GoofBoy is distraught.
“Dad, I’m having a problem at school”
“What is it?” I ask, ready for anything.
“I don’t like phys-ed.”
“I know what you mean,” he smiled. We always called it gym, but at orientation day, when I said that the teachers got all huffy. Just like everything else in our society, gym teachers are prone to title inflation. So I have learned to call them phys-ed teachers so they won’t push me up against the lockers and give me wedgies.
“I didn’t like phys-ed when I was your age. We always played dodgeball and somehow I always got hit in the head and the lenses in my glasses would pop out.”
“I wish we could play dodgeball. No, the problem is we are always doing drills and never actually playing anything. Phys-ed used to be my favorite, now I hate it.”
“Are you sure you are my son?”
I hated gym as a kid, it involved everything I disliked - competition, sports, sweat, other children, and big people yelling at me. I can't shoot a basket, climb a rope, or remember not to use my hands playing soccer.
MamaGoof had similar feelings. Is it possible MamaGoof and I – two awkward, strange people – have some recessive normal chromosomes? Like when two dark-haired people have a blond kid? I ended my reverie on genetics and focused on my son. “Trust me buddy, it could be worse.”
“How, I am a boy, I need to play sports.”
“I had a square dancing unit in gym when I was your age.”
GoofBoy’s eyes grew wide.
“It was the worst. First you had to pick a girl to dance with and everyone would say you liked that girl. Then she would yell at you for doing everything wrong. Plus you had to hold her hand.”
“Dad, you were soooo lucky!" GoofBoy exclaimed, "I love to dance and at least we’d be moving!”
The kid is so normal - it’s weird.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Monday, March 19, 2012
Cats are too Dangerous
“Daddy, why don’t we have a cat? You always say you love cats,” GoofGirl asked.
“But I love mommy more and she has allergies,” I explained for the two hundred thousandth time.
“Really?” she looked skeptical, so finally I leveled with her.
“Cats are very, very dangerous.”
“No, they are cute and fluffy and cuddly,” GoofGirl protested.
“Remember how I always tell you stories about my cat in Boston?”
“Right, Kitty,” she grinned.
“His name was Teddy Roosevelt. My roommate called him Teddy because he was cute and I called him Roosevelt because of his patrician mien.” We were strange guys – we brewed beer, baked bread, played with Legos, and occasionally juggled fire.
“But you called him Kitty?”
“Yes. Anyway, Mommy was getting very friendly with him and I had to speak her firmly about this. I told her, ‘Do not give that cat any money.’"
"Why can't you give cats money, what would they do with it?" GoofGirl asked, just as her mother did almost two decades ago.
"Cats use money to buy guns."
“Daddy, that’s ridiculous, how could a cat use a gun?”
“No one knows, because if you see a cat with a gun, it is the last thing you will ever see!”
GoofGirl rolled her eyes at me, just like her mom did almost two decades ago.
“But I love mommy more and she has allergies,” I explained for the two hundred thousandth time.
“Really?” she looked skeptical, so finally I leveled with her.
“Cats are very, very dangerous.”
“No, they are cute and fluffy and cuddly,” GoofGirl protested.
“Remember how I always tell you stories about my cat in Boston?”
“Right, Kitty,” she grinned.
“His name was Teddy Roosevelt. My roommate called him Teddy because he was cute and I called him Roosevelt because of his patrician mien.” We were strange guys – we brewed beer, baked bread, played with Legos, and occasionally juggled fire.
“But you called him Kitty?”
“Yes. Anyway, Mommy was getting very friendly with him and I had to speak her firmly about this. I told her, ‘Do not give that cat any money.’"
"Why can't you give cats money, what would they do with it?" GoofGirl asked, just as her mother did almost two decades ago.
"Cats use money to buy guns."
“Daddy, that’s ridiculous, how could a cat use a gun?”
“No one knows, because if you see a cat with a gun, it is the last thing you will ever see!”
GoofGirl rolled her eyes at me, just like her mom did almost two decades ago.
Wednesday, March 07, 2012
Whose Daughter
She sure is your daughter, I tell MamaGoof when I get home from synagogue where GoofGirl made straight for the kitchen to help prepare after-service snacks.
Come talk to your daughter, MamaGoof calls when GoofGirl won't accept MamaGoof's answer to a question. GoofGirl wanted to know why our bones were on the inside of our body, not the outside. I told her bones on the outside would be too crunchy, and bit her. That would dissuade most children, but not GoofGirl. So I tried to explain evolution, but her follow-up questions quickly outstripped my knowledge.
Look what your daughter did, I told MamaGoof when I came downstairs to find GoofGirl had packed the lunches and made breakfast for herself and her brother. "Should we let her make dinner, I wonder what she can make without knives or heat?"
