For Fathers Only

GoofGirl's Secret Identity

2012-01-27T15:45:00.000-05:00

"Daddy, I like my school but you know what would make it better?" GoofGirl asked me.

I am tempted to say, "If it were free?" But it isn't appropriate for our kids to know the scale of their tuition so I just reply, "Tell me and I'll call the principal and suggest it."

"Well, I wish we were also secret agents and had to go on missions to Japan to get bad guys."

"Why Japan?"

"Because then I could go to the Hello Kitty store as part of the mission."

"Do bad guys go to Hello Kitty stores?"

"No daddy, but we would be in disguise so we would have to act like regular kids."

"Okay, but only Japan? What if there were bad guys in Spain or Austalia."

"We could go there too. There would be an airplane under the school that could take us anywhere. And while we were on the plane there would be a snack machine that would give us whatever snacks we want - you just have to speak into it."

"Wow, would you do your homework on the plane?"

"Yes, but there would also be TVs with lots of channels."

"What kind of bad guys would you catch?"

"Oh, all kinds. Robbers, bullies, mean people, litterers."

It is a great comfort to me that her conception of bad guys is so limited and includes litterers.

"We would have special belts with all kinds of tools," GoofGirl continued, not noticing my reverie. "We wouldn't need guns because we would use karate, but we would have handcuffs. But we would have those guns that shoot ropes so we could go up walls and into buildings and jump on the bad guys. We would have to spend a lot of time practicing. School would be training in fighting and climbing and gymnastics."

"When would you do your math?"

"We would still do it so we could break into computers. Daddy, let me tell you the most important thing."

"What's that?"

"When we were on missions we would have to wear pony-tails so our hair didn't get in our eyes when we were fighting."

"That is pretty important."

"So Daddy?"

"What?"

"Are you going to call the principal and ask if we can turn the school into a spy school and go on missions?"

"I don't know," I hedged, "There would be a lot of liability issues."

"What's that?"

"A boring grown-up thing that keeps you from doing anything fun."

"That's ok - we are already doing it," she lowered her voice to a whisper. "Everyday at recess we go on missions."

I feel safer already.

Up & Down Day for GoofBoy

2012-01-25T21:59:00.000-05:00

Sunday was a tough day for GoofBoy. I made him go to a speech class at our synagogue. One of the reasons I send the little Goofs to Jewish day school is to spare them the experience of Hebrew school. I hated Hebrew school, it was more school (with homework and everything) after school. We would come home from school where I would hang with the other kids in the Hebrew school carpool for thirty-five minutes (which was usually just long enough for me to get a concussion playing dodgeball) before going back to school. This was the pre-ritalin era and in any random sample of boys there was at least one that really, really needed it. I usually sat next to him in the backseat of a sub-compact. I hate carpool now, but I hated it even more as kid.

But our synagogue offers a special class on public speaking for kids getting ready for their bar mitzvahs and I wanted GoofBoy to take it. I am big into public speaking - it is my only real talent (that and building with Legos) and I want my kids to master it.

GoofBoy didn't want to go, he says he is already learning it in school. I told him there was a surprise if he did it without complaint. Nonetheless, He really dug in his heels on this one. I don't do this often, but this time I laid on the guilt. I told him, "Buddy, I rarely insist you do anything."

"You make me go to school!"

"Going to school is the law, that one is out of my hands."

"You make me do stuff around the house."

I snorted, "What, what do you do around the house? Look, most of your activities are things you choose to do and I take you to them. When you get frustrated, I don't push you. So this is the one thing I am asking you to do. I am not going to drag you there. I'm not going to yell at you. But I am disappointed, that's all."

Five minutes later he was downstairs, not happy but ready to go.

When I picked him up, he reported it wasn't that bad, and the reward awaiting him made it even better. GoofBoy has no idea – but there are a lot more where that came from. A good friend of mine was just ordered to “grow-up” by his wife, so he shipped a couple cords of comics to GoofManor.

The day wasn't over. His beloved Ravens were facing the Patriots. As everyone in the universe now knows, they lost. But they lost in a gut wrenching way. There were reversals, surprises, and it all hinged on a botched field goal.

GoofBoy was inconsolable, hiding under the table begging not to be sent to school the next day. He was worried about the other kids, but he was really worried about the math teacher who is a Steelers fan. I tried to tell him not to worry about it (while also trying not to laugh.)

I had told him that after the game, maybe he could help me build my new weight bench. Suddenly, through his sobs, he looked up and said, “I don’t think I can help you with your weight bench.”

“Buddy, don’t worry about it. You’ve had a tough day.”

With such a long crazy day, that he even thought about helping me…

Survey Straightman

2012-01-18T23:22:00.000-05:00

This afternoon, I did a phone survey. For some reason I get a lot of these survey calls, and these aren’t normal survey calls about political issues. I’ve never gotten one of those. No, they are always strange, usually several sets of questions each on a separate and unrelated issue – often about whether or not I like a corporation.

I have no idea why we get these calls. I think, because MamaGoof has a serious grown-up job we perhaps appear to be in a significant demographic. At the same time, I work from home a lot, so if I’m not busy I will actually answer these calls – so they just keep calling back. As a graduate student in public policy I am curious what is behind these queries. As an extrovert who works alone, I am happy for the human contact. As a former comedian, I enjoy working with such an unwilling – virtually straightjacketed – straight man.

Years ago I took a call where the questioner was extremely interested in my thoughts on salmon. I told him I thought it was delicious, which is true but I wanted to be encouraging since the questioner’s job seems pretty tough (if not outright soul-crushing.) But that wasn’t what he wanted to know.

Salmon Council Mercenary: How would you respond to the statement that eating salmon makes you smarter?

Me: I think I’d have to be pretty stupid to think that eating salmon would make me smarter. First of all they are fish – what fish is smart, besides mermaids? Second, salmon are not even the smartest fish. They swim upstream to mate, how sharp can that be, by the time they get there they are all tired out and don’t look their best? Maybe that weeds out the weaker ones, but then if they were so smart, they’d evolve out of tasting so good. If I wanted to eat something that made me smarter I’d probably eat physicists.

SCM: Right, I’ll put that down as a negative response. Do you ever have trouble finding salmon at the supermarket?

Me: Nope, it is usually right there in the fish section. Well, there was one time I found it with nuts, which was pretty weird…

SCM: Great, thanks I think that’s all we will need.

This afternoon’s call was extra strange. First I was asked about America’s aging water infrastructure. I explained, “Truth is, I didn’t know we had an aging water infrastructure – although it doesn’t surprise me. Everything ages, I mean that’s inevitable. What would be interesting to me would be if our water infrastructure weren’t aging – then it would truly be a fountain of youth!”

Then he asked if I thought I was familiar enough with the issue to discuss it with my neighbor? Now here I was a little serious. As a public policy student, I know that very bright capable people spend a lot of time on water issues and that addressing them requires planning, data, and a broad range of analytical and managerial skills. Thus, I do not consider myself equipped to discuss this topic.

Then we talked about healthcare. They kept asking my opinion of hospitals in cities where I don’t live. Why would I have opinions about them? Presumably, there could be very nervous people that scout out the medical infrastructure of other cities on the off chance something happens to them when they travel there. But for me life is too short. So I offered no opinion about Case Western Health Care or Ceder-Sinai. I did give a thumbs up for the Mayo Clinic, because everything is better with mayo (I told the pollster this) and a thumbs down to U Penn Health Care because they are in Philly.

Then it got weird.

Pollster: Do you think advocating for changes in the healthcare system is an appropriate method of health care systems to improve healthcare?

Me: Huh?

The pollster repeated the question.

Me: Sure, ok.

Pollster: Do you think providing quality care is an appropriate method of health care systems to improve healthcare?

Me: Isn’t that what they do? I wouldn’t want them to provide lousy care, that wouldn’t improve the healthcare system at all.

Pollster: Do you think having meetings with stakeholders…

Me: Mmmm. Steakholders, gggggrrhh.

Pollster: Sir, do you think having meetings with stakeholders is an appropriate way for healthcare companies to improve the healthcare system?

Me: Absolutely not, no way. Never!

Pollster: And your reasons?

Me: I like to mix things up a bit.

Pollster: Our next set of questions is about Starbucks.

Me: Excellent, this is a topic on which I am well-informed. I was at two different Starbucks just yesterday. Hit me.

Pollster: Are you familiar with Starbucks’ corporate efforts to help the US economy.

Me: Their coffee gets everyone all jazzed up. I know I get great ideas when I’ve had their coffee. In fact the first time I went to a Starbucks….

Pollster: This is about a specific plan, Starbucks has a $5 million dollar program targeting unemployment that…

Me:Let’s see, there are about 15 million unemployed, so that comes to maybe 35 cents for each – that should really help.

Pollster: Sir, it is a grant. Then customers can purchase wristbands at Starbucks locations that fund local start-ups.

Me: So the Starbucks economic plan involves me buying cheap crap that I don’t need – sounds brilliant.

Pollster: Sir, does knowing about this plan make you more positive or more negative about Starbucks or does it not change your opinion.

Me: I mostly go to Starbucks for the coffee and they usually have coffee. I’m good with them and this plan doesn’t change anything.

Pollster: Our last set of questions is about natural gas. Do you believe that America should be more reliant on domestically produced natural gas?

Me: You are just setting me up now. Sure, especially after multiple visits to Starbucks.

Pollster: Thank you for your time sir.

Report Card Wisdom

2012-01-15T23:06:00.000-05:00

The little Goofs’ report cards came at the end of 2011. They were fine. They aren’t on the ABCD scale but rather 1234. A 1 basically means they own that skill, 2 means they are fine, 3 means they could work on it, and four means they are behind. Mostly twos. Tough to imagine that this disqualifies them from the Ivys, right?

Except it probably does. They aren’t prodigies; they aren’t blowing the doors off of their educational institution. But, so what?

Father Goof has had some stuff going on over the past few years – I’ll get into it in another post. But the allure of achievement for its own sake has dimmed. I’m not giving up and becoming an ascetic. I’d still love it if this blog had tens of thousands of followers who loved it so much I was paid big bucks for speaking gigs. And I still plan to finish my PhD. But I guess that’s it, I only want to achieve things that make ME really happy and in which the process is satisfying.

Very, very few of us will, in the big picture, do much on the world historical scale. I’ve had a pretty strange (but interesting) career path. If I had done everything right, maybe I’d be an associate poli-sci or history professor at some modest university. I know enough to be pretty sure that while my work would have been credible, I wouldn’t have set the field on fire. I would not be a big star. And frankly, even if I had been – how many political scientists really change the world (and if so, how often do they do so for the better?) Maybe I’d have a bit more money and prestige – or maybe not. I can’t complain.

Much of the game of life, viewed from a thousand miles up, is pretty absurd. The key is to have fun playing.

So my kids aren’t geniuses. They are doing perfectly fine academically. They are smart enough and, within reason, should be successful at whatever they put their hearts into. I hope they choose wisely and enjoy whatever it is they choose. I hope they have fun, are joyful, and generally happy.

More importantly, they are kind and generally excited about trying new things. The little Goofs look for fun and usually find it. They aren’t Stepford Kids with pleasant grins plastered on their faces. They have moods, they push my buttons but underneath it all they pretty much enjoy what comes their way. It took me forty years to get a fraction of their wisdom.

I keep thinking of what Elwood said in in Harvey:

Years ago my mother used to say to me, she'd say, "In this world, Elwood, you must be" - she always called me Elwood - "In this world, Elwood, you must be oh so smart or oh so pleasant." Well, for years I was smart. I recommend pleasant. You may quote me.

I let the little Goofs look at their report cards and told them they were doing fine, but if there was something they thought they should work on I’d be happy to help. And that is enough.

Hanukkah Round-up - Call to Arms

2012-01-07T22:22:00.000-05:00

The little Goofs had a banner Hanukkah, getting awesome gifts.

GoofGirl has two primary interests in life, stuffed animals and crafts. And that is what she got. One gift was a stuffed animal that she can draw on, then wash it clean and draw on it again. She also got a stuffed animal she constructed herself - kind of a Mr. Potato Head, but textile oriented instead of a foodstuff. Speaking of which, she also got a long-coveted E-Z Bake Oven.

GoofBoy's dreams came true, he got a Nerf arsenal including a multi-shot Nerf dart gun - pretty cool - and a Nerf disc weapon - amazingly cool. These items rarely jam, they have easy load clips and serious range. They also have laser sights. I recently read an article discussing the "terrifying awesomeness" of Nerf weapons. The author said as a liberal, progressive dad he was caught between his PC, peace-loving values and being blown away by the sheer amazing coolness of the Nerf devices.

I suffer no such qualms, and not just because I am a right-wing fanatic. Life, and certainly childhood, is a fundamentally Hobbesian experience. Nerf guns are an equalizer. I played a lot of dodgeball as a kid. I hated dodgeball, because I inevitably ended up with recieving many blows to the head and broken glasses.

For the likes of me, Nerf guns are a vast improvement. In dodgeball the strongest, fastest kid always wins. Strategy just doesn't make a difference. In Nerf, the strongest and weakest kids will both shoot a Nerf disc about the same distance. Speed, coordination, and aim make a difference but strategy can actually play a role. It is a balancer - at least somewhat.

Best of all, suddenly glasses aren't a disadvantage - everyone has to wear them (Nerf weapons are pretty safe unless they hit you right in the eye.) The fact that I was already used to wearing glasses might, at least hypothetically, be to my advantage (or so I tell myself.)

Of course I quickly learned that strategy is pretty over-rated. When GoofBoy and I went out to play Nerf Wars all of my graduate study availed me not at all as GoofBoy plugged me over and over again. So Nerf weapons probably wouldn't have saved me much embarrassment as a kid, but at least I would have been spared the dodge-ball welts.

Mama Goof had an entirely different set of concerns about the Nerf weapons. She was sure we would quickly lose dozens of darts and disks in the backyard. I kind of hoped so, because then maybe the squirrels would find them, bury them and we'd get a tree that gave us Nerf toys as fruit.

However, GoofBoy also got a basic electronics set and a remote controlled helicopter. (They are both really cool as well.) I fear the coming of Nerf IEDs and Nerf-armed drones patrolling Goof Manor.

Not Getting the Christmas Spirit

2012-01-05T22:44:00.000-05:00

Attending a Jewish Day school, the little Goofs are shockingly ill informed about certain basics of other religions. I keep telling them that most people in America are Christian and celebrate Christmas, but the see it as an odd exotic thing. I have attempted to rectify this by exposing them to key aspects of the Christmas culture like the Charlie Brown special and by singing Christmas music (actually I do this year round regardless.) The little Goofs think this is blasphemous.

In fact the only Christmas specials they have taken to are the movie Elf which is in fact really funny and the unbelievably bad animated feature Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer which features this profoundly awful musical number. Clicking this may cause bleeding from the ears. Naturally, despite my best efforts, this has become the Christmas anthem for the little Goofs.

So, with this knowledge deficiency in mind, when we received an invitation to a Christmas party I dragged the little Goofs along. I told GoofGIrl - who really is horrified that exposure to other religions might eat away at her soul - that part of the party is decorating the Christmas tree. Crafts of all sorts are very much, her thing.

So we went and the little Goofs ate far too many cookies, were bored by adults standing around and talking, and thus got into the spirit of Christmas.

GoofGirl took a turn decorating the tree and she liked it, except for one thing. Christmas ornaments are apparently made from glass no more than one molecule thick. So when she inexpertly tried to hang an ornament and it fell from the tree - it shattered. This happened several times, I did my best to surreptitiously clean up and dispose of the ornament corpses. Since there was a pile of felt (and hence unbreakable) ornaments I suggested she switch to them. She dropped the glass ornament she was holding back in the bin - and it shattered.

We took the hint. GoofGirl was onto something, we shouldn't fear Christmas - but we shouldn't get too into it either. As Jews we have so many (too many?) holidays. We just spent a week celebrating because some guy found some quality olive oil 2300 years ago. We don’t need to get into anyone else’s holidays – we’re full, thank you.

How I met Mama Goof

2011-12-29T01:47:00.000-05:00

Kids, I know you hate the smell of beer brewing by our hotel when we visit LA. But I think it is wonderful, and it has a special memory to me.

I know your mom told you the story of how we first met, and what a dork she thought I was. How I was wearing all black when I met her and her roommate (my close friend) to go to a movie at the Art Museum. I was really only wearing all black as a joke for my friend, I didn't know any women would be joining us. Of course I was pretty clueless back then, so maybe I would have dressed all wrong anyway...

But I did a little better because the three of us laughed at the movie, while everyone else say stone-faced taking it seriously.

What was the movie? It was called Tokyo Decadence, you know what, it's really not appropriate.

You remember mommy told you how afterwards the three of us went out and I kind of freaked mommy out. When she told me she was a statistician, I got all excited because I was so into baseball statistics. Mommy had never met anyone who got excited about statistics before - including other statisticians.

You want to know what this has to do with the beer smell, don't you?

So back then, I brewed beer. Why don't I do it anymore? Well because I have two little people living in my house who constantly need things from me and that doesn't leave me a lot of energy for making beer. Also, I'm just not as good at it as the guys at Dogfish Head.

Making beer is pretty special, because what happens is you make a huge mix of boiled malt, seasoned with hops, and dump it into a jug of cold water. When it cools, you put in yeast. The yeast are tiny one-celled creatures that eat the malt - which is mostly sugar - and poop out alcohol.

You don't care? Well this is my story, so you have to sit and listen to it.

Right so basically, when I drink beer I'm drinking poop. Laugh away. Here is the thing, the alcohol eventually kills off the yeast. At first it is yeast heaven in there, and the little guys are eating away and probably building advanced yeast civilizations. But then they begin polluting their world and killing themselves. I wonder if there are little yeast environmental activists who campaign to control yeast population growth. But their cause is hopeless, the yeast just can't help themselves.

What does this have to do with mommy? Oh, right.

So I lived in a grubby apartment with this guy who I had gone to college with and was working with. We had been friends when we moved in, but after a while we were starting to get on each other's nerves. One day I brewed a batch of beer but left the windows of the apartment closed so the beer odor lingered.

My roommate said this was disgusting (I disagreed, I thought it must have smelled way better then two gross guys). But he said it made him gag and insisted that I, "Get it out of there right away."

So I called my good friend, he didn't mind my bringing it over and finishing up the batch, but he wasn't going to be home. His roommate would be. She said I could bring it by and finish it up.

And I did. You know your mom, right? There was no way I could do any kind of work and not have her start helping.

So we made beer together and drank beer together. And we talked and we kissed, and that was our first date.

That is why the smell of beer being made is so special to me - I think it is the best smell in the world.

In LA & Back Where We Belong

2011-12-28T00:53:00.000-05:00

The Goofs are, yet again, on one of our regular junkets to LA. For most of those trips we have stayed in the same Holiday Inn. GoofBoy mastered walking at this Holiday Inn (at three AM, which was just awesome.) The staff no us, even after periods of turn-over there is still someone who remembers us and looks after us. (Just last night the desk clerk provided me with boiling water and asked after the health of my in-laws.) The staff think I am a bit slow, since they've seen us coming all these years and I still haven't learned to speak Spanish from Mama Goof.

The kids too have certain expectations. For years, as a toddler, GoofBoy talked about going to the hotel and "making coffee." He was endlessly fascinated with the coffee-maker in our room. Now there is the swimming pool - which has often been the highlight of our trip.

I've written many articles in the breakfast area downstairs and innumerable blog entries in the bathroom while my family slept.

Also, I was at this hotel on 9/11.

But every once in a while, for some deep human need to mess with stuff, we try a different hotel. Our last trip was one of these experiments. The alternative was cheaper, but it was farther away and the breakfast wasn't as good. Also, it was only two stories high. GoofGirl began complaining immediately. She strode to the window, tossed aside the curtains and said, "Oh look, you can see the dumpster. Who wants to look at a stupid dumpster?"

I hadn't realized (since I am the last to get up, because I've stayed up late the night before blogging) that the Goofs got up each morning in our regular Holiday Inn and looked out the window. It isn't in a particularly nice area - but we always get a room on the same (quieter) side at the fourth floor or above. The view isn't bad.There is another nice bonus to, we are close to a Budweiser plant. It isn't nice to look at, but the several times a week the area has the wonderful smell of beer brewing - unfortuntaly, I can only post a picture, not the smell.So, on this trip we are back at our regular hotel and everyone is happier. Plus, on a clear day, you can see the Hollywood sign from our window.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Tiny Woman, Giant in Kindness

2011-12-21T22:39:00.000-05:00

Is there a term for aunt-in-law?

There should be.

A year ago, about this time, I was in Los Angeles at the funeral of my wife’s beloved aunt, known to all as Nana.

She was four foot ten, and a giant.

Her life did not begin with tremendous promise. She was born in a provincial town in Guatemala to what we would now call a single mother, who did not live many years after her birth. She and her younger brother, my father-in-law, were sent to live with relatives who put them to work. (Social services in in the twenties and thirties in backwoods Guatemala left a bit to be desired.)

They both worked hard - very hard – taking advantage of what opportunities came their way, and they stayed together. They were each others only real family.

In the 1950s, my father-in-law, a man of great industry, had an opportunity to come to the United States. He insisted on bringing his only close relative with him.

They made their way in the United States and my father-in-law got married. Nana did not and stayed living with him. It is easy to imagine this being a difficult situation. But it was the opposite.

She and her sister-in-law were like sisters and, more importantly, friends. To my wife and her siblings she was a second mother. It goes without saying that she was another grandmother to the little Goofs. GoofBoy remembers her beautiful garden. GoofGirl remembers the yummy beans she made, and how sometimes Nana would invite GoofGirl to help her in the kitchen. BOTH however, immediately thought of her yummy sweet cookies.

This picture was from a couple of years ago, GoofGirl would be almost Nana's height now.

Nana was a brilliant cook (a talent that my wife happily - for me at least - inherited.) She worked as a seamstress and taught her nephew (my wife’s brother) how to sew. It is a skill that served him well, he is a surgeon now.

Nana's secret was simple. She was kind. She lived to serve and found great joy in it. All her life, she would truly rather cook then eat. No surprise that the she had a green thumb, the plants too could feel her love. When she died, her cat Winky kept lingering around her bedroom – looking for her.

Her last few years were difficult. She was very sick, but she held on, there was iron in that little frame.

She was a tiny woman with a giant heart.

It rained as we laid her to rest. Somehow, it always rains for funerals - even in Los Angeles. But not every funeral is graced with a rainbow. Nana could teach the angels a thing or too about kindness and the cherubim are about to get a bit chubbier.

Ghosts of Hanukkah Past

2011-12-20T22:57:00.000-05:00

Tonight was the first night of Hanukkah. So our house smells like a fast food joint and the little Goofs – overexcited with toys and gelt - didn’t want to sleep.

I am grateful that Hanukkah is eight nights – because I still don’t know what to get Mama Goof, but I’ve still got a few days to figure it out. (Suggestions anyone?)

And of course we have Manny the Menorah. A boss at a previous job gave it to me and we’ve had it since before GoofGirl was born.

Since it comes every year, I’ve got a few past entries on Hanukkah.

Last year, since GoofBoy started showing an interest in philosophy, I tried to tell him how Hanukkah wasn’t just a battle with weapons, it was also a battle of ideas. He liked the battle part, but as soon as I mentioned Aristotle he knew it was going to get boring.

When I think of presents and holidays, I think of China and how their cheap toys are spoiling a generation of children. I have even wondered if this is actually a devious, inscrutable plot to destroy our civilization. (On the other hand, I did see a way to use cheap toys from China to revive the American economy.)

Happy Hanukkah world, and seriously, any suggestions for Mama Goof? I’m dying over here.

Smacking Sounds

2011-12-18T14:28:00.000-05:00

Slate just had an article on why parents aren’t hitting their kids anymore. The article found that the big divide in hitting or not appears to be socio-economic class. The article states:

Plenty of spanked children may grow into well-adjusted adults, but this is one reason why, for example, corporal punishment on average correlates with lower measures of cognitive ability, such as IQ.

It turns out we’ve been running our own little experiment on this, since I’ve been hitting GoofBoy a lot lately. Not as a disciplinary measure. We were hanging out and I playfully slapped the back of his neck. GoofBoy looked up with a start at the wonderful loud sound it made. I’ve been trying to reproduce it since.

GoofBoy does not love being used as a percussion instrument. He assures me it doesn’t hurt, but it is just a bit annoying having someone sneaking up on you and smacking the back of your neck all the time when you are innocently reading the paper, building Legos, studying, or taking a shower (it really echoes in the bathroom.)

So, quite reasonably, he has taken to slapping me on the back of the neck in response. So now the two of us are running around the house trying to sneak up on one another and smack each other on the back of the neck in order to make an amusing sound. We even compare notes.

“Too much cupping on that one dad!”

“Good job boy, nice reverb through my ears! But a little more speed and less force, my head jerked forward, so you lost a lot of sound.”

Naturally the lady Goofs want no part of this.

