Money Troubles

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.

Boys are from Rome/Girls are from Byzantium

So the little Goofs and I wander over to carpool buddy's house one weekend afternoon. This way Mama Goof will get a break. The carpool buddy clan actually has four children: carpool buddy who is Goofboy's age, a daughter who is Goofgirl's age, a daughter between the two (she's in the carpool too so we can call her "Carpool Gal"), and a younger son.

Goofboy and carpool buddy greet each other, grab a football, and go to the front yard. They practice running plays (which they have been known to do without a football at all - just spontaneously like characters in a musical, if they make musicals about football.) Then they square off for one-on-one bowl games. We don't hear from them again, unless there is a major wound. They are satisfied.

Goofgirl sees her friend and immediately they revive an ongoing dispute they have about who is who's friend. Apparently my daughter likes to blurt out at random several hundred times a day, "You aren't my friend!"

I am not sure if she is actually mad at anyone or if this is a sort of emotional sonar she has evolved in order to figure out who is paying attention to her. We had a little boy over and they played together for a long afternoon (they both like to wash their hands - an excuse to splash water.) But the next day at school, Goofgirl told him "You aren't my friend anymore."

The boy was crestfallen, having told his parents the night before that he hoped to marry my daughter.

Goofgirl's carpool clan counterpart (let's call her 3C) is made of sterner stuff. But she demands the truth, what did Goofgirl say! Carpool gal offered her services as a go-between. Of course, she had her own agenda - keeping the two mad at each other so she could play with one of them. Naturally, I stepped in, and using the same techniques I would have used with the boys, tried to identify an activity all three of them could jointly undertake. "Let's claim!" I proposed, "Let's race!"

I soon found myself but a pawn in a three-sided power struggle. 3C is a stickler for historical accuracy and had to get to the bottom of Goofgirl's verbal assault. Goofgirl denied everything, but carpool gal was more than prepared to remind everyone.

"Look," I said, "the important thing is not what my daughter said but that we find something fun we can all do together."

"No," 3C replied, "the important thing is what she said, because I think she said she wasn't my friend anymore."

"Right," chimed in carpool gal, "That's what she said, I heard it, she's not your friend anymore."

I look at my daughter, "Do you want to play here or not?"

"I do, but..."

"No buts, we have to find something we can all do together," I said firmly.

"She was going to say that she isn't my friend anymore," began 3C.

At this point I threw my hands up and walked away to have a beer with carpool dad. He told me that every night he cuddles up with 3C before bedtime and she proceeds to tell him, in exhaustive detail, everyone who has wronged her over that day. If he asks about events from days previous but mixes up names or specific events she corrects. It is for the best that 3C has no twin (besides the fact that I am running low on pseudonyms) because she would no doubt remember grievances suffered in utero. (Carpool mom is also pleased that they weren't twins, although she had another later so she might as well have gotten numbers three and four of the way all at once.)

I shared that when I bring Goofgirl home she details for me who did and who did not play with her in quiet room, which boys are smitten with her, and who can be in her secret club. I am strictly forbidden from belonging to the club (along with other stinky boys).

Historical Precedents

I told carpool dad about chat with my aunt, who had two boys and a girl. She said between her sons and the boys in the neighborhood there could be 40 kids in her yard. Games would be invented, leagues formed, championships held. Cars could be stripped to their component molecules and painstakingly reassembled. Fortifications were built, wars were waged, civilizations rose and fall. All before they were called home to dinner. My aunt never heard from from them (beyond the occasional sounds of heavy machinery.)

Injuries were taken in the time honored way of boys:

"Dude, is that blood?"

"Cool!"

"Walk it off."

However, my aunt reported, a playdate involving a plural number of little girls quickly devolved into arcane disputes involving notes and phone calls to outside honest brokers (who were never truly honest.) I imagine in this day of text messaging this will only be more complicated. Hopefully by the time my daughter is a teenager this can all be done with telepathy (which I - as an old fogey - will never quite understand) and then she can fight with her friends silently. If she can keep it quiet I'll pay when she goes over her mental minutes.

Carpool dad and I sip our beers, talking about men and women and the evolution of civilization. Boys are builders and breakers (mostly breakers), girls have mastered intrigue (although maybe I shouldn't talk since my wife invariably fixes broken things at our house).

The girls have found some complicated game to play, that breaks every few minutes for negotiations. From the front yard we hear an oddly beefy sound - as though a football had hit someone in the head. Then we hear the immortal words, "Walk it off, or they might make us quit."

