Rainy Sunday Save

Sunday was a bit dreary last weekend. Little League was cancelled, and the little Goofs looked ahead at a long day in front of the TV. If I were a good parent, I would have taken them somewhere. But sometimes my energy lags, and I have my own things to do. But Carpool Buddy's dad called and suggested we take the sluggers to the battings cages. We got there early enough that there wasn't a crowd and we rented a cage for just our two. The switched off for about forty minutes before some friends arrived and we shared with them. The adults did not take turns, unfortunately, but I did find out that a pitching machine only costs $2700 - which strikes me as very reasonable. I mentioned this to Mama Goof, but she shut down that discussion quickly. I was going to explain how I was going to build a hanger-like structure to contain the pitching machine in the backyard. She doesn't trust me to build things - she's right. Other dads gave very precise and detailed instructions about stance and swing. Unfortunately, we had a lot less knowledge to share CarPool Clan's dad is Canadian so he has an excuse to not know anything about baseball. I know a great deal about baseball, but none of it applies to the actual events on the field. I know anecdotes about Moe Berg (a pre-World War II catcher-spy) and a huge number of baseball statistics. Also, my baseball knowledge stops with the 1989 Orioles. So we encouraged our sons by stating the obvious: "Hit it!" "Swing hard!" "Keep your eye on the ball!" I urged GoofBoy to channel Johnny Mize - a Giants first-baseman who was known as the "Big Cat" and who retired before I was born and died almost a decade before GoofBoy was born. Still, a long Sunday yawned before us. GoofBoy planned to watch the Washington Capitals in the NHL playoffs. Mama Goof had the brilliant idea of calling one of his buddies, who he doesn't see to often. Worked perfectly. When the little Goofs have friends over, they are not permitted to just watch TV. Sometimes, a movie is part of the plan but not just sitting around watching TV. But sports are different, somehow that seems ok - almost social. It counts for GoofGirl too - although she isn't that interested in sports, but if she were it would. Am I wrong about this? For GoofBoy and his buddy, watching sports on TV is very much an activity. Besides all the yelling at the TV, they play ga-ga as they watch. Gaga is basically an Israeli dodgeball game in which the ball is rolled. From a parent's perspective this has the huge advantage that it can be played indoors and is less likely to damage the house. As a kid I considered it a huge improvement over regular dodgeball. I got out just as quickly, but a rolled ball was less likely to hit me in the head and break my glasses. It isn't impossible, but at least it didn't happen every single game. And what of GoofGirl? She had had gymnastics in the morning and had been up late the night before so she dozed and read. Then we got a surprise call from friends with younger children who wanted to go bowling (apparently they had begun to get cabin fever as well.) These two little boys love GoofBoy who is a natural camp counselor - and is just great with both of them. But GoofBoy was booked. Fortunately, they also love GoofGirl - who is always looking to polish her baby-sitting skills. So she went along, had fun bowling and playing grown-up mom. For a day with little promise of adventure, it turned out as a neat day for the little Goofs. Glad they have so many good friends to make this kind of surprise possible (without me having to do much of anything.)

Tooth Fairy vs. Disney: The Final Battle

Because GoofGirl is extremely interested in the political and social affairs of the Tooth Fairy realm I tend to tell her when friends and acquaintances lose teeth. If she knows the person she has a pretty good idea what kind of tooth fruit the planted tooth will yield (reminder, GoofGirl explained that Tooth Fairies need our teeth as seeds.) Thanks to Facebook and the awesome power to tell everyone everything all the time, I usually have a fair amount of datato share with her.

The other day, a little boy we know who is vacationing at Disney lost his tooth. Naturally, as we were going to bed I told her, but instead of describing the fruit from the boy’s teeth she got very concerned.

“Daddy, this is not good.”

“What’s wrong?”

“The Tooth Fairy and the Disney Princesses, they don’t like each other.”

“Why not?” I asked innocently. Since my day job involves modeling violent conflict, Ithought there might be a grant in this.

“No one really knows who started it. But they battle with magic, the whole world could be in danger!”

“Why would that be?”

“The Tooth Fairy isn’t allowed at Disney because the Princesses and Tinkerbell don’t like her. But if there is a tooth she’ll try to get it,” she rolled her eyes at me – clearly in a hurry to get to the control center and enact Toothcon Four.

Then she turned suddenly, “Daddy, do you know about this from Facebook?”

“I guess, sure,” I answered – getting nervous because she was takingall of this so seriously.

“Oh no, Daddy! The Tooth Fairy reads everything on the internet. Now she’ll know, she’ll try to go to Disney, the Princesses won’t let her in, they’ll battle with magic and we’ll all be doomed.”

“There’s nothing we can do?” I ask, knowing that she will really worry about this and never get to sleep.