The question is will our continuing little drum circle lower GoofBoy's IQ - or does it show that I just started out with a pretty low IQ?

Logarithm of the Flies

2011-12-07T21:03:00.000-05:00

Recess was always a bit of Lord of the Flies - I was usually Piggy (I was awkward but could use my glasses to start fires).

But GoofBoy’s recess seems to be getting a lot more dangerous. He regularly comes home reporting things like, “I played goalie and was literally hit, in the groin, 140 times!”

“Buddy, aren’t goalies allowed to use their hands?” I suggest.

I’d like grandkids in a few decades. I have other questions. Recess is only 35 minutes, so how is it possible for one team to get so many shots on goal? Just how bad is the defense?

But I can’t ask them because GoofBoy will think I’m making light of his obviously serious injuries.

I know that there is hyperbole here, but it is tough to know exactly how much. One day he reported being at the bottom of a dog-pile of like “a hundred kids.”

After some questioning, it turned out it was just one kid who, “...was running down a hill, couldn’t stop and fell on me.”

This sounded plausible, if their school was in the Alps and his count was only off by a factor of one hundred. I just need to log everything he says.

Sometimes the injuries are for real – he and Carpool Buddy collided and had a full speed collision. Carpool Buddy is on crutches, GoofBoy limped a bit but was OK. But with Carpool Buddy out of commission, GoofBoy is doing far less running then he needs. This will lead him to play even harder during his brief recess outlet – increasing the likelihood of further injuries.

At the very least I will need to add another power to my logarithm.

GoofBoy's Biblical Wrath

2011-12-04T00:04:00.001-05:00

GoofBoy is heading towards adolescence. We are not looking forward to this. He is getting angry and stubborn at unexpected times for vague reasons. At our Friday night Shabbat dinner we had a recent, unexpected flare-up.

MamaGoof makes a very nice lentil soup, but GoofBoy has never cared for it. MamaGoof insisted that he try just a little. I have often tried to explain to my children that when their mother puts food in front of them, they must eat it – whether they are hungry or not.

It makes life easier.

There are two types of parents in the world. Parents who worry if their children are eating enough and parents that don’t. I am of the latter category, but MamaGoof is very much in the former. I figure they aren’t going to starve whereas MamaGoof is very concerned that they just might. Unsurprisingly, she is much more passionate about this then I am. Also, I prefer she not worry about things (giving her free time to find new things to worry about.) So I push the kids to just eat whatever she gives them.

But GoofBoy really dug in his heels about the lentil soup. He stared at it, pushed it around the bowl, and kept muttering something. As MamaGoof pressed him, he left the table and stormed up to his room.

I went up to talk to him. Not invested in the issue I took a jokey approach, but he began yelling at me to, “Get out! O. U. T. Out!”

I am, despite my antics, still the adult so I rebuked him sharply and left.

He came back downstairs after a while and we returned to our typical Friday night activities of wrestling, laughing, and (for the adults) drinking wine.

The next morning over breakfast GoofGirl began telling us about the Torah portion for the week. Going to a Jewish day school, this is a big part of their studies. It was the story of Jacob and Esau. They were twins, but Esau was born first and the favorite of their father Isaac. But Jacob tricked Esau into giving Jacob his father’s birthright. Esau, a hunter came to the tent, starving and insisted Jacob make him some stew. Jacob said he could have the stew in exchange for the birthright. Esau said, “Sure!”

Then Jacob gave Esau bread and pottage of lentiles; and he did eat and drink, and rose up, and went his way: thus Esau despised [his] birthright.

MamaGoof looked at him, “Did you not want to eat the lentil soup because of Jacob and Esau?”

GoofBoy nodded.

“Buddy,” I began, “I’m not the great patriarch Isaac. I don’t have a birthright to give or withhold. We weren’t asking anything for lentil soup, just that you try it ok? Remember, honor thy mother and father, please.”

He didn’t look convinced. It is going to be a long decade.

Learning by Writing

2011-12-02T15:42:00.000-05:00

In my own little contribution to NaBloPoMo I posted every day for a month, and in the process I learned a few things.

(By the way this neat image comes from a very cool website - From Old Books which is pretty much exactly what it sounds like.

First, three blogs are too many. I have this one about my family and a pair of professional blogs, one on my work and one on my graduate studies. For the first few days of November I managed each one – but it just couldn’t last. I’ll be merging and revamping the other two.

Second, if I sit down to write, I can in fact come up with something. But, quality suffers. This is a fundamental challenge for a lot of people – the curse of perfectionism. It is a shibboleth, a pointless ideal. Many of my posts are unremarkable, so be it, but sometimes just by pressing forward something neat comes out. It is a firm, practical reminder of a universal truth, expressed through a number of clichés:

90% of life is just showing up.

You’ve gotta play to win.

The key to achieving great things, is starting them.

For someone who lives too much in his own head, it is always good to get this reminder.

Third, if the little Goofs aren’t generating material it is because I am not paying attention. I am a pretty good dad and they definitely get time from me, but when I take them on adventures, I get material and have a good time. In a small way, maybe blogging makes me a better parent – although I’d like to think doing cool things for them comes first and the material is just a happy (if occasionally embarrassing) by-product.

Fourth, I need readers. My content overall is pretty good (when I’m on my game I’m a poor man’s Dave Barry - so Gene Weingarten I guess.) But, just like I bore down and forced myself to write every day, I also need to bear down and market. Time for another truth wrapped in a cliché – this one from Bobby Knight:

Most people have the will to win, few have the will to prepare to win.

But this raises a fifth point (I can never refuse a fifth) why do I do this at all. On a certain level, I hope it will bring me attention – it is an outlet for some of my creative juices. But it is also a record of my life and my kids and family. I find that moments that are, as they occur, profoundly lovely that I am sure I will remember forever, are gone in a day or so. I run several time a week. I have no illusions that I will ever have any fame as a runner. But it satisfies.

So a sixth point, I set a goal with my blog and achieved it. That too was satisfying. As I wander into middle-age and having gone through some difficult stuff recently (maybe I’ll blog about it if I can ever get ahead of the curve) it is important to learn what will really be satisfying because life is too short for the ersatz.

Spreading Smiles at the Expense of Others

2011-11-30T23:01:00.000-05:00

This morning, as I was pulling together breakfasts GoofGirl was lurking around the kitchen. She does this quite a lot – she really wants to be helpful (at synagogue she no longer attends religious services, she makes a beeline for the kitchen to help out.)

But this morning she had another agenda. When I stepped out of the kitchen, I came back and found she had placed a banana next to the bagel I was taking to the car, along with a pink “Smile!” card which said:

You’ve been tagged with a SMILE card because someone thinks you’re special. Now it is your turn to pass on a smile. Keep the kindness going by doing something nice for someone. Leave this card behind to keep the spirit going.

I had two divided reactions. Part of me thought, “How sweet.” Another part of me thought, “Great, something else to do.”

GoofGirl’s class had learned about how one person doing a good deed can inspire another to do a good deed, and so on – making the world a better place. I know from my reaction to my son’s community service program, that I am a bad person – but I also love how their school assignments turn good deeds into an obligation.

I’m sure many kids forgot about their cards, and many parents lost them as soon as they received them. That would not do with GoofGirl – she would monitor the project. I bought some time, reminding her that I work at home and probably wouldn’t see anyone today.

“You could make someone brownies,” she proposed, “I’ll show you how.”

Always an agenda with that girl.

The easiest thing to do would be to pass it off to MamaGoof in the evening, I was planning on making dinner that night anyway. But that felt dishonest. I’ll be going to my office tomorrow and I’m sure I can find someone to do something nice for there. The little Goofs like hearing about my office (I think it gives them the illusion that their father is in fact a normal adult.)

But I was inspired and made dinner anyway. I am not a good cook – my primary talent is applying heat to frozen things. Fortunately, I had just done a Costco run and we had lots of frozen goodies.

Meanwhile, at her office MamaGoof was commiserating with her friend who has a really lazy husband. If your wife doesn’t have a friend like this you should urge her to get one. It is important that she have a friend with a husband so useless around the house that you look good. If you can’t find such a husband, the show Everybody Loves Raymand will do, although you might also help out a bit more. Truly if you are the least helpful husband you know you are probably setting some sort of low standard.

I’m not unhelpful, but I do everything wrong (I don’t open snack bags properly and it just gets worse from there.) Also, when MamaGoof walks into a room she immediately sees several thousand things out of place. I miss these things.

But next to my wife’s friend’s husband, I am Mr. Considerate – especially when MamaGoof comes home to a prepared meal. I guess the “Smile!” card worked, keep the kindness going indeed.

GoofBoy & Girls: Planning Ahead

2011-11-29T22:58:00.000-05:00

GoofBoy is heading towards adolescence. Not yet, for him this is all far away. But he is ten. For him the teens are decades away, but as one gets older time goes faster (I was told this in college and it has haunted me ever since – not that it has kept me from wasting time, I just fret about it more.) According to my subjective perception of time, GoofBoy will be an adolescent in about a week.

The school is already beginning a program to teach the children about what is coming next. It is taught by the gym, sorry - phys-ed teacher. My recollection of gym leads me to believe nothing could be more horrible. Gym teachers were angry men with enormous voices and little patience for the weak. Apparently they are much nicer now. I feared them, but GoofBoy loves them. In fairness, I was also very strange – GoofBoy isn’t.

Presumably, I will still need to offer some guidance as my son enders the churning waters of puberty. Teenage boys are extremely stupid versions of the male gender (and that’s saying something.)

One area where I can offer no counsel is girls. He has tried to read the section about girls in The Most Dangerous Book for Boys but his sister won’t let him.

“Anything he needs to know about girls, I can tell him. I am a girl!” GoofGirl declares. With her instincts for agenda setting, she will be a combination of Cyrano de Bergerac and Cus D’Amato to GoofBoy’s dating efforts.

GoofBoy is pretty ambivalent about girls now. He doesn’t dislike them, it is simply a matter of whether or not they are interested in sports, Magic and whatever else is rolling around in his brain. If they are, great, if they aren’t there just isn’t a lot of common ground.

Still, I think he knows what he is doing. A few years ago I arranged for him to go to a friend’s house for his sister’s fifth birthday. But he didn’t go, he insisted on sticking around. He organized games, took the girls outside for a bug hunt. Then, he finished off the festivities with a big pillow fight in which half a dozen girls pounded him with pillows and jumped on him.

He’s got a plan, and at eight years old he’s got better moves then I had at five times that age.

I wonder if he worked it out in advance with his sister?

The One Eyed Man is King

2011-11-28T22:53:00.000-05:00

“Talk to your son,” MamaGoof ordered over the phone.

A few seconds later, GoofBoy’s tremulous voice came on the line.

“Dad… Dad…” he was on the verge of tears.

“Buddy, don’t worry about it. We love you no matter what. Now, what’s going on?”

“Dad… I need glasses!”

“Buddy, I have glasses. Your mom has glasses. We told you that sooner or later – and probably sooner - you would need glasses.”

“But now I’m going to have these things on my face…”

“Are you worried about the other kids picking on you?”

“A little…”

“You go to a Jewish Day School – almost all the kids are near-sighted and awkward. I think you’ll be fine. Besides, glasses are fun!”

“How?” his words are still full of tears.

“You can use the glasses to focus sunlight and set stuff on fire! I used to burn holes in leaves and I used to chase your uncle around and try to fry him. But don’t use it on bugs, that’s just mean.”

“Really?” tears are starting to become laughter.

“Oh yeah! Plus, I kept all my old glasses. I tried to put them together to build a super-laser. I still have them, maybe we can work on this together.”

GoofBoy is laughing now. In the background I hear my wife yelling, “What are you telling him?”

“Buddy, are you ok now?”

“Yeah,” his voice has dropped again, “It’s just that they said one of my eyes was bad. I hate being told I’m not ok…”

“Wait, it’s just one of your eyes?” I asked.

“Yeah, one eye is fine and the other has a syndrome.”

“That’s astigmatism. But if it’s just one eye, then you don’t need glasses.”

“But the doctor said…”

“Buddy, listen, you are so lucky and I am so jealous. If it is just one eye you can wear a monocle!”

“Like the King of Tonga or Colonel Clink?” he asked, getting excited.

In the background I hear my wife shriek – she knows whenever the king of Tonga comes up in conversation trouble is brewing.

“Buddy, I’m so proud. Maybe you can be in the Guinness Book of World Records as the world’s youngest monocle-wearer!”

“Mommy, Daddy says instead of glasses he is going to get me a monocle!”

“Give me the phone,” MamaGoof commands.

Before she starts yelling at me, I make my plea, “I know what you are going to say. But – would it make a difference if I told you knew just where to get a kid-sized top hat, cane, and cape?”

Addressing Art Issues

2011-11-27T22:24:00.000-05:00

I've written before about Shabbat Overload, the overwhelming amount of Jewish ritual objects created by children in pre-school and elementary school. But this is only a fraction of the problem. An artistically-inclined child can easily draw a half-dozen pictures a day.

GoofBoy has gone through Star Wars phases, super-heroes, and now is primarily drawing funny monsters. GoofGirl has, unsurprisingly gone through kitty, flower, and pony phases. But she has been doing a great deal of self-portraits.

GoofManor is literally littered with piles of drawings, as though inhabited by pre-school hoarders. The obvious and sensible thing to do would be to throw them out, but we can't quite bring ourselves to be sensible. What if one of the little Goofs becomes a brilliant artist (or world-renown gangster - I have high hopes for GoofGirl) and their childhood art becomes really valuable?

I came up with the brilliant idea (if I do say so myself) of taking pictures of the art that was interesting. Piles of junk on my hard-drive are much less inconvenient then piles of junk around my house. This process, however was time-consuming and we only took it on in occasional spasms of frustration.

But now, the little Goofs can operate my cel camera. So I asked GoofGirl to go through her recent masterpieces and divide everything into three piles: keep, take a picture, and just throw out. She did a great job.

Cats & Dogs: Boys & Girls

2011-11-26T22:55:00.001-05:00

When she was a little girl my mother believed that dogs were boys and cats were girls. Clearly, biology was not as advanced in the late Middle Ages as it is now. Nonetheless, there is something to that ancient wisdom.

GoofGirl’s favorite stuffed animal is a “kitty” – a cat – and she obsesses over all Hello Kitty products, while GoofBoy sleeps with stuffed dogs (and bears). But besides their respective preferences for those animals, there is their behavior. GoofBoy is a dog and GoofGirl is a cat.

When we go away without them, we will come back and GoofBoy runs to us, throws his arms around us and says, “I missed you! I missed!”

GoofGirl sniffs and turns her nose up at us and – after an appropriate wait, sometimes several days – she allows us to approach her and make amends. Fortunately, she hasn’t expressed her displeasure at our leaving by pooping in the corners – yet.

GoofBoy, like a dog, constantly wants to play.

“Dad, let’s go play ball. Wouldn’t that be great? Or we could play badminton – I bet you’ll win this time. Or how about that bamboo stand on the trail. Didn’t we have a good time the last time we went there?”

No begging or imploring for GoofGirl. She takes my participation in her planned activity for granted and simply positions me as necessary.

GoofBoy has a simple, direct and uninhibited enthusiasm. One night, he begged us to take him to a local restaurant because a radio morning show was doing a promotion there and “The guys on the radio always say how much fun it was. I don’t want to miss it! I’m sure we’ll have a good time.”

He always wants us to come to school to see his presentations and activities. GoofGirl, on the other hand, always tells us that, “Parents don’t have to come.”

But like dogs and cats that have lived together a long time, when they fight it is only for fun. And neither sheds – that job is left to me.

Nieces are Nice!

2011-11-25T15:30:00.000-05:00

One of the great pleasures of Thanksgiving this year was seeing my niece (let’s just call her NieceGoof). She is two and a half, which is just an awesome age. She is mobile and good-spirited. She runs around looking into things. When you say a new word to her she repeats it with a big smile on her face as though full of joy and wonder about the possibility. And for her, it really is.

One thing that is funny with two year olds is how they go to the same place over and over again. At my parents’ condo they have a few toy figures of African animals kept in a cabinet. My niece goes to the cabinet, announces each animal and puts it on the table. She does this every time she visits. Her grasp of what each animal is has improved – slightly. For a long time the lion was just a “rawr!” Now it is a lion.

When I told her zebras have stripes she was thrilled, “Stipes!” she yelled.

She also remembers me, I taught her peekaboo. I’m good at peekaboo and my kids won’t play it with me anymore. As soon as she sees me, she puts her hands over her face. That could also mean she thinks I’m hideous.

GoofGirl is really taken with her cousin and uses her as a lab for her baby-sitting techniques. Although she is only seven, GoofGirl has shown real talent for it and takes pride in it. GoofGirl watched her little cousin while the grown-ups gorged – carefully walking her up and down the stairs.

Later that night, GoofGirl took a bath with NieceGoof. I missed it – since I was busy being the greatest dad ever – but I heard that NieceGoof thought it was hilarious when her big cousin poured water on herself. But NieceGoof laughed even harder when the water was poured over her head!

The Ravens won – but I’m sorry I missed this.

It was nice to be reminded that two-year-olds are wonderful – especially when they belong to someone else.

Sentimental, Cheesy Thanksgiving Post

2011-11-24T12:51:00.000-05:00

Thanksgiving, what am I thankful for?

For one, I am thankful that NaBloPoMo is almost over because I am running out of material fast. I am always thankful that we are invited out to Thanksgiving because MamaGoof just doesn’t need the pressure-filled hassle. I am thankful the weather tonight is supposed to be good because - the thing, tonight…

I am thankful that turkey is special for Thanksgiving – because otherwise I don’t really like it all that much.

I guess I am thankful for the existence of blogs, which allow me to be attention-seeking without doing so in person and annoying everyone I meet.

That isn’t very serious, is it?

Obviously there are the BIG things – wonderful wife, fantastic kids, loving family, work that I love and suits me, and of course my health.

It is all too easy to take that stuff for granted. This year, I will try not to.

I remember years ago, very unhappy with my job passing a homeless person. It was a sharp reminder that the worst day of my life would be one of the best days of his.

I’ve been lucky and I’ve been blessed. For that I am thankful.

GoofBoy's Thanksgiving Surprise: Ravens Tickets

2011-11-23T17:26:00.000-05:00

As a kid I hated surprises, but that’s because my parents would always tell me there was a surprise later, leaving me to wonder about it for hours. A really good surprise is just that – there is simply no idea that it is coming. It has been one of the best tools in my dad-kit and I’m dropping a big one soon.

Years ago I took GoofBoy up to my brothers to watch Return of the Jedi, without giving him any advanced warning. It blew him away.

The Goof trip to the beach this summer was another surprise bomb. We told the kids only about two hours before we left – and then only because we had to pack the car.

But I have a big one coming up!

I have scored tickets to the Ravens game tomorrow. GoofBoy has no idea. But when, after Thanksgiving dinner, my brother heads out the door (he has season tickets) GoofBoy and I – with no explanation – will head out with him.

Friends and regular readers know that this is especially big since I don’t particularly like – or even understand – football. But I will get a blog entry out of it – so that (and my son’s sheer joy) will make it all worth it.

Operational Details
In my day job I study terrorism, and that comes in handy for planning surprises. An effective surprise requires a high-level of operational security. No detail can be neglected or the whole thing can fall apart.

When my brother and I planned a surprise party for our parents’ 200th wedding anniversary we had code words, we took advantage of a weekend when my parents were away so that we could go into their house and get their address book.

For Operation Lenore I had to work with my mom to develop a credible excuse for why we had to take two separate cars to Thanksgiving. I spoke with my mom to make sure other guests were in on the surprise. She suggested I call them myself – but the more people I call the more likely GoofBoy will overhear.

“Loose lips sink ships,” I told her. Working this phrase effortlessly into conversation is one of my life’s greatest pleasures.

“Also, Mom – the codeword is ‘Nevermore.’” I told her.

“Why do we need a codeword?”

“Secret plans need codewords!”

I could actually hear my mom’s eyes roll over the phone.

Follow Operation Lenore in Real Time
I will be Tweeting and Facebooking the action – including, hopefully, pictures. If you aren’t already follow Father Goof on Facebook or Twitter to watch this awesome day unfold.

Someone should be very thankful!

Book Review: Peter and the Starcatchers

2011-11-22T20:51:00.000-05:00

Not satisfied with being a best-selling humorist who makes me want to give up writing every time I read his books (when I catch my breath from laughing) the illustrious Dave Barry has decided to dominate another genre. His series, co-authored with Ridley Pearson, Peter and the Starcatchers was a lot fun.

The whole series (four books in all) is a prequel to the story of Peter Pan. Peter is an orphan who gets tied up with a earth-based front of an inter-stellar war. In the process he acquires the powers of flight and eternal youth. I won't say anymore. It is Harry Potter-esque, but without wizards (there is some magic but it isn't as pervasive.) We listened to the series, which was read by Jim Dale (who is also narrator of the Harry Potter series) and it was odd how certain voices and characters seemed interchangeable. Molly Astor (I don't give much away when I reveal she is the mother of Wendy Darling) sounds a lot like Hermione. Her father is Dumbledore-esque - although a non-wizard Dumbledore is much cooler. Anyone can be a genius wizard with magic - try doing it without magic though!

Dale, by the way won an "Audie" award for his narration of the series.

The books aren't perfect, there are tedious bits. But there is also a nice Dickensian gloom to parts of it, also there is real sadness when Peter realizes that he won't grow up but the girl he loves will. Best of all, are the bad guys. In book 3 we learn what they are really about and what they really want and it is super creepy and almost metaphysical. I like books where there is something really big at stake.

Probably the best endorsement I can offer is that the series ends around 1900. The little Goofs and I have been speculating that since Peter is ageless, perhaps he can come back to help out in World War II.

Rockin' Fatherhood Electronically

2011-11-21T20:57:00.003-05:00

The other day GoofBoy received several calls from a friend who was in a panic because he had left his workbook at home. The friend was asking if we could fax him the workbook pages he needed. There were two problems with this. The lesser problem was that GoofBoy had already done his homework so we would be faxing the answers. The second problem was that I hate our fax machine (almost as much as I hate our photo printers.)

I was pretty sure that the process that would begin by tearing pages out of GoofBoy’s workbook and then involve waking up the hamsters that power our antique fax machine was going devour the rest of my night, and probably end in tears (possibly mine) when I (or the hamsters) inevitably destroyed GoofBoy’s homework and ensured that GoofBoy’s friend didn’t get the assignment either.

But I had a brainstorm. Using sticky-notes I covered GoofBoy’s answers and snapped pictures with my phone. One app allows me to turn everything black & white. Another app allowed me to fax it directly from my phone! It cost a dollar, but that was money well spent if it allowed the fax-rodents to continue their slumber. GoofBoy’s friend’s mom (a way smart, high-powered attorney) called me and thanked me. I told her how I had sent it straight from my phone and she was impressed. Plus, she agreed to host GoofBoy for a playdate.

This afternoon, GoofBoy came home started on his homework and began wailing like a manatee. He had left the book he needed to read and summarize for class at school.

First thought was to run to the library and check out a copy. But it is kind of dreary out. Quick visit to Amazon and the book was on my iPad and GoofBoy is good to go!

Kindle copy of The Magician’s Elephant - $6.44. Not having to run out on a cold wet night while still getting a blog entry out of it - priceless.

I remember my parents scrambling to get things for my homework (although these memories are vague and I stopped doing homework by the age 10.) Electronics just makes all of this much, much easier. No last minute drives, no trips to the baroque library photocopier (run by cousins of the hamsters in my fax) – this is all good.

I have a nagging worry (and really, is there any other kind?) Does all of this innovative, super convenient electronically aided parenting allow us to shield our kids from the consequences of their actions?

That seems like an awful big burden to put on little kids. It is still good that they can come to a grown-up who can make everything all right. And for me, honestly, it is nice to be the dad and know that at least sometimes I can make things all right.

Timeless (and Clueless) Boys

2011-11-20T22:50:00.000-05:00

As the father of a son and a daughter, I am fascinated by the differences between boys and girls. I am aware of the basic differences of course – anatomy, tolerance for dirt, interest in references to obscure television shows from youth, and of course the complex social interactions - but the developmental stuff fascinates me.

GoofBoy is heading towards that exhilarating time of adolescence (the school is getting ready to discuss this – better them then me, I offer no sure counsel!) But, like most boys, he seems to want to put it off. I am pretty sure I can handle an adolescent boy – they are like other males of the species just dumber.

An adolescent girl is another thing altogether. I have a few years, but less then I would hope. Apparently girls are entering adolescence younger and younger. Discussions of boyfriends have thankfully not started. GoofGirl is afraid of churches because, in movies she has seen, that is where kissing occurs – I consider this fear quite healthy, at least for the time being.