Logarithm of the Flies

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.

PuppyBowl Disappointments

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."

The Canadian Way on Canada Day

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!

Coconut Fears

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.

Kickboxing Confusion

Little Dragons is doing a kickboxing unit. When we told my son he began to cry, so I asked him why and he said, "I don't want to go in a box. What if I can't kick out of it?"

"They don't put you in a box," I told him.

"Oh, so you kick boxes until they break?"

"No, there are no boxes, it's just called that. It is just like karate but with a lot of kicking."

The next day in carpool he told his carpool buddy, "Next time at karate, we do kickboxing!"

"What's kickboxing?"

My son told his friend, "They put you in a big dark box, and you have to kick your way out!"

Carpool buddy started to cry.

Geometry of Parenthood

Proposition 20 of Euclid's Book I reads:

In any triangle two sides taken together in any manner are greater than the remaining one.

My old textbook (which my wife has been hounding me to throw out) a footnote remarks that Proclus (another ancient geometer) reported that it was the habit of the Epicureans to ridicule this theorem because:

"Even an ass knows that. If fodder is placed at one angular point and the ass at another, the ass won't walk the two sides of the triangle but just the one side. Booyah."

Proclus would respond,

"Oh no you didn't! Mere perception of the truth is different from a scientific proof of it and a knowledge of the reason why it is true."

It was even more devastating in Greek.

I mention this because the assertion that even the ass knows to walk a straightline shows five year olds in an interesting light. Everyday I pick-up my son and carpool buddy and struggle with their inability to walk in a straight line. For example, when I drop carpool buddy off, rather than making a beeline from my car to his front door he takes an elliptical approach that occasionally takes him into neighbors' yards. So, are five year-olds dumber than asses? "What," Proclus would no doubt ask, "Does this say about the human capacity to reason, about logos?"

Or, are five-year olds brilliant? Just as Einstein shattered Newtonian physics showing that space curves, Euclidean geometry also withered before the assault of modernity. Lobchevsky (yes, the one from the Tom Lehrer song) argued that a line lying perpendicular across two parallel lines does not intersect them at exactly 90 degrees because space curves. So perhaps, when my charges are wandering in what to my, aged eyes are parabolic routes they are in fact simply perceiving the curves in space and navigating them.

Or they could just be a pair of dumbasses.

Inclusive Little Goofs

When GoofBoy came home from his first summer at Camp Ramah several years ago, one of the very first things he told us about was meeting and getting to know the kids in the special needs program. He relished his time with them. Many had limited vocabularies, but he appreciated how funny they could be given their limited tools to communicate.

Each year GoofBoy was a "buddy" to one kid. He took walks with him on Shabbat and visited with him regularly throughout his time at the camp. One year his buddy was there for eight weeks, but GoofBoy was only there for four. He was disconsolate when he learned GoofBoy was leaving. But GoofBoy introduced him to some of his friends who would be there all eight weeks and could keep him company.

GoofGirl also spent time with the kids in the special needs program. She mentioned visiting them to play games and to dance. She said not every kid in her bunk went out of their way to spend time with the special needs kids, but no one was mean to them - all the kids treated them with respect.

But this inclusive attitude wasn't learned at camp, just encouraged. The little Goofs brought it with them and, as always, I am very proud and touched by their deep kindness. (They are also great about visiting sick, elderly relatives and friends - no easy thing for children, or adults for that matter.)

One day during carpool we saw a social services bus in front of a house. A wheelchair-bound young man who we know from synagogue was being taken to the van. GoofBoy and Carpool Buddy enthusiastically exclaimed, "We know him from shul! So that's where he lives!"

Another time we were sitting at Panera's having lunch. A man sitting near us we gesticulating (a little) and muttering. Out of the corner of my eye I diagnosed him as having Tourette syndrome. In the car on the way home I asked if they had noticed him. They hadn't. I asked if it might have bothered them.

The boys answered in chorus, "No way! Why would it? There was a guy with Tourette on American Idol. He was awesome!"

As it happens, I have a pair of developmentally disabled cousins. They are in their 60s now. One is in a group home near us and comes to our synagogue. The little Goofs are always nice to them and happy to see them. They mention them proudly. My cousins have been told they are "uncles" and are very pleased with this.

This is all very different from when I was a kid. I don't remember us being particularly interested in special needs kids, and almost certainly not particularly nice or respectful.

