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.