Still I often read and hear about girls entering adolescence early. Fortunately, for dads out there, while the girls are trying to grow up too fast and showing an interest in boys all too soon. This is not being reciprocated. Wonderful, dunder-headed boys haven’t changed a bit. I am certain that if you dropped GoofBoy into the 1950s, 1930s or even earlier he would find some other boys and they would immediately wander off into the woods to throw rocks and break stuff. The freedom to explore enjoyed by kids decades ago, along with the lack of bathing would probably lead the boys to prefer the past to the present. If he could take a solar panel with his DSi he would be in heaven.

Boys are timeless.

Bike Riding - My Parenting Failure

2011-11-19T22:39:00.000-05:00

I took my daughter bike riding this afternoon. I hate doing this because it reminds me of my failures as a parent. She is seven and she still needs training wheels. GoofBoy is ten and he hasn’t mastered it without training wheels either. Plenty of kids younger then the little Goofs have mastered bike riding. It would probably help if I rode bikes myself. But I don’t.

The problem is that we don’t live on a quiet street and, more broadly, no one ever lets his or her kids out of sight anymore. So bike riding – like every other activity off of our property requires my supervision. So it just doesn’t happen that often and thus the kids don’t get good at it.

When I was a kid, after some initial instruction (that mostly involved my dad yelling at me) I was on my own. I fell down a lot. But ultimately I got it and was free to bike around the neighborhood and beyond.

Not so much now. Teaching the little Goofs to learn to ride bikes is very much on my to-do list, but that is kind of the problem. It is just another item on my to-do list – along with work and grad school and life.

I have to take them somewhere bike-friendly and supervise. I manage to do this a few times a year. GoofBoy, having lost his training wheels, got discouraged, and never even asks anymore. GoofGirl still has training wheels and loves it – she asks often. When she is going full speed, she yells, “It’s like I’m flying!”

Once they get it down, they will love it – but they can’t get it down without my help and there is only so much time in the day (and sometimes I'm kind of tired).

So while GoofGirl was having a good time peddling around, I was just reminded of one more thing I haven’t done and what she is missing.

Shabbat Overload

2011-11-18T16:28:00.000-05:00

It is almost Shabbat - the Jewish day of rest. It is more then a day off, it is a day of no work, of contemplation, of special ceremonies. Special objects help to sanctify the day: candle holders, challah (bread) covers, kiddush (wine) cups and so forth. Judaism is loaded with these ritual objects. Major holidays have them as well - Seder plates for Pesach and of course menorahs and dreidels for Hanukah. Off-hand there are over a dozen common ritual objects associated with Jewish practice.

At Jewish pre-school and day school art projects often involve making these objects. They are precious. But at the rate of one of these objects per kid, per year... we will need to buy a new house (how many challah covers do I need?).

This is by no means all of our home-made Judaica, just what was quickly on-hand.

Some parents pick the best and throw the rest away. Some parents run their live in an orderly, rational fashion and plan family vacations months in advance (and don't spend their free time blogging in order to embarass their children.) I am not some parents.

Fortunately, the flow of precious objects is slowing. As a fifth-grader GoofBoy isn't doing much of this anymore and GoofGirl is doing less. Also, I can give them to my mom - I've always been in the habit of messing up her house.

But I also feel bad for the Carpool Clan - as massive as our strategic reserve of Judaica - with four kids (and Carpool Destroyer only in kindergarten) I am surprised their house hasn't exploded showering the neighborhood in dreidels and etrog cases.

GoofGirl, Toys and Serious Games

2011-11-17T21:55:00.000-05:00

“The problem is, your daughter doesn’t play with toys,” one of GoofGirl’s friend’s mom was explaining when I was trying to set up a playdate.

“Let’s give it a try, I’ll talk to her,” I replied and the mom agreed. Playdates are key, kids entertaining each other are kids that don’t need to be entertained.

“Mi nina, your friend says you don’t play with toys,” I began.

“Daddy, we were going to play with toys. We were going to have a toystore in our game in the last playdate. But we didn’t get to that part. It will be the first thing on our agenda for the next playdate. I made a list,” GoofGirl explained. She runs heavily structured playdates – organizing them well in advance.

But it is true, GoofGirl doesn’t really play with toys. She definitely plays and has a huge imagination. But regular playing with toys is not her thing.

She had a great collection of Little People including a dollhouse, the zoo set and a store. GoofBoy and I played with it all the time – the plot usually involved the dad had gone crazy from watching too much TV and imagined he was the Crocodile Hunter and ran next door to the zoo and tried to wrestle the crocodiles. It was, in great part, an excuse for me to do bad Australian accent.

I only saw GoofGirl play with her little people once. She stood them in a big triangle and then rolled a ball at them to knock them down.

She begged us for a Playmobil Egypt set. So we got it for her. After she put all the stickers on, she played with it once. She put an obelisk on Hello Kitty’s head, turning her into a monster that attacked the Pharaoh’s palace. (Little wonder GoofBoy is having Hello Kitty nightmares.) Apparently she is taking her Jewish education to heart, smiting the Egyptians with a new 11th plague of Japanese animated characters.

She does have hundreds of stuffed animals and they get play-time, although they may regret it. She and a friend will play school – it is a school that focuses on gymnastics and Hebrew. The discipline is very strict, punishments are vengeful, and the reward for good behavior is additional Hebrew lessons. I get exhausted just watching.

Li’l Special Forces
She has started playing with other toys more recently. We have six or seven thousand little bears. Under GoofBoy’s tutelage they are in a state of constant warfare with the Lego people, the Playmobil, and various plastic animals. I think on their own they would all live in peace, but GoofBoy is a warlike deity.

After the OBL raid, GoofGirl became interested in special ops. She took command of a platoon of the little bears and our helicopters. When GoofBoy plays war, he goes right into battle and soon his room is strewn with the corpses of little bears and Lego people. Not GoofGirl, she focused on the training. The little bears had to practice quickly getting into the helicopter and getting out with all their equipment (stolen from the Playmobil pirates.) They did this endlessly. When they finally did it to her satisfaction, she let them have a slumber party in the helicopters. Anyone at SOCOM will tell you this is quite a treat.

Alcohol and Kids

2011-11-16T19:32:00.000-05:00

At a regular pediatric check-up as the doctor attempted to ascertain our family lifestyles, she asked about our alcohol consumption habits.

“Several nights a week my wife and I split a beer, on weekends we might have a bit more.”

“That’s fine,” the doctor nodded, “It is important that the adults in their life show moderate, responsible alcohol consumption”

“Right, and sometimes we give them a little taste…”

The doctors eyes became huge, “How very European of you!” she exclaimed as she considered whether or not to call child protective services.

MamaGoof and I enjoy an occasional drink, and we are beer enthusiasts and discuss in great detail the attributes of our libations. I grew up sipping wine at the dinner table. Pretty much every Jewish kid I know remembers getting drunk from super-sweet Manischevitz (#1 kosher wine in America!) at Pesach - the ceremony calls drinking four cups of wine. One consequence of this annual binge was that I could never find the afikomen. (Quick explanation: parents hide a piece of matzah during the Pesach meal and the kids find it and hold it for ransom. I cannot hope to explain the cultural meaning here.)

But maybe this early exposure works as a sort of inoculation against alcoholism. So we’ve taken the same attitude.

One evening, GoofBoy was little and before GoofGirl was born I had had a bad day at work (back then I went to an office like a regular grown-up). I poured myself a big cup of ice and whiskey and began sipping. GoofBoy toddled up, looked at me and said, “Uh!”

So I gave him the glass for a sip, figuring he wouldn’t like it and make his little sour face. Instead, his eyes got big and he said, “Mas! Mas!”

So I gave him some more. Turns out he had been teething so the whiskey and ice felt great on his sore little gums. He had had a lousy day too. So we sat there, quiet, sipping our whiskey and watching the sun go down. Then MamaGoof got us in our jammies and enjoyed the quiet.

A few years later, as I was sipping Scotch a toddler GoofGirl asked for some. I told her just a taste and gave it to her. She took a little sip, pursed her lips, shook her head and announced, “Scotch is spicy!”

That night, as it happens MamaGoof and I went to a Scotch party featuring many different fine scotches. I tasted many different fine scotches (Momma Goof drove and was a bit more moderate.)

The next morning, I lay in bed, the sunlight violently accosting my skull, and the first words I heard as MamaGoof went to change GoofGirl’s diaper was my daughter saying, “Mommy, scotch is spicy.”

“Go tell that to your father.”

I will fear no evil: for Nerf art with me

2011-11-15T22:57:00.000-05:00

Sunday afternoon, a bit before Ravens kickoff, I was working quietly in my office when he came in.

“Dad, Nerf Gun fight or bamboo stick battle?”

Apparently the option of being left alone wasn’t on the table.

We went outside, he took pity on me and gave me the multi-shot Nerf gun. He underestimated my resolve. Rather then half-heartedly shooting and then submitting to his response barrage I engaged. I chase, and when I was out of ammo I ran. I climbed up the play-set, hid behind trees, and Matrix-style dodged his Nerf shots.

GoofBoy laughed so hard at my exertions that he fell down.

I channeled my inner Jules from Pulp Fiction (warning – the linked clip has some nasty language) and began marching toward the prone Goof, firing remorselessly and reciting the 23rd Psalm:

1 The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want.

2 He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.

3 He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.

4 Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

5 Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

6 Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the LORD for ever.

I stood over him, firing Nerf darts execution-style as my son lay on the ground, convulsed with laughter.

Then we whacked each other with bamboo sticks.

That evening, MamaGoof brought out the toy catalogues and asked what they wanted for Hanukah. GoofBoy talked about Legos and a guitar, but his eyes kept shifting back to the Nerf Guns.

The technology now available is astounding. There are Nerf gatling guns, sniper rifles with laser scopes, and multi-shot semi-automatic Nerf weapons (not sure if I like them since they don’t have the satisfying click when they are cocked.)

He didn’t want to ask for one. But he looked up with resolve, “Dad, maybe we could save our money and buy the big Nerf rifles?”

“Buddy, I have a credit card. I could go to Target right now and buy all the Nerf guns.”

“Really, I thought your credit card was only for coffeeshops.”

That made me glad I had vanquished him that afternoon.

Pumpkin Cannon & Other Tales of the Fall

2011-11-15T00:04:00.000-05:00

They had me at “pumpkin cannon.” As soon as I read the article, I knew I had to go. So, one fine crisp fall afternoon a few years ago I gave Mama Goof a break and took the kids up to Thurmont to fire a pumpkin cannon.

The farm had more than just artillery. There was a corn maze. There were snacks. GoofBoy was still at an age where spending money was a novelty in and of itself, so – just to be able to use some coin – he bought his little sister a lollypop.

To warm up for the main event, we practiced on the apple gun. Noise sensitive GoofGirl thought the pumpkin cannon was too loud, but she liked the apple gun, which had two barrels. She likes close-in fighting, and she really enjoyed the solid thunk of an apple against the side of the little pirate ship.

Then we got in line for the pumpkin cannon. Everyone in line razzed whoever was firing and GoofBoy and I joined in the fun. Some people didn’t even try to hit the pirate ship target; they just aimed the cannon high in the air to see how far they could launch a pumpkin. I wondered if it could hit aircraft (Camp David isn’t far away…)

When it was our turn, I had little doubt that I would prove – and my past experience gave me no reason doubt it – that I could not hit the broad side of a barn. I aimed half-heartedly, fired and turned away from the great blast. I prepared to face the line and accept my jeers. But instead, there was a collective “Oooh!”

I didn’t see it, but my pumpkin had hit the flag on the pirate ship. GoofBoy was impressed.

There’s more
The little Goofs said they wanted to climb the mountains. So, a few turns and surprise – we came to an entrance to Cunningham Falls State Park. We parked and a trail lay before us. There was a sign noting that we were in a hunting zone. But, miracle of miracles, there was an information number posted. A quick call and we learned there was no hunting on Sundays so off we went. We hiked up for a while, the leaves crunching beneath our feet. Then the little Goofs got bored. So we headed down. On the way down we encountered a stream. Have I mentioned before that for my kids streams are absolutely the most fun thing ever?

After a long time of searching for stream creatures and throwing rocks in the water we headed back to the parking lot. There was a structure by the parking lot. It was a set of cages for birds that had been injured and could no longer survive in the wild. There were owls, eagles, and hawks – huge and beautiful seen close up. After appreciating the birds for a bit and almost ready to head home a park ranger pulled up.

It was feeding time. The ranger tossed dead mice and rats into the birds’ cages and the birds gobbled them up. The little Goofs looked on fascinated.

We drove home. I was pretty proud of myself, having arranged a day of adventure that would live on in Goof family history. When I got home the kids looked at me and said, “Now what are we going to do?”

At dinner as we relayed our adventures to Mama Goof, I asked GoofGirl what her favorite part of the day was. She answered fast with a huge smile, “My brother bought me a lollypop!”

Epilogue
Months later, GoofGirl was discussing with me what she and her friends were going to do when they grew up. I hadn’t heard this discussed before (besides her saying she wanted to marry her brother – she was only four so this was sweet!) So I asked her about her plans.

“I want to take care of injured birds.”

“Really? Where did this come from?”

“Remember, at the park when we say the ranger feeding the birds?”

“Oh wow, you remember that day. I’m so glad.”

“Yeah, and I can feed them dead rats!”

GoofBoy wonders, Who can stop Hello Kitty?

2011-11-13T23:30:00.000-05:00

That GoofGirl has an odd obsession with Hello Kitty is understandable. (She shrieked "My dreams have come true!" when she first saw a commercial for Build-a-Bear featuring Hello Kitty.) Apparently all little girls go through this phase.

But GoofBoy also is obsessed - though not in quite the same way. Years ago, when I was in college my brother was in high school. When I was home on break, my parents would make me ferry him to and from school. I think they resented me sleeping till noon every day while they went to work. He went to a Quaker Friends School - but I got bad vibes from the place. I was convinced that the benign exterior was just a cover and that inside the building the monster Cthulhu lay dreaming. (An earlier bed-time might have served me well.)

GoofBoy has a similar obsession with Hello Kitty, convinced she is a cover for something deeply malign (this Devil Hello Kitty vanquishing the other stuffed animals only confirms his suspicions). So, in honor of the late Bil Keane who used to turn over the Family Circus to little Billy, I am again letting GoofBoy vent in this space. Take it away Little Goof:

What is Hello Kitty? I have no idea what it is but my sister girl is obsessed with Hello Kitty. In my opinion though Hello Kitty is Godzilla in disguise so every Hello Kitty product sent to the USA is a tiny piece of Godzilla. Sadly the Hello Kitty toys in Japan are not Godzilla (mostly because they’ve had enough of him.) Now once every piece of Hello Kitty A.K.A Godzilla is in the U.S it will attack our biggest city New York as a huge furry monster that’s cute, rampaging through New York with a screaming sushi ball. The military will call King Kong to fight this monster but King Kong will flee to the Canada so his brother Sasquatch or Smashquatch will help him destroy the hideously cute Godzilla. But they will not prevail. Godzilla will destroy Sasquatch and King Kong. The United States will, as a last resort, call Aquaman to use his powers to summon whales that can smash their heads on Godzilla. Thus concluding that Hello Kitty is Godzilla and that Aquaman’s whales get at least 1,000,000,000 concussions a day.

You said it little Goof!

Dad Training Needed

2011-11-12T23:49:00.000-05:00

I wish there were a dad camp (not a retreat where we discuss our feelings) but rather an intensive course where I could pick up certain basic “dad skills.”

I have no knowledge or skill at any sport. I am a good dad, so I sit out in the heat watching him play baseball and soccer or in the cold for flag football. I can play catch, but that is about it. I can’t help him with his skills – I have no idea how he should swing or how to throw a curveball. In my own Little League career, my primary skill was getting hit by the pitch. During his games my big piece of advice is to tell him how John Lowenstein would keep his wrists loose by flushing the dugout toilet. He laughed the first time he heard this.

With football, except for my stubborn insistence that Johnny Unitas was the greatest quarterback of all time and that Art Donovan used to play with a cast on his broken arm and use it to deck opposing players, I know even less.

I’ve had nightmares where I’m handed the clipboard and appointed coach because the other parents are all busy. I’d like enough information to handle that contingency.

It would also be handy to know enough about these games that when he started talking about professional sports, I had some capacity for response. Sure I could read the sports pages and watch the games – but that is a lot more commitment then I am willing to make. I haven’t followed baseball since the strike in the early 1990s and I haven’t followed football since ever. (Oddly, I do know a bit about boxing in the 1940s and 50s, but that is because I read old books by A.J. Liebling.)

However, this might hurt me on another level. I let him participate in a fantasy football league on the condition that if he ever gave me trouble with homework I would take over his team and accept any trade that was offered. He know that my ignorance of football would mean he'd have a team of all kickers within an hour.

I could also use some guidance on buying boy stuff – sports equipment, weapons etc. For example, GoofBoy is interested in fishing. I have no problem with this, but that means I have to buy him a rod and other fishing equipment. Here again, I know nothing.

It isn’t just sports stuff where I could use some help. I wouldn’t mind knowing a bit more about my video camera. I know how to turn it on and on a good day I can load the video onto my computer. But I don’t know how to frame a shot, so when we watch it looks like some form of cinéma vérité filmed by people with degenerative nerve diseases.

I should probably also learn to play poker…

It isn’t just skills, it is an attitude, a can-do pioneering spirit – maybe a certain aloofness. Also, I should know how to carve a turkey.

I notice that this is heavily boy-centered (not that girls can’t play sports – I’d be just as hopeless helping GoofGirl). I should probably balance it with classes on how to buy shoes and polish nails but Mama Goof already has that stuff down (and more!).

Somehow, while also proving more than capable of holding good jobs and running things women have held onto that innate knowledge. But for men, the era of Johnny Unitas has past. What came naturally to our fathers has been lost. I bet I’m not the only dad who could use a crash course – an Executive MDA (Masters of Dad Adroitness).

Maybe Art Donovan could teach a course.

Hebrew & Hieroglyphs at Open House

2011-11-11T16:40:00.000-05:00

Today was open house at the little Goofs’ school. Unfortunately, I had many other things on my plate today (all unpleasant unfortunately) but GoofBoy insisted that I come and see his presentation on Egypt – a project that he started several thousand years ago.

I am a good dad so I went. GoofBoy and his partner (not Carpool Buddy, we advised the school not to put them in the same class less they conspire and mount a coup – same goes for GoofGirl and 3C, maybe even more so) were the third presentation.

Each presentation was about fifteen minutes of kids speaking in Hebrew about some aspect of Egyptian civilization. I don’t know any Hebrew. I spent forty-five minutes sitting in an uncomfortable elementary school desk listening to a bunch of kids go on in gibberish. What a treat.

Not that I’m unimpressed with my son’s knowledge – but I could have skipped the other two presentations, and frankly a little of this sort of thing goes a long way.

For his project my son is studying hieroglyphics – which as far as languages go makes Biblical Hebrew seem downright practical.

I don’t want to come off as too cynical. I am always proud of him. But also, I got to school during recess so I went outside and watched them play soccer. It was a few minutes before GoofBoy realized I was there. But when he looked up and saw me, his face burst with joy. Making him happy makes me happy. He had a great day, so mine wasn't half bad.

A Chicken Pox on Your House

2011-11-10T23:45:00.000-05:00

Growing up, chicken pox was a rite of passage. Everyone got it, and it kept you home from school for a week (which is approximately forever to a third-grader.) As it happens I got chicken pox during the blizzard of 1978, when school was closed for a week. So while the other kids played outside in a winter wonderland I had to sit inside trying not to scratch myself. I’ve been angry about that since.

But kids aren’t getting chicken pox anymore because they are being vaccinated. So GoofBoy and GoofGirl will never get a sense of the Biblical plague of being covered in boils. We are healthier, but are we poorer for it?

Fortunately, a small number of progressive parents are striving to bring back chicken pox. There are a number of good arguments against vaccines. First, vaccines are a form of witchcraft and that can’t be good. Second, too much use of vaccines will only encourage the disease to get stronger. I’m sure in our lifetimes we will see outbreaks of turkey pox, or worse – the dreaded ostrich pox.

Finally, kids seem to hate getting shots. I don’t know why kids hate shots so much. I try to explain how the tiny needles used now are nothing, when I was a kid they used harpoons and javelins. Recently we took the little Goofs for their flu shot. GoofBoy was stoic, but GoofGirl panicked, tried to escape and ran around the health center yelling variously, “Help! Help!” and “You are terrible parents!”

It did not help at all, that I kept laughing.

So I sympathize with the anti-vaccination parents.

But what impresses me is how these anti-vaccination parents go the extra mile. They really want their kids to have absolutely everything they had as kids. Not only do they spare their children the horrors of vaccination, they pro-actively seek to infect their children with chicken pox – which isn’t easy since no one gets it any more. Enter, the Internet. Now, folks can use Facebook and Twitter to share news of chicken pox outbreaks. You then contact the infected and they will send you tissues with infected saliva or partially licked lollypops so that you can then infect your own children.

This is not only disgusting, it is also illegal (bio-warfare and all) and, best of all in sort of an ultimate irony – it isn’t even effective. Chicken pox is transmitted through air, not saliva. Still I am impressed with the can-do spirit these parents possess. Because in doing what they think is right for their kids they are effectively treating themselves to a week or so at home with a whiny, pox-covered kid.

There is another word to describe that kind of dedication…

Goofs in Autumn

2011-11-09T22:37:00.000-05:00

Like leaves on trees the race of man is found, —
Now green in youth, now withering on the ground;
Another race the following spring supplies:
They fall successive, and successive rise.

The Illiad Alexander Pope translation

Monday after school my son and I took a walk in the woods. He had been up late the night before watching his beloved Ravens lose a lead and then snatch victory from the jaws of defeat – from the hated Steelers no less. But I hadn’t run that day and had to get outside. So he was game. We walked and talked. He told me about his day and school. He’s had a tough time with homework this year, but it is coming around. He likes math! He likes everything.

He liked the autumn leaves. Late in the day, the sun doesn’t blaze high above. It sits low, almost level with the trees, spraying the orange leaves with light. It was getting chilly, but the woods felt warm in all that bright.

We saw lots of deer. We saw a pair of bucks with substantial antlers. Later a group of deer snacked just off the trail. A warmly dressed man, walking his dog watched them. His tiny dog, ancient instincts alerted, strained at his leash to take them down.

The next day there was no school, so Carpool Buddy and 3C slept over. Everyone stayed up late and woke up early. The boys went to a laser-tag birthday. Everyone was tired, but I insisted on driving into the mountains to see the leaves. They complained and refused to get out of the car. We drove home.

I hadn’t seen enough. The colors were less then the day before but still vibrant. I dragged the kids back to the woods near our house – they complained.

Why I love my kids
Walking through the woods there was an island of green. It was a grove of bamboo. I had seen it many times, but the kids had never explored it. They were renewed, examining the shoots, looking for bamboo sticks for weapons, and speculating about pandas living in our woods (ok, that was my idea.)

As tired as they were, they were still capable of being amazed by something new.

Book Review: Percy Jackson holds up to Potter

2011-11-08T22:19:00.000-05:00

We’ve been listening to the Percy Jackson series in the car. It is a series of kids books that relies heavily on Greek mythology. The Greek pantheon is real and Mt. Olympus is now on the 600th floor of the Empire State Building. The series is about a young man who never seems to quite fit in. He has a wonderful mom, but doesn’t know his father. It turns out that his father is a major deity. The sons of the denizens of Olympus are heroes who, like the figures of myth, have great capabilities and have adventures on behalf of the gods.

It would be easy enough to deride it as a Harry Potter knock-off. Obviously there are innumerable parallels to the world of Harry Potter – even down to the main characters. Young heroes train at a special camp, hidden from the world of mortals. In fact, much of the world of gods and heroes is hidden from mortals. The writing in Percy Jackson is not as strong – although some of that may be due to the fact that it is narrated in the first person by the main character. A teenage boy describing the world in rich, complex and neutral tones would be unlikely.

But while Percy Jackson suffers in direct comparison, it definitely has a charm (it can also be funny – although sometimes it tries to hard.) I keep recalling a literary critic comparing Dickens to one of his leading rivals. The rival could create planets, but Dickens created whole universes. But sometimes those mere planets were awfully compelling. By building upon an established mythology, the Percy Jackson series seems more limited then the universe of Potterdom. After all, Rowling’s work included a number of terms that have joined our vocabulary (although the only one springing to mind is “muggles.”) There were wonderful evocative names for people and things in Rowling's universe.

But the magic world was only partially connected to ours. In Percy Jackson the affairs of the Olympians are inextricably linked to those of mortals. There is a sense of something palpable at stake. Choosing to build on well-established archetypes helps teach children about them (plus it gives them at least a sense of Greek mythology). The Dumbledore-esque teacher of heroes (who – and I like this – is not nearly as formidable as Dumbledore) explains that Olympus dwells wherever the heart of western civilization dwells – and to find it, look at the architecture. Something at stake indeed!

