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.

Commitment

The action is intense: brother against brother on the soccer pitch that is our playroom. I sit in the comfortable armchair at what would be midfield. I imagine myself to be, Jose Mourinho, coach of Real Madrid. We're about the same business, Jose and I. We're both trying to create the best soccer players with the pieces we have. He has the likes of Renaldo, Ozil, Khadeira, and Cassillas. I have my boys. But regardless of the quality of players that one is working with, success is hard. It doesn't come easy. It requires hard work and commitment. So, I sit, watching my boys play, shouting directions and encouragement. I am moulding my boys into proper footballers. This summer, when I tilted our sports axis toward soccer, I made a commitment to turn my boys into knowledgeable soccer fans and formidable soccer players. I have been pretty successful. (Their soccer prowess is probably due to their athletic skill, but, knowledge of soccer stars worldwide, their frequently wearing of soccer jerseys, and their interest in the game?- all me).
Last weekend was a good one. My boys did well in their games. The family had a good weekend outside of soccer, too. As with so much in life, however, the successes were mingled with failure. Nevertheless, both the successes and failures were characterized by this week's blog's subject, commitment.
My older boy's team won it's game, 6-1. He scored a goal, had three shots on net, and handled the ball really well. As we were driving away from the field, we passed a friend and her kids (who were in their car). We stopped side by side. We rolled down our windows to exchange pleasantries. "We were just discussing ----- [our oldest boy]. He has gotten so good!" our friend said. Similarly, my younger son enjoyed great success in his game. His team lost 6-3, but my son scored all three goals. So dominant was my little man, that whenever he touched the ball, I would holler, "Get the ball, ----, and take it and score." It worked three times. Not bad. Jose Mourinho would be proud. So, our commitment to soccer has resulted in very good soccer players. But commitment can have a dark side.
Take the games that took place today. My boys played well, but I questioned our commitment to soccer. Today was 46 degrees with a steady down-pour. My younger boy played a double-header. During the first game, he scored the first goal for his team, then he switched teams because our opponents did not have enough players. He then scored three goals for their team. A win-win for my boy. But a drenching one. In the second game, he was tired, soaked and freezing, but he still scored. Afterward, my younger son's best friend exclaimed to his father: "---- and I both scored and we're FRIENDS!!!!!" (Six year-old enthusiasm can outshine even the dreariest weather). My older boy's best friend's parents took our eldest boy to his game. He returned home muddier than I've ever seen him. But he played hard and scored, in a losing effort. Playing in weather so dank, so muddy, so wet, so cold takes true commitment (not to mention the commitment of father who stands on the sidelines for two hours in the aforementioned down-pour). So, we demonstrated commitment, but at what cost? My children seem vaguely traumatized. They are no longer, dripping wet, but the look in their eyes is one of dampness. As I write this, my boys are huddled next to me, watching TV in a near-comatose state. We've shown true commitment to soccer, but commitment in freezing rain can shake the resolve of the stoutest.
So, the dark side of commitment can involve one's needing to attend games (and play games) in inclement weather. The dark side of commitment is also evident in the misallocation of commitment. My younger boy is chronically guilty of this. On Wednesday night of this week, he became committed to the idea that he would not take a "no thank-you" bite of the Chantarelle mushrooms that my wife had prepared. So, we compromised my wife sliced the already tiny mushroom in two. He gingerly put the mushroom in his mouth and began to chew with a pained expression on his face. He took a swig of milk to help the mushroom go down his throat. Instead of doing this, however, he made a dramatic, gagging sound, and spit his mushroom (now mixed with a lovely chocolate-milk sauce) all over the table. My wife tried to reason with my son. Wouldn't it be easier, she wondered, if he just ate the mushroom, rather than fussing so? It goes without saying that the answer should be 'yes,' but my son's resolve is like granite. He was committed to not eating the mushroom and, so, he would not; regardless of our urging. To make a long, and particularly frustrating story short, my son finally did eat the half-mushroom piece, but only after many tears, losing multiple G-bucks, and losing the privilege of having us lie down with him at bed-time (in this, we relented). With my usual soft-touch, I sidled up to my son and asked, "now wouldn't it have been so much easier if you had just eaten the mushroom?" I wondered reasonably. He looked at me like I was crazy. It is hard to sway the truly committed.
Commitment can be a force for good. The strides we have made in regards to soccer illustrate this. Our commitment to practicing, watching, and being interested in soccer have made us legitimate players and fans. Our commitment to wearing soccer jerseys has made us look good while doing this. But that same commitment nearly resulted in three cases of hypothermia today from playing and spectating soccer in near-freezing rain. Commitment to any cause can result in trouble. My younger son's commitment to not trying his mushrooms brought him a world of hurt (an evening of frustration, really). Commitment is a double-edged sword. One should be warned before becoming too... committed.

