My Daducation

I don’t consider myself a rabid football fan. I follow the sport, I know most of the players by name, and I can usually give you a pretty good indication of which way to go if you are betting a game. In fact, I am not particularly interested in watching the Super Bowl. I find it anti-climatic. And since I am an Eagles fan I find the NFC Championship is anti-climatic. For 4 of the last 8 seasons. Let’s not go there.

The Coveted Fantasy Football Trophy

My wife would disagree with all of this. She thinks I watch football ALL THE TIME. However I have to point out that in order to watch games ALL THE TIME I would need to be watching them on Sunday afternoon. Which I rarely do. Sundays we are usually running errands or going to my in-laws. So watching an entire game is impossible. I may catch 10 minutes here or there, but that’s it.

The problem is the 24-hour sports news cycle. Between ESPN, NFL Network, and Comcast Sports Network I can catch up on football at anytime. So I do. A lot.

I may end up watching the same sets of highlights four or five times in order to get any additional info I may have missed.

So why would I bother with the constant watching of the same sportscasts over and over? I’ll tell you. I have a disease. It’s called Fantasy Football.

Thankfully, fantasy football has been over for several weeks. Well, not really. There is a draft in April to prepare for. Life is semi-normal now. However, my family is definitely wondering what the hell they are going to do about it next season.

The thing is its kind of pathetic. Fantasy Footballers are regular guys who create a league on the Interweb where each can own a football team and draft players, living out the FANTASY of being a real football GM. Each team then matches up each week and points are tallied based on the real players actual performance on the field. Wins are determined by the greatest accumulation of points by the team. I usually lose.

Imagine me explaining this to my 8-year-old and my 5-year-old. This happens one day when I am screaming at my live stat-tracker.

“What are you so mad about?” the 8-year-old inquires.

“I started the wrong running back today. I thought Gore was injured,” I say.

“Started him? Started him how?” he asks, confused.

“I made this football team online where I pick real players and I get points when they do well,” I explain.

“Why?”

“To win the game,” I say.

“No, I mean why would anyone want to do this?” he asks.

“Don’t you have chores to do or something,” I ask, perturbed at the fact that he doesn’t see a football genius at work.

“So it’s not a real team?” he asks.

“No.”

“Does Mom know you do this?”

“Yes.”

“Come on,” he says to his brother, “he’s gonna hog the computer all day. Let’s go to the garage. I have this book that shows you how to blow stuff up.” I think he is kidding.

The fantasy football business comes to a head as I am offered a trade. I am cruising for the first pick in the draft next season, and the other owners want to see if they can pry it away from me. The trade is interesting. Interesting enough that I agonize over it for days. My wife is completely disinterested.

“What should I do?” I ask urgently.

“Rub my feet,” she says.

“No, I mean about the trade.”

“You need help,” she informs me.

“I know. That’s why I’m asking you.”

“I mean professional help.”

Obviously I can’t count on her. As it turns out I negotiate better terms for the trade and make the deal. She is not impressed with my negotiating skills.

“Since you’re so busy with fantasies, why don’t you and your friends work on getting raises at work,” she asks. Smart aleck.

I’m not sure the family can tolerate another year of obsessive fantasy GM Dad. Maybe I could just call it quits. Maybe I could find another outlet. Maybe….

Nah. I have the first pick in the draft.

Before you bring your baby home from the hospital, the doctors and nurses run a battery of tests just to let you know if anything is amiss. One of these tests is a hearing test. I’m not exactly sure how they know they can hear. I’m pretty sure the kid isn’t raising his hand to let them know. But still, we take their word that everything checks out.

Over the last several years I have become convinced that my son is deaf. Or let me say more precisely, partially deaf. He cannot hear words like “clean your room,” “help your mother,” “make your bed,” or “stop teasing your brother.” He does, however, register signs of hearing when the words “cake is ready,” “you can use the computer,” or “no school today” are said. This is vexing.

