GoofBoy is on a football team with a bunch of other kids from his Jewish day school. Football is the wrong sport for a Jewish kid – too many head injuries. He may have illusions of athletic grandeur, but I expect my son will make his living with his brains. A few tackles too many and he might end up being an accountant. But it’s flag football, so I’m not too worried.
In the practice before the game the parents are the opposition team. Naturally parents guard their own kids. For reasons I can’t explain I get motivated (I probably put more into this scrimmage then to a decade of gym class). When one of the other kids catches a pass and gets by his dad, I chase him down and dive into the dirt to pull his flag.
“Good hustle, parents…” the coach yells, haltingly.
My son mocks, “Hey dad, what’s like to really play?”
A few plays later when the pass goes to GoofBoy I run hard to knock it down before he can catch it. A bad thing happens in my ankle. Instead of yelling, “Booyah!” I exclaim, “Ouch!”
I hobble back to my place on the line. Another parent says, “You know, this isn’t worth hurting yourself over.”
“I know,” I called back, “But I hate these kids!”
All week as I limped around, and explained my injury, other parents laughed knowingly.
Winning Strategy
The game itself revealed the strengths and weaknesses of our team. A team of Jewish kids is unlikely to be faster or stronger then the opposing team – although they executed plays pretty well.
However, we were excellent at arguing calls. The parent-coaches were all attorneys – and litigation, that's a sport for Jews! (All verbal calisthenics, it exercises our strongest muscles.)
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Thursday, October 07, 2010
Medieval Playdate
There are playdates and there are playdates.
GoofGirl generally has little girls over and they do girl things, like play family. She goes upstairs with her friend and closes the door so I am not privy to how the game goes. With some friends GoofGirl is mom, with others she is the sister. With her arch-rival, the devious 3C she is usually forced into the daughter role. The hierarchies are complicated and with the door closed I lack the data to map them.
But she still plays with boys (and her brother). Sometimes it is just general horsing around. But she also has a special buddy for particular forms of wackiness. In the car, on the way to his house she mutters to herself in strange deep voice.
"Nina, que haces?" (That's Spanish for, what are you doing - I speak Spanish at the level of a two year old.)
"I'm getting ready to play," she responds with a Cheshire grin.
When they get together, they discuss Guillotines a great deal.
At their last playdate GoofGirl and her buddy were carrying a pair of plastic chairs up to her room. One is red, the other is blue. GoofGirl asked, "Which one do you want to carry. The one colored like blood inside your body or the one colored like blood outside your body?"
I don't remember which one her friend choose, but he added as they headed upstairs, "Don't forget the sword!"
And they made a Lego Guillotine...
GoofGirl generally has little girls over and they do girl things, like play family. She goes upstairs with her friend and closes the door so I am not privy to how the game goes. With some friends GoofGirl is mom, with others she is the sister. With her arch-rival, the devious 3C she is usually forced into the daughter role. The hierarchies are complicated and with the door closed I lack the data to map them.
But she still plays with boys (and her brother). Sometimes it is just general horsing around. But she also has a special buddy for particular forms of wackiness. In the car, on the way to his house she mutters to herself in strange deep voice.
"Nina, que haces?" (That's Spanish for, what are you doing - I speak Spanish at the level of a two year old.)
"I'm getting ready to play," she responds with a Cheshire grin.
When they get together, they discuss Guillotines a great deal.
At their last playdate GoofGirl and her buddy were carrying a pair of plastic chairs up to her room. One is red, the other is blue. GoofGirl asked, "Which one do you want to carry. The one colored like blood inside your body or the one colored like blood outside your body?"
I don't remember which one her friend choose, but he added as they headed upstairs, "Don't forget the sword!"
And they made a Lego Guillotine...
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Mysteries of Little Feet
If you asked me what surprises me the most about parenthood it would have to be how often I order my children, "Get your feet out of your mouth!"
And I really wish I meant this metaphorically.
Feet have always been a huge curiousity to children. Corresponding recently with an old friend who blogs at A Year in the Life of an Army Family she observed that her daughter insisted on on being able to see her feet while she ate.
