello. How are you? I hope that you had a good Halloween, Thanksgiving, and summer.
Tell Mrs.Claus I hope that she had a good Halloween, Thanksgiving, and summer,too.

He then goes on to ask for his gifts. Millions of children send Christmas lists to Santa. But how many how them ask about his Thanksgiving? his Halloween? As if that weren't enough, he butters Santa up a little more by his endearing mention of Mrs. Clause. What will motivate Santa more? A succint, business-like list or a warm letter from a caring child? The interpersonal genius knows. Ask him.
As I love my boys more than anything, I could most certainly find ample proof to support their being geniuses in all of Gardener's multiple intelligences. But I limited myself to intelligences most seen recently. One can't know if their intelligences will take them to carreers as professional musicians, athletes, or the richest-smartest man in the world, but it's nice to have options.