Being the first born I am sure he has learned how to tune out background noise due to the crying he endured when his brother and sister were each brought home. This unfortunate side-effect also appears to help him tune out anything else he doesn’t want to hear.

This comes to a head the other night as the clock nears bath time. As is typical for this time of night I instruct him to clean up the toys in his room and head up to the bathroom for his shower. I come back a few minutes later to find him still playing with his Legos.

“What did I just tell you?” I ask him.

“Oh, I didn’t hear you,” he says.

“Yes, you did,” I say.

He stares at me blankly. He has mastered this stare. I am kinda impressed if he is faking it. But I don’t think he is. This stare usually causes me to repeat myself and give him another shot to stay out of trouble. Once again it works.

So after a few minutes he is in the shower. After several more minutes I inform him to wash up and get out. I have to inform him to wash up because there is a chance he won’t. His definition of a shower is to stand in the water until forced to get out.

After about 10 minutes he is still in the shower.

“What are you DOING in there?” I hollar.

“What?” he says.

“I told you to get washed and get out!” I say incredulously.

“Oh I didn’t know you meant NOW,” he says.

I am ready to throw him out the window. Or myself. After another 10 minutes I have to go back to bathroom to see what he is doing. He is dressed. He is ready for bed. He is standing in front of the mirror making faces at himself.

OK, so maybe he is not deaf. Maybe he is just eight.

OK, so this study was among my friends. But I stand behind it. However, I don’t think my wife agrees. Nor do their wives. In fact, they still think we’re idiots.

My wife recently wrote a post about my inability to read her mind. Now, she would say that it isn’t about reading her mind, but rather paying attention to what she is doing. I can respect that statement, however this assumes I am not doing something myself. Which is what she thinks, I’m sure.

Yes, my wife does a lot. More than me. I do a lot as well, including getting the kids up, fed, and to school in the morning. Some days I give my daughter lunch and put her down for her nap. I fold laundry when it is sitting there. I handle the kids while she is making dinner. Every now and then I cook meals. Sometimes I even make the earth stand still. OK, I may have dreamed all that.

However, the other day she was furious with me because she said I wasn’t helping her. I was in the living room with my daughter, and she had gone downstairs to put laundry in. After that she began to get dinner ready. We had earlier discussed what we would be having for dinner. We decided on cooking a frozen pizza. Fast and easy. However, after a few minutes she peers around the corner from the kitchen and shouts, “GEE, THANKS FOR YOUR HELP.”

I am stunned by this. Did I miss her calling for me? I didn’t hear any trouble in the kitchen. The boys were upstairs and my daughter was with me.

Ummmm……

I proceeded to ask her what she was talking about. She flips.

“Oh, I don’t know. I had to put laundry in and start dinner. Don’t you think I could use your help?” She yells.

“OK, I didn’t know you needed help unwrapping the pizza and throwing it in the oven. Nor did I know we were starting dinner now, since it is much earlier. Maybe you should have asked me to do it so I knew the agenda,” I say.

This apparently does not matter. I should have sensed what she was trying to do. Somehow. There were several walls between her and I at the time, so this may be why her ESP brainwaves never reached me.

I get irritated when I hear the “you always” or “you never” complaints even though a specific instance cannot be repeated to me. I employ the “give  me one instance” self-defense maneuver in these situations just to prove that I do help out. I have even heard these complaints while I am folding laundry.

I would never go so far as to say that there isn’t more I can do to help. However, some guidance on the agenda of the day would help me know what is going on in her brain and help me anticipate how I can help.

To me the essence of ESP is still verbal communication. It’s more about anticipation than reading her mind. But drop me a clue on what you are trying to get done that day so I can plan mine.

Now if I can just find a way to get these kids to do some of these chores, I’ll be set.

*DISCLAIMER*  This article is based on opinions from the author and doesn’t necessarily represent facts (as per my wife).

