GoofGirl's Magical Christmas

We are pretty Jewish, so Christmas is not a thing for us. I actually had to go out of my way to make sure the little Goofs had basic information about Christmas since they live in a country where about 300 million people celebrate (I didn't work that hard, this primarily consisted of showing them Christmas specials and the terrific Will Ferrell movie Elf.)

In fact, we are so not into Christmas, we often can't even be bothered to do Jewish Christmas (you know, going to the movies and eating Chinese food.) This is for the best, since somehow this has caught on and everyone is doing it. While some may complain that this is ruining a Jewish tradition, I see it as flattery. In the United States Jews are, overall admired and respected, so everyone else figures if the Jews are doing it maybe it's a good idea. (Here's a rundown about our typical Christmas experiences.)

Anyway, I kept joking that everyone couldn't wait to wake up early this morning and see what presents had been left for them under the tree. This was ludicrous on a lot of levels, most notably that the little Goofs were coming off of eight days of presents (and thanks to China even cheap presents are pretty awesome.)

But GoofGirl, took my words to heart and wanted to make sure I got a little Christmas.

"Daddy, there's a present for you under the Christmas Tree!" she announced. "I made the special Christmas wrapping paper myself!"

So this year, I got to open a Christmas present. It was actually something of mine that she wrapped up, but the presents aren't the point. It was the spirit of Christmas.

Knee Football & Remembrance of Things Past

I recently mentioned GoofGirl's surprising prowess on the gridiron. She comes by it honestly, I too had a moment of glory playing football. Well, not football, knee football.

When I was in high school we had a gym teacher who combined the virtues of fundamental disinterest in the standards of his profession with a a great desire to be amused. He was a great football coach. But he was not interested in much of anything else. So rather than go through the standard gym (it's called phys ed now of course) stuff, he would either not pay attention to us at all. The class would just do whatever the hell it wanted - which seemed to primarily to be to throw a ball at me. FUN!

(I should add, this gym teacher inspired my first not-awful comedy bit when I took a stab at being a stand-up comedian: Due to budget cutbacks, the school had to let the football coach teach history. "The equator is the 50 yard line of the world!")

Or he would invent some odd activity to keep him interested. The best of these was knee football. He had the class line up by weight. (I was towards the bottom, weighing in at a solid 108 pounds of raw hormonal nerve.) We then counted off, odds on one side, evens on the other. Knee football is football, but played on wrestling mats and well, you move about on your knees, and tackling can turn into wrestling.

The gym teacher would call out a range of numbers say, 4 through 9, and the guys who counted those numbers would come out - on their knees, odds vs. evens - and play a round of football.

For some reason, that simply boggles the mind, I was fantastic at this game. I caught passes, I wrestled kids down, and I was surprisingly quick running across the floor on my knees. I was called out for three plays and I scored a touchdown each time.

I might have been because I was mostly going up against the other skinny weak non-athletic kids. I don't know. But it was a glorious day.

We never played again.

A sport at which I excelled, no matter how inane, could not be allowed to exist in the world.

Years later, over dinner, I was telling my family about it. They harangue me for stories of my youth, which are we funnier than the youth they are actually living. So I told them about knee football and how awesome I was at it!

Mama Goof looked at me and said, "I wish I had known about this."

"Because it makes me even more awesome," I suggested.

"No," she replied, "I would never have married anyone who played knee football. It sounds so weird."

Goofy Gratitude

Turkey has been eaten, football has been watched, and drinks have been spilled. Thanksgiving is winding down and I thought I'd take a minute to think about the things for which I'm grateful.

Obviously there are the big things - my freedom from want, my safety and health, my two great kids, and being married to MamaGoof. These are all big things, I should be grateful for them every day (although sometimes I forget.)

But sometimes it is the little things that turn a bad day into a good one, or a good day into a great day. So here are a few little things for which I'm grateful.

Good Guidance Counselors
The little Goofs are sensitive kids who are good at discussing their feelings and troubles. On the whole, this serves them well. If you can discuss it, you can process it, and not let it consume you. (Not that the little Goofs are particularly troubled, but they get upset and anxious - just like any normal person.)

But sometimes it is a bit much for me (and I'm not always helpful).