Celebrations

It's pitch black. The tension is thick in the air. Silently, children creep, waiting to attack. Stealthily, I wind through the maze, my gun clutched to my side. I peek around corners trying to spot any of my pint-sized foes. Suddenly, the silence is broken. In a sing-song chant, my son begins his celebration mantra. "Uh-huh, that's right, oh yeah, I rule, that's right,uh-huh." It's my boy. We are playing laser tag, and he has clearly gotten someone out. As I stood there, in the dark labyrinth of the laser tag arena listening to my older son, I began to think about celebrations.
My boys are champion celebrators, particularly my older son. He's had more time to practice. My older boy's celebrations always take the same form: "uh-huh, that's right, oh yeah, I rule, that's right, uh-huh." They are so rote that one might think that they are executed without forethought, but that would be a disservice to my son's celebrating. He has made a key strategic decisions that influence his celebrating. First, and most importantly, my son has recognized that life can be hard with few reasons to celebrate. He has combatted this somber truth by stretching plausible 'reason-to-celebrate' moments. He celebrates to acknowledge obvious feats like scoring in soccer, making a basket in basketball, making a nice catch in football, getting a nice hit in baseball- athletic stuff. Celebrations (polite ones, hopefully) and athletics go hand-in-hand. Before sports, I am not sure what people celebrated. Killing a wooly mammoth, maybe. Or starting a fire. But now we do have sports, and this allows us all sorts of chances to celebrate. Of course, my son is no dummy and he has realized that life wouldn't be as fun if one had to wait all week to celebrate (athletic competitions in third grade are held once weekly, usually on the weekends). So, he has expanded his reason-to-celebrate definition to encompass a wide swath of daily life. "Hey dad," he said to me this morning with a smile, "already taken my shower. No problem." [Uh-huh, oh yeah, I rule....] "Hey dad. Like my Chelsea jersey? I look smooth, don't I?" [Uh-huh, oh yeah, I rule....] "Hey dad. Look at my plate. I ate all my peas. Clean plate, player" [Uh-huh, oh yeah, I rule....] "Hey daddy. Guess what I just did? Helped mommy make cookies. She said I'm her sou-chef." [Uh-huh, oh yeah, I rule....] Or "hey dad. Go check out the play room. It's been cleaned by the CLEANING MASTER." [Uh-huh, oh yeah, I rule....] All the above proclamations were made with a smiling face and eyes gleaming with pride. True celebrations. I like celebrating too so I can relate to my son. But he has an ability to weave a reason to celebrate out of seeming nothingness. A couple of weeks ago, I heard him during his piano practice. It was not an atypical piano practice, replete with my son's furious protestations of hating piano and my wife's patient (at first, anyway) reminders of the importance of practice. Even as my boy's playing began to sound more and more like the song he was attempting, his manner did not brighten. He seemed near tears, a happy place a long way off. Suddenly, as if the good sounding playing was only just reaching his ears, he was on his feet with a rhythmic twisting of the hips and a hand out-stretched. "Uh-huh, oh yeah, I rule, that's right, uh-huh, oh yeah," he triumphantly crowed. Impressive. Celebrations for a piano-practice well-done.
Typically, my younger son's celebrations take a different form. His celebrations are sillier and random. In the middle of soccer game (that he and I are losing to his brother), he might start blowing kisses to an imaginary audience: "to all my ladies," he intones, grinning. Or, we're about to read the bed-time story, and he, inexplicably, starts to shake his booty. "Shake your little-tail feathers," he says, his smiling face nodding to the (pretend) beat.
We just got back from a really beautiful trip to Arizona. There was a lot of amazing hiking there. Curiously enough, my youngest, although always the loudest, in protesting, "I DO NOT WANT TO HIKE" was a champion hiker. On a hike during our last day there, he and I were a good ten minutes ahead of the rest of our extended family. We marched resolutely through the gorgeous terrain. Red rocks marvelously towering above us, we marched on. I noticed that my son was muttering under his breath. I moved closer to listen. "Uh huh, oh yeah, I rule," he whispered, the pride coming off him in waves.