I told her I made my mom buy me footie pajamas when I was little, then I made her cut the feet off because I thought they made my feet disappear.
Kids are like that.
Feet are our body’s hinterland, far removed from the capital and liable to get into trouble. Good to keep an eye on them. (That’s the political scientist in me; if I were a Marxist I might note that they support the rest of the body for very little gain.)
They are also a source of fascination – is this thing really part of me? If I poke it, will I feel it? What can it do?
I get all of this. What I don’t get is my own kids attitudes toward their feet.
I'll come downstairs on a Sunday morning (when they are allowed to get up early and watch TV) to find both of them sitting like bookends in the exact same position (the Goofs are twins separated by three years) with their feet in their mouth just chowing down. There is of course a kitchen full of snacks (healthy and junk) in the next room.
For GoofGirl this has become a bit of an art form. She shoves both big toes in her mouth and calls it the chipmunk. Both little toes and she calls baby chipmunk. One whole foot, for reasons I don't understand is "Octopus." She had several other "moves" but I had hit my limit.
What I wonder is what nutrient are they missing that can only be obtained by chewing on their toenails (and really, wouldn’t they be better off without it?)
And I really wish I meant this metaphorically.
Feet have always been a huge curiousity to children. Corresponding recently with an old friend who blogs at A Year in the Life of an Army Family she observed that her daughter insisted on on being able to see her feet while she ate.
I told her I made my mom buy me footie pajamas when I was little, then I made her cut the feet off because I thought they made my feet disappear.
Kids are like that.
Feet are our body’s hinterland, far removed from the capital and liable to get into trouble. Good to keep an eye on them. (That’s the political scientist in me; if I were a Marxist I might note that they support the rest of the body for very little gain.)
They are also a source of fascination – is this thing really part of me? If I poke it, will I feel it? What can it do?
I get all of this. What I don’t get is my own kids attitudes toward their feet.
I'll come downstairs on a Sunday morning (when they are allowed to get up early and watch TV) to find both of them sitting like bookends in the exact same position (the Goofs are twins separated by three years) with their feet in their mouth just chowing down. There is of course a kitchen full of snacks (healthy and junk) in the next room.
For GoofGirl this has become a bit of an art form. She shoves both big toes in her mouth and calls it the chipmunk. Both little toes and she calls baby chipmunk. One whole foot, for reasons I don't understand is "Octopus." She had several other "moves" but I had hit my limit.
What I wonder is what nutrient are they missing that can only be obtained by chewing on their toenails (and really, wouldn’t they be better off without it?)
Monday, July 26, 2010
and Spooky Evenings
Speaking of games…
So I had a big birthday this summer, one that ends in 0. I needed some new toys as a salve to the onset of middle age. What does a middle-aged grad student need? A new weight bench!
My son was at a sleepover, but my daughter was extraordinarily interested in the big box sitting on our porch. She kept asking when I was going to open it and offering to help. And she really was helpful. First, she helped me haul all of the little pieces from our front porch into the basement. Then, I had asked her to remind me to take the box cutter back inside and she did. Then she insisted on cleaning up all the packaging materials herself – sending me inside.
The motivation for her diligence became apparent when she asked, “Daddy, what are you going to do with the box?”
It was a pretty big box, I could see her point so I gave it to her to play with.
The boxes were about six feet long and maybe a foot and half wide so she tried to make bunk beds – but I vetoed that plan since they were only cardboard. She pretended they were canoes and built the inevitable fort.
When her brother came home the next night, things got really interesting.
Their camp includes a magic unit, so my son is constantly trying out card tricks on us. The immigration cycle in America is a tremendous thing taking us within a few generations from working class to professional to charlatan. It isn’t exactly full circle, more like a death spiral.
Besides card tricks he is learning Houdini style escapes. So, he would lie in the closed box (with his hands “tied” up) while his sister would pile objects on top of the box. He would free himself, burst out, and we would time his escape. Then it was GoofGirl’s turn to make great escapes.