I try to listen, express concern, and be helpful. But I have my limits. I don't want to discourage this positive (really wonderful) tendency, but sometimes I'm out of gas and just can't give them the attention they deserve.

Fortunately, their school has terrific guidance counselors. Knowing that the burden of listening and absorbing their troubles is not completely on my shoulders is a huge relief. I always want them to tell me what's up, but I almost always also recommend that they talk to the guidance counselors.

No Football
GoofBoy really, really likes football. A LOT! If his school had a football team, he would play on it. Unfortunately, football is an excellent way to acquire concussions. As much as GoofBoy loves to play pretty much every game that exists, genetics ensures that he will not be terribly good (better than I ever was, but not scholarship material.) He is going to make his living off of his brains, and i would just as soon they not be rattled.

Fortunately, I don't have to order no football. His school doesn't have a team, so there is no issue.

Built in Baby-Sitting
GoofBoy is 13. Under Jewish law he is now a man, more importantly under state law he is old enough to stay home and mind his sister. (At 10 she really doesn't need his minding, and in fact she looks after him.) MamaGoof and I are free to go out on weekend nights - or really anytime we want. We have taken advantage of this some, and we will do so even MORE! We can go out to eat, to the movies, whatever we want. We frankly have no idea what to do with our freedom - but we'll learn.

When we leave them, they carefully plan attack strategies should there be an intruder. They array traps and weapons around the house. We live in boring suburbs, but it amuses them.

Sibling Affection
And that brings me to the final little things for which I am grateful. My kids get along. I don't have to worry that if we go out the kids will fight all night. More importantly, it means for a quieter house, the two of them aren't yelling at each other all the time.

To me this is remarkable because based on the relationship my brother and I had, I did not know this was possible. That being said, I wouldn't settle their squabbles. I'd probably just let them fight it out. But, I do appreciate the quiet and that they help each other out.

So those are my small blessings. Think about yours.

GoofGirl on the Gridiron

GoofBoy is obsessed with sports. He runs track and plays baseball. But I am constantly amazed at the depth of his sports knowledge. I know he lives and breathes NFL (he is in approximately 200 fantasy leagues). He also likes baseball. But somehow he is also up on hockey and even University of Maryland sports. I work there and have no idea what the teams are up to.

But GoofGirl, while a big strong girl, has not had quite the affinity for sports. Although in fairness, I think I haven't been as pro-active in finding her team sport activities. (With her brother it was easy, since all of his friends were on teams, most of her friends were not.) But she goes back and forth. She says she'd like to play, but at camp when she was on a team she opted to be a cheerleader instead. (I don't care if she plays sports or not, but I could do without her being a cheerleader.)

But then I hear about PE (the teachers get upset when we call it gym.) She had a dispute with the teacher because she wasn't with her preferred group. She explained, they were playing football. The class divided into a competitive group and a more casual group. The former was all boys and the latter was mostly girls (although I think I would have been in the latter if only that option had existed when I was 10.)

My daughter wanted to play with the boys and the PE teacher wanted her with the casual group. GoofGirl made her case and the PE teacher relented. Not a surprise to me - or anyone that has ever argued with her.

Turns out, she was a real asset. She is still taller than all the boys and thus excelled at defense, knocking down passes. But best of all, she scored a touchdown. The other team didn't guard her, since she was a girl. So they planned play where they passed to her and - TOUCHDOWN!

(GoofBoy gets partial credit, somehow his obsession has leaked into her by osmosis.)

I am very pleased with GoofGirl's academics, and that is what is really important. But somehow, against my better judgment, I am absurdly proud of everything about her football exploits.

Pelicula Attack or Why I don't speak Spanish

The other day, GoofBoy was visiting the Carpool Clan and he kept saying, “I’m so hungry, I wish there was a big plate of fried molcajete to eat.”

Carpool Dad finally told GoofBoy, “You know molcajete is a stone bowl used for grinding stuff.”

“I know,” GoofBoy answered cheerfully, “But my dad loves the way the word sounds so he keeps saying things like that to make my mom crazy.”

Every adult present laughed because – well – they know me.