Forget Terrible Twos, Think Ferocious Fives

2011-11-07T23:31:00.000-05:00

A colleague at work has a new two year old. He was worried about “the terrible twos.” I told him it was a myth, anyone who talks about the terrible twos hasn’t met a three year old yet.

“Two is nice,” I continued, “Maybe worse then infanthood because they are mobile and surprisingly fast. But they are also learning new stuff almost every minute and talking in that cute mushed up way that is perfect for Twitter.”

“Three year olds are cute too, but they are a lot more energetic and capable. This continues through four year olds who develop and out and out death wish. Five is insane. Five year olds have incredible levels of hormones coursing through their systems. They are articulate, smart, willful, and – worst of all – easily bored. They are smart enough that the simple stuff that amused them only months ago for hours at a time won’t cut it anymore. But, they can’t entertain themselves yet. They are also enormously destructive - especially when they want to be helpful.”

“I remember my son at that age regularly demanding, “’Daddy! Play with me!’”

“That’s another thing,” I explained, “Children are like dictators, they cannot be appeased. I’d play with the kids for forty-five minutes and then need to attend to grown-up stuff – like blogging about my kids. They would whine and cry, ‘You never play with us.’ I would take them out from morning till afternoon to the zoo, on hikes and all sorts of adventures. We’d get home and they would look at me and ask, ‘What are we going to do now?’”

My colleague gulped, “Does it get better?”

“At five, it plateaus. They don’t get more energetic and they start to entertain themselves. Around seven they mature and become really nice. My son is ten and my daughter is seven. It really is a golden age.”

“So five bad years, then smooth sailing,” my colleague summarized.

“Not exactly, because then they turn into teenagers. I try not to think about it."

Box Tales

2011-11-07T00:01:00.000-05:00

We had a new refrigerator delivered recently.

After the workmen put took it down to the basement I realized something was missing. The box! I wanted to play in it.

I asked the delivery-men and they said it was in the truck, I could have it if I wanted it.

MamaGoof did not care for this plan. In a last ditch effort, I tried to get the deliverymen on my side, employing my idiot Spanish, "Para los ninos!

Bad move, MamaGoof actually speaks Spanish, plus she is commanding in any language.

"No! Es basura!"

It was clear to the delivery-men who was in charge, and they drove off, no doubt taking the box home to their children.

Too bad, the little Goofs love to play with boxes. But I am a good husband and I haven't said a word about how their mother deprived them of such an awesome adventure.

I'm just biding my time, until I really mess up.

Silent Lunch Hijinks

2011-11-05T23:51:00.000-04:00

The teachers at GoofBoy's school have initiated a new policy. Every Friday is silent lunch. The kids sit quietly - sounds good so far! But, the teachers have groups of them get up and try to make everyone else laugh through "physical comedy."

GoofBoy's group got big laughs by pulling their pants up high (aiming for their belts to straddle their nipples). Other groups ran into walls and fell down, butted heads, and did kicklines. It sounds like a boy dominated activity - it wasn't clear what laugh strategies the girls pursued.

I have to say, this is brilliant. I remember once in school getting caught making faces at another kid. The two of us were given detention. But not just detention, we were required to make faces at each other for 40 minutes. Worse, the teacher (who tended to be a figure of fun for wearing his pants up around his nipples) brought other teachers and administrators into the room to watch us make faces at each other.

We weren't allowed to repeat faces either - but there are only so many ways those muscles move. (I was saved, I can puff up my cheeks like a blowfish - or Dizzy Gillespie - also back in the day I could turn my face purple at will.)

When it was all done, I was mortally embarrassed and my face hurt.

But what GoofBoy's teachers are doing is pre-emptive embarrassment. It also wears them out a bit, so they aren't on a sugar high all afternoon. Best of all, there are cameras all over the school. This stuff is going to be on YouTube soon enough. That might be illegal. But at least they could share the videos with the parents.

Dreaming of Dogfish Head (beer)

2011-11-04T17:27:00.000-04:00

I am a fan of Dogfish Head Craft Brewed Ales. I love their beer. Even their beers that aren’t good – like a recent mint stout – are spectacular failures. They do amazing things, like resurrect beer recipes from thousands of years ago or make an IPA with more hops then anyone has ever attempted before.

Sometimes, as I sip (nay, gulp) Raison d’Etre I want to weep with joy.

I also follow Dogfish Head on Facebook, and every once in a while they are hiring. Could I change my life completely – MamaGoof and I abandoning our professional training in order to become stockboys at the Dogfish Head warehouse.

I broach the topic with the Little Goofs:

“What if we moved to Rehobeth so mommy and I could work at Dogfish Head?”

“Daddy, you are obsessed!” GoofGirl scolds.

“Dad, is this like the time you listened to that book about cod and all you could talk about was buying a boat and working the sea?” GoofBoy asked.

“I think you’d like there. We’d have to live in a smaller house, but it would be near the beach.”

“What’s the catch?” GoofBoy asked, he knows me.

“Mommy and I would drink beer all the time, so you would be raised by seagulls.”

“Caw, caw!” he answered.

How Many Kids? An Interdisciplinary Approach

2011-11-03T21:14:00.000-04:00

I have an ongoing discussion with friends about how many children is the perfect number to parent. Their responses usually follow their occupations. A physicist friend suggests only one because with any more the potential combination of interactions and relationships, factoring friends and relatives, is far too complex for the human mind to grasp.

A statistician I know suggested 2.7, with a margin of error of 1.1.

Interestingly a mathematician got really excited about two children because it is the only even prime number – although ideally he said he would like to have 3.141, but unfortunately children only come in whole numbers.

My mechanic suggested three, so you have one for spare parts.

I have two, but feel strongly that three is the ideal number of children. Four is too many, because then the kids have a super-majority and you have to rule by fiat. But with three you get complex alliances and you can usually peel one off in order to create a semblance of democracy while really retaining control.

Mama Goof however does not want to see our house run as a political science experiment. Not that she is opposed in principle to our having a third child. Her conditions were simple, “You want another kid – you carry it and give birth!”

GoofGirl the Showrunner

2011-11-02T21:28:00.000-04:00

As the sun set and dusk fell, GoofGirl was wandering around our backyard, alone but chatting (she gets that from me). She had just been inside, made a circuit around the house and went back out without saying a word to anyone.

GoofBoy had a buddy over. He had come over to work on an interminable Egypt project that has been going on since the school year began. They are apparently reconstructing the Nile. Their one solid finding is that Google translate does not include hieroglyphics. But they are done for now and are blasting monsters with fireballs on the Wii.

I go outside, “Que haces mi nina?”

“Daddy, I’m playing and in my game I’m in a TV show. Do you want to hear about it?”

“Of course!”

“In the TV show I’m in, my brother is still my brother, but you and mommy aren’t my parents. In the show, my parents got divorced and I live with my mom in a mansion in the country and my brother lives with the dad. We aren’t supposed to know about each other, but my mom told me I had a brother so I go to look for him. My brother doesn’t know he has a sister, but he really wants one. “

“Do you find him?”

“Yes, but it takes a while. The first episode is like a movie of me looking for him. I know his scent, and I have a special robot dog-nose in my purse that helps me find him. But it doesn’t take me to his house, it takes me to his school, in New York.”

“Wow, and this is just the first episode?”

“Right, in later episodes when we finally get together we go to spy school. It is like regular school, but we learn gymnastics, karate, gun shooting, chemistry, and disguise. We capture bad guys. We climb up buildings and drop cages down on them.”

“What kinds of bad guys do you fight?”

“All kinds. Daddy, where do you get the gun that shoots so you can climb up a building?”

“You mean a grappling hook, I have no idea.” Even if I knew I wouldn’t tell her. The last thing GoofGirl needs is a grappling hook.

“Daddy, you know why I kept going inside?”

“Why?”

“Because there are parts of the show where my brother is sitting around, wishing he had a sister. So when I went inside I wasn’t me. I was like the camera making those scenes.”

Halloween is too Scary

2011-11-01T23:04:00.000-04:00

On Halloween night MamaGoof and GoofBoy stayed up late to watch Monday Night Football. But MamaGoof loves her horror flicks so she kept switching over to Halloween.

I think she was hoping for some company. I can’t watch horror movies because I find the genre derivative and pedestrian. Because life is too short, I could be watching Fellini. Because…

I get scared.

How scared?

Just going to the Halloween Movies website freaked me out. I watched some of Halloween 3, which objectively is an abominably stupid movie and not scary, with Mama Goof. I had nightmares. (I had to have her find me the link to the movie because I was afraid to go to the site again.)

I already find the real world terrifying enough; I don’t need to contemplate a whole parallel world of evil that seeps into our own.

But watching horror movies alone is no fun, so MamaGoof hoped that maybe GoofBoy could be her horror-buddy. (GoofGirl is too young, but based on her obsession with Scooby-Doo and skeletons there is hope.)

Unfortunately for MamaGoof, her son takes after her dad. He got scared, whimpering. MamaGoof’s misfortune was my fortune. All the dumb things I’ve done as a dad – finally MamaGoof did something dumb – leverage for me.

So I took GoofBoy upstairs put him to bed and curled up with him for a while. I told him it was ok to be freaked out. I told him how MamaGoof and I are watching American Horror Story together (a messed up family moves into a haunted house in LA). It is just like MamaGoof and hot spices – what is a bare minimum for her to even notice is my maximum tolerance.

So even though MamaGoof finds American Horror Story more moody then horror – I am waking up at night thinking about it. As I told GoofBoy, I watch every episode thinking, “Just move out of the house! Get a new realtor – run away, do something!”

Then, to take his mind off of it, we discussed which presidents and vice presidents had the funniest names. We narrowed it down to Schuyler Colfax and Calvin Coolidge. We drifted off. We both woke up this morning to nightmares featuring Calvin Coolidge. It fits, he was a loner, a quiet type…

Goof-Girl vs. Bone-Crusher

2011-10-26T21:09:00.001-04:00

“Daddy, have you ever broken any bones?”

GoofGirl is very interested in bones lately. So much so, that we’ve discussed buying a skeleton for her to study. But she is also afraid of monsters so a skeleton in the house would probably freak her out. (If we do buy her a skeleton is will be from anatomywarehouse.com - source for all your anatomical model needs. The picture is of the Flexible Mr. Thrifty with Spinal Nerves.)

“Three.”

“Which ones?”

“Well, I broke mommy’s ankle once…”

“WHAT! No way, mommy would have killed you.”

“It was an accident, we were walking together and she slipped on some ice.”

“That doesn’t count did you break any of your bones?”

“I broke your brother’s leg…”

“You are a bad daddy,” GoofGirl said, edging towards her light-sabre. I guess she planned to go down fighting.

“No, it was an accident. We were playing, he was just learning to walk, and he fell and a bone snapped. I felt terrible about it.”

GoofGirl rolled her eyes, “Have you ever broken and of your own bones?”

I was on a role and ignored her, “I broke Ian McKellan’s arm. Not Gandalf, just some kid in the neighborhood. We were 11 and our parents had told us not to wrestle, we weren’t going to. But they gave us the idea so we were playing super-stars of wrestling. He jumped off the couch and dropkicked me in the head. He bounced off and landed on his arm, breaking it! I won!!!”

“I don’t believe you daddy.”

“You don’t believe I broke someone’s arm?”

“I don’t believe you won at wrestling. You can’t even defeat a little girl - it is time for a beat down!”

Update: Blogging at night, I forgot to put in a title!

It was terrible.

The Cosmic Pause

2011-10-24T13:10:00.000-04:00

Father Goof has not been blogging much lately. I’d like to blame the kids for not being terribly amusing lately. But, that is probably because I’m not paying attention. The most likely culprit is yours truly’s own lack of discipline, organization, and just basic time management. But I choose to blame the Jewish holidays. Starting with Rosh Hashanah about a month ago there have been six Jewish holidays that have fallen on weekdays this year – I don’t work (which includes anything on the computer, or writing, or driving) on those days. Plus, they came the day before Shabbat – another day on which I don’t work. Finally, all of these days were preceded by days in which the little Goofs’ Jewish Day School was closed (so teachers could travel for the holidays.) So for the last month I’ve needed to pack four weeks of work into two weeks. I enjoy a super-flexible schedule, but work does need to get done occasionally.

The truly inspired bloggers such as my Stakhanovite friend at Not Ever Still manage to just keep cranking out the cute and amusing despite these challenges. But I just didn’t have it in me.

The Jewish holidays are viewed as a time of personal spiritual growth – but I don’t know exactly what that means. I am observant, but not spiritual – I get no deep thrill as pray. Anyway, Judaism is a religion of doing, not of revelation. So I do. I go to services, I build a sukkah, and I fast on Yom Kippur.

I dream of one day having my life so organized that I can take the month off - not scheme how to fit in all my work and half resent the holidays’ intrusion into my life. But hear I am chasing a mirage, that’s not how life works.

All is vanity.

Towards the end my boss asked me to go to a meeting on one of the holidays. Of course, I had the option of saying no – he knew it was an imposition. But by the end of the cycle, I am usually ready to call it quits. When he thanked me for coming in, I told him I was going out of my mind not being able to work. I understand, spiritually that refraining from “acquisition” is important. But my work is more than a living; it is often fun and satisfying.

My boss observed that the nice thing about these holidays is that it creates family time, from time that would have been devoured by day-to-day concerns. He isn’t the boss for nothing.

We didn’t do anything particularly special. We visited friends and were visited by others. GoofBoy has learned to read from the Torah and did so during services (a full three years before his Bar Mitzvah) – yet another thing he can do that I can’t! But between not driving and the driving rain we didn’t have any real adventures. We just bummed around. MamaGoof and GoofBoy played board games. GoofGirl and I played “Battleship” (she kept knowingly hitting the same coordinates, possibly believing my ships could move.) I read Dave Barry out loud (wonderful hearing the little Goofs laughing to jokes about the 2000 election!) GoofGirl read “Fashion Kitty” to me. When the kids got bored, our fallback was to wrestle.

It wasn’t quality time or special time. It was just time.

Thousands of years ago, ancient Jews sacrificed livestock on the great festivals. This was the most valuable thing they owned – it was food that could transport itself: an exceptional thing in a pre-industrial society. Now we sacrifice our time, because in the end what else do we have?

Vignettes of GoofBoy - A Great Son

2011-10-04T22:53:00.000-04:00

Most of what I've been writing about GoofBoy lately has been negative - not about him - but about his challenges (and frustrations) with fifth grade. But I wouldn't want to give the impression that being his dad is without rewards. Almost every day he does something incredible.

------

GoofBoy read the Orson Scott Card classic Ender’s Game recently. This is a great book, really miles ahead of Harry Potter as literature - and I don’t say that lightly, I like Harry Potter.

He knew he wanted to read it, but he was afraid to ask me because it had bad words. I responded, “I know you know all the bad words. You can read books that use them, but I don’t want YOU to use them.”

The book blew him away. I remember going to his room during the weekend he read it. He looked up at me and said, “Dad, I just don’t want to do anything but read this book.”

Unfortunately it was a bit too good. He can’t get into anything else. He started the sequel to Ender’s Game but it was a bit too advanced. He went back to a young adult series he had been reading and it was just too lightweight.

------

We had a little boy over, he is about half of GoofBoy’s age, but GoofBoy loves him. It was rainy, so they stayed inside, chasing each other around the house shooting each other with Nerf Guns. I noticed as they were playing that the little boy had on the Nerf safety glasses.

“Buddy,” I told GoofBoy, “Good job, you remembered to have your playmate put on the safety glasses without my telling you.”

“Dad, I wouldn’t want him to get hurt cause then they might not let him come over again.”

“That’s very responsible of you.”

GoofBoy grinned, “And now I can aim for his eyes!”

------

For Jewish holidays the little Goofs have been home a lot and there are no electronics for us on those days. So GoofGirl was getting a little bored and MamaGoof and I needed a naps (drinking wine to celebrate our holidays is tradition).

GoofBoy rose to the occasion. He sat on the floor, pulled his sister into his lap and told her stories – stories he just made up. Unsurprisingly, they were action stories, and GoofBoy bounced and tossed his sister to enliven the drama.

When I finally got up, I told GoofBoy how helpful he had been and said that the bouncing in his lap made his stories like a ride at Disneyland.

“Yeah,” he grinned, “Where do you think I got the idea?”

-----

That a boy would build a model of the Empire State Building with Legos is no surprise. But the little valentine was an odd touch, so I asked GoofBoy about it.

He explained, “I added the heart on September 11th.”

Hebrew Homework Blues

2011-09-22T10:18:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, GoofBoy said some of the saddest words a little boy can say.

"Dad, I hope baseball practice is cancelled today. I just have so much homework to catch up on."

Well, sad words for a normal little boy that is. I begged my parents to let me play little league, and immediately hated it. First, I learned that despite what I had read left-handed people do not have natural curveballs. Also, an enormous knowledge of baseball history did not in fact translate to any prowess on the field. I was the worst player on a terrible team. Finally, the team had other children on it and I didn't much like other children.

But GoofBoy is very much a regular kid who loves playing ball, so to hear him not want to practice was a very sad. But homework has, quite suddenly, gotten very hard and GoofBoy worries terribly that he can't keep up.

MamaGoof and I recently took a little trip to Greece (I had a conference to attend - more on the trip later.) The little Goofs were left in the hands of my sister-in-law (best sister-in-law ever!) But GoofBoy had a homework crisis with Hebrew, which my sister-in-law simply doesn't know. So, in the shadow of the Acropolis, I sat at a coffeeshop where we Skyped with GoofBoy and calmed him down. Then we ordered another Nescafe, so I could keep using the free wifi and I arranged an emergency tutor. Because of the seven hour time difference, we had to stay up late and go to a coffeeshop with wifi to check in after-school on how everything went. Actually, in Athens this isn't hard, since the Greeks don't seem sleep (or maybe they do during the day at their jobs, it would explain a lot).

When we returned we managed to take care of the dreaded community service project. We decided to pick up garbage on the trail near our house. It was kind of fun, kind of strenuous, and after a bit more than an hour we had gathered a fair amount of trash. GoofBoy (and GoofGirl who joined us) actually can't wait to do it again.

Of course we also had to run around and gather supplies and I'll need to go and have the pictures developed. I own two photo printers, both of which have come very close to being thrown out a window so I am not inclined to purchase a third. However, with all this driving I wonder if we have done more harm to the earth then help.

But GoofBoy's real source of stress is his Hebrew class. Attending a Jewish Day School, Hebrew language is a central part of the education and GoofBoy loves it - and works really hard at it. Besides the spiritual component of knowing the holy language, I am amazed at the skills he is developing to master the language. Last year, he was promoted to the advanced Hebrew class and had to work hard to keep up. He rose to the occasion. One night, while he was showering I heard him singing (it sounded like whale calls) - I was about to tell him to knock it off when I realized he was practicing his vocabulary. When he watches football, he usually has a sheet of vocabulary words with him to glance at during commercials.

He grasps the substance well, but he doesn't always get the form of the assignments. Last year, when told to write about chapter of the Torah (Pentateuch) in Hebrew in his own words, he actually attempted to re-write the chapter word for word - rather then summarize it. Now he is stressed because he has to deliver the dvar, that is a little lesson. on a chapter of Torah. This includes a summary, discussion of some specific lines he liked, and asking the class a series of questions - all in Hebrew. To prepare he wrote a summary in Hebrew, translated it into English as he told me what it said and was worried it wasn't good enough.

I was blown away, since I barely get by in English. I tried to tell him, that even doing a lousy job at this is pretty impressive. But he just worried that he would fail Hebrew. His diligence and devotion say really terrific things about him - but these regular homework meltdowns are going to make MamaGoof and I crazy.

Community Dis-Service

2011-09-08T22:53:00.000-04:00

Let me begin this rant by saying, I am obviously not a good person.

GoofBoy has been assigned a community service project and I view it primarily as a hassle for me.

As a student of politics (in the great sense of the word - affairs of the polis - being involved in the community) I am a great believe in volunteering and civil society. But walkin' the walk is another story.

Because here is the thing. His teacher says this is supposed to be self-directed, but GoofBoy is ten. He can't go anywhere without me. He has a very vague idea of what exists and goes on in this world. He'd like to maybe deliver toys to orphans on Tatooine or take care of abandoned house elves in Hogsmeade - but he has no clue how to even find animal shelters or nursing homes. Self-direction on this project is no direction.

So now it is another thing I have to do. I will need to identify a place and take him there. It will be on a Sunday. When I take him to birthday parties, I usually drop him off and head to a coffeeshop. But I can't drop him off at a nursing home/homeless shelter, nor can I hang around and just play Tetris on my phone.

I know how this must sound, I am complaining about doing good deeds. I like to think that I would do some volunteering, except that my schedule is sort of dominated by working and schlepping two kids around. I consider myself having done community service simply by not strangling anyone.

I know there are people with way more kids then me who find time to volunteer. Good for them, I'm not that good. I try (not that hard clearly) but I do try.

Am I glad that the school wants to inculcate the value of volunteering and helping others - of course. I won't mind our actual endeavor - I've spent plenty of time visiting nursing homes - but I simply cannot deny that my first reaction to the assignment was, "Great - something else to do."

And worse is coming, I think this year they do science fair.

Getting Dressed, Physics for the Morning

2011-09-02T16:01:00.000-04:00

Recently I met the husband of an old college friend who is an honest-to-goodness rocket scientist. We had a fascinating discussion of what it takes to get a satellite to send signals to earth. The antenna had to be aligned towards earth, while the satellite’s solar panels had to be pointing at the sun. All of this had to occur while the satellite was orbiting the earth at high speeds. It is a complex multi-dimensional physics problem.

But it is nothing compared to GoofGirl getting dressed in the morning.

If the shoes don’t work with the shirt and pants… But she can’t change the shoes because she doesn’t like the laces on her other pair, which conflict with her hair (I don’t understand how this is possible, but I’m just a dad) – and her hair, which she hates by the way, is not being cooperative by still being brown and curly (because sometimes hair changes overnight apparently)…

She is only seven, way to young for this. I don’t even have the language to address this issue. Complex physics indeed, there are too many variable and I don’t understand any of them or how they interact. Mama Goof (who went to private schools that had uniforms) has no patience for it whatsoever.

I did what Dads do, and poked my head into her room every five minutes and told her to get dressed. This had little effect because analyzing clothes combinations is, from her perspective, part of the process of getting dressed. I respectfully disagree.

Mama Goof took a different approach, “Be dressed in two minutes or you wear this skirt and this shirt and that’s it.”

In two minutes GoofGirl was not dressed. Mama Goof began initiating the DefClothes sequence. GoofGirl begged, “Just let me explain, Mommy. Give me one more chance.”

MamaGoof would have none of it. She was right, of course.

I remember once as a kid I wasn’t getting dressed in the mornings (I didn’t care about my outfit, I think I just wanted to push BubbeGoof’s buttons.) One morning, when I wasn’t dressed in time for carpool, BubbeGoof waved the carpool away and left me alone in the house for hours even though I was only four years old. (I think you can be arrested for that now.) BubbeGoof insists she just drove around the block, but then she came back and pointedly ignored me all morning. I got dressed every pre-school morning since (although as an adult I have managed to develop a career where I spend a lot of time during the day sitting around in my pajamas.

This was the second day of school, and GoofGirl hasn’t given us any trouble since. Still, we would love it if our school adopted uniforms. Then GoofGirl could devote the freed up brain capacity to astrophysics.

Perilous First Days

2011-08-30T15:31:00.000-04:00

Mommy Blogger extraordinaire (and real life friend) Not Ever Still invited me to do a guest post about first days, in honor of her daughter E's starting kindergarten. She was hoping for some fatherly wisdom since I've been through it twice and I did my best. She posted it this morning, now I am re-posting below. If you already read my first day post, skip down to the bottom and I can tell you how my morning went.

Life is full of first days, you have to get used to it.

I thought of this as I dropped by E’s kindergarten class to see her and my friend and lunch partner and her husband. I was visiting with my two, who despite being old hands at this school with extensive familiarity with the social and physical layout had their own anxieties. GoofBoy was worried about his math teacher, especially since she is a Steelers fan while he roots for the Ravens. Sometimes with boys, the depths of the shallows are unfathomable. (She set GoofBoy at ease quickly, explaining that she gives Ravens fans a break because she felt so sorry for them – me thinks she’s faced this challenge before.)

GoofGirl was concerned because there is a girl in her class she doesn’t like (GoofGirl claims this girl is “mean to her for no reason.”) I told her, bluntly, “There isn’t anything I can do about it.”

Of course, I could call the school and complain, but I don’t want to be THAT parent, and if I were the school I would tell me to buzz off. If it were a class of bullies or some other intolerable situation, I would go to the mat for GoofGirl. But this is one kid. She can try to get along with her, and if that doesn’t work stay away. If she wants to let one kid ruin her time, then she frankly deserves her fate. That is a central lesson in life; there are terrible situation and great situations. Most, almost all, fall somewhere in the middle and they are what one makes of them.