Then, while studying her atlas, she asks MamaGoof why they mostly speak Spanish in America. "Come talk to your daughter," MamaGoof calls. I tell her about Columbus, but that isn't enough. Why didn't the Native American make people in Europe speak their language? I explain about the missionaries, technology, and disease.
"Your daughter says laundry looks like fun, you should take advantage of this," I tell MamaGoof.
Upon receipt of her allowance, GoofGirl asked, "Where does money come from?" MamaGoof answered, "The bank."
But that wasn't good enough. "Go ask your father!"
We talked about gold and the Federal Reserve.
"Mi Nina, I know you want to help. But please, just let me make dinner," I pleaded as GoofGirl tried to hustle me out of the kitchen.
"But daddy, I need to know how to do these things, for when I'm a mommy."
"I'll make a deal, stay out of the kitchen and while I fix dinner, I'll tell you how the solar system works."
"Sweetheart, I don't know why dogs bark and cats meow. If you wait until your father gets home and ask him, I'll let you help me do the dishes. Deal?"
Come talk to your daughter, MamaGoof calls when GoofGirl won't accept MamaGoof's answer to a question. GoofGirl wanted to know why our bones were on the inside of our body, not the outside. I told her bones on the outside would be too crunchy, and bit her. That would dissuade most children, but not GoofGirl. So I tried to explain evolution, but her follow-up questions quickly outstripped my knowledge.
Look what your daughter did, I told MamaGoof when I came downstairs to find GoofGirl had packed the lunches and made breakfast for herself and her brother. "Should we let her make dinner, I wonder what she can make without knives or heat?"
Then, while studying her atlas, she asks MamaGoof why they mostly speak Spanish in America. "Come talk to your daughter," MamaGoof calls. I tell her about Columbus, but that isn't enough. Why didn't the Native American make people in Europe speak their language? I explain about the missionaries, technology, and disease.
"Your daughter says laundry looks like fun, you should take advantage of this," I tell MamaGoof.
Upon receipt of her allowance, GoofGirl asked, "Where does money come from?" MamaGoof answered, "The bank."
But that wasn't good enough. "Go ask your father!"
We talked about gold and the Federal Reserve.
"Mi Nina, I know you want to help. But please, just let me make dinner," I pleaded as GoofGirl tried to hustle me out of the kitchen.
"But daddy, I need to know how to do these things, for when I'm a mommy."
"I'll make a deal, stay out of the kitchen and while I fix dinner, I'll tell you how the solar system works."
"Sweetheart, I don't know why dogs bark and cats meow. If you wait until your father gets home and ask him, I'll let you help me do the dishes. Deal?"
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Inevitable Top Ten List
In a word, “Yes.”
If I have any readers with strong feelings about slighted posts, let me know – I’d love the feedback (hell, I’d just be happy to know I have reader!)
Top Ten Father Goof Posts of All Time – So Far
10. I consider my duty to teach the little Goofs comedy classics, and sometimes the set-up is just too perfect, such as here where the morning paper helped me riff on “Who’s on First.
9. Telling kids old jokes is nice, but it is really satisfying when they can turn them around on you.
8. Here is my Nobel nominated plan to re-start the economy, centered on mandatory show & tell..
7. This post is a short guide to a crucial subject all parents must understand, the economics of babysitting.
6. GoofGirl gave me a a report card on my fathering.
5. Caffeine is the fuel of parenting, but it is not always an ally – more like a frenemy.
4. A mommy-blogger extraordinaire asked my thoughts on first days at a new school.
3. You won’t believe what I find to be the biggest single surprise of parenthood.
2. This entry tells the story of How I met Mama Goof, the kids thought it was gross.
1. This is a letter I wrote my brother on his first Fathers Day as a dad, where – for once – I told him the real truth about fatherhood.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Gross Gift from Grandpa Goof
I think it looks like something else (use a bit of imagination), and I kind of don't like being in the same room with it. So I did what any sensible son would do. I casually mentioned to my parents how much my brother liked it.
"You should definitely leave it to him in the will," I tell them, frequently.
"Funny," my dad responded, "Just the other day, your brother was telling me how much he liked it but that you liked it even more and I should definitely leave it to you in the will."
"I don't know what to say." I didn't know what to say.
"Isn't it great, how all three of us appreciate the same sculpture. You know, I have an idea?"
"Bury it deep underground so it doesn't become a point of contention between your children?"
"No, I'll get in touch with the artist and commission one for each of you. I plan to be around for awhile, and I hate to deprive you both of sculptures you like."
"Great?"
"And you know what else is neat," my father continued, oblivous, "When you own a sculpture you can touch it, you can appreciate its feel. Come, feel this part, it's like coral..."