This is different and different can be wonderful.

People with special needs face enormous challenges to living full lives. But the distances they have come have been enormous and the changing attitudes of today's kids hold promise for an even more inclusive future.

Carpool Tales

For various reasons Father Goof sends his son to a private school. This requires carpooling, which creates an odd kind of extended family.

Because Father Goof is both the least gainfully employed and least useful adult member of this extended family, he gets the toughest carpool duty - afternoon pickup. Every afternoon I ask my son and his carpool buddy what they learned today. And every afternoon they reply in desultory fashion, "Nothing."

I keep thinking, for what I pay in tuition, I should get more than "Nothing." I should be amused, entertained. They should be regular Scheherazades back there regaling me with a 1001 Carpool Afternoons.

Better still, to really see my tuition dollars at work, I'd like the school to pick the Little Goof up by helicopter.

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.

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.)

Walk for the Clueless

In carpool I always ask my son and his carpool buddy, "What did you do in kindergarten today?"

Earlier this week my son told me he had gone on a walk to "find the homeless."

"Do you mean, help the homeless?" I asked.

"Yeah, and I found a lot of homeless. Like seven!"

His buddy interjected, "That's not a lot. I found a super-lot, like forty homeless."

Monkwatch! Our Summer Camp Game

Over the summer, when the little Goofs aren't at sleep-away camp, on a family vacation, or lounging around the house binge-watching Sabrina the Teenage Witch (thanks Amazon Prime!), they go to a regular summer day camp.

Day camp is the worst part of their summer, but these things are relative of course - their summer camp is awesome with a combination of low-key sports, creative activities, and just general horsing around. The little Goofs go to Jewish Day School and attend a Jewish sleep-away camp so there is a fair amount of overlap in the kids going. At their day camp they have a whole different set of friends who - shockers - aren't Jewish.

Once I asked GoofBoy about staying in touch with his camp buddies during the year. He was philosophical. "Dad, when I have a friend over we hang for about five hours. But at camp, I hang with these guys for eight solid hours. This isn't like school where we have stuff to do and only hang at lunch. This is camp, we just play and goof off the whole time! So that's like 160 hours, a year of hang-time. Except for maybe Carpool Buddy, I don't see any of my year round friends that much!"

I've said it before, I'll say it again, the kid isn't just smart, he's wise!

Many of their friends go to all kinds of specialty camps for basketball, robotics, you name it. Part of me worries that my kids are falling behind not getting these intensive courses. But on the other hand, they would want separate courses which means extra driving for me. Fortunately, they've rendered the point moot. They want to keep going to their regular summer camp. Why mess with a good thing?

Regular camp has regular overnights. Part of me should be upset that after four weeks away from home, the little Goofs cannot wait to go on the overnights. Is it because home life is so terrible they can't wait to escape it? I don't worry too much about it. After spending a big chunk of the summer completely on my own, I was not thrilled to suddenly have all these people in my house again.

The regular summer camp has an interesting feature, it is next to a Buddhist Center and as we drive in we occasionally see monks in flowing orange robes. They are exotic and inspiring figures, so I instituted Monkwatch - where we try to spot monks. The kids also play when MamaGoof drives, but she doesn't care - it's kind of a daddy thing, I get pretty bored driving carpool.)

Many days there are no monks to be seen. But some days we see one meditating outside. Often there is a monk clearing out the back parking lot with a leaf-blower. Did he do something bad in a past life to warrant leaf-blowing duty? It doesn't seem like a very contemplative role, but that's the point of being a monk I guess, finding serenity and meaning where others cannot.

We've had a number of false alarms. One morning we thought we saw a monk, but it was just a guy in an orange polo shirt. Another afternoon, we thought we saw a monk, bent over working in the garden but as we drove by it turned out to be a traffic cone.

It turns out, the Buddhist center also has special summer programs. Buddhism has dietary restrictions that nicely dovetail with the laws of kashrut, and it would be a great chance to make non-Jewish friends. But no overnights, so the little Goofs weren't interested. Too bad, they'd be adorable in little orange robes.

Hebrew & Hieroglyphs at Open House

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.

Rubbing off the Pigskin

There are a lot of things that regular people - the vast majority of people - do, that I just don't.  I've mentioned before my inability to even express polite interest in music.  Another one is football, don't care not interested, moving along.  To be honest I am not completely clear on the rules - beyond the fact that it is a sophisticated version of the game I used to play with my brother: "get past me."  This game was extra fun on the stairs, because it drove BubbeGoof crazy - she thought one of us would fall to the floor and crack open our skulls.  From our perspective, this  was, of course, the entire point.