MamaGoof is a fluent Spanish speaker and yet somehow, despite over 20 years together, I haven’t managed to learn Spanish. It is possible that I am a few scoops short of a sundae. There is plenty of evidence for this theory, but I think MamaGoof has incentives to prevent me from becoming bilingual.

I fall in love with the sound of words, like película. That is the Spanish word for movie. But MamaGoof at the instant she taught me the word, realized to her endless regret, that as soon as I heard it I envisioned a huge pelican with fangs.

(The attached pictures that capture what I see in my head when I hear the word pelicula come from a neat Washington Post article about ancient flying vertebrates and a neat sight called called Kids Dig Dinos - visit them if you actually want to learn something rather than reading my drivel.)

“Aiii! It is el película!” I would scream in terror or, “You know what would be a great película? El Película vs. El Chupácabra!”

The salt in this linguistic wound is of course that película is feminine, so I should, properly, be yelling “¡la película!” in terror (which might be appropriate when we sit down to watch the next Sharknado.)

When I actually try to speak Spanish, the results aren’t much better. Since my Spanish is at the level of a two year old, my conversation is similar to that of a two year old.

¡Yo quiero un oso blanco! (I want a polar bear.)

¿Dónde está el burro? (Where is the donkey?)

¡Yo quiero comer el molcajete! (I want to eat the molcajete!)

As it happens I do speak a bit of Spanish – enough to communicate with children and surprise people. Once when GoofGirl was an infant, we were shopping and MamaGoof headed down an aisle to find something. I stayed along the side with GoofGirl and the cart. A wizened Latino saw my little girl and came up to her and grinned – just looking (a sentiment I certainly understood).

“¡La muñeca!” he whispered.

“That’s right, she’s my little doll,” I answered.

His eyes grew huge and he jumped back, exclaiming, “¡El blanco!”

I also issue basic commands to my children in Spanish. One afternoon, while the little Goofs were over at Carpool Clan manor (notice how many of these stories start this way), Carpool Gal asked if I really knew any Spanish.

“Watch this,” I told her.

“¿Que haces niño?”

GoofBoy dutifully looked up, “Nothing dad, just playing. CarpoolGal was unimpressed, “That’s it?” she asked.

“¡Ven aquí niño!”

Summoned, GoofBoy ran up to me, “What’s up dad?”

“Nothing buddy, go play.”

CarpoolGal nodded approvingly.

“¡Niño, no hagas eso!” I yelled.

GoofBoy, at the other end of the yard looked up, shocked, “Dad, I’m not doing anything! Really!”

“See,” I told Carpool Gal, “I know some Spanish.”

But not too much, and that’s just the way MamaGoof wants to keep it.

Betrayed: Rotten Rice

At the viewing, before my mother-in-law's funeral, I was puttering around on Facebook. (Don't judge - I was a good son-in-law and husband, taking the kids, being supportive - everything I could be. But at a Catholic funeral there can be hours of sitting around. Stepping outside for a stretch to clear my head was well within bounds.)

I saw a post. Baltimore Ravens running back Ray Rice was offering a signed picture of himself to anyone who made a donation of a certain amount to his anti-bullying charity.

I MADE that donation. I put it in my mother-in-law's name for my son. I told no one.

A few weeks later, GoofBoy came home from a bad day at school to an unexpected package. When he opened it, to find a signed photo of his hero, he was ecstatic. When MamaGoof saw that it was "from" abuelito to her beloved grandson, she cried a little. It was one last gift from a generous, generous woman.

The two Rays were the big heroes on the Ravens, Ray Lewis and Ray Rice. Lewis had his own checkered past and, we encouraged GoofBoy to adore (as only a little boy can) the squeaky clean, hyper-decent Ray Rice. Both little Goofs had "Hey Diddle Diddle Ray Rice up the middle" t-shirts that they wore with pride.

Now I think of that signed photo, and in my mind's eye, it is a steaming pile of crap.

I hope Ray Rice can overcome whatever demons drove him to brutally beat his wife. I hope he turns his life around and becomes the leading advocate against domestic abuse (I know the odds here aren't great).

BUT he beat a woman, that just isn't done. And we loved him because we were sure he would never do something like that.

A steaming pile of crap.

I know of one organization that does important work against domestic abuse. If you are so inclined, a donation can be made here.