Then it got weird…
They played cemetery. One would lie in the box, eyes closed. The box was almost closed, with only the head exposed. The unboxed sibling sat beside it and wailed. They even found another flat piece of cardboard to prop up and use as a tombstone.
Are we becoming the Adams Family?
So I had a big birthday this summer, one that ends in 0. I needed some new toys as a salve to the onset of middle age. What does a middle-aged grad student need? A new weight bench!
My son was at a sleepover, but my daughter was extraordinarily interested in the big box sitting on our porch. She kept asking when I was going to open it and offering to help. And she really was helpful. First, she helped me haul all of the little pieces from our front porch into the basement. Then, I had asked her to remind me to take the box cutter back inside and she did. Then she insisted on cleaning up all the packaging materials herself – sending me inside.
The motivation for her diligence became apparent when she asked, “Daddy, what are you going to do with the box?”
It was a pretty big box, I could see her point so I gave it to her to play with.
The boxes were about six feet long and maybe a foot and half wide so she tried to make bunk beds – but I vetoed that plan since they were only cardboard. She pretended they were canoes and built the inevitable fort.
When her brother came home the next night, things got really interesting.
Their camp includes a magic unit, so my son is constantly trying out card tricks on us. The immigration cycle in America is a tremendous thing taking us within a few generations from working class to professional to charlatan. It isn’t exactly full circle, more like a death spiral.
Besides card tricks he is learning Houdini style escapes. So, he would lie in the closed box (with his hands “tied” up) while his sister would pile objects on top of the box. He would free himself, burst out, and we would time his escape. Then it was GoofGirl’s turn to make great escapes.
Then it got weird…
They played cemetery. One would lie in the box, eyes closed. The box was almost closed, with only the head exposed. The unboxed sibling sat beside it and wailed. They even found another flat piece of cardboard to prop up and use as a tombstone.
Are we becoming the Adams Family?
Saturday Afternoons on Mars
My son long played these terrific games within games. But GoofGirl didn’t. I wasn’t worried. She is a super-smart, funny, clever girl who draws elaborate pictures and tells funny stories. She may in fact be playing very creative games – but saving it for her friends.
Still, I was pleasantly surprised on a recent Saturday afternoon when GoofGirl told me to pretend I was Barack Obama. We try to keep the Jewish Sabbath which restricts possible activities tremendously – no TV, computers, or driving anywhere – so summer Saturdays get looooong and Mama Goof was taking a well-deserved and much needed nap, so anything to kill some time and buy her some peace.
She wanted me to pretend to be the President, visit her room and bring my family (not my real family, but Sasha and Malia).
My son got into the act as my Secret Service agent. He loaded up his Nerf pistols and put on his Nerf vest, like a bulletproof vest.
(Quick digression, I remember some pretty weak Nerf weapons as a kid that broke, jammed and had no range – his are really cool, have real punch and are tons of fun. We’ve spent hours chasing each other around the house with them. I confess, that just as I enjoyed throwing Nerf balls at his head when he was two, I really like plugging him with Nerf darts execution style.)
We went up to my daughter’s room, he knocked on the door and she told us to come in. My son did a quick sweep looking for assassins and announced in his deep serious voice: “Ladies and gentleman: the President of the United States.”
My daughter and son stood and I entered the room. I tried to channel SNL’s Fred Armison imitating Barack Obama as I introduced the first family and told my daughter what a lovely home she had. My daughter played with the imaginary first daughters while my son looked around nervously and tapped his pretend earpiece.
Then my daughter dismissed the first family and told me to stay (I didn’t want to be all pedantic and tell her that one did not tell presidents what to do.) She ran downstairs grabbed some newspaper, pointed to an article and told me I had to read it. (She can’t read yet.)
“I am very busy being the President – can you tell me what it says,” I asked.
“Yes, the person who wrote this article is a robber. He steals things, but he is also a writer and he writes that you are the robber and people believe him. You need to stop him,” she explained earnestly – she seems to think rather highly of the capabilities of writers.