GoofBoy however is obsessed with football.  When he was little, he and Carpool Buddy, bored at a party for grown-ups went outside to run plays.  They didn't have a ball, they just pretended.  I mentioned to CarpoolDad that I had a football in my car, but he just said, "Let's see how long they'll go without a ball."

All afternoon it turned out.

When we go to restaurants, if a football game is on GoofBoy will head over to the bar and talk sports with the bartender and any other patrons.  He is 11.

My primary interest in football revolves around stories about Art Donovan eating (in the 1950s eating 30 hotdogs was part of training) and insisting that if I had been governor of Maryland in 1984 (unlikely since I was 13) I would have mobilized the Maryland National Guard and invaded Indiana.

I do root for the Ravens, because when they lose GoofBoy is inconsolable.  He is sad for his team and terrified of the merciless torment he will take at school the next day, where his math teacher is a Steelers fan and most of his classmates are Redskins fans.  (Have I mentioned he goes to Jewish day school where the quality of the hazing is, to say the least, sub-par?)

But he is my son and I am a loyal dad, so I try.  I've watched games with him just to keep him company, and even taken him to games.  Here is the thing, it has rubbed off.  His endless discourses on plays and players have given me a basic awareness of the game.

At a meeting recently, when talked shifted away from the matters at hand, everyone talked about football.  Normally in these circumstances I drift off and think about vice presidents, but somehow was caught up in a group and made appropriate noises for at least five minutes.  I went home and thanked GoofBoy, he earned it and as a reward, I tried to look interested as he told me something about the evolution of some sort of back, possibly a player on the offensive line or maybe on the defense - not sure, I started thinking about vice presidents.

Goofs in Autumn

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.

Little Goofs Read from the Torah

Memorial Day weekend was also the Jewish holiday of Shavuot, which celebrates the giving of the Torah. It is a big thing for Jews (and really for Western civilization). It was extra-special for the Goof Clan, because GoofBoy read Torah the Saturday afternoon, just before the holiday began.

It is traditional for Jews at 13 to read from the Torah before their congregation and establish their commitment to Judaism as an adult. But kids don’t have to wait until they are 13 – they can read the Torah to the congregation before that. It should be emphasized, that reading the Torah out loud isn’t just a matter of Hebrew fluency. It also requires learning a special trope that is just for the Torah. My synagogue has a wonderful and unique program run by a member who volunteers his time, in which kids learn to read from the Torah and are given the opportunity to do so. They get prizes when they reach certain milestones – after their first reading, third reading etc.

An important component of the program is to teach trope to other kids. So on Saturday mornings at our synagogue we have a group of children teaching one another to read from the holy text of the Jewish people. It is as inspiring as it sounds.

GoofBoy is an enthusiastic participant. One of his motivations is that he is a bit behind Carpool Buddy, who has a mom and dad who can help him. For me this is yet another area where GoofBoy has surpassed me completely. Regardless, everything about this makes me proud of him. That he is learning his way around the central text of the Jewish people, that he is self-motivated to do this, and that he actually reads hard stuff out loud in public with aplomb.

Oh, and one more thing. When I was bar mitzvahed, several hundred years ago I fought and complained and refused to study. For me, and unfortunately most Jews, the bar mitzvah is a one off – the kid studies for that particular event but does not acquire the broader skill of reading Torah. My parents (the GrandGoofs) were terrified that I would flub the whole thing because of my refusal to prepare. No problem with GoofBoy – he already knows how to do it. In two years when it is bar mitzvah time he’ll own this. Anything involving a 13 year old is bound to be stressful, but this will take one small piece of that away.

GoofGirl’s Trial by Fire
GoofBoy is a natural leader and innovator. One of the great things about Torah Club is that younger siblings are inspired to learn to read the Torah watching their elder siblings. GoofGirl is too young to join the program, but she can’t wait and kept begging her brother to teach her.

So, Sunday morning – during Shavuot – GoofBoy acquiesced and began teaching his sister. She was a ready student (she knows Hebrew pretty well too.) Still, any beginner makes mistakes with the trope. Usually the teacher gently corrects the student. But GoofBoy had a different idea for motivation. Every time his sister made a mistake, he shot her with a Nerf gun. That was more fun for everyone (I think GoofGirl started flubbing it on purpose). GoofBoy is going to propose Nerf Gun firing squad as a regular Torah Club teaching method.

Up & Down Day for GoofBoy

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…

Puppies, Coyotes & Snakes, Oh My! Kids dealing with Scary Animals

The Carpool Clan (with four children) decided that they needed more mammals in their house – so they got a dog. It goes without saying that they are insane (although I should probably be nice since I rely on them to move my children about and leave my schedule open for blogging) It is a very sweet dog, an energetic, good-natured puppy that is very cute and – all things considered – well-behaved. His name – for the purposes of this blog and eternity – is Declan.

GoofGirl is terrified of him.

This is a real problem, since we visit all the time (3C is the go-to playdate when neither have anything to do.) But, whenever Declan came near her – romping as puppies do – she would run terrified. The puppy – being a puppy – was thrilled that the chase was on and would bound after her.

I was a frustrated, this was just a sweet puppy and if she would just stand still, he would ignore her and go find something disgusting to sniff. GoofGirl knew this. When the dog was secured on a leash or behind the screen door she tried to get to know him. She played with other dogs. But, when Declan slipped his leash and began bounding – GoofGirl fled.

I rebuked her sharply, but as someone wise pointed out, “Look, she’s really scared.”

This caused a little paradigm shift. Where I saw a sweet, tumbling puppy resembling a moving carpet that nips as a puppy will (they are training him not to). GoofGirl, being much shorter, saw a big fast-moving, unpredictable creature with teeth. Her brain told her he means no harm, but GoofGirl’s heart didn’t believe it for an instant.

I thought about looking into some sort of therapy – GoofGirl couldn’t just not go to her best friend’s house. But GoofGirl came to terms on her own. On an after-school outing she went with Declan to the vet (our lives are all a bit too intertwined.) She held his leash at the vets and got to know him a bit. She is still tentative, but not wracked with fear. Best of all, she asks to go see him. She’s a brave one.

---------

Other encounters haven’t gone so well. We are great friends with a spirited (and extraordinarily athletic) little boy who epitomizes daring and he loves GoofBoy. So one Shabbat afternoon he came home with us. But on the walk to our house we were having a good time exploring the woods close to our house. Our companion rushed down the hill to get to the stream. GoofBoy noticed something in the grass along the path.

“Check it out, a snake!” GoofBoy was excited at this discovery but his friend was not. He burst into tears and started yelling. I was some distance away. GoofBoy tried to calm him down, “Don’t worry. He’s more afraid of you. Just walk slowly back and leave him alone.”

“No, no, he’s gonna bite me! I’m gonna die.”

GoofBoy added, less helpfully, “I’m pretty sure it isn’t poisonous!”

Grown-up time.

“Buddy, not helpful,” I told GoofBoy then turned to our companion, “You want me to come get you?”

“Uh-huh!”

I rushed down. It was a pretty big snake, black snake. I don’t like snakes much myself. But it was just sitting there.

I went to pick him (the boy, not the snake – which may have been female) up, but as I did, he effectively climbed up me as if I were a tree. He was practically sitting on my head. We walked back up to the trail, giving our reptile acquaintance a very wide berth. He didn’t want me to put him down, declaring, through his tears, “But he’s gonna bite me!!! He has poison.”

When I finally did, he sprinted along the trail. Back at the house, GoofBoy got his big book of reptiles (from his kindergarten birthday party when we had a reptile guy come) and looked for what we saw. He found something that looked right and assured his friend that it wasn’t poisonous. I’m not sure GoofBoy’s calming words worked – unlike puppies, snakes are kind of an acquired taste.

-----------

GoofBoy had a sleepover at a friend’s house. While there, I chatted with the friend’s mom who mentioned that there was a coyote in their neighborhood.

“Cool!” I said.

She looked at me askance. She’s a New Yorker and not a fan of all this wildlife in suburbia.

“No! Now the cats and the boys can’t play in the backyard!”

“You should keep the cats inside, but your son will be fine.”

“Really?” she looked skeptical.

“Coyotes don’t mess with people –we are too big for them. Way more people are bitten by dogs. Just leave them alone and they’ll leave us alone.”

She looked skeptical.

“I promise I’m not making this up. There was a big article in the paper about this. Cities with large coyote populations have quickly developed education programs and really managed the problem. Don’t worry about it, let the boys play outside. And also, despite what you’ve seen on TV, there is no evidence of coyotes ever using explosives.”