Losing it

Once again I find myself writing about something I lost, something that perishes as I get older. This time its kiteboarding.

As we were driving to Charleston, S.C., I looked in the rear view mirror to see my surfboards that had once been tied to the roof of my car fall into the road and shatter like crystal. Fortunately no one was injured, and the only thing that suffered was my ego, made worse by the guy in the BMW that gave me the finger as he passed me, which I understood. I didn't like it but I understood.

Later that day, after the shock wore off and I found myself able to speak again, my wife suggested that maybe this was a message that perhaps I should give kiteboarding a rest for a while, and not replace the brand new board that I had just seen splayed on 95 South.

Honestly I thought about it before the words came out of her mouth. I have been learning how to kite surf for several years, and have seen moderate results. My image is not going to appear on Kiting Magazine any time soon, unless some one got a picture of the shattered board on the highway, which I may have mentioned earlier. But I did enjoy kiting. Any time I'm in the water, and there are waves around, I'm happy, but my progress was slow.

Before I made my mind up,  I was talking to my boys about going out kiting for the morning, they told me they wanted me to stay with them. Guilt. Sometimes this works and sometimes not. I was already feeling badly about the boards so this was compounded guilt, not the run-of-the-mill, simple guilt.

Either way, the boys were starting to embrace surfing and showing a real interest in the sport. I have always enjoyed surfing but it was put on the back burner a few years ago. The last two years it became something we did together. My sons started riding waves on my paddle board, then my nine foot longboard, then on a rented foam shortboard. Next we bought a Beater board, and this year my son got his first real shortboard.

Theres nothing like paddling out with my boys, I feel like a parent who just got his kids on honor roll.  My father used to stand on the beach and watch me surf, and there was an excitement about it, but being with my boys as they go through the learning is unmatched. Coaching them on body position, paddling technique and catching a wave helped me get better as well. Their progress is moving much faster than my did, which is good because it can be very frustrating. Some days I'm more of a cheerleader, trying to help give them confidence and get over the anxiety everyone feels when they try a new sport. Like any difficult sport, it gets easier over time and with support.

I am happy I can give them something we all could use more of, and again, what I got is better than what I lost.

The Musburger Effect

When did my kids turn into Brent Musburger?

I remember watching him, albeit briefly, in the 70’s and 80’s doing the NFL Today, spewing out statistics that both mystified and bored me. The guy looked like the last guy in the world that one could imagine to work in football. He looked like an accountant that just showed  up on the sideline that had an encyclopedic knowledge of every player and team that had ever touched the ball. Every now and again I would hear classmates discuss the “stats” and even started dabbling myself into this activity by reading the backs of football cards. This lasted about the time it took to chew the gum that came with the pack and it became evident that this was not a task I was going to enjoy.

So when my sons started telling me about quarterback ratings this season, it was novel. Frankly I didn’t know where they were getting the information. It seems like they went from not understanding four downs to calling plays they thought would be better than those chosen by offensive coordinators. When they go to school they trade information like currency.

I understand the power in information. I also was guilty of this once when a classmate referred to me as “Ernest”, my middle name, to the enjoyment of my peers. I thought I’d get the better of him and went home and memorized all twenty-five of my classmates middle names, then used them the next day, looking for revenge. When one of them accused me of going through the roster and memorizing the names, I just denied it and fell silent.

But I still wondered about the source of my son's information.

I soon realized this was due to their many hours spent playing Madden on XBox. While I don’t care that much for videogames, I was happier about this choice then, say, “Skull Crusher” or whatever shoot’em game is popular right now. But I was hesitant, and I expressed my views. When asked if I wanted to play I just said I prefer actual games. This led my boys to embark on an almost obsessive fascination with football.

While my interest is passive at best, as I watch games for the sheer entertainment value, theirs was much more active. Soon they started sharing season records of teams, not just NFL but college as well. For NFL players they knew where they went to college and what draft pick they were.

My passive, relaxing activity became a conversation piece.

“Dad, who do you want to win?”

“I’m not sure, who’s playing?”
“Notre Dame and Michigan.”
“Oh, I don’t think I care.”

“So maybe Michigan?”

“Sure.”

“Why, you don’t like the Notre Dame quarterback?”
“Actually, I really don’t care.”

Confused look from son, “then why are you watching?”

This conversation has been replayed infinite times throughout the season, and I have become much more defensive, often yelling “I don’t care” before the questions even start. Even games I may care about I have chosen not to, just to make a stand.

Thankfully this is coming to head as the season draws to an end. The only thing that stands between me and the end of factual recitations is the Super Bowl. I’m sure I will have to sit through discussions about the colleges players went to, who will be playing for whom next year and maybe even the names of the pets that the players have. I am reminded of the William Shatner skit on Saturday Night Live when someone at a Star Trek convention asked him if he had six or seven prize horses at this farm. Shatner’s response: “Get a life.”

If I could say this to my sons without guilt, I probably would, but it just seems so harsh, so I’ll sit through the Superbowl and listen to interesting facts about players I’ve never heard of, and probably take a side, just to appease my boys and share in their enthusiasm about the sport, because that really is what this is about. And I do secretly admire how much information they’ve managed to process.

Portrait of an in-House Soccer Family

There were 75 boys, all under 10, running around the AstroTurf field in the pouring rain, as the parents stood on the sidelines, huddled under umbrellas. The rain created puddles that were strategically placed on the sidelines forcing the parents to clump together, while trying to watch the plays, some even going so far as to coach their sons.

Eventually the sun came out but neither the heat nor the cold affected the boys, they were just trying to make the rec council travel team.

How many travel teams would there be? How many boys actually make it? Who's coming back from last season?

These were the mumbled questions every parent asked, hoping that someone was in the know. When we returned the following night, the sun already out, the questions continued. At the end of the tryout, call backs were announced. No one said who would get them, just that they were needed.

Then the waiting began. Two weeks went by, and we got the call. Once again I loaded the boys into the car and we played on the indoor field. Twenty boys at a time. It was like watching a life size pinball machine with four foot bumpers moving around the filed as the ball bounced wildly, occasionally ending up in the goal.

But we were hopeful.

A third team was added, we heard. The numbers added up. 75 boys started out for 36 spots. Two groups were asked back to the indoor field which makes 40. Only four would be cut. Certainly we were in that group.

One week later the email came that we did not make the team, no details given.

My son's disappointment lasted about one day. Everyone was talking about the process. It wasn't fair. It didn't give people a chance. It was biased.

Maybe all these claims were true. How could it not be biased? These were rec travel tryouts, not the junior Olympic team. The evaluators were regular volunteers, like me. How exactly were they supposed to pick? What really separates one player from another at this age?

I still don't know the answer to that question, so I look at the big picture. How is this going to affect my sons, or more specifically, how can I make them understand that this is life and we just keep rolling. Maybe it's for the better, maybe not. Move on.

So we did exactly what we had done in previous years and registered for the in-house league.

That brings me to this past weekend. My son scored five goals. It was one of those proud parent moments we all look forward to.

He achieved success this weekend. He pushed himself past his opponents in the spirit of competition. He learned about his own fortitude and connected with his talents. He saw his hard work pay off and he enjoyed himself, smiling the whole time he was on the field.

There is nothing wrong with a more competitive team. I am sure there are many great advantages the travel team for the right kid, but is that my kid?

They will most definitely play at a higher level. My wife and I even contemplated trying out for other travel teams outside of our area, and we asked ourselves what we were trying to accomplish; why were we so anxious to play in a different league?

I don't know if my son is an “elite athlete”, I know that I never was, so the odds are against it. I know that he enjoys sports and I don't think he'd enjoy it more if he were on a "better" team. Maybe we are just an in-house rec type of family.

Our family culture, the one we created, is not terribly competitive. We don’t spend a lot of time talking about sports and we don’t put the time in that many families do that have more competitive children.

In order for our boys to compete at the level that we see some of our friends do, we would need to participate in clinics and camps that are focused on building skills. It would require a stronger commitment from both the boys and us for time and money. Many kids play one sport year round, while still participating in other sports. It’s not uncommon to play two sports in a day, and with that comes many practices. While the boys may be alright with that pace, my wife and I would have trouble keeping up.

The mere thought of that type of schedule is overwhelming.

At some point the boys will have the chance to make decisions about where they want to spend the bulk of their free time. If they decide to commit to sports that would be fine.

They seem to understand that it will take hard work to remain competitive through their school years. They already see how some kids define themselves by their sport, which is great, but my boys don’t seem to have that specific focus right now. While that may be a reflection of my own bias, it doesn’t seem to have discouraged them from pushing themselves, as I witnessed last weekend when my son scored five goals (did I already mention that?!).

Right now, my wife and I are happy with the status of sports, and where the boys have ended up. In the future that may change, but it feels like a natural progression from the culture we have established at home.

We will continue to try and give our sons opportunities, but for now we are an In-House Rec type family.

My New Glasses

Rarely does one get excited about reading glasses. They don't look especially appealing. They are functional at odd angles and they don't feel terribly comfortable. So why did I accept them like a lifetime achievement award from my optometrist?

I started wearing glasses when I was in first grade. Needless to say, the styles in 1971 were not quite as expansive as they are now. They were made of heavy plastic, that covered most of my face. The optometrist that fit my facial accessory looked like a door-to-door vacuum salesman, and I will never forget the way he lunged at me to put the glasses over my small ears.

As I got older my eyes got progressively worse and within a couple of years was wearing glasses every day. The lenses were thick, and I always had a spare pair, to use for sports, which were especially ugly but could withstand the rigor of contact.

Eventually I got contact lenses and the world became a better place for