“Well, what do you suggest we do about this?” I asked, still trying to sound presidential.
“We need to stop him because he is making people think you are a robber.”
“How should we do this, can we take pictures of him stealing things?” I proposed.
“I could shoot him!” my son/bodyguard interjected.
“We can’t take pictures of him – he’s too sneaky,” my daughter said.
“Well, what if we tell him there is something extra valuable at the museum. We know he’ll try to steal it and then we can catch him.”
The little Goofs liked this plan. So I sent my son/bodyguard to inform my staff to issue a press release.
The little Goofs escorted me to the museum (downstairs in our living room) and prepared to catch the robbers.
Then it gets weird
At this point, since I was still the President, I couldn’t help fight the robbers because Presidents can’t get hurt (my kids know that vice presidents are not to be trusted). So I sat in the corner and may have fallen asleep while my kids karate-chopped imaginary thieves.
I awoke with a start.
“The truth is, I’m an alien,” I heard my daughter explain.
“Me too, we are both aliens,” GoofBoy added.
“Are we still in the same game, am I still President?” I asked.
“Yes Mr. President, and you need to come with us to Mars,” GoofGirl ordered.
“OK. What do you eat on Mars?”
“Cookies, pizza, whatever you like – just like on earth, but better.”
“What do you do for fun on Mars?”
“Well,” Martian GoofGirl began, “We have swimming pools, and playgrounds, and Hello Kitty.”
“Allright, let’s go!”
My son piloted the spaceship and my daughter held my hand so I wouldn’t get scared on the long spaceship ride. We got to Mars, which looked a great deal like our kitchen. Sure enough, we found cookies.
“Congratulations, you are the first earthperson to visit Mars,” GoofGirl announced.
“Wow, but you said you had Hello Kitty and that’s from earth?” I queried.
“No, Hello Kitty is from Mars, we send it to earth,” my daughter explained patiently.
That seems plausible.
My wife came downstairs, yawning and stretching.
“Did you sleep well,” I asked.
“Okay,” Mama Goof replied.
“Well, I’m wiped. While you were out, I had to fight robbers and go to Mars.”
In our house, this is not unusual.
Still, I was pleasantly surprised on a recent Saturday afternoon when GoofGirl told me to pretend I was Barack Obama. We try to keep the Jewish Sabbath which restricts possible activities tremendously – no TV, computers, or driving anywhere – so summer Saturdays get looooong and Mama Goof was taking a well-deserved and much needed nap, so anything to kill some time and buy her some peace.
She wanted me to pretend to be the President, visit her room and bring my family (not my real family, but Sasha and Malia).
My son got into the act as my Secret Service agent. He loaded up his Nerf pistols and put on his Nerf vest, like a bulletproof vest.
(Quick digression, I remember some pretty weak Nerf weapons as a kid that broke, jammed and had no range – his are really cool, have real punch and are tons of fun. We’ve spent hours chasing each other around the house with them. I confess, that just as I enjoyed throwing Nerf balls at his head when he was two, I really like plugging him with Nerf darts execution style.)
We went up to my daughter’s room, he knocked on the door and she told us to come in. My son did a quick sweep looking for assassins and announced in his deep serious voice: “Ladies and gentleman: the President of the United States.”
My daughter and son stood and I entered the room. I tried to channel SNL’s Fred Armison imitating Barack Obama as I introduced the first family and told my daughter what a lovely home she had. My daughter played with the imaginary first daughters while my son looked around nervously and tapped his pretend earpiece.
Then my daughter dismissed the first family and told me to stay (I didn’t want to be all pedantic and tell her that one did not tell presidents what to do.) She ran downstairs grabbed some newspaper, pointed to an article and told me I had to read it. (She can’t read yet.)
“I am very busy being the President – can you tell me what it says,” I asked.
“Yes, the person who wrote this article is a robber. He steals things, but he is also a writer and he writes that you are the robber and people believe him. You need to stop him,” she explained earnestly – she seems to think rather highly of the capabilities of writers.
“Well, what do you suggest we do about this?” I asked, still trying to sound presidential.