One thing I was proud of as a kid was that I was pretty athletic. In my neighborhood, my brother and I were usually picked first when we were lined up to pick teams for the sports we played. Whether it was football, baseball, soccer, or basketball I was usually picked first or second. Sometimes a kid named Robbie would be there because he was a cousin of a kid in the neighborhood, and he always got picked first when he was there, well, because basically he was Superman. He was also older than all of us. I think he was 27.

In second grade I joined my first team which was a Little League baseball team. I did pretty well, but the next year my Mom gave me the option of baseball or soccer and I decided to try soccer. I was a really good soccer player. I played all the way through high school. I was selected for a few all-star/traveling teams along the way. Unfortunately, it didn’t go beyond high school because I wasn’t THAT good.

So I was ecstatic when my oldest son was in first grade and wanted to play soccer. So we signed him up for a local youth league. He received his red #2 jersey and was ready for practice. Only I learned they don’t practice. Apparently they let them kick the ball around for 30 mins before they start the games. Practice? Who needs practice?

So the whistle blows and his first game is underway. The huddled mass of players move around with the ball, all kicking it, but mostly each other, with no real direction. The coach shouts for them to bring it down the field. We shout encouragement. The kids shout in pain.

So, as the kids wear out, they begin to disperse from the ball. Some of the more athletic kids start kicking the ball towards the goal and eventually score. I am looking for my son. I see him. He is staring at clouds.

I call for him to get in the game. He runs towards the ball, once again moving towards his goal. The ball goes right past him. He crosses his arms on his chest with a look of anger. I call for him to chase it down. He ignores me.

A few minutes later, the action is heating up. The ball is going back and forth. I spot him again. His arms are stretched out to his side as he imitates an airplane circling for a bombing run. He is oblivious to that fact that there is a soccer game taking place. Some parents are chuckling.

“Hey, Number Two,” I shout. “What are you doing?”

He is startled, but continues running in circles. I am perplexed. I run over to the coach.

“I think Number Two needs a substitution,” I say.

“Well, we’re a little short-handed,” he says.

“He needs a break,” I say.

So the coach pulls him and sends in a sub. The team quickly scores three goals. Then the coach takes me out of the game because some of the parents are complaining.

I pull my son aside. “Listen, buddy,” I explain, “you have to keep your head in the game. You have to watch what is going on with the ball and stay after it.”

“Hey, Dad?” he asks.

“Yes?”

“Did you see that butterfly? I think it was a monarch.”

On the ride home I look in the rearview mirror at my son. He is happy as a clam. I realize that in so many ways he is like me, but not in every way because he is his own person. He is going to grow up so fast, why should he spend it trying to do the things his Dad likes? If sports aren’t his thing, that’s OK. I’m glad he’s my boy, just the way he is.

As a kid you often wonder why your parents get so upset about seemingly inconsequential things. Like leaving your shoes in the middle of the kitchen. Is this really a big deal? Even if Mom trips and throws the meatloaf across the kitchen, does it really warrant the screaming that occurs afterwards?

Then you become a parent…..and well, things like that seem to start to make sense.

I have found myself in several situations with my 8-year-old where I ask him “What were you thinking?!” Most of these things involve some type of physical altercation with his 5-year-old brother, where the 5-year-old is dangerously close to being knocked unconscious. Other times it involves his running across traffic when he knows to look both ways, or knocking his drink across the dining room when he is supposed to be sitting calmly and eating. For the third time. That meal.

But one thing above all others took the cake. Literally.

One of his classmates invited the 8-year-old to a birthday party at a local place where they pad the walls so the kids can bounce off of them for three hours while the parents run errands. These places must make a mint because this place is always overflowing with kids. I’m not sure what they charge to do this, but judging from the line to get in, the parents find the time away well worth it.

My son immediately spots his best friend, another classmate and runs to meet up with him. Now, it’s not that I think his classmate is a bad kid, because he isn’t. But he has an insatiable appetite for attention. Which causes him to get in trouble in class. A lot. Every day in fact. Which doesn’t seem to faze him. Or his parents. Or my son.