“Send them a message. Tell them to glue the tooth back in and don’t talk about it anymore.”

“I don’t think you can glue a tooth back in.”

“Then tell them to mail it to their house. Get it out of Disney territory right away.”

“OK, you go to sleep now,” I told her in my most comforting voice.

She lay in bed, one arm extended up and cried, “Tell them Daddy, tell them!”

So I told them, sparking a very strange Facebook thread. If the world comes to end, you’ll know why. And if it doesn't, you'll know who to thank.

A Bedtime Story with Spiderman & Pop

When GoofBoy was little, the Spiderman movies were still new and he was fascinated. I didn’t want him to see the movies (he wasn’t ready) but he got the gist by osmosis – just like he learned the Star Wars movies before seeing them. Also, one time, at Costco we watched enough of Spiderman Two that GoofBoy had a pretty good handle on it. He would regale strangers, “Dr. Octopus is trying to build a fu-shion reactor and Spiderman has to stop him. Dr. Octopus has robot arms, and he has issues.”

I started telling him stories about another super-hero:

”Bubbe, I want some ice cream and we are all out!” Pop whined.

Why are you talking about Bubbe and Pop? You promised me a Spiderman story!

I just started, give it a minute.

“So go to the Wawa and get more,” Bubbe replied.

“But there’s too much traffic!”

“So fly!” Bubbe said, exasperated.

What’s zacerbated?

What I’m going to be if you don’t let me tell this story!

So Pop went down to his workshop and built a jetpack. He went upstairs, strapped it on, pushed the bottom and zoomed off to the Wawa to get some ChubbyHubby ice cream. When he got back home, Bubbe was furious! Pop’s jetpack had left ashes all over the house. So, after Bubbe was done yelling at him, Pop finished his ice cream and went back to his workshop.

He stayed down there a long time. When he finally came up, he had done it. He made, not a jetpack – but a heli-pack, powered by eating ice cream. Pop was having the best time, flying around town - thuk, thuk, thuk and eating ice cream. The best thing about it was that the ice cream went to power the heli-pack so Pop wasn’t getting chubby – in fact he was losing weight.

But one day, he went flying and he heard something pop in the propeller over his head. Suddenly he couldn’t steer, he was just flying around in giant circles – and he was running out of ice cream, which meant the heli-pack would run out of power. Just as he was on his last scoop of ChunkyMonkey, suddenly Spiderman swung by!

“Having some trouble?” the friendly neighborhood Spiderman asked?

“I am, my gyroscope is busted and I just keep flying in circles.”

Spiderman sat on the side of a nearby building and fired a web at the propeller. It stopped spinning, and Spiderman put Pop down on the sidewalk – right next to a Wawa.

“Thanks Spidey!” Pop yelled.

“No problem, Pop, you ok from here?”

“I think so, I owe you one!”

So Pop went into the Wawa where the store clerk yelled, “Hey Pop – what flavor ice cream today?”

All the Wawa clerks knew Pop. Pop got his ice cream, and some duct tape (you can fix anything with duct tape) and flew home.

A few days later, Spiderman was battling the Green Goblin by the Bay Bridge. The Green Goblin had captured Spiderman’s girlfriend and had her tied up and dangling over the water. But he also had rockets pointed at the bridge so that cars were going to fall into the Bay. There was no way he could save his girlfriend and the bridge.

Suddenly, from out of nowhere thuk, thuk, thuk, thuk, thuk.

It was Pop on his heli-pak eating rum raisin ice cream. He had followed the blinking lights. Spidey looked at Pop and nodded. Pop put down the ice cream and switched to reserve power.

Spidey moved in and slugged the Green Goblin with one hand and shot webs at the rockets with the other. When he dropped Spiderman’s girlfriend, Pop swooped in and grabbed her.

When they landed, Spiderman and Pop shook hands.

“Thanks Pop,” Spiderman said.

“Anytime!” Pop answered and he flew off into the night.

”Does Bubbe have adventures?” GoofBoy asked, hoping for yet another bedtime story.

The idea for this story had come to me in a vision of my father flying around town in a heli-pack, possibly inspired by images of Baron Harkonnen in the movie Dune. Suddenly, I had another vision, of my mom in aviatrix gear (bomber jacket, goggles, and scarf) flipping Amelia Earhart the bird.

“Oh yeah, when Pop gets lost, which happens a lot, Bubbe has to fly out and look for him.”

“Bubbe flies?”

“Sure, she flies an old Spitfire. Winston Churchill gave it to her.”

“Tell me! Tell me!”

As much as I wanted to do my Winston Churchill impression, it was enough.

“Another night Buddy.”

GoofBoy's Love/Hate Relationship with P.E.

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.

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.

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?"