Friday, February 24, 2012
Ten Days as a Single Dad
MamaGoof is in LA, minding her aging parents (we lost her beloved aunt a year and a half ago). She had to extend the trip, which means things are not good. That leaves me single dadding for the time being. No problem, I’ve got this down – for the most part. I am not saying I am superdad, by any means – I’m not! But I’m probably at least a journeyman. I know all the tricks – playdates, judiciously deployed TV (you don’t want to use it too often it leaves them hyper and listless – like feeding them candy), and of course adventures. I keep them fed (I can’t cook – but I can prepare food so we do eat things besides pizza.)
Still, it gets wearing. In downtown DC on Presidents Day visiting the memorials the little Goofs got whiney and I snapped at them. GoofBoy observed, “I wish mommy were here, she is nicer.”
I replied, “That’s not true – I am pretty nice. I’ve seen plenty of times when mommy got really mad with you too. The difference is when I’m mad, mommy takes you and when mommy gets frustrated I can take over. But now it is just me, so after a while you can see why I might get a little irritated?”
But we had a snack, which perked up GoofGirl and then I found out that GoofBoy had a homework crisis. It was a crisis I could have resolved anytime over the extended weekend but GoofBoy had to wait until late Monday afternoon. Still, a couple phone calls and emails (smartphones are an important parenting tool) and it was resolved and GoofBoy’s mood also improved.
But it isn’t all me. The little Goofs have stepped up to the plate. GoofGirl combines the wonderful virtues of being extremely picky about food and being hungry all the time. I admit my Shabbat dinners leave much to be desired compared to the wonderful steaks MamaGoof usually grills – but I have very little patience for food-oriented complaints. (In fairness, MamaGoof had made most of this stuff – I was just re-heating it.) I also don’t really care if the little Goofs eat. I believe there are two types of parents – those who are worried if the children are getting enough to eat and those who don’t. I am of the latter camp; MamaGoof is of the former (I would bet that a statistically valid study could be done that finds those categories overlap perfectly with parents who worry that the children will be cold or not.) My logic is that in our house food is plentiful. If kids won’t eat it, they can suffer the consequences.
GoofGirl’s attitude at dinner was perturbing me. But GoofBoy stepped in and talked to his sister. Calming her, telling her if she would just eat a little of the meat he would finish it. I walked away and GoofGirl ate.
GoofGirl has also tried to be helpful. She has begged to do laundry, as clothes piled up. MamaGoof won’t let me touch the dirty clothes, although I finally had to. No one tell her – fortunately she doesn’t read my blog! She gets up early and makes her own breakfast and this morning as I was rushing she easily stepped in – without being asked – and made lunch for herself and her brother. Packing school lunches is my parental Achilles heel.
Love my kids and I don’t know how I could be a dad without them!
Still, it gets wearing. In downtown DC on Presidents Day visiting the memorials the little Goofs got whiney and I snapped at them. GoofBoy observed, “I wish mommy were here, she is nicer.”
I replied, “That’s not true – I am pretty nice. I’ve seen plenty of times when mommy got really mad with you too. The difference is when I’m mad, mommy takes you and when mommy gets frustrated I can take over. But now it is just me, so after a while you can see why I might get a little irritated?”
But we had a snack, which perked up GoofGirl and then I found out that GoofBoy had a homework crisis. It was a crisis I could have resolved anytime over the extended weekend but GoofBoy had to wait until late Monday afternoon. Still, a couple phone calls and emails (smartphones are an important parenting tool) and it was resolved and GoofBoy’s mood also improved.
But it isn’t all me. The little Goofs have stepped up to the plate. GoofGirl combines the wonderful virtues of being extremely picky about food and being hungry all the time. I admit my Shabbat dinners leave much to be desired compared to the wonderful steaks MamaGoof usually grills – but I have very little patience for food-oriented complaints. (In fairness, MamaGoof had made most of this stuff – I was just re-heating it.) I also don’t really care if the little Goofs eat. I believe there are two types of parents – those who are worried if the children are getting enough to eat and those who don’t. I am of the latter camp; MamaGoof is of the former (I would bet that a statistically valid study could be done that finds those categories overlap perfectly with parents who worry that the children will be cold or not.) My logic is that in our house food is plentiful. If kids won’t eat it, they can suffer the consequences.
GoofGirl’s attitude at dinner was perturbing me. But GoofBoy stepped in and talked to his sister. Calming her, telling her if she would just eat a little of the meat he would finish it. I walked away and GoofGirl ate.
GoofGirl has also tried to be helpful. She has begged to do laundry, as clothes piled up. MamaGoof won’t let me touch the dirty clothes, although I finally had to. No one tell her – fortunately she doesn’t read my blog! She gets up early and makes her own breakfast and this morning as I was rushing she easily stepped in – without being asked – and made lunch for herself and her brother. Packing school lunches is my parental Achilles heel.
Love my kids and I don’t know how I could be a dad without them!
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