Choices or A Thoughtful Examination by a Thoughtful Person

All this blogging has made me a thoughtful man. In this vein, I decided that I would replay this past Saturday in my mind, evaluating some choices that I made. In this way, I might mold future choices emulating successful ones and avoiding less successful ones.
The first choice was actually presented to me before Saturday, and it was not a terribly difficult one to make. Still, there were issues to consider. A friend of mine, S, invited me and another friend to watch a MLS game (Seattle FC versus Toronto FC). S, who is a sociology professor teaching a course on soccer as a reflection of cultural, political and economic issues, was taking a group of his students to see the game (a nice perk for the students of any soccer-based course). The choice: should I go to the game? A no-brainer, but let's examine the issues anyhow, the most important of which is one of abandonment. Namely, am I mistreating my family by leaving them on a Saturday so I can watch a soccer game? Of course not. So, I chose to accept the kind invitation to the game.
Another choice, of seemingly little importance, turned out to be a good one. It involved my choice of shirt for the day. I do not have a Sounders soccer jersey, so I could not make the obvious dressing choice by wearing the home team's jersey. So, I went with the Spanish National Team (David Villa, number 7). This turned out to be a good choice, but not without a little complication. The positive: I stood out boldly, a clear soccer-aficionado, in the strong red color of the Spanish home jersey. As I was walking into the stadium, a voice shouted triumphantly "David Villa" (with correct pronunciation). Proudly, I acknowledged the acknowledgement with a raised fist. As I mentioned, my bold shirt had a slightly unexpected impact as well. I was immediately identifiable to the many people near the stadium who were asking for money. "Hey number 7, Got any change?" and "hey you, in the red shirt, can you help me out?" The above comments were made by two particularly unsavory (and drunk, I think) guys whose attention I could have done without. However, such is the price to pay when making a statement with one's clothes. Despite the unwanted attention, I was still contented with my choice. One can never go wrong with David Villa.
Perhaps the choice that had the most potential for going awry came soon after I entered the stadium. It involved that mystical item that I so covet: the soccer jersey. Now, my wife had wisely put me on a soccer jersey-restriction after my soccer jersey binge this summer. But, she surely wouldn't mind if I bought my boys some jerseys... So I did. And while I was doing that... I bought myself a sweatshirt (a very sweet one with adidas insignia, the Sounders crest, and stripes down the arms). How could I resist? It was the 'item of the match' (meaning it was on sale). But I didn't want to leave my wife out. She would look awesome in a smooth soccer training jersey. Should I buy her something? Or would it be wasted money (as I was pretty sure that she wouldn't be as enthusiastic about receiving a soccer jersey as my boys would be). I consulted one of my friends as to my course of action. "Should I call my wife and ask if she wants me to buy her something?" I wondered aloud, "keep in mind that she might not be totally pleased with my purchases at all as we had an understanding that I was done with soccer jerseys until the holidays." "Well," my friend advised, "if she says that you should return the stuff, will you?" "I hope not," I murmured lamely. "Still," my friend continued, "it is a good idea to offer to buy her something. It would be a nice gesture." So, I called. As it turns out, it was so loud in the stadium that my wife heard nothing that I said; I heard nothing that she said. So, all was good, right? "How'd it go?" my friend asked. "I think it went well," I said uncertainly, "I couldn't actually hear anything she said." We decided that that might be for the best. When I got home, I am happy to report, my choice to buy the gear turned out to be a good one. My wife smiled fondly (or resignedly) when she saw my new purchase. She also liked what I bought the boys. Both boys greeted the purchases with "cool!!!" My older son immediately put the jersey on and began to chant, "I love the Sounders, I love the Sounders." (Now, a day later, he is sitting beside me watching Chelsea versus Arsenal wearing the same jersey). Buying the soccer jerseys (and sweatshirt for me): good choice.
The game was a great time. It passed without any more choices of note. (Other than my bold decision to get an Italian sausage for lunch as opposed to a slice of pizza). Yet, I was greeted with another key decision as I bade my wife a pleasant evening (as she was departing for work). "What are you guys going to do for dinner?" my wife asked. "I don't know," I said, "pizza?" "Well," my wife pointed out, "we are probably going to order out tomorrow night, so maybe you can finish the sausages that we have in the fridge." [Maybe my decision to have a sausage at the game wasn't so bright, after all]. So, we had sausages, lentils, and peach cobbler. It was a successful meal, and quickly thrown together (left-overs); a plus, because we needed enough time enjoy the evening's entertainment, the Karate Kid (the original with Ralph Maccio).
This proved to be another good choice. No matter how many times I see that movie, it never fails to thrill me when Daniel uses the crane position to kick Johnny in the nose. The only reality that prevents the Karate Kid from being a totally positive choice is that my boys, for some inexplicable reason, think that Johnny (the movie's entitled, brutal villain) is cool. Are we not watching the same movie???!!!!??? Please!!!!!!!
After the movie, we decided to play a little soccer in the play room (despite the fact that it was 8:30 at the movie's end). This was not such a good decision. This became painfully (literally) clear when I preformed a smooth looking backward kick reminiscent of Ronaldhino. My older son, who was being valiantly aggressive in goal had slid in to block my shot. Unaware, I solidly kicked him in the stomach. Once I saw what I had done, I, of course, attended to my injured boy. Poor thing. As I knelt down to try to make him feel better, my boy rolled around in a pseudo-fetal position moaning, "I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die." Luckily, he felt better a moment later and we continued playing. I was careful not to try to emulate any other soccer-greats. Any choice that leads to kicking one's son in the stomach: bad decision, poor choice.
Also, my boys ended up going to bed considerably later than their 8:30 weekend bed-time. This, however, had a positive outcome. My wife returned home at 9:12. She found us in the basement, sweaty, but exhilarated from some crisp soccer. She greeted us warmly, clearly pleased to get the chance to help put the boys to bed. Her smile faltered a tad when my older son greeted her with "daddy kicked me in the stomach." I jest. What's a kick in the stomach amongst friends (or fathers and sons).
After the boys were put to bed, my wife chose to read upstairs. I retreated to the TV room to catch my figurative breath. In the peaceful quiet, I turned on the TV to relax: good choice.

Uniforms

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.