I am lucky enough to know E, both in person and via her online persona. She is a neat little girl, who once ambushed me and made me to tell her the story of Pegasus and Bellerophon (my classical education serves me well). The little Goofs love playing older sibling to her. So I thought I’d swing by and check-in, plus I knew other kids in the class. When I saw her standing in the middle of the room with her fingers stuck in her ears, I sympathized. It was loud and crazy – no surprise with a dozen five year olds running around.

I chatted with E’s Dad a bit, we agreed that whatever her anxieties, E was going to have to go and make the best of it. I mused on this for a while. Kindergarten is a big deal, because suddenly the game changes. It isn’t just about you and your child. There is another player – the state, society itself. Pre-school is optional (at least in theory). So is summer camp. But kindergarten is not, you have to go.

I am not advocating conformity, but part of growing up is learning how to “deal,” that is handle what life throws at you. For some this comes easier then others, but regardless, children need to be prepared for the wider world. This is why the Talmud instructs parents to teach their children to swim, not just as a skill but as a metaphor for getting by in the world.

“Moms may tear themselves up inside over letting their little ones go, but Dads get this,” I thought to myself confidently.

Or Do They?
GoofGirl has an ongoing problem with fire drills. Once, in pre-school the fire alarm went off and there was some problem getting to stop blaring even after the fire drill was done. GoofGirl (who apparently inherited my super hearing) couldn’t stand it. For months, she spent the mornings wheedling and negotiating to keep me from taking her to pre-school. Since I work at home, this was actually pretty easy – lots of visits to the coffee shop or park and very late arrivals at pre-school. Finally, a wise parent took a piece of paper and taped it over the offending fire alarm. That was that, sort of. But she still gets anxious about fire drills (“Will my camp have fire drills” was an early question) and I write it on her school forms and let the teachers know.

We are all dog paddling in the ocean, and sometimes we all need a set of water wings.

And now the rest of the story
Father Goof readers will see that we are just back from LA. I haven't written that we apparently brought some sort of plague back with us - like the Black Death, but worse. I spent the weekend out, and now Mama Goof is down for the count. I'm back up, sort of, but not 100%. Preparations for the first day of school went unevenly. The house is short of food, school supplies were not purchased, and sleep took priority over everything (well, except blogging of course.)

I should add, that I am not good at logistical matters, where Mama Goof excels. I wouldn't hate it if we had a traditional home where I worked and she minded the house. Unfortunately, this is not a viable plan, MamaGoof has an advanced degree in "hard math stuff" and is far more valuable to society than yours truly. I often wonder what I bring to the table. But I can get the kids out the door in the morning, still, I wasn't too focused on speed - it's just the first day, how much will they miss?

GoofGirl had a crisis of hating her shoes, her hair, and her outfit. I am poorly equipped to deal with this particular problem, first of all because I think GoofGirl is adorable, and secondly because I don't know much about shoes, hair, or clothes. GoofBoy was chipper, telling me non-stop about baseball scores while I fumbled around for school supplies. GoofGirl's marble composition book is actually the book I used to translate Catullus over a decade ago (I only got a few pages in.)

A few words from Mama Goof and GoofGirl settled down, but suddenly GoofBoy was antsy. "We are going to be late, I'm going to get into trouble!" He kept repeating.

"Buddy, it's the first day, don't worry about it. It is on me, I'll talk to your teachers."

But GoofBoy's mood had soured.

When I dropped them off, late, the front desk person explained, his teacher lets the kids who get there early pick on the first day pick their desk for the year.

If only I had known. Of course, Mama Goof knew, he had mentioned it - once! He has no problem bugging me constantly about other things (like his allowance), but something like this he mentions once and is upset that I forget it. Of course I have nothing else to concentrate on, like GoofGirl's hair, getting their lunches together - despite the school's endless food restrictions, my job (I do work), and of course writing a blog entry about all of this.

I feel bad about starting GoofBoy off on the wrong foot, but not that badly. This is a lesson he has to learn, the fine art of reminding without nagging. First day of school and he is already learning something.

LA Vignette: Cat Called

2011-08-30T01:14:00.002-04:00

For me, one of the treats of visiting my in-laws is their cat, Winky. I like cats. In my dissolute youth, I went through a period of lengthy (voluntary) unemployment. During that time, my roommate got a kitten and I fell in love (I’d never had a serious pet before). We used to play when he got his crazies in the wee small hours. I’d throw tinfoil balls and we’d chase them around the apartment. The roommate, who remained employed, soon regretted the adoption.

As much as I liked cats, I liked MamaGoof more and she had allergies, so no more pets.

But before the kids were born, we’d stay with my in-laws and I could heed the call of the wild yet again and join the hunt (for foil balls and strings.) Usually after our week of visiting the cat would curl up and sleep for several days.

Unsurprisingly, running around in the dead of night, I tripped and fell with a huge crash. I shook the house. In LA, this isn’t funny. Everyone woke up and went into earthquake mode. (In fairness, my in-laws tend to worry. When adverse weather hits anywhere on the east coast, they call. During Irene we pre-empted them providing hourly updates: “We have power, we aren’t flooded, do not drive here to rescue us.”)

I calmed them down and promised to stop riling the cat and go to bed. The next day, I met one of my closest friends for lunch. I could barely keep my eyes open.

“Why are you so tired,” he asked.

“I was up late playing with Winky!”

“Dude, I know we’ve driven cross country together twice, but that is way too much information.”

The Heart of Disney

2011-08-26T17:51:00.000-04:00

Having visited Los Angeles over a dozen times with the Little Goofs, the Disney corporation issued us an ultimatum: Take your children to Disneylandor face the consequences.

The ultimatum was unspoken, but it was clear and powerful nonetheless – like a prophetic vision of being subject to a Disney rendition, hooded for days and then forced to don a Tweedledee costume and suffer blows from an acrimonious Tweedledum for the amusement of children.

So, I visited the very useful Disneyland Vacation Tips site and took the Little Goofs (and their aunts Tias C & T) to Disney. Pictures from the day show me grimacing at the entrance. Theme parks aren't my thing and I was not looking forward to the heat or the crowds or the prices. I was hoping to get some blog-fodder out of it though.

On the way, we listened to the classic young adult novel Anne of Green Gables. Set on Prince Edward Island in the late 19th century, Anne is an orphan girl who very much wants to own a pretty dress with puffy sleeves. Although GoofGirl is a bit of a fashionista, she does not grasp why Anne so desires puffy sleeves. Still heading off future demands, I declare, “No daughter of mine shall have a dress with puffy sleeves!”

GoofBoy perked up, “You didn’t say anything about sons!”

Our running joke at Disney was that GoofBoy wanted me to buy him a princess outfit (or Tinkerbell). He is all boy, loves sports, comic books and fishing. But he really has no worries about girly stuff. He loves to sing, happily wears pink and when my sister-in-law Tia C hung out with GoofGirl to paint finger and toenails, GoofBoy volunteered his nails too. I am jealous at how comfortable he is in his own skin – as ten year old I shied away from pink and any hint of anything “girlie.” I was poorer for it.

So I was hoping to get and post a picture of him in a princess outfit, but he leveraged the situation well, refusing to try one on unless I actually purchased it.
This led to me, standing in the middle of a Disney store announcing, “Son I am NOT buying you a princess outfit so stop asking!”

Other dads looked at me sympathetically.

Then we got into a fight with the plastic swords.

The Rest of the Park
Visits to Disney inspire sociological analyses of the state of American culture, or is it cultural analyses of the state of American society, or post-modern takes on the spiritual emptiness of modern society.

But my primary interest, as always, is wearing out my children. For a blow-by-blow of our adventures at the Magic Kingdom (including pictures) follow Father Goof on Twitter (with great pictures!)

After a hard day of rides, GoofBoy and my other sister-in-law Tia T relaxed by shooting stuff at the arcade. Tia T is a surprisingly good shot. GoofBoy bought himself some toy guns – now that our semi-official ban is ended (it wasn’t that we opposed guns, but we really hoped he would go to the Jedi Academy while his sister attends Hogwarts.) Later on those toys became a source of stress because GoofBoy had them in his carry-on at the airport. He worried that security would detect them and we’d have a big problem. We were stopped, not because of GoofBoy’s arsenal but because the freezer-pack with our carryon meals had started to defrost and somehow this set off alarms. I would like to think this reflects highly sophisticated scanning technology deployed by TSA.

Anyway Disney was fun (except the Tiki Room where I had a bit of a breakdown – singing robot birds just freak me out – but on the plus side I was not required to go on a “It’s a Small World.”) It is hard not to marvel at how effectively Disney maneuvers crowds and sustains order. This has a dark-side. An old friend from grad school happened to be at Disney with her husband and son. Her son was banned from Splash Mountain for having a splash fight. But it is splash mountain, what do they think would go down there. This reflects the Disney ethos, you will have fun our way and our way only!

There were smaller indicators of Disney’s dark heart. In the restroom, the gent cleaning up engaged me with full eye contact and asked, “Are you having a good time? Can I help with anything?”

I really try to keep my mens room interactions to a bare minimum. I don’t need the experience improved upon, but for Disney’s motto could be, “Ve have vays of making you have fun!”

And in fairness we did and I got my blog post out of it. I also learned that at the neighboring Disney California Adventure Park adults can walk around with beer - I might really enjoy corny Disney humor that way. I guess they do have ways of making me have fun.

LaLaLand Missives

2011-08-17T00:24:00.001-04:00

At an incredibly early hour, the Goof clan got up, drove to the airport, stumbled through security, entered an airplane,watched Thor (not bad for a stupid movie watched on an airplane in the wee small hours), and got off the airplane in Los Angeles, California.

Los abuelos live in LA and we come out here all the time. As soon as my biorhythms sync to West Coast time I'll be blogging and tweeting (follow @fathergoof) about our adventures. But in the meantime, enjoy some missives from our past junkets in the Southland.

Severely directionally challenged I bought a GPS to get around this endless sprawling city, but every solution creates its own problems.

Like a Russian oligarch, MamaGoof loves savings the money, so much so that on one of our trips we used an off-brand car rental, although MamaGoof turned down the opportunity to cruise the freeways in a refrigerated truck.

We often spend Christmas in LA, but being Jewish we go to the movies, but first I made the little Goofs climb Mount Hollywood.

We had to take the little Goofs to LA's La Brea Tarpits, although my jokes about tossing them in took some of the wonder out of the occasion.

When traveling, MamaGoof and I have to split up and share beds with the kids, sleepy little people occupy astounding amounts of space, fortunately we found a solution.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Wordy Dreams

2011-08-15T22:13:00.000-04:00

I read and write in my dreams a lot. One of my most memorable dreams occurred when I was in college. In the dream, I asked a young woman to go out with me and she did! (This only happened in my dreams.)

Then, in the dream, the scene changed to how – as in old movies – newspaper headlines spun out.

New York Herald
Girl agrees to date with Goof
BubbeGoof "ecstatic"

Chicago Tribune
Goof Gets Girl
Markets erratic

I grant that's unusual, but the next headline to spin out was in French:

Montreal La Presse
Goof achieves rendezvous
“Cherchez la femme”

I don’t know French.

I mention this because I had another journalistic dream. I was writing my obituary. It wasn’t said or creepy. I talked about how I traveled and wrote several books (again, it was a dream, give me that.) When I came to the end I wrote:

Father Goof is survived by Dr. GoofBoy and Colonel GoofGirl.

I mentioned this dream to several friends and MamaGoof, and the consistent reaction was, “Really, just a Colonel? She’ll have at least a couple stars.”

Book Review: City of Ember is better then Harry Potter

2011-08-12T18:59:00.000-04:00

Let me come right out, risking flaming and opprobrium, and say it Jeanne Deprau’s, City of Ember and its sequels are better then Harry Potter and I think my kids learned more from them. They aren’t more exciting (and I’m certainly not saying that Harry Potter isn’t very good), but their themes are deeper and subtler. If Harry Potter is chocolate chocolate chip ice cream, then The City of Ember is French vanilla.

Quick summary, Ember is a city deep underground surrounded by darkness. An aging generator that fails more and more frequently powers the lights and thus sustains life itself. The people of the city have no idea that there is any world beyond their home or that they are underground or why they are there.

I give nothing away when I explain that the city was built as a reserve against the possibility of cataclysmic war and that the inhabitants had instructions on how to leave that were supposed to be revealed years ago. But the instructions were lost and the city is running low on supplies. A pair of teens discover the remains of the instructions and ultimately find their way of out of the city.

In the sequel, The People of Sparks the refugees from Ember, now on the surface encounter a village which wrestles with what to do with these newcomers. In the final book of the series, The Diamond of Darkhold the main characters return to Ember.

What do I like?

First, there is no Dumbledore (not that Dumbledore is not awesome) but in the Ember series the kids figure things out for themselves. There is no wizard to guide them.

Second, there is no Voldemort. This is not about good versus evil. There are good people and bad people. But the bad people are usually bad in their smallness and their greed. This has a quality of realness, rather then the more cartoonish figures of Harry Potter. Children will meet petty adults, they will hopefully not encounter Voldemort.

Third, the action is low-key. There is action, tension, and scary moments. But there is very little deadly violence (although there is modest violence.) It is not Harry Potter exciting, but things happen. Prophet of Yonwood is a “prequel” to the series and its connections to the other books are pretty nominal. BUT, it does a terrific job of depicting a dictatorship emerging in a way that is harrowing, but completely appropriate for children –a nice bit of writing.

Fourth, the writing is clear and gentle. I also like the descriptions of both life in Ember and life in the post-disaster world in which people are struggling to rebuild. There is not discussion of grand politics, but rather a sense of how day-to-day life is lived.

Fifth, is the way the commonplace becomes magical. Anyone could write about a world of spells and fantastic creatures. But in the Ember series (particularly the first and last books) electricity, and the lack of it, are important elements of the plot. Much that is commonplace for us is in fact quite magical – if we open our eyes to it.

Finally, the City of Ember works to introduce children to one of the most profound ideas in history, Plato’s Allegory of the Cave.

The Movie

City of Ember was made into a movie and I would be remiss to not mention it. The action is “bigger” as befits a movie for the big screen, but it is basically true to the book appropriate to children of kindergarten age and up – and it has Bill Murray who is always fun to watch!

City of Ember was made into a movie and I would be remiss to not mention it. The action is “bigger” as befits a movie for the big screen, but it is basically true to the book appropriate to children of kindergarten age and up – and it has Bill Murray who is always fun to watch!

GoofBoy's Take on Ocean City

2011-08-09T17:06:00.000-04:00

GoofBoy has been begging for a "rebuttal" space on ForFathersOnly, so I have relented. Here is his take on our recent Ocean City trip. I'm not sure if this is a good idea, but it works for Bil Keane (little Billy must be in his sixties by now).

Finally my weak dad gives into giving me some space on his blog.

The sad truth is that my dad is going to show a feat of strength by strangling me and yelling “Am I weak now well AM I!?!?” while I pass out.

The Beach
OK so this week we’re in Ocean City. When we go to the beach or pool kids think, “Yay!!! We’re going to have fun.”

Dad thinks, “I’m going to have a lot of fun nah I’ll relax.”

And mom thinks, “I’m going to relax… AHHHHHHH what is my family doing? Are my kids hurt?”

I’m going to make it worse for parents with a few beach troubles. Here they are:

1. Kid falls in hidden sand pit.

2. Kid gets stuck in his/her own sand pit while digging dad groans and lifts 90 pound 10 year old kid out of pit.

3. Kid trips in inch high water then buries face in sand on purpose.

4. Kid builds sand castle only to watch it be destroyed and so on until it is time to go to the hotel.

5. Kid gets lost parents run around beach only to find kid in own five-foot hole with shovel stuck in the side, dad groans and lifts kid out again.

6. Kid opens eyes and plunges face into salt water takes head out screaming “ IT BURNS!!!!!!!!!”

Boardwalk
If you are at the beach you have to go to the boardwalk. Here’s what kids think, “Yay daddy give me money I get tickets then get plastic prize then if I need more money for tickets I beg and cry and daddy give me more money.”

Dads think, “I give my children a fortune to play games then get paper tickets while I starve. Then they get a prize I could get at the dollar store, then it breaks and the kids beg and cry and I give them more money. The worst part is that I waste three months worth of money, and instead of giving them my money I could have been wasting my money on good beers mmmmmmm beer…”

I think my dad is Homer Simpson.

The Pool
The next topic is the pool. I had the worst day there, even with no one drowning, dying, brother kicking brother, or violence - well maybe a little violence. It starts by putting sunscreen on an old person back that you don’t even know. Then someone tricks you into jumping into freezing cold pool water. After mumbling a bit you try to relax but a teenager that looks like he’s 5 foot 10 and 250 pounds jumps into the pool right next to you. Finally you find peace and quiet sunbathing but some kids have a huge water fight and you get drenched and leave.

Fishing
In Ocean City I went fishing a lot so I made up worst five things that can happen while going fishing.

1. Some knucklehead gets a hook stuck in your finger.

2. Some fish bites off all the bait on your hook without getting caught.

3. You’re in the middle of the ocean with nothing to do for seven hours.

4. Some crazy guy eats all your bait.

5. You eat all your bait on the trip to the middle of the Ocean.

Radio Vignettes

2011-08-09T15:52:00.000-04:00

One night, late, GoofGirl and I are driving home from a playdate. I am listening to Prairie Home Companion.

“Mi nina, do you like this show? Do you think it’s funny?” I asked.

“I like it, but I can’t see anything.”

“What do you mean you can’t see anything?

“The people talking, I can’t see them.”

“Sweetheart, this is a radio show – there’s nothing to see.”

Silence.

“Did you think I had a TV up here?”

“Maybe…”

“You know, before there was TV, there was radio. They would have stories and news. People would gather around it to listen.”

“Before TV,” GoofGirl was incredulous, “You mean like when Bubbe was little?”

-----

Another time, as we were driving, we were listening to a talk show about parent blogs. One of the guests, responding to a question about whether her kids like this blog about them, answered, “You do all of this for your kids and then they are twelve and hate you.”

“Why would a twelve year old hate their mommy and daddy?” GoofGirl asked, shocked.

“When children are twelve they start going through a lot of complicated changes. They grow up and want to become their own person, and part of that is breaking away from their parents,” I explained carefully, channeling Fred MacMurray at “Father Knows Best.”

“Well, I won’t hate you when I am twelve,” GoofGirl insisted.

“Yes you will sweetheart, don’t worry about it.”

-----

Several years ago I was driving with GoofBoy, listening to a radio talkshow. The guest was going to be bishop someone or other about something that I wasn’t that interested in, so I switched it.

At the time I was teaching GoofBoy to play chess. He perked up, “Hey, that was about bishops. Why don’t you want me to learn about bishops?”

“Buddy, this wasn’t about chess. A bishop is a religious leader, kind of like a rabbi but the boss of a bunch of rabbis. Anyway, it wasn’t going to be interesting.”

“Bishops are like super-rabbis,” GoofBoy muttered, “So they put curses on the other pieces, or make them feel so guilty they won’t move…”

And thus was born, the Bishop’s Gambit. Bobby Fishcher's efforts at psyching out opponents will have nothing on GoofBoy.

Hots for MamaGoof

2011-08-05T16:52:00.000-04:00

We talk a lot about super-powers at Goof Manor. GoofBoy can make teams lose by rooting for them, while I can sprout a beard faster then a Chia Pet. GoofGirl is simply awesome.

But sometimes, MamaGoof feels left out, bereft of superpowers.

She shouldn’t. Outside of my little world of make-believe she is the most astoundingly steady and competent human being. She can cook, fix things, and do high-order math. When our power went out during the Snowpocalypse she sealed off portions of the house with makeshift walls made from sheets and blankets and began making soup so we’d have something hot to eat while also heating the house. When we have car troubles, she talks to the mechanics (and gives them pointers on what to look for.)

If something is going down, MamaGoof is the one you want to have your back – not me (unless somehow you think a timely blog entry is key to resolving the crisis.)

She also has a very real super-power – I’ve seen it.

Her dad used to travel with a gallon drum of habanero chilis, which he would put on just about everything he ate – including toast and ice cream. He ate them like Tic-Tacs and his daughter, my wife, would match him bite for bite. He had to take them on trips because if he went too long without he would get cranky and sluggish. Thankfully, he hasn’t had much need to travel in the past decade, because there is no way airport security would let him through with a virtual chemical weapon.

I like spicy food. But dishes that only dimly register for her will make me cry.

Years ago (before we had children), at “First Night” in Annapolis (a New Year’s Eve event where stores and restaurants stay open all night and there is entertainment) we stopped by a specialty hot sauce stall. The proprietor had a few samples out and Annapolis residents were sampling them and bursting into flames.

MamaGoof (then properly GirlFriend Goof I guess) tried a few and was nonplused. The proprietor began digging more deeply into his collection, but without success. A crowd had gathered. It was showdown at the Chili Corral.

Finally, he brought out a heavy black case, opened it, revealing a brittle looking bottle, and poured a few drops onto a metal spoon (which began to blacken and warp.) With a wicked grin on his face, he handed it to MamaGoof.

She slurped it down and made a face. The hot sauce pusher laughed, “I got you! No one can stand that stuff, they use it to make police pepper spray.”

MamaGoof looked up, “It isn’t spicy, but it tastes terrible.”

Then she pulled a habanero out of her purse, bit off the tip, blew away the smoke, and put it back and she walked into the night.

Dinner with the Boys

2011-08-04T23:23:00.002-04:00

“Dad, no Jedi would have a chance against Wolverine, he regenerates!” GoofBoy asserted at dinner.

“A Jedi could just cut his head off. You can’t regenerate a head,” I retorted.

“Light sabers can’t cut adamantium and Wolverine has it through his whole body.”

“I don’t know where you get that, but even if it’s true, what if a Jedi used the Force to hold Wolverine upside-down in the air and held the light saber at his throat.”

“But it couldn’t cut adamantium!”

“The Jedi wouldn’t try to cut off Wolverine’s head. He would just poke the light saber into Wolverine’s trachea…”

“Enough,” Mama Goof intervened, “We are eating dinner.”

“Yeah, and anyway a Jedi wouldn’t do that, it is against their code.”

“Fine, a Sith Lord vs. Wolverine. Forget it, Voldemort vs. Wolverine.”

“Wolverine would tear him apart,” GoofBoy answered confidently.

“Voldemort would just do avada kedavra, you can’t regenerate against that! What is with you and Wolverine, anyway?”

“Fine! Incredible Hulk vs. Grawp?” GoofBoy posed.

“Good one,” I admitted. “I don’t know. They are both really big and strong. Both have serious self-control issues. A draw I guess. Hey, what about Neville Longbottom vs. Bart Simpson?”

“Bart Simpson in a second, Neville can’t cast a spell right. Bart would run circles around him on his skateboard. Neville would get dizzy and fall over.”

“Could we please talk about something interesting for girls!” GoofGirl demanded.

“OK,” GoofBoy was game, “There are lots of girl super-heroes. Wonder Woman vs. Mystique?”

My eyes grew wide and I gulped, “Everyone would win!”

“That’s ENOUGH!” Mama Goof exclaimed, rolling her eyes at me, “The women of the house would like to have a normal conversation.”

She gestured and GoofGirl had the floor.

GoofBoy and I turned to look at her and she began, “Ramona Quimby vs. Anne of Green Gables?”

“Fighting?” GoofBoy asked incredulously.

“No, who would out-talk the other?”

“Good one…” her brother nodded.

MamaGoof sadly put her head in her hands.

GoofBoy, Pining for Art

2011-07-28T22:15:00.000-04:00

The little Goofs are artists, they did not get this talent from me. They draw and love to "make stuff." GoofBoy insisted I take him to the art supply store to buy "gimp."

"So your sister will have something to do while she is home sick," I asked.

"She can use it too, but it is for me, I like making stuff."

This point was really driven home to me several years ago, one afternoon when I picked up GoofBoy from an after-school art-class at the JCC. Some local artists were displaying and selling their wares in one of the community rooms. GoofBoy insisted we go in and check it out. A five year old boy, who really wants to look at art - cool! Nothing could have been further from my mind when I was his age.

We chatted with the artists, who critiqued GoofBoy's work. Since I couldn't drag him out of there, I thought I'd get a little something for Mama Goof. I really have a very limited aesthetic sense, but I am pretty good at buying jewelry for my wife. (As it happens we attend shul with one of the artists and a week later Mama Goof went to synagogue wearing a necklace the artist had made - it looked great. I actually made two women happy that Shabbat!)

GoofBoy picked up a pin that he really liked.

"I want this!"

"Yeah, yeah. You don't need this. Come on," I began moving him towards the exit.

GoofBoy burst into tears. I've seen this temper tantrum before, but then he said something that surprised me.

"You always buy mommy beautiful things! Why can't I get beautiful things too?"

I turned this one over in my mind. My son was asking me to buy him art. This wasn't another cheap toy, this was different and really special. The price was modest, it wasn't made with precious stones or metals.

"Buddy, you are right. If I get if for you, can you share it with mommy?"