I am one of about three parents (out of 13) that stick around for the party. My wife and I aren’t ones to drop our kid and roll, particularly when we don’t know the other people very well. It’s not that I’m not a trusting person……OK, that’s not true. Basically I don’t trust anyone. Apparently other parents have no hang-ups with this. In fact, they seem to run over each other during the getaway.

So the party seems to go along just fine, with kids bouncing off the walls, each other, and the floor, which is not padded very well. There are some tears and minor bruises. One kid has to stop as his asthma acts up. I go over to assist. He can’t find his inhaler so I punch him in the arm and this distracts him from his asthma. Problem solved.

Soon it is time for cake and presents. The 13 kids devour the cake much like a pack of wolves take down an elk. It’s not pretty. Through the course of this, many small pieces of cake land on the floor. The pack of wolves soon move over to the chair where the guest of honor is about to ceremoniously open his gifts. Except two wolves are missing.

I find them under the table. It’s my son and his friend. And they are eating the cake off the floor.

I instruct my son to get up and go over to where the birthday boy is opening gifts. He looks at me. He laughs. He continues to eat cake off the floor, laughing with his friend.

My pulse quickens. The blood rushes to my neck and face, a sure sign to observers that I’m about to blow. I say it again. He looks at me and ignores me again. The rage boils. I walk around the table to where he is laying, grab his leg and drag him out. I stand him up and say some things right in his face that I won’t repeat here. It’s quite possible he wets himself as he has never seen me this angry.

Once the birthday boy is done opening gifts, I immediately grab him and we leave. I don’t say anything on the way home, but he knows I am pissed.  He is grounded from the computer for two weeks, which is the worst thing you can do to him.

But I get my revenge. I manage to work in a reference to eating cake off the floor every once in a while. It goes something like this:

Son: Can I order a cheese quesadilla here?

Me: You better. I don’t see in the menu where they serve cake on the floor.

Ah, yes. Sweet revenge.

It’s not often one comes home to discover a pirate is now bunking with your 8-year-old son. I know this because I came home from work the other night and was immediately stabbed in the gut with a cutlass. He bolted upstairs before I could retaliate.

Our Pirate

Now I don’t know who this guy thinks he is, but NO ONE stabs me in my own house. Even if he is a 5-year-old pirate. Using a plastic knife.

“Tell the pirate that the stabbings need to stop,” my wife instructs me.

“I’m already one step ahead of you, ” I say.

“Oh, sure you are, ” she says skeptically. “Should I get you a helmet?”

I ignore her. But I do get my helmet. You can’t take chances around a pirate with a mean streak like the Soup Nazi.

I find the 5-year-old in his room trying to bark orders at his 8-year-old brother, who surprisingly seems very disinterested until I enter the room. He perks up as he thinks he is going to witness the opening of a can of whup-ass.

I order the pirate to cease his yelling. He calls my bluff. I disarm him with a quick move. It’s called “Grab the Plastic Knife With Your Hand Really Fast.” Mr. Miyagi would be proud.

He is surprised at all of this. “But pirates are mean,” he says.

“Yes, I know,” I explain, “but you can’t just walk around stabbing people. Some people won’t like that kind of game.”

“But I’m a pirate!” he says, “So I have to stab them.” His logic is strong.

“Would you like it if I stabbed you?” I ask. I’m sure I can bring him around with my fatherly reasoning.

“But you’re NOT A PIRATE!” he states. Pretty adamantly I have to admit. My fatherly reasoning appears pretty weak in the face of that argument.

I disarm the pirate for a few days. He seems to get the message.

Of course, I am responsible for the creation of this little character. While visiting Ocean City, MD we took a ride on a pirate ship into the bay to find treasure and fight off nasty pirates who wanted to board our ship. This includes using water cannons that can be aimed and fired at the pirate boats circling our ship. Much fun was had firing the cannons, screaming at pirates, and generally soaking the other passengers. Then my wife told me to let the kids have a chance at it.