“We need to stop him because he is making people think you are a robber.”
“How should we do this, can we take pictures of him stealing things?” I proposed.
“I could shoot him!” my son/bodyguard interjected.
“We can’t take pictures of him – he’s too sneaky,” my daughter said.
“Well, what if we tell him there is something extra valuable at the museum. We know he’ll try to steal it and then we can catch him.”
The little Goofs liked this plan. So I sent my son/bodyguard to inform my staff to issue a press release.
The little Goofs escorted me to the museum (downstairs in our living room) and prepared to catch the robbers.
Then it gets weird
At this point, since I was still the President, I couldn’t help fight the robbers because Presidents can’t get hurt (my kids know that vice presidents are not to be trusted). So I sat in the corner and may have fallen asleep while my kids karate-chopped imaginary thieves.
I awoke with a start.
“The truth is, I’m an alien,” I heard my daughter explain.
“Me too, we are both aliens,” GoofBoy added.
“Are we still in the same game, am I still President?” I asked.
“Yes Mr. President, and you need to come with us to Mars,” GoofGirl ordered.
“OK. What do you eat on Mars?”
“Cookies, pizza, whatever you like – just like on earth, but better.”
“What do you do for fun on Mars?”
“Well,” Martian GoofGirl began, “We have swimming pools, and playgrounds, and Hello Kitty.”
“Allright, let’s go!”
My son piloted the spaceship and my daughter held my hand so I wouldn’t get scared on the long spaceship ride. We got to Mars, which looked a great deal like our kitchen. Sure enough, we found cookies.
“Congratulations, you are the first earthperson to visit Mars,” GoofGirl announced.
“Wow, but you said you had Hello Kitty and that’s from earth?” I queried.
“No, Hello Kitty is from Mars, we send it to earth,” my daughter explained patiently.
That seems plausible.
My wife came downstairs, yawning and stretching.
“Did you sleep well,” I asked.
“Okay,” Mama Goof replied.
“Well, I’m wiped. While you were out, I had to fight robbers and go to Mars.”
In our house, this is not unusual.
Thursday, July 08, 2010
High Flying Pies
So I can't cook, no question about that. I can make sandwiches (grilled cheese, PBJ, turkey with extra mayo), I can make a good omelette, and I can apply heat to frozen food. But I can't actually cook. But when I was in high school I worked at a pizza shop and I learned to toss a pizza. I wasn’t good at tossing pizzas. I worked with guys that were like the Meadowlark Lemons of flour, juggling multiple pies with a single finger. I was a serviceable pizza-maker, a gentleman’s C. My pizzas came out okay. The one time when I tried to do something flashy I ended up losing the pie in the ceiling fan. (I regularly earned the honor of cleaning the grease trap for my failings – but for this one I got to clean the employee bathroom.)
As a consolation, my son thinks is absolutely hilarious.
This semi-skill comes in handy every once in a while. At a make your own pizza party, while the other parents tugged and yanked on the dough I methodically kneaded it, worked out the bubbles and gave it a few quick tosses. The other parents ended up with oblong pies, shaped more like driftwood or lava. My pie was roughly a circle with even thickness throughout. The other parents looked on – impressed.
GoofBoy looked on with pride, “My dad’s really good at tossing pizzas. One time when he worked at a pizza place, he tossed it so high, it went into the ceiling fan!”
He didn’t know about the part where I had to clean the bathroom.
As a consolation, my son thinks is absolutely hilarious.
This semi-skill comes in handy every once in a while. At a make your own pizza party, while the other parents tugged and yanked on the dough I methodically kneaded it, worked out the bubbles and gave it a few quick tosses. The other parents ended up with oblong pies, shaped more like driftwood or lava. My pie was roughly a circle with even thickness throughout. The other parents looked on – impressed.
GoofBoy looked on with pride, “My dad’s really good at tossing pizzas. One time when he worked at a pizza place, he tossed it so high, it went into the ceiling fan!”
He didn’t know about the part where I had to clean the bathroom.
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