He nodded, tears flying off of his cheeks, and true to his word, he has shared it nicely.

Thomas the Tank Engine: Agent of Hegemony

2011-07-27T23:30:00.000-04:00

I enjoyed Jessica Roake’s recent piece in Slate that argued that beloved children’s show Thomas the Tank Engine not only espouses a conservative message, but even an imperialist one.

I am not going to defend Thomas as actually being democratic, or (like most of Slate’s commenters) argue that she he hasn’t carefully watched the show or applied critical theory correctly. No I will defend Thomas for being conservative and imperialist. Not conservative in any narrow political sense. Sir Topham Hat must believe in government interventionism so that his railway can maintain its monopoly over Sodor Island transit.

First, let me express my bias, I believe that educational television is an oxymoron and that television is the equivalent of junk food or ice cream. It may have some modest nutritional value, but that is beside the point. None of this is to say I am a puritan, I watch lots of TV – but I have no illusions that this is anything but relaxation and amusement.

For my children, the point of TV is not to educate them in any way. There may be studies indicating that educational shows help children to read, write, and do trigonometry. My wife and I have advanced degrees, I am not worried that the little Goofs will master reading and be reasonably functional adults (that move out of my house shortly after they enter their third decade!) The purpose of letting my kids watch TV is to buy me an hour or so of peace so I can make dinner, go to the bathroom in peace, or write a blog entry about their TV viewing habits. As long as what they are watching achieves that purpose and is not age-inappropriate (which eliminates most prime-time network programming) I don’t care what they watch.

(Digression: Back in the early 1980s when my parents first got cable, I remember Arthur (starring Dudley Moore being broadcast all the time. My then six-year old brother was watching afterschool when my mother walked in and asked him what was happening. He cheerfully responded, “Arthur is picking up a hooker.”

That was the end of cable in our house.)

That being said, I like Thomas the Tank Engine. Most children’s shows are insipid in their efforts to send messages of cooperation. Because conflict is so limited these programs struggle to show even a faint pulse of dramatic tension. The fact that in Thomas the trains pick on each other is in the show’s favor because in real life children are mean to each other. There is something at stake in Thomas the Tank Engine. True, the big reward is being “useful” and getting to make special cargo runs – but it is after all a show about anthropomorphized trains.

Roake’s big problem is that the trains are discouraged from showing any initiative or ambition and instead live for Sir Topham Hatt’s faint praise of being “useful.” Roake illustrates this with the episode “Hiro Helps Out:"

In an effort to assist Sir Topham Hatt, the "controller of the rails," who is oddly discombobulated, Hiro decides to give the other trains their orders himself. But initiative is not a virtue on the Island of Sodor, and stepping above one's station is a serious offense. When Sir Topham Hatt finds that Hiro has appointed himself middle-manager, he is furious ("I am controller of the railway!").

Hiro apologizes profusely, almost tearfully ("I thought I was master of the rails, but I am only master of the muddle"), but that is not enough…. He apologizes to each train for giving them instruction, saying "I was wrong. Sir Topham Hatt didn't want that at all." Once he has completed his shame tour… Hiro chugs back to Sir Topham Hatt's side, where the benevolent master tells him he is "helpful," which in turn makes Hiro "happier than he had ever been."

Squelching of initiative is one interpretation, but another interpretation is possible. Is Sir Topham Hatt's primary responsibility to make sure the engines are happy, or is it to (for lack of a better phrase) make the trains run on time? Hiro may have made matters worse and made Sir Topham Hatt’s difficult day even more difficult. Was Hiro taking charge, or being bossy?

Oddly, as I was writing this, this very scenario played itself out at Goof Manor. Home sick from camp, GoofGirl was amusing herself making things with “gimp.” However, she didn’t quite have the dexterity to manage, but she didn’t want to bother daddy (who was furiously blogging) so she did it herself and accidentally unwound a few dozen yards of the stuff. I am pleased she wanted to be a big girl and do things herself, but her efforts to do so end up costing Mama Goof and I a lot of energy (and really cut into my blogging time!)

Just as I am not worried that modest exposure to television will rot the little Goofs’ brains, I am also not worried that a few hours of Thomas the Tank Engine will so infiltrate my children’s being and worldview that they will be reduced to virtual invertebrates aspiring to be valets. And besides, wouldn’t it be nice if children actually were helpful and useful – maybe Thomas is on to something?

Thomas for our Time
In The River War, Winston Churchill (who knew a thing or two about British imperialism) wrote, “…every vigorous impulse that a community may feel, become[s] perverted and distorted as time passes… A wide humanitarian sympathy in a nation easily degenerates into hysteria. A military spirit tends towards brutality. Liberty leads to licence, restraint to tyranny.”

I mention this, because it appears that Thomas the Tank Engine, where the highest praise is to be “useful” celebrates duty and pride in doing it. This value can be over-emphasized of course. But in our time and place where children are raised to be creative and told they can be anything, Thomas could be a much-needed antidote to license. After all, not everyone will lead lives devoted to self-actualization. In the real world, most people work for inscrutable bosses who are not interested in their ideas and need them to shut up and do the work. Sometimes orders have to be obeyed and taking satisfaction from doing one’s duty is not the worst thing.

I could wax philosophic about the self, which seeks variety and enlargement vs. soul, which pursues consistency. But instead I will reveal my blatant self-interest here. Children raised to be creative and seek their place in the world may very well become self-actualized and wise. However, this quest may interfere with their moving out of my house because they are too busy producing documentary films, writing poetry, or playing

A Night with King Kong

2011-07-22T18:11:00.000-04:00

On a recent evening one of the cable channels broadcast the original King Kong. Mama Goof had fond memories of watching monster movies with her father and King Kong had been the first. She remembered it being awesome. So she and GoofGirl curled up to watch it together. This was the uncut version, where the gorilla-dinosaur combat was pretty harrowing. I was not 100% percent on Mama Goof’s judgment here. I still have nightmares about the flying monkeys from Wizard of Oz, and they weren’t the size of grain silos. But who am I say – I watch The Ten Commandments with the little Goofs, which is borderline child abuse.

Maybe Mama Goof was hoping to scare her a little and take her down a peg.

I wandered in and out (because I get scared) as they were watching and was pretty impressed. This was the first great monster movie and there were so many visual images and plot elements that were later adopted in its successors. And, in a post-9/11 world the final scenes take on a new resonance. Monsters did attack the tallest building in New York.

GoofGirl was completely underwhelmed. She thought King Kong “looked like play-doh.”

She was, however, pretty perturbed with Fay Wray’s “heroine.”

“Why does she just scream and fall-down? Why doesn’t she do anything?” Goof Girl demanded, “If that thing came after me, WA-POW!”

Mama Goof smiled and said to me, “A couple generations of feminism has had some effect.”

Of course GoofGirl isn’t completely fearless. While watching another show she saw a commercial for Rise of the Planet of the Apes. Her eyes got wide with concern and she asked, “Is that real?”

I guess it isn’t the size of the monkey, but the number of them – after all GoofGirl only has two fists.

And kissing, she runs out of the room whenever there is kissing. That’s okay with me.

Money Troubles

2011-07-18T23:43:00.000-04:00

GoofBoy is an awesome kid with endless virtues. But it does not appear that one of them is financial acumen. His only effort to make money was inspired when Carpool Buddy got into some sort of financial difficulty. This was a few years ago and I have no idea what kind of dire straits a seven year old could possibly have gotten into. But GoofBoy and Carpool Buddy’s discussions made it sound as though some fourth graders might break his kneecaps with whiffle ball bats

It speaks volumes about my son that he was really worried about Carpool Buddy’s precarious financial position. They discussed it endlessly in carpool, examining different options. Could Carpool Buddy assume a different identity until middle school? They discussed the mechanics of disguise – perhaps a fake moustache would allow him to slide through elementary school unnoticed?

GoofBoy didn’t discuss it directly with us, but he kept asking us if he could get an allowance and he had trouble sleeping. When we demanded an explanation, it all came out. Carpool Buddy owed someone big money. GoofBoy’s explanation was not completely clear, the “who, what, where, when, why & how” were vague. The nature of the debt may have been a lost library book, but it could have been a bad bet on the Vancouver Canucks, or he might have killed a guy and had to pay restitution. The amount involved was also unclear, but it appeared that it might have been the massive sum of $15. GoofBoy in fact had a $20 bill in his possession, but $15 required at least two separate bills (possibly three) and the acquisition of this many notes flummoxed him.

Finally, the consequences weren’t clear. Did this debt go on Carpool Buddy’s permanent record and mean that he might not be allowed to leave elementary school. Regardless, we tried to comfort GoofBoy and told him that Carpool Buddy had his own parents and that this was their problem. This only made things worse, since apparently Carpool Buddy didn’t want to tell his parents how much trouble he was in. I did not point out that there was no secret, since they had been discussing this predicament in carpool for weeks quite loudly (as though little boys can discuss things in any other way).

Somehow we calmed him down and sent him to bed and hoped that was the end of the matter. But a few days later the issue re-surfaced. GoofBoy and yet another of his friends were so concerned about Carpool Buddy’s fate that they went into business to raise money and bail him out. The problem was that their business model was poorly conceived. They were drawing hockey cards and planned to sell them from the front of our house. We live in the suburbs and our street doesn’t get a lot of foot traffic – and I did not want a pair of seven year olds flagging down cars. Also, while a fitting gesture for Carpool Buddy (who is Canadian) we aren’t a hockey heavy community.

I tried to point out these flaws, but they boys responded by pointing and waving every time someone walked down our street. I should have let them go ahead, since failure is the best teacher, but instead I ordered them inside.

Financial Genes or Genius
I’ve always felt that the ability to “get” money (not just acquire it, but understand how it works and how one gets a hold of a great deal of it) is genetic. At one point I thought it had to do with hard work, but my brother seems to get it and he is my match in sloth.

As a teenager, my brother had his allowance cut off for some infraction. As the weeks went by, he never asked to have it re-instated. But he always had money. Finally, my parents asked where his funds were coming from. He attended a Quaker Friends School where everyone participated in daily meetings. Non-denominational, these meetings were an opportunity to discuss moral and spiritual issues – which of course is exactly what teenagers love to do. So the sullen “friends” would sit in a circle and glare at each other. But someone had to talk, or the meeting wouldn’t end.

My brother was staying flush by running a ring betting on who would talk first. Clever. Cleverer was that he made certain arrangements so he had a pretty good idea of who would be speaking first. Most clever, was that he really made his money on the vig…

Based on his first foray into business, I am betting GoofBoy doesn’t have this aptitude. Fortunately he is cute, that’s almost as good.

The Jewish Question on Vacation

2011-07-08T09:57:00.000-04:00

I have tried to inform the little Goofs that Jews are a very small minority of the population, but going to Jewish day school they don't really get it. On our recent trip to the beach this contained some potential for awkwardness.

GoofGirl, who is heading into 2nd grade, made friends with a little girl next door who was heading into kindergarten. She asked GoofGirl about school and what she learned there and GoofGirl began by showing her the alphabet - the Hebrew alphabet. The little girl, who only had a modest hold on the English alphabet couldn't make sense of the "scribble-scrabble."

Time and age go hand in hand, I firmly believe we have attention spans equal in seconds to the years we have lived. (I also believe that "just a minute" equals one minute for every year we have lived.) So, GoofGirl's buddy, being a typical five-year old, had completely forgotten all about Hebrew and my daughter's explanations in about five seconds. Still, this needed to be addressed.

Direct exposure to anti-Semitism has not been a big part of my life, thankfully. Far more frequently I have encountered curiosity and even admiration (although a little time with me, and any admiration for reputed Jewish genius quickly fades). I am not worried that our vacation will devolve into a made-for-TV movie.

Also, I am rarely in a situation where people don't know that I am Jewish. I look it and sound it (although I don't dress it.) On a trip to Mexico I met one of my future wife's uncles who asked her if I was Jewish. Mexico has a tiny Jewish community and it is unlikely he would have any interaction with them. But I was Jewish, because the Walter Cronkite of Mexico is Jewish and I looked enough like him that it was obvious...

My big worry is that our neighbors could be evangelicals or worse, they could be very curious. Sometimes the devout feel an obligation to share their joy. I understand this, but I am pretty happy with my beliefs and am not in the market for a new set. The curious pose an even greater danger. I frequently meet people for whom Judaism is a fascinating and exotic thing that they wish to learn more about. Understandable and, when I can, I have done my best to inform. But I'm on vacation and don't particularly want to run a comparative religions seminar.

So, we sit the children down and explain to them that one does not just talk about their religion first thing when you meet someone new. Also, many of the people in condo complex where we were staying may be from towns where there aren't any Jews. That doesn't mean they don't like Jews, but they may not know much about them and will have lots of questions. If asked, be honest, there is nothing to hide, but for most people religion is a personal matter and doesn't need to be discussed.

The kids got it, especially when we made it clear that they weren't in trouble.

GoofBoy went off and caught crabs (that line doesn't read well, he is only 10.) GoofBoy went crabbing with the neighbors, but most of this was for sport so that people caught the crabs and released them. Also, lots of people just don't eat crabs so GoofBoy's catching them for fun was understandable. GoofBoy and a pair of step-brothers chased each other around with toy guns. The complex dumpster made a terrific hideout, but condo management declared it off limits.

GoofGirl could not help but loudly express that we don't eat crabs or bacon when discussions of food came up. One of the brothers wanted to know why and GoofGirl - entrapped like the crabs - hedged, "We just don't."

"Are you vegetarian?"

"No."

"So why don't you eat bacon?"

I was close by so I came along and told him that we were Jewish, the problem was off GoofGirl's shoulders. The boy replied, "I'm Catholic, and that's the best."

"Oh."

"We can eat bacon and we celebrate birthdays!"

"I can see that being pretty important," I answered noncommittally.

"Sure, cause I used to be a Witness. They don't do birthdays. But my grandma still sends me money on birthday anyway."

Some crabs had come up from the depths and the boy went off to check on them. GoofGirl looked at me and said, "What kind of religion doesn't have birthdays. That's ridiculous!"

"You can think that sweetheart. But you need to learn to keep it to yourself."

The Canadian Way on Canada Day

2011-07-01T17:27:00.000-04:00

Canada Day is a special day at GoofManor, the Carpool Clan are Canadians (their father is at least) so the Goofs have learned a lot about our neighbors in the Great White North.

Learn is a strong word, most of what they know are lies I have told them.

I told the little Goofs that Canada is America’s most devious enemy and they should watch carefully when they are at the Carpool Clan house (igloo?) in case they observe anything of national security interest.

I also told the little Goofs that Canadians have maple syrup in their veins. This led to some embarrassing biting incidents (not by the little Goofs who know better then to bite or listen to their father.) Naturally all of my lessons about Canadian history, politics, and anthropology are quickly shared with the Carpool Clan 4 (Carpool Buddy, Carpool Gal, 3C, and their youngest – we’ll call him CD for Carpool Destroyer). CD bit Carpool Gal, when their mom asked why he responded, “He told me that their blood was maple syrup and I was hungry.”

(Carpool Mom was not amused, she spends the first 20 minutes of every evening undoing the damage I have done to her children. Maybe I am really the Carpool Destroyer.)

I had a particularly proud moment when, discussing some complicated afterschool transit arrangement with our kids, Carpool Clan, and not enough car seats GoofGirl proposed eating one of Carpool Clan because, “It’s the Canadian way.”

Still, in the endless North-South conflict, I fear I am losing the cultural battle, my son is showing an inordinate interest in hockey. GoofGirl will really like hockey, it combines two of her favorite things, ice-skating and hitting people with sticks.

Go Canada!

Boardwalk Lessons: Con to Casino

2011-06-30T10:20:00.000-04:00

I remember going to Ocean City as a kid and playing the arcade and carnival games. I don’t remember doing it much - not because I’ve forgotten, but because I was so very bad that I got discouraged. The stuffed animals and toys offered as prizes were far beyond my reach and I got no pleasure from trying. But even my best friend growing up, who was a terrific natural athlete, never won. That was the point of these games, they taught valuable life lessons about disappointment and not being gullible. This toughened up most kids, made them streetwise, teaching them that sure bets are always bad bets.

It made me withdrawn and sullen (not a long journey by any means.)

Now, decades later I take my kids to the amusement parks and arcades of Ocean City and things are different. At a game at Jolly Roger Amusement Park my daughter misses all three shots and gets a small stuffed animal just for playing. My son makes one of three baskets and wins her the larger stuffed animal she really wanted. (She is obsessed with stuffed animals and could fill Noah’s Ark with her cloth menagerie, and yet she always wants more.)

At the arcade, the little Goofs play games, win tickets and cash those tickets in for prizes. They will leave with enormous amounts of swag. I cannot help but think that this is yet another manifestation of Chinese influence. As I’ve noted before, Panda Claus has made toys unbelievably cheap so that a business model of giving away toys to keep the marks playing works better then the old cons.

(This picture comes from another good Daddy Blog, A Family Runs Through It.)

The new model is no longer that of the con, but rather that of the casino. As you play, you win enough to keep playing and there is the chance of a big payoff, but – as I kept telling the kids – the house always wins. In fact, there were actually slot machines in which you pump in quarters and receive tickets to be redeemed for toys. No matter what you spin, you will win at least one ticket and possibly dozens. I forbid the kids to play this as a matter of principle.

I still wonder if the cheap toys are part of a devious Oriental plot to decimate American values and weaken us psychologically. Instead of learning about craft and guile, players learn to mindlessly pump money in – always believing that there will be a big payoff – they are awarded just for playing. This contradicts the primary tenet of parental wisdom/clichés: the world doesn’t owe you a living.

When it was over the kids were still disappointed, but it was a different quality of disappointment from what I remember. They had won hundreds of tickets, but not enough for what they really wanted, so they sulked and whined. Tired and hungry, I withdrew from the discussion and let MamaGoof negotiate it (I wanted to rip up all the tickets as an object lesson.) I kept telling them this just proves, “The house always wins.”

“Stop saying that Dad! What does that even mean!” they shrieked.

I amused myself by calculating whether or not this was true. There were some electronics prizes that went for over 10,000 tickets. So I gamed it out: an excellent skeeball player would probably average about 10 tickets a game and each game costs a quarter. Ten thousand tickets would cost $250, and 1000 games of skeeball. Conceivably one could play that many games of skeeball over the summer so, for an iPod touch, that just about works out. Of curse playing 1000 games of skeeball would take (at 2 minutes a game) over 30 hours (which at minimum wage is worth another $225 – balanced by the joy of playing hours of skeeball.) Add in the hours of practice needed to obtain this level of proficiency and, well, the house always wins.

Once More Unto the Beach Goof Friends...

2011-06-22T13:08:00.001-04:00

2010 was a lousy year at GoofManor (I'll write about it some other time - it will require numerous entries.) The truth is, the little Goofs have not really gone on vacation.

Momma & Poppa Goof have had numerous opportunities to go away sans kinder thanks to the good offices of the much maligned Bubbe Goof. But except for family trips to LA to visit los abuelos they have not really had a vacation. With all this in mind, when an inexpensive condo on Ocean City (downee oshun in Bawlamorese - let's see if I can fit in any more languages into this paragraph) we "jumped in it."

Part of the fun was not telling the kids. I wanted to just pile them into the car Sunday afternoon and start driving - and simply not responding to questions about "where we were going?" (I've done this kind of thing before.)

Momma Goof brilliantly concealed her travel preparations (amateurs talk strategy, professionals talk logistics - Momma Goof is a pro who would be at least a brigadier in any army) under the guise of getting stuff in order for a planned trip to LA later this summer. But, by Sunday morning the secret was becoming problematic, so just a few hours before leaving we spilled the beans. The kids squealed. They deserve this.

On the drive down, GoofGirl was a marvelous stereotype, constantly asking, "When are we going to get there?" She hasn't been on many long drives, we don't have a DVD player in the car, and she isn't quite a reader yet.

Our first day, it was raining, but that was ok. The kids watched TV - Cartoon Network's MadTV is really, really funny! I remain jealous of the quality comedy TV kids these days watch. Momma Goof and I sat on the porch sipping coffee.

The weather was still gray when we went out, for lunch, mini-golf, and shopping. The mini-golf was Viking themed and attempted to educate the players about Norse mythology (it was just over the border in Delaware, a weird little state!) We learned about Heimdall, a Norse here who had nine giantess mothers. The Jungian in me finds this fascinating, but the kids felt pretty sorry for him - one mother is enough for anyone.

Then it cleared and well, we went to the beach. I went for a run on the beach. The kids splashed and built sandcastles.

When we got back from the beach, I took GoofGirl on a little walk to watch the sun set over the Chesapeake Bay. Dinner was the inevitable pizza, the kids went to bed and MamaGoof and I had margaritas.

The next day was more of the same, with an added bonus that GoofBoy made friends with the neighbors who shared their fishing rods. Their own grandkids haven't got the attention span for fishing, but GoofBoy loves it.

I want there to be more jokes or a story. The jokes about our vacation are just to the right on my Twitter feed (@father goof). But I can't impose a narrative here. We are taking this week, making no plans beyond whether to swim in the ocean or the pool, and not doing much of anything. We are on vacation, we need it bad.

Physics of Fatherhood & Ghosts of Daddy's Day Past

2011-06-20T00:07:00.000-04:00

A good friend, and fine mommy/Army wife-blogger recently queried how people handled their always playing two-year old (and really is there any other kind?)

I dashed off my suggestions (play-dates, play-dates, play-dates)... let a couple kids wear each other out and earn cred with another parent. Also, use the TV. I personally think that TV is the equivalent of junk food, but occasional ice cream won't kill you and if it helps you get through the day... Don't have any illusions that anything on TV makes a kid smarter - it doesn't, but if it buys a parent some quiet time, well - sanity is important too.

My post was followed by about a hundred of her fellow moms with various, wise suggestions. But my friend noted that there was something funny in the fact that I was the first to respond to a post that began "Okay Mommies."

It is Father's Day and I am going to give myself some credit, I'm not bad at this. I am not Mr. Mom and I am not a house-husband. I am an abysmally bad cook (although I can crank out a grilled cheese sandwich or omelet when need be) and MamaGoof simply does not trust me to do laundry (I'm not good with machines.) I also can't fix stuff, while MamaGoof can. But I know a few things about kids.

My parenting philosophy (since you asked) is simple. It is the Conservation of Energy. Children have enormous amounts of it - we don't. We need to design activities that wear them down, without wearing us down. On that theme, when my son was little I would take him to the playground and referee "World Sliding Championships." I would pretend to be the announcer the my son and any other kid who was willing raced up and down the slides. They had to do it quick. They tied a lot, which meant they had to go again. Keeping up a patter took some energy, but not as much as climbing up and down took for them.

I don't like stuff where we build things together because until they are old enough to help they just wander around offering to help. Think of your brain like your computer. The more programs that are open the less computing power is available. Same with parenting - your kid talking at you eats up bandwidth - you've got to pay attention because if you just grunt affirmatively they will eventually catch on and ask for something they know they shouldn't have and you'll agree without realizing what you are doing. You can agree or disagree at random to reduce the likelihood of this happening, but that could really mess them up. The point here is if you are trying to concentrate on building something having a kid wandering around making random statements (a redundancy) will only tire you out.

Ghosts of Fathers Days Past
Another treat I am going to give myself is to just link to some old stuff. This is a letter of advice I wrote to my brother when he became a dad, I honestly think it is one of the best things I've written. I'm not sure the advice is any good - but it is honest.

Here are all of my posts from past Fathers Days, I would like to think they show my growth as a person and a parent - but I doubt it.

Reading Worries

2011-06-15T23:10:00.002-04:00

As first grade comes to a close, GoofGirl is still struggling with her reading.

As I've written before I'm not worried at all. Reading is a complex skill that different minds are ready to take on at different times and this does not reflect intelligence or ability.

Naturally, she doesn't believe me.

In tears she told me, "Gertrude told me that if I don't learn to read soon, I might have to repeat 2nd grade!"

"Is Gertrude a teacher?"

"No, she is in my class. She's my friend, remember she came over?"

"So is that how things work at your school? There are the teachers who listen to the coordinators, then the grade coordinators listen to the principal, and the principal listens to Gertrude - a first-grader?"

"No, but..."

"Sweetheart, if you were having a problem your teachers would tell me and I would get you help. They think you are fine. The brain is like a muscle and it is getting stronger. I still think it is funny that while you are frustrated with reading, you are a terrific writer!"

She really is. She has been writing to-do lists (inspired by Sponge Bob Squarepants).

She also writes us notes - giving us our marching orders.

Generation Gap & Super-Heroes

2011-06-07T18:16:00.001-04:00

“Dad,” GoofBoy asked, “Who is your favorite super-hero?”

Without hesitation I answered, “Wonder Woman.”

“Really, if you could be any super-hero, you’d be Wonder Woman?” he asked, surprised.

“I didn’t say I wanted to be her – I said she was my favorite.”

“Why? Her powers aren’t that cool – not like Green Lantern or the Flash.”

“Yes, but she is the super-hero I would most want to have rescue me!”

“Really, you’d want to be saved by a girl?”

“Buddy, I would set a building on fire to have Wonder Woman carry me out!”

He walked away shaking his head, muttering to himself, “Grown-ups!”

He didn’t grow up with Linda Carter as Wonder Woman.

In a thousand ways, GoofBoy has things better. Video games and cartoons made now are so much better then what I grew up with (plus he can still see the best of my era on Cartoon Network or online. He laughs when I tell him about the incredibly bad stuff I used to watch on TV like H.R. Pufnstuf (which always creeped me out) and the other strange emanations from the minds of Sid and Marty Kroft.

Wii and DS vs. Atari is a no-brainer, (although it is satisfying to break out the old Atari system and whip him at “Combat” and “Missile Command.”) But there are a few things my generation had – particularly an awesome Wonder Woman.

GoofBoy, Someone's Got Your Back!

2011-06-02T22:36:00.000-04:00

“Dad, can I speak to you privately,” GoofBoy asked when we got home from school.

“Sure buddy,” I think to myself, he’s only 10, how bad can this be?

In his room he begins telling me about his rough day, “This kid Irving wanted to be rolled up in the carpet in the classroom and he was asking Sheldon and I to do it. I knew it was a bad idea, but he started rolling himself up and Sheldon helped. I started to unroll him when the teacher saw. He took me out of the class and began talking to me. Other people in the class told him I wasn’t doing anything wrong. But he told me this was a warning and if I did anything else he would call my parents or send them an email.”

What is going on in this class that kids are making taco carpets with themselves. Don’t they have math problems they should be doing? GoofBoy is pretty upset, let’s make sure that he knows there is nothing to worry about.

“Buddy, I believe you and I am proud of you for coming to me on your own. Think about it, your teacher said he wasn’t going to call me yet – so you didn’t have to say anything.”

Whoops, probably shouldn’t have told him that.

“I mean, you haven’t had any behavior problems this year so if your teacher did call I would tell him I accept your version of the events and it was no big deal. But he isn’t going to call and even if you were in the wrong, it was one little mistake when you’ve been really good all year.”

Better.

“But buddy, one piece of advice. Stay away from Irving and Sheldon. I know you were trying to help, but unless they are really going to get hurt – if you know something dumb is going down, just walk away.”

“OK Dad,” GoofBoy smiles, “Maybe they’ll make a note of this in the archives – it will be on my permanent record.”

I love that, he respects propriety but is not in awe of authority.

“Hey, Dad, I’ll bet this conversation wasn’t really private. I bet my sister was listening at the door!”

“If she is,” as it happens she wasn’t, “you know your sister. It wasn’t because she was spying – it was because she was worried about you. Can you imagine what she would have done?”

“Yeah, if she saw the teacher yell at me unfairly, she’d scream, ‘I’m getting my lawyer!’ and she would call pop. She and pop would show up at school in black suits with big briefcases,” as he says this he struts like a confident lawyer heading to court and begins humming the theme to Law & Order.

“Dum, dum!” we sing together, laughing.

“My sister is tough,” GoofBoy continues, “You know at camp she belted a kid?”

“What! Sweetheart, get up here!” I yell. GoofGirl joins us.

“Remember when you hit that kid at camp?” GoofBoy asks.

“Sure. It was like this,” GoofGirl takes charge now, directing her brother, “First you stand here and be you, then stand over there and be the kid I slugged.”

GoofBoy as himself: My sister is pretty strong.

GoofBoy shifts over three feet to take the role of punching bag: She’s just a little kid. She can’t be strong.

GoofGirl strides up and phantom punches her brother in the stomach. GoofBoy doubles over and says: Hoookay!

End scene

Goofs Go to Ft. McHenry

2011-05-31T22:01:00.000-04:00

Fort McHenry in Baltimore, birthplace of our national anthem, is a great place to take the kids on Memorial Day. A few years ago I took GoofBoy and we had a blast. He climbed over the walls and the cannons, we went into every nook and cranny of the fort together. Because it was Memorial Day, there were brief ceremonies and volunteers in period costume answering questions.

Best of all, when we got home he re-created the Battle of Baltimore with Legos. He gave me a tour. There was Ft. McHenry (it is very hard to build a star fort with Lego bricks) and nearby was a squadron of British ships. Then he proudly pointed to a ship that was separate from the others with a little Lego person on it.

"Daddy, that's the truce ship and that's Francis Scott Key watching the battle."

Wow, he paid attention. Key, a DC lawyer, was on a truce ship negotiating with the British for the release of American prisoners during the battle. It was from truce ship that he watched the Battle of Baltimore, saw the flag still waving, and was inspired to write the Star-Spangled Banner.

This year, I took GoofGirl. She had been asking to go and was very excited to "climb on the cannons."

It was astoundingly hot (Ft. McHenry was originally swampland.) But our first discovery was the bomb shelter, which is underground and pleasantly cool. We watched the bagpipers and observed the National Moment of Silence. We wandered in and out of the buildings of the fort. I wanted to stay and read every plaque and exhibit but GoofGirl urged me on. Still, she asked some questions of and of the costumed docents about life at the fort. She was particularly interested in the description of the green slime on the walls of the fort's prison.

Unfortunately, there were big signs saying "Do not climb on the cannons." So we looked (and touched) but that was it.

GoofGirl was disappointed, for her this was the whole point of the trip. But she didn't complain. Still, I felt as though this trip had not been the rousing success that the GoofBoy expedition several years earlier had been. Maybe forts are kind of a boy thing. When I asked what her favorite part of the day was, she told me it was swimming in the pool at her grandparents later on. Fair enough. Maybe I should have bought her something at the gift shop...

But, when she came home from school today, she announced, "I wrote four pages in my journal about Fort McHenry. Can I read them to you?"

"Of course!"

And she did. She recounted the trip in great detail: particularly how kids are free, how during the Battle of Baltimore people sat up on their roofs to watch the fighting, and how "a lawyer on a truce ship" saw the American flag still flying despite all the British bombs and was inspired to write our national anthem.

Mission accomplished.

Poop on a Stick

2011-05-27T10:20:00.000-04:00

GoofBoy has been sluggish at getting up in the morning recently. But no longer, he wakes up bright and early to play with his new DS. This morning Mama Goof asked me, “How did kids survive before electronics?”

I guess she has forgotten her own childhood, which featured holding a tape recorder up to the TV to record favorite shows. Our generation had electronics; they just were just really pathetic.

“Hoop and a stick,” I answered referring to our running joke about my mom’s favorite toy. I frequently regale the little Goofs with tales of how their grandmother is familiar with ancient history. When the children ask a question about 19th century President Chester Allen Arthur (it happens) I tell them, “Bubbe remembers him, you should ask her she can tell you stories. His train passed through her town once.”

The little Goofs are shocked to hear that Bubbe didn’t have a TV, when they ask me what she did for fun, I tell them she used to play with a hoop and a stick.*

MamaGoof burst into laughter, “Poop on a stick? Who would play with that?”

“You don’t know much about boys do you?” I continued in a little boy voice, “‘Yea, there’s some poop! Let’s poke it with a stick!’ Anyway I said hoop and a stick.”

GoofBoy rushed into the kitchen, DS earbuds still implanted, asking excitedly “Is there poop in the yard? Can we go out and poke it with a stick?”

“He heard that okay,” Mama Goof noted sardonically.

“Boys, that’s how they roll.”

*When the children asked their grandmother about not having a TV growing up she told them they didn’t have a TV because my mom and her sister used to fight over which shows to watch, so her dad got rid of the TV. This perplexes the little Goofs even more, “Why didn’t she just go upstairs and watch there?”

The idea that a house might have but a single electronic screen is simply beyond their comprehension.

GoofGirl considers Gossip

2011-05-20T18:07:00.000-04:00

GoofGirl reported an interesting exercise at school:

"The guidance counselor came to our class. She had each of us take a little tube of toothpaste and squeeze it out on a plate. Then she told us to put the toothpaste back into the tube.

While we were doing this she told us a story about a man who said all kinds of bad things about the rabbi. When he went to the rabbi to apologize he asked the rabbi what he could do to make it up to him. The rabbi told him to take a feather pillow and rip it open and let the feathers fly all over. So the man did, and then he went back to the rabbi. The rabbi told him to collect all of the feathers that had blown all over. The man said he could never do that and the rabbi told him that was the lesson."

"So what did you learn from that story?" I asked.

GoofGirl grinned, "While she was talking, I got half the toothpaste back in the tube."

Gift Advice from GoofGirl

2011-05-13T15:46:00.000-04:00

MamaGoof’s birthday is pretty close to Mother’s Day. So MamaGoof is forgiving if I miss one, but I need to make it up on the other. Fortunately I have help, sort of…

Last year, some of the kids in carpool had just learned about calendars and we discussed the date. This was a pretty hot topic for a while. On MamaGoof’s birthday, when CarpoolBuddy announced the date, GoofBoy said hey, “That’s mommy’s birthday.”

GoofGirl chimed in, “Daddy, you know mommy’s pajamas are practically falling apart. You should buy her some new ones!”

So I did! Nice win, especially since I was completely out of ideas. Now I always consult with GooGirl about presents.

On a recent gift-buying occasion I even took her to the jewelry store with me. She was very diligent, checking to make sure the craftsmanship was sturdy and modeling it carefully trying to envision how it would look on her mom. We ended up picking a bracelet (I’ve already bought Mama Goof far more earrings then she has ears so I thought I should get out of my comfort zone and adorn some other aspect of her anatomy.)

I was impressed and grateful for the help.

Days later when we presented the gifts, GoofGirl announced, “Oooh, pretty! Mommy it looks so good on you! Can I try it on?

She did, modeled it, and said, “Mommy, it looks good on me too. Can I borrow it?”

She thinks several moves ahead and I now see that free advice can be the most expensive kind, but so far it has been worth it.

Father Goof's Pesach Hit Parade

2011-04-17T20:15:00.000-04:00

Pesach is a big Jewish holiday, the favorite and probably the best known. It is loaded with tradition, has a great story, lots of songs, and – of course – food. Father Goof has written many times about the Goof family traditions, so here is compilation from Pesach pasts.

One of our traditions is watching the Cecil B. DeMille class, The Ten Commandments. My social worker mom (Bubbe Goof) says subjecting children to this is overwrought and overly long film is a form of child abuse. But the little Goofs insist.

For Jews of Eastern European descent, Yiddish – the funniest language ever and a consolation prize for living in Russia surrounded by Russians – has a certain romance to it. The Goofs do their bit keeping the language going with a traditional Pesach song, but in Yiddish, not Hebrew.

Pesach is a wonderful holiday, but one of its central elements is its special dietary requirement of no leavened bread and nothing made with a leavening agent (and a whole bunch of other things like peas and peanuts.) Lots of foods are specially made for Pesach – for example soda, which is often made with corn syrup (which is out), is specially made over Pesach with sugar. It is actually a real treat. But this means no beer and most liquor is out (although wine is no problem.) Still, man doth not live by wine alone – sometimes alternatives are needed. Most kosher for Pesach liquor is slightly more palatable then rubbing alcohol. But Father Goof found an alternative.

Finally, at the end of the Seder we sing “Next Year in Jerusalem.” So I tried to start a little tradition. Judaism’s holiest site, the Wailing Wall is in Hebrew called the Kotel. So, as I sing I bring out a wall mode out of boxes of Kosher for Pesach jello.

Maybe you have to be there...

Asserting Appeasement

2011-04-13T23:17:00.000-04:00

GoofBoy attends Jewish Day School where he learns (as Jews have learned for thousands of years) not only the Holy Scripture, but also the extensive commentary on this scripture. Part of his assignment is to then teach it to me. Recently we had a heated discussion about the actions of the Biblical Jacob. The question was whether Yaakov acted correctly in trying to mollify Esau or should have been more confrontational - and which path is wiser in life generally.

GoofBoy felt being agreeable was better then fighting because Jews have been so vulnerable they had to save themselves anyway they could.

I disagreed, saying that sometimes you must stand up for what you believe. I mentioned Modechai and Haman from the recent holiday of Purim. Mordechai refused to bow down before Haman, saying that Jews did not bow down before anyone but G-d. Haman, the vizier, went to the King and told him about the Jews who wouldn’t bow down to anyone and got authorization to have them all killed. (Welcome to the wonderful world of Jewish history!)

GoofBoy said maybe if Mordechai had just bowed down we wouldn’t have had any trouble. I told him that Haman was obviously such a bad guy (mass murder is pretty bad stuff), that sooner or later you would have had to stand up to him so better sooner then later. Besides, what kind of man would Mordechai have been if he just bowed down?

We kept arguing, citing various examples of both conciliation and assertion.

After forty minutes, he said, “I’m not giving in dad. I’ll argue this all night!”

I gave in, quite satisfied that he had unwittingly proven my point.

My little shtarker!

The Perfect Gift for a Father and a Daughter

2011-04-12T21:24:00.000-04:00

Recently, GoofGirl actually allowed me to stay and watch her in gymnastics class. This was unprecedented, previously as soon as she was changed she started yelling, "Go away daddy! Go get coffee or beer or something!" And I did.

I wondered what brought on this change, growing self-confidence perhaps or just general maturity?
Of course, knowing my daughter the real question is, "What does she want?"

A friend suggested that it was obvious, she wanted a pony. But I know that's not it, she's already got one.

Several years ago my wife asked me what I wanted for Father's Day. I told her I wanted a Daddle. A central responsibility of being dad is horsey-back rides. My son was never interested, but my daughter went for them from the beginning (I've also got my niece into horsey-back rides and she pesters her dad - one more bit of torture I've inflicted on my younger brother.)

The discussion occurred in the dark in bed, but I could hear her eyes roll back into her head. I was not going to get my Daddle.

Now, at least five years later I still give GoofGirl horsey-back rides. She hits me in the tuchus with a wooden spoon, yelling, "Mush, mush!"

She also stands on my back as I crawl around the room, like a circus act. She makes me gallop and jump (this is very hard for crawling bipeds.) So I'm not as good at jumping or galloping as a real horse, but I go up stairs. Even Mr. Ed couldn't do that.

But it was all worth it the other day when my wife said, "If I had known you would still be letting her ride around on your back, I would have gotten you the Daddle."

Which means I was right! This one time, I was right! (It doesn't happen often.)

Of course I still don't know what GoofGirl wants...

Hoof it to Ft. Foote

2011-04-08T18:13:00.002-04:00

Today The Washington Post’s Weekend Section featured A Tour of Civil War Washington. Great stuff, including Lincoln’s Summer home and a fort (now surrounded by apartments) which was the site of the Civil War’s only battle within DC, but Father Goof would like to add a stop.

A few winters ago I needed to take the kids somewhere. A few months before I had taken GoofBoy to Ft. McHenry and GoofGirl wanted to see a fort too. She particularly wanted to see the “cannon-shooters.” I was willing to drive, since we were listening to one of the Harry Potter Books. So I thought I would take them down to Ft. Washington, an enormous fortification on the Potomac that guarded the nation’s capitol. However, I couldn’t find it – I have an extraordinarily bad sense of direction.

But I kept passing signs for Fort Foote. (I’d never heard of it) but finally I gave up on Fort Washington and went to Fort Foote. There was just a dirt parking lot and some woods. We walked around a bit and didn’t see much of anything (although the kids were pretty excited about brightly colored pebble they found – probably from an aquarium).

Then we found a path into the woods. There were some odd little hills. Then we found historic markers that explained that Ft. Foote was an earthwork so there were no massive stonewalls, just big piles of dirt. We started wandering around. We found some ruins of barracks, cannons, and spectacular views of the Potomac River.

I love our National Parks and will go on Ranger walk after Ranger walk (I’m the guy asking annoying questions!) As a visit to the website shows, this is not one of the gems of the system - no events, no talks, not reconstructions, not much of anything. But that made it awesome! I let GoofBoy take the lead, GoofGirl followed him and I took the rear (in case there were any Confederates infiltrating.) When we came to a creaking bridge – there was no one around to tell us not to climb on it.
We just run around, exploring and climbing onto and into.

Gettysburg it ain’t, but the site’s lack of importance and development of the site gave it its charm and made for a great day of exploration and adventure.

Skin Diseases of Antiquity

2011-04-04T23:35:00.000-04:00

Every week Jews around the world read from the Torah, better known to many as the Pentateuch. At the age of 13 Jews stand before their congregation read a portion of the Torah and give a little lesson about it. The lesson usually is part interpretation and part about how this portion will inspire them to further their Jewish study and commitment. Then they never come to synagogue again (just kidding, sort of…)

Different cultures have different rituals for bringing young people into adulthood. In many societies young men have to hunt or fight or something else physical. For Jews, we have to prove that we can read, do so in public, and show that we understood what we were reading. It is an open question which path is more frightening. I wouldn’t want to face a dangerous animal in combat, but trust me you don’t want to read and speak in front of my great uncle Moishe. As a mechanism for cultural survival, public reading would seem to be at a disadvantage to hunting. But Jews are still around and you don’t run into many Hittites or Assyrians these days (has Ninevah risen?)

Some Torah portions are pretty good and easy to talk about, like the parting of the Red Sea, Cain and Abel, or anything with Jacob! Others can be a little tough, like the extensive instruction about how to construct the Tabernacle (which doesn’t seem to have a lot of contemporary relevance since we don’t wonder around the desert anymore.) Sometimes our G-d is a harsh judge and sometimes our G-d is an extremely demanding interior decorator.

My own portion, about a century ago was the story of Balaam, which was kind of awesome since it features a talking donkey. There is another word for donkey and I made sure I used it before the congregation while giving my lesson.

This past Shabbat we read the portion Tazria. It is about leprosy and skin disease. It gets quite specific, describing different kinds of rashes, eruptions etc. Depending on the color, sometimes a priest needs to be called. Not the easiest stuff to discuss, especially in front of your aunts, uncles, and grandparents. But that is not the end of it. Classical interpretations of this portion conclude that it was not the disease leprosy, but a dermatological outbreak brought on by impure thoughts.

A skin condition brought on by impure thoughts, just the kind of lesson a teenager needs.

I think GoofGirl might get this portion – by then I’ll want something that gives her some second thoughts.

Boredom Emergency

2011-03-30T22:54:00.001-04:00

Driving home with GoofBoy, he asked for my iPad to play with while we drove. The drive was going to last less then five minutes and I couldn’t reach it easily so I said no.

“Child abuse!” he shouted. “I’m calling bubbe!”

My mom was a social worker who served children in foster care. (Bubbe is the Yiddish word for grandmother and implies an old woman with a shawl over her head. I pressed for the kids to call my parents bubbe and its masculine equivalent, zayde. The former took, my father fought off the latter. My youthful and professional mother hates this.)

“You want to tell her,” I asked.

“Yeah, so she can report you.”

I passed my phone back to him and he called her.

“Bubbe it’s your grandson. I want to report a child abuse incident!”

“Really,” my mom answered (it was on speakerphone), “What happened?”

“Your son," he began, "Won’t let me play on his iPad while we drive and I’m getting bored,” he explained.

“Is it child abuse?” I asked hopefully, “Will you have him taken away?”

“I’m afraid not,” my mom replied, “and while it is nice chatting, I was just out the door. Sorry kid, but being bored isn't child abuse, it's part of life.”

“Darn,” I said, “I’m sure a few weeks away from my precious son would help me reconsider my miscreant ways.”

“It’s ok bubbe I’ve got his phone now. It has games too.”

Coconut Fears

2011-03-23T00:29:00.000-04:00

On one of our regular trips to LA, I noticed GoofBoy looking warily at the ubiquitous palm trees. His efforts to give them a wide birth made orderly family locomotion impossible.

"Buddy, what's going on, why are you walking so weird?"

"Dad, aren't you worried about the coconuts," he answered, glancing nervously upwards.

"What?"

"Remember what we heard on the radio?"

Months earlier, while driving to school, some DJ mentioned that every year coconuts kill more people then sharks. GoofBoy can't remember his chores, his homework, or the names of his friends, but this factoid stayed with him. As he mentioned it, I remembered joking about it: "Oh-oh, watch out for the coconuts."

When he and carpool buddy get out of hand I threaten to bang their heads together like a pair of coconuts.

GoofBoy hadn't gotten the joke, and instead had mulled over the danger for months - and completely inaccurately.

"Buddy, do you think coconuts kill people by falling on them?"

"Uh-huh," he said nervously.

"Buddy, the people who die from coconuts die because they are allergic to coconut and they eat something with coconuts in it. Also, those aren't coconut trees, they are palm trees. So you have nothing to worry about. You don't have to worry about walking under them."

"Wow, so coconuts are a sneaky double-threat?"

"Buddy, didn't you hear what I said. There are no coconut trees in Los Angeles. Nothing to worry about," I said exasperated.

He didn't mention it again, but I did notice furtive glances upward throughout the trip.

I let it slide. I remember misinterpreting parental instructions. My mom told me not to run in front of cars. I interpreted that as meaning that cars, like dogs, could smell fear and that if I was going out into the street I should walk slowly and confidently. Fortunately we lived on a quiet street.

Still, I didn't tell GoofBoy that in Miami (where MamaGoof and I are enjoying a little getaway) coconut trees are common. I wouldn't want him to worry.

Our Purim Shpiel

2011-03-17T21:24:00.000-04:00

The phone ringing while I am preparing breakfast for the little Goofs is rarely a good thing. This morning it was Carpool Clan's mom.

"This is a strange request," never a good beginning - put it probably doesn't mean she will ask me drive carpool - which means I don't have to put on pants soon.

"Do you have a set of handcuffs?" she continues.

"Ah..." Two thoughts go through my mind here, first do you really want to borrow handcuffs from someone who owns handcuffs? Second, which Carpool Kid had driven her over the edge and needs to be taken into custody. My interest here is not strictly academic, there is a betting pool on this (I've got 300 quatloos on the new guy).

"The little one needs it for his Purim costume," she continued, aware of how such a request must sound without context.

Purim is the Jewish Halloween/Mardi Gras: up is down, right is wrong, and a people characterized by a low tolerance to alcohol tries to keep up with their Eastern European neighbors. It is wacky day for a wacky people.

It can also be a hassle, particularly the costumes. Interestingly, GoofGirl hasn't been a problem. Last year we went to the party store without any ideas. She picked out a tail and some cat ears and announced she was going as a cat. Couldn't have been easier!

GoofBoy on the other hand yelled out, "Daddy, can I make a costume with this pimp stick?"

"No!"

"Why not? It looks cool." It said "pimpstick" right on the package. No good would come from any aspect of continuing this conversation. There was nothing about this that I wanted to explain, so I pulled rank and threatened major sanctions if he didn't just drop it. This time he obeyed.

Instead he found a Mohawk wig and a costume gold chain and said, "Can I go as Mr. T?"

"How do you know who Mr. T is?"

"World of WarCraft commercials."

Now I have another conundrum. Mr. T is African-American, is it OK for my son to dress up as an African-American? He won't be wearing black-face or anything truly offensive. Barack Obama is president, we live in post-racial America. The guy who does Obama impressions on SNL isn't African-American. Besides, Mr. T is a public figure. And I pretended to be my hero Eddie Murray when I was a kid playing modified baseball in the parking lot at the abandoned glass factory next to the Midas Muffler (if you hit the d it was an automatic grand slam.) Another white kid pretended to be Ken Singleton.

In one of those odd coincidences an acquaintance who is Jewish and African-American was also at the party store buying Purim costumes for his kids. He heard everything and only laughed (of course he was wrangling his own kids).

GoofBoy had no idea that any of this could in any way be an issue. Which I guess really says it all.

To help GoofBoy get into character for his costume I found some old videos from the A-Team online. But I also found this incredible video.

What gets me is that Mr. T is wearing short shorts and tube socks - he dresses like I did when I was eight!

This year Purim has been easier. GoofGirl is going as her brother, which is easy since they are twins separated by three years and GoofBoy is going as Bill Gates, which in his mind means wearing a hat.

Less Goofy, More Sweet

2011-03-16T00:46:00.000-04:00

GoofBoy and I were playing ball at the middle school close to our house. He likes hitting and I like pitching. Nothing is more satisfying then fooling an elementary school kid with a change-up. Well, nothing except knocking his “fastball” deep into the outfield.

Really, I want him to hit my pitches and I do my best to put them where he can hit them. This is exhausting since I also have to run down his line drives.

As we were playing a family walked by – dad, grandpa, son and dog. They stopped to watch us for a few minutes and I invited their boy to join us. As he came out to play with us it became evident that he walked and talked funny. He had something, I didn’t ask what. While he held the bat and threw awkwardly, he was really strong and hit and threw hard. More importantly, he seemed to have a great time and his presence meant I didn’t have to cover the field alone.

After a while grandpa joined in, since both GoofBoy and our new friend could hit to both sides of the field this was a welcome addition. Dad had to stay and hold the dog.

After quite a while they left. I pitched a bit more to GoofBoy and then we headed home. As we walked home we talked.

“Hey buddy,” I asked, “Is it ok that I invited that other kid to join us. You didn’t feel like I was ruining father-son time?”

“No dad it was fine. He had a good time with us.”

“And buddy, you could tell he was a little different…” I trailed off, leaving the question unasked.

“Yeah, he sure was different from me. He could hit.”

"You are one great kid," I told him, "Even if you can't hit an old man's change-up."

----------------------------------------

I’ve been writing a lot about GoofGirl. She is really funny right now – and I just love her to death. Meanwhile, GoofBoy is growing up. Lots of his humor is more self-consciously funny and he is developing his own inside jokes with his friends. This is natural and as it should be, but it doesn’t provide for terrific blog material. But he is also decent, sweet, and kind. That’s worth a post or so.

And I love him to death too, even if he isn’t producing much blog-worthy material.

Punctuation Lesson

2011-03-14T21:39:00.000-04:00

We had dinner at a nearby shopping center this evening. The shopping center features establishments called Bark! and Cartoon Cuts! Whenever I see the first I, well, bark and the little Goofs demands to know, "Why do you have to do that?"

"Because the sign told me to."

GoofGirl then asked why buybuyBaby didn't have an exclamation mark (I have a certain past with the place.

"Because an exclamation mark might turn the store name into a command. People would think they should go there to buy babies. Think about it," I explained and that said the store name, but with an exclamation mark, "Buy... buy baby!"

The little Goofs laughed to hear such a sport and began repeating it to each other.

I pressed my luck, "Isn't it interesting how a little mark, not even a word or letter, can change something's meaning? Punctuation is really a guide to tone, to how something should sound to your inner ear..."

"Oh Dad!" GoofBoy groaned, "Why is it you have to make everything so boring."

Horror for Kids

2011-03-11T00:15:00.000-05:00

"Daddy, I don't want to go to the beach anymore."

"But you really like the beach, why?"

GoofGirl paused for a minute, submerged her head in her pillow for a moment and said, "I saw this video on your iPad, a lot of people were on the beach and suddenly there is a monster and there is blood and the monster is eating people."

"Sweetheart, did the monster have the mouth of a shark and the legs of an octopus?"

"Uh-huh," she said, almost crying, "How do know?"

When we saw the SyFy channel was running a movie called Sharktopus about a genetically engineered shark-octopus hybrid invented by the Navy to fight Somali pirate there was no question about what MamaGoof and I would be doing that evening. It was everything we could have hoped for, the bad acting, the unnecessary but constant presence of girls in bikinis, and Eric Roberts playing a hard-drinking mad scientist and wondering how it all came to this.

I must have grabbed the trailer on my iPad to send to friends and well...

"Oh, nina, I'm sorry, you should not have seen that. It wasn't for children, but it was just a movie it wasn't real."

"Daddy, did you watch that movie?"

"I did, with mommy. It was called Sharktopus."

"Why, it was horrible!"

"No sweetheart, it wasn't horrible. It was really dumb," I explained.

"Why did you watch a dumb movie?"

"Sometimes it is fun to watch a dumb movie and make fun of it."

"Why did they make a dumb movie?"

"I don't think they knew it would be dumb when they made it. It just came out that way." I wasn't quite ready to explain Roger Corman to her.

"So there is no such thing as sharktopus?"

"No, it's a ridiculous idea. Half-shark, half octopus - that's crazy and it definitely isn't kosher."

"OK daddy, can you come into my bed with me."

"Sure sweetheart." I got off the floor and lay down on her bed beside her. We sat together for a few minutes quietly and then she pounced on me. Looking down on me, she grinned and hissed, "Sharktopus!"

"You aren't scared anymore are you?" I asked.

"No! And if I do meet a sharktopus, I'll get him with a guillotine!"

I hate to tell her she can't just guillotine her way out of all of her problems, but we've discussed enough weighty matters for one night.

Daddy Report Card

2011-03-07T15:41:00.000-05:00

I was really nervous when GoofGirl told me I was going to get a report card on being a Daddy. She is a serious little girl, and she took this very seriously. She wasn't just throwing something together. She understood that report cards are important, formal documents and need to travel through proper channels - i.e. a mailbox. So she made one and put it on my nightstand.

You don't just put random pieces of paper into the mailbox. They need to go into envelopes with addresses and stamps. I opened the envelope with great trepidation. My scholastic record has not been great in the past.

I did great! See, A# (which I think is even better then A+)!

I showed them to MamaGoof, proudly. She rolled her eyes, "She wants something and knows I'm not going to give it to her!"

So GoofGirl gets an A in power politics AND flattery.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Guillotine Redux

2011-03-04T16:42:00.000-05:00

GoofGirl's obsession with guillotines has continued unabated. She discusses them frequently, had her Hebrew teacher teach her the word for guillotine in Hebrew (karat rosh - head chopper.) We even read You Wouldn't Want to Be an Aristocrat in the French Revolution (the "Wouldn't Want to Be Books are awesome). Now she plays "French Revolution" with her brother, she is always Robespierre.

When she had another playdate with Guillotine Buddy, while he was lying on the floor she grabbed a sofa cushion, held it to his neck and grinned, "Pillow guillotine!"

We are currently reading the classic Beverly Clearly Fudge series. Fudge is a precocious little guy who constantly ruins his older brother's life. It is a really good series although some parts of it are odd. In one of the novels the main character, Fudge's older brother, talks about the prospect of getting mugged in Central Park. He treats it as no big deal and talks about how neat it was for his friend because he got to go to the police station. GoofGirl was horrified, "This doesn't happen does it? Not in America?"

Growing up in NYC in the 1970s.

Anyway, when Fudge makes mischief GoofGirl gets angry. "I can't believe Fudge did that!" she will yell, "He is so stupid. I'd put him in the guillotine!"

"Now sweetheart," I tell her, "You can't solve all your problems with a guillotine."

And she built a far more in-depth Lego guillotine - with a lot more historically accurate details!

Learning to Skate on Thick Ice

2011-02-24T17:40:00.000-05:00

GoofGirl went to an ice skating party over the weekend. It was her first time and I was worried. I knew she wanted to learn to skate, but she was also scared about it because she knows that learning involves lots of falling down. I was also worried because she gets frustrated easily and unfortunately, I cannot skate and thus cannot teach her. The hosting parents did a good job trying to teach her, but they had their own children to watch. After innumerable falls she was in tears. I tried to console her, pointing out that her friends who had skated a few times before could only hold on to the edge and walk-skate around the rink. This didn't help.

I know my daughter, and she inherited an unfortunate quality from yours truly - a quick frustration with steep learning curves. I hated to see her give up on something so soon. I even offered to put on a pair of skates and go out with her myself (hoping, vainly, that the shared experience of falling down with dad might make it better.)

Then an angel appeared. A little girl, the same height as GoofGirl but four years older (my daughter is really tall) skated up, took GoofGirl by the hand and taught her how to skate. She taught GoofGirl how to fall and get up (a major accomplishment on slippery ice.) She told GoofGirl stories about her own experiences learning to skate and falling all the time. She made many, many, many circuits around the rink with my daughter (I did too, but on the outside.)

I thanked this angel profusely. She was there with friends but chose to teach my daughter. I even offered her a modest gift. She waved away my bills, saying, with surprising maturity, "I appreciate the gesture, but no thank you."

Soon GoofGirl was making circuits around the rink on her own. She fell down some, but got back up. She only held onto the wall briefly. She took a break for the birthday cake with tremendous reluctance. As she sat with her friends eating, she kept saying to me, "I just want to go back out and skate!"

And she did, around and around. Faster and stronger each time. Rather then try to follow her on the outside, I stood in a few spots to video and photograph this magic moment (and text it on to MotherGoof!) The angel skated by, waved to me, and pointed proudly to her student on the other side of the rink. I smiled and gave a big thumbs up.

My daughter has a new hobby, an expensive and inconvenient hobby.

But I couldn't be happier or more proud.

GoofBoy Growing

2011-02-16T23:12:00.000-05:00

I've been writing about GoofGirl a lot lately. She is pretty awesome, and going on seven she is at a super-adorable age (and she knows it.) But GoofBoy is also a great kid: sensitive, tough, smart, and funny. But as he heads towards his second decade, he is moving away from mom and dad. He isn't a bitter teenager. He still likes his parents and talks to us, telling us (in exhaustive detail) about everything that he is up to.

When he was little I used to draw pictures on his lunch bag. Darth Vader, footballs, cars - that sort of thing. He liked it. I slacked off for a few years. But recently, after reading Diary of a Wimpy Kid I started again. Every day the Wimpy Kid's mom writes on his lunch bag:

Dear Greg,
I hope you have a happy, healthy day.
Love Mom

I thought I would do the same. So I began writing him sappy, cheesy sentiments. At first he appreciated it - ironically. But then, when he saw me get the marker as I was making his lunch he yelled, "DAAAAD! Why do you always have to write stuff on my lunch. It's SOOOO annoying."

We had also had a sweet little morning ritual. When he wouldn't get up, I would get in bed next to him, snuggle up, and bite him. For a long time he liked this, he even stayed in bed when he wasn't tired so I would do it. But recently it has become "SOOOO annoying."

At least he doesn't think I'm annoying - yet.

Bully for Her

2011-02-14T22:05:00.000-05:00

GoofGirl's school is cracking down on bullying. In carpool I was handed a flyer about an upcoming anti-bullying program. GoofBoy and the carpool clan all had after school activities so it was just the two of us. She asked me about the flier and when I told her about she informed me that she had never been bullied.

"Is that because you are the bully?" I asked.

"No," she replied, horrified that I could think such a thing.

On the way home we discussed what just the two of us would do till mommy and her brother got home. It turns out she had plans.

"It is time for your beat down!" she announced, "because there is a new bad guy in town!"

"Are you bullying me?"

"No."

"Are you going to make me do everything you say and jump on me?"

"Yes!"

"Are you going to sit on my neck and steer me around the living room by pulling my hair?"

"Yes!"

"Are you going to make me give you horsey-back rides while hitting me in the tush with a wooden spoon and yelling 'Mush, mush!'?"

"Yes. Also, you have to give me piggy-back ride, don't forget."

"So maybe you are bullying me?" I asked.

She was silent for a moment before saying, "No, you're a daddy, you like it!"

She's got me there.

PuppyBowl Disappointments

2011-02-07T00:18:00.000-05:00

GoofBoy, unsurprisingly, watched the SuperBowl. He was going to watch it with Carpool Buddy as a little celebration for Carpool Buddy's 10th birthday. This could not work out, since Carpool Buddy's dad is a Canadian and consequently does not understand that in America the Superbowl is way more important then bedtime consistency.

I should have watched with GoofBoy, male-bonding and all that, but I am not actually interested in football. So I watched the PuppyBowl with GoofGirl. It is even cuter then it sounds.

Besides tussling puppies, it features cheerleader chickens, a blimp piloted by hamsters, and best of all a half-time show featuring cats (way better then the Black-Eyed Peas).

GoofGirl really likes cats, so she asked me (inevitably), "When can we get a cat?"

"We can't get a cat. Mommy is allergic to cats."

"I never get what a want," she sulked.

This is a nice bit of divine justice, I spent much of my childhood demanding a dog, to which my mom responded, "Your father and brother are allergic to dogs."

"So?" I would demand.

"So, if we got a dog we would have to get rid of your father and your brother."

I didn't see a problem with that at the time, in fact I saw it as a win-win.

To head off this conversation, I tried to re-direct.

"You know when she was a little girl, Bubbe thought all cats were girls and all dog were boys," I told GoofGirl. Stories of her grandmother as a little girl are fascinating to GoofGirl.

"Hmmph," GoofGirl grunted, "Bubbe must have been pretty stupid. Is it because they didn't have the Internet?"

"You should ask her."

GoofGirl glared at me, "I'm not stupid! Maybe Bubbe will get me a kitten."

Time to Read Elephant Small

2011-01-20T21:48:00.000-05:00

GoofGirl is learning to read, which is pretty cool – although she is frustrated with it. She can understand complicated stories (she listened to the Harry Potter series with her brother). But the books she can read now are very simple and yet are a huge slog for her to get through.

This is pretty normal. I didn’t really learn to read until I was seven, and I’m a writer now! Living in region dominated by over-achievers where children can be tracked to special education if they aren’t reading by kindergarten – my story is a bit of PTA samizdat. In fact my tale has spread and anxious parents comfort themselves with it like early Christians reciting the catechism in the catacombs.

Anyway, GoofGirl has to read a book to her class. She picked Time for Bed Elephant Small. Before we got into Beverly Clearly, Judy Blume, and Barbara Park this was a bedtime favorite. As GoofGirl works her way through she also explicates the story for me (WARNING: If you are ever planning to read Time for Bed Elephant Small, read no further since what follows pretty much ruins it.)

“Daddy,” she explained, “I think the elephants are toys in a dollhouse. A girl is playing bedtime with them. That is why they have those seams and look like stuffed animals. And Clockwork Mouse, who Elephant Small chases before bedtime - he is a toy mouse. That's why he has a wind-up thing. At the end, when Elephant Mom opens the window so Elephant Small can see the moon. I think it is just a piece of paper with the sky and the moon painted on it and pasted to the dollhouse window.”

This clever interpretation had never occurred to me. She will be ready to read soon enough – but I’m not sure reading is ready for her.

There's Something about a Stream...

2011-01-18T22:39:00.000-05:00

It doesn’t seem possible, but going to the stream just got even better.

Nothing makes the little Goofs happier then a stream and we are fortunate to have one in walking distance. Somehow my kids always find an incredibly interesting activity that they can do indefinitely. On one visit my son attempted to block off part of the stream with rocks so that he could better observe the fish. My daughter drew pictures on rocks with mud. We have built rock bridges across streams to facilitate future visitors. It isn’t just about getting muddy – I usually don’t even let them go in, just play along the edges (sometimes I do, I’m not a monster!)

Any modest body of water will do, we often drive to other creeks, ponds, and reservoirs. At one, we made the acquaintance of another family. The dad was scaling the trees very fast, like a lemur. It turns out he is a tree professional. He loved climbing trees as a kid and now he gets to do it for a living. My children were intrigued and I was a little jealous.

On one long weekend, my parents took the kids to an amusement park for a day. They had a great time going on rides and eating junk food. The next I took them to a nearby nature center where the stream has awesome big rocks for climbing. As a bonus, I had them wear grubby shoes so they could actually do a little stream walking and wading. We stayed for hours. I asked them, “Which is better, “the amusement park or the stream at the nature center?”

They hedged in giving their answer, knowing that their grandparents had gone to great effort on their behalf. But they conceded that the stream was at least even with the amusement park. (This particular afternoon at the stream pushed ahead of just about anything when I let the little Goofs eat in the car – something that in general Mama Goof forbids.)

The stream doesn’t even have to have water in it. On one of our regular trips to California to visit los abuelos we went on a short hike. The little Goofs whined constantly. Their expressions of disapproval alternated between asking why we had come to this desolate forsaken place and demanding a snack – punctuated by regular refusals to walk any farther due to exhaustion. The “hike” was on a paved path and less then a mile and a half. But on the way back, we walked through a dried out stream bed. All fatigue disappeared as they scampered among the rocks, finding interesting stones, animal shells, and other treasures that my wife and I would need to conveniently lose before our flight home.

Winter Wonderland
The other day, I pressed the kids into joining me on my walk through the wooded park. We came to a part of the stream that was frozen over. The little Goofs were fascinated. We threw rocks at the ice to see if we could break it (we couldn’t.) We walked on it tentatively.

It was getting late. But the kids had brought headlamps we bought them for Hanukah (festival of lights!) and the woods weren’t scary at all. The next day, they demanded that I bring them back. So we returned. We made a real project out of trying to break the ice. We found big rocks and tossed them high into the air trying to puncture the surprisingly thick ice. We found a thin section the rocks could break through and watched the trapped air bubble up. But in many spots, the rocks just bounced off. GoofGirl wandered off and found isolated chunks of ice that she could pull out of the water. She built ice cairns on the side of the stream. We’ve since scheduled playdates where the highlight was a visit to the frozen part of the stream.

The best things in life are free, and are even better when they freeze.

The Wright Gift for the Man Who Has Everything

2011-01-02T21:41:00.000-05:00

My father, PopGoof is about to turn 70! This is an occasion deserving of a great gift, but my father has it all - a good career, a loving wife, his health, kids, and (most importantly) grandchildren to spoil. What do you get for the man who has everything?

Over the summer I took the Little Goofs to the exhibitions-collections/exhibitions/lego-architecture.html>National Building Museum which was hosting an awesome LEGO exhibit. The exhibit featured skyscrapers built with LEGOs as well as enormous piles of blocks for building. GoofBoy was in heaven and I found breaking up discarded buildings enormously satisfying. GoofGirl was less than enthralled, but she and I explored the rest of the immense and immensely cool NBM.

When it was time to go GoofBoy wanted to buy something. There were LEGO kits to build world famous skyscrapers and GoofBoy began to beg. But most of the sets were less than 100 pieces - not much of a challenge. Then I saw the LEGO Fallingwater set with 811 pieces. My dad loves the architect Frank Lloyd Wright (on my brother's college tour he insisted on adding Bradley University to the agenda so we could see all of the Frank Lloyd Wright houses in Peoria, Illinois.) He has visited Fallingwater many times.

An idea began to form, Fallingwater would be the perfect gift for the man who has everything.

"Buddy," I asked, "would you like to build this with Pop?"

"I want to build it with you when we get home!"

"Trust me, do this project with your Pop - make an old man happy."

GoofBoy hated waiting, but months later they built it together and it was awesome.

Not far from the Tree

2010-12-27T23:50:00.000-05:00

My wife and I were discussing a sick tree in our yard. We had just met with the arborist, whose crusty demeanor inspired confidence. He said he could save the tree, but that the tree behind it looked problematic. I mentioned to my wife that I had read that trees are really mean to each other. They attack one another’s root system and even deploy chemical warfare.

“Maybe that’s why the tree across the street fell on the fence,” GoofGirl observed (remembering a dramatic summer storm), “The tree knew the fence was made of wood and was mad about it.”

I laughed and said, “Where did you come up with that? I have to put that on Father Goof!”

“If you must,” she sighed.

A bit later I had to use the restroom, I told my daughter and wife, “I have to go poopy in the potty, but I can do it by myself!” I think this is hilarious. Unsurprisingly all the other Goofs are tired of it and just ignore me.

This time, GoofGirl responded slyly, “Maybe I should put that on Daughter Goof.”

Then we went outside to play. GoofGirl invented this great little game in which she sat on the backyard swing, I stood in front of her and she kicked me in the toches (Yiddish for butt) and I flew forward. This was a bit hard on me and I told her so. I let her do this about four times, which is four times more often then I would have allowed anyone else in the world.

She got off the swing and said, “This will help.” Then she built a wall out of our backyard trashcans.

“How will this help me?”

“You’ll see,” she said enigmatically.

“I think your plan is to kick me into the trashcans and see how they go flying.”

She grinned.

“I have a better idea,” and I went inside and grabbed a basketball. I stood in front of the swing so that she could kick it. Every time she connected she got a point. She decided we were playing the invisible children in the yard next door, who were very good, so I had to move fast so that she could wrack up higher and higher scores.

This game was also hard on me, but less so. We played for about 80 minutes, which is about 77 minutes longer then I would have played this game with anyone else in the world.

Then, tired of torturing me, she turned her energies on her absent brother. She constructed a series of “traps” (just piles of grass covering imaginary holes) in the backyard.

“How do you know your brother will fall for your traps,” I asked.

“He will,” then she collected his footballs (American and international), and the aforementioned basketball and placed them by her trap.

We then learned that her brother wouldn’t be returning until later. GoofGirl was disappointed that her traps might not be used. I said that was too bad but that we had to pickup the backyard before it was dark. Then as I went to collect her brother’s sports equipment I hurled myself to the ground, throwing the balls into the air and cried, “I’m trapped! I’m trapped! Who put a hole a there?” as footballs (American and international) and a basketball rained painfully down on me.

GoofGirl came and freed me from her trap and promised me there wasn’t another one.

We played this game for each trap, all six of them. Which is exactly six more times then I would have played it with anyone else in the world.

GoofGirl and Grandma's Breakfast Banter

2010-12-24T10:38:00.001-05:00

Yesterday morning GoofGirl called her abuela to tell her about her day.

"It was pajama day at school and we had a special breakfast at school," she explained to her grandmother, "First I drew with the syrup. Then I ate a banana, pancakes, juice, and a muffin."

"You ate a lot, are you going to blow up?" abuela asked.

"No, I just go to the bathroom a lot," GoofGirl explained.

Abuela laughed, reinforcing the bond across generations.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Goofy Math

2010-12-06T16:32:00.000-05:00

I am constantly urging the little Goofs to work hard in math. “Be like mommy, and be good at math. You’ll be able to get good jobs. Don’t be like daddy, the world already has enough writers.”

Believe it or not, I think they listen. I guess don't be like daddy is pretty good inspiration. Unfortunately beyond inspiration, I'm not much help.

-----

One morning when I went into GoofGirl’s room to wake her up for school. She was lying under the covers talking. I bent close to hear. She was quietly saying, “703, 704…”

I asked her what she was doing and she explained, “I want to see how high I can count.”

“OK, but get up and get dressed soon.”

A few minutes later I was in my room getting dressed. She came in and asked, “Daddy what is after 808?”

“809.”

“What's after 809?”

“810.”

“What's after 810?”

“811. Are you starting to get the idea?”

“No, this makes no sense. I quit!” she answered.

-----

My son and I were discussing negative numbers. I explained how multiplying two negatives makes a positive but adding two negatives is still negative.

“If you multiply and negative and a positive you get what?” he asked.

“You get a negative.”

“OK, so if you add a negative and a positive you get a negative?” he asked hopefully.

“Well that depends on the specific numbers…”

I tried to have him visualize hot air balloons changing their altitude by adding and dumping sandbags (it helped me get it when I was his age.) But it didn’t help him. I tried to help him imagine adding a negative is really a subtraction so subtracting a negative is really an addition. This failed to clarify matters.

“Dad, you are making it worse. This doesn’t make sense. I’m going to have a freak out!”

“Buddy, it’s ok, negative numbers are the bizarro world of math. Up is down, right is wrong, and they eat Brussels sprouts for dessert.”

“Yeah, that helps alot. Is mommy home yet?”

-----

My son has started doing word problems for his math homework. My daughter wasn’t getting any homework in kindergarten. She was jealous, so she has started making up her own word problems.

“Daddy, pretend you have seven coupons,” she said.

“Coupons for what?”

“It doesn’t matter, it’s a math problem.”

“It matters to me,” I said, “What if they are for something I don’t want?”

“OK, they are for coffee, you like coffee,” she said, exasperated.

“I do like coffee. Oh boy, seven coffees! Yea! YEA!” I yelled and started jumping around the room.

“They are decaf. Sit down,” she said firmly.

I sat down.

“So we have seven coupons and we take away two…”

“Why are you taking away my coupons?” I cried, “I sat down when you told me to.”

“Daddy. It is a math problem. We are just pretending to have coupons.”

“There are no coupons. How do you take them away if they aren’t there?” I asked, my voice quavering.

“Use your imagination! Forget it, I’ll ask mommy. She can do word problems without so much crying.”

A Goofy Hanukah

2010-12-02T12:00:00.002-05:00

“Dad, you know why most of the kids in my class like Hanukah?”

“Why?”

“They just like the presents. But not me, I’m in it for the latkes!” my son said proudly.

“You know why I like Hanukah?” I replied.

“I know, I know, the Maccabees used asymmetric warfare…” my son groaned.

“How do you know about that?”

“You kept talking about it last year. Asymmetric warfare, using classic insurgent tactics and the terrain to defeat a conventionally stronger enemy. Blah, blah… The year before that you kept talking about olive oil and the rise of Mediterranean societies.”

“No, this year I am into Hanukah for something even bigger, better, and more exciting!”

“You got the rapid-fire Nerf gun?” he asked hopefully.

“No, and anyway it is for me, not you! Anyway, Hanukah is about the fundamental conflict between Greek civilization and Jewish civilization. It is a tension that underpins Western civilization. Think about this, in synagogue inscribed on the Ark are the words ‘Know before whom you stand.” While the inscription at the oracle of Delphi instructed people to ‘Know thyself.””

“Dad, do you have to make everything so boring?”

“Think of Moses vs. Aristotle!”

“So Moses hits Aristotle with his staff, then Aristotle rears up on his hind legs ...”

“For the last time, Aristotle wasn’t a centaur. He was a philosopher who gave long lectures while pacing around the Lyceum in Athen.”

“He walked and talked a lot, no wonder you like him so much.”

“Anyway, they didn’t live at the same time. It is about their ideas…”

“Dad, you are making it boring again.”

“Be quiet and light the candles. I am going to open up my new Nerf Gun and find out if you were really listening when I was talking about asymmetric warfare!”