Blasting The Pirates With Water Cannons

Eventually we fight off the pirates and haul in the treasure chest from off the sea floor. The kids crowd around as it is opened and the treasure is revealed.

Opening The Treasure Chest!

This adventure has a profound effect on our 4-year-old (who was 3 at the time.) He becomes infatuated with the pirate life. Yes, life on the open seas, pillaging and plundering is the life for him.

It becomes an obession. He insists on wearing pirate hats, eye patches, and torn pants and shirts around the house and outside in the yard. He has a treasure chest where he keeps loot. Actually, he has more in that than I do in my IRA. Maybe I should look into this pirate thing….

So now, at the age of 5 he still puts on his pirate outfit each day and takes on the persona of Captain Hookins, the pirate. Will it ever end, I have no idea.

But hopefully he won’t have to live like Steve in the video below:

As a Dad you become excited when your kids show an interest in something specific, as it gives you a little insight into their personality. While my 1-year-old has not yet shown an interest in anything specific yet, except slapping my face, my five-year-old loves pirates. I mean it’s scary how much he loves pirates. This we can trace back to a trip to the beach where we boarded a pirate ship and went out into the bay. Ever since then it’s pirates every day, all day. In fact, we now have one living with us and I can’t find the 5-year-old. But that is another story.

My 8-year-old is the Lego maniac. This started when he was 4 years old, when we bought him a small Lego Batman set for his birthday. He was so excited. I was so excited. I couldn’t wait to play with it.

After watching his uncle help him assemble it, he quickly learned how to navigate the instructions and build them himself. So for the next four years we buy Batman sets, Star Wars sets, Indiana Jones sets, Mars Mission sets, Aqua Raider sets, Agents Sets, Bionicles, Rock Miners, and Lego City sets. By now I am he is amassing a Lego Empire.

One day the 4-year-old becomes a 6-year-old. No, we didn’t skip his fifth birthday, I just thought I should get to the point. Anyway, he comes home and informs me that he wants to start a Lego Club at school. I am thrilled at the prospect of my oldest child deciding to put together such a neat program.

“So who is going to bring the Legos?” I ask.

“You are,” he tells me.

“What if I don’t?” I say, completely in control.

“I’ll probably lose all my friends and become a chainsaw killer before I graduate,” he warns.

It takes me several weeks to come to grips with the task.

Well, the Lego-buying has exacted quite a toll on our bank account. Much like “Little Boy” exacted a toll on Hiroshima. Only worse. I am forced into the dark underbelly of the Lego black market. I buy enough Legos to keep 22 energetic first through fifth graders busy with something other than going to the bathroom 38 times. I buy bins to store them in. Then I get a tractor trailer to haul the bins.

When did little pieces of plastic become so expensive to manufacture, box, and ship? While they still offer sets for less than $10, those sets are assembled in approximately 6 seconds by my 8-year-old, who then turns to me and says, “This is IT?”

We recently went to pick up a new Indiana Jones Temple of The Crystal Skull set from our local store only to find it priced around $80. While it boasts 929 pieces the model itself is neat, but not that impressive. Certainly not $80 impressive. I let the 8-year-old know that it wasn’t happening. There are lots of tears and crying. The 8-year-old wasn’t thrilled either.

So I took a look at the various Lego models out there and found the prices were just getting out of hand. In fact, I saw they released a series of houses and apartment buildings you can buy and add to Lego city. I saw the prices. Thankfully they include a mortgage application in the box.

The 8-year-old has started eyeing up the MindStorms from Lego. These robot sets are complete with sensors, servos, motors, and its own programming language, as well as a price tag so high I’m not sure I can recover from the nosebleed. They promise to turn him into a robotic engineer. If this is the case, maybe the money we spent on Legos will be worth it and he can blow off college.

Somehow I doubt it. But at least he won’t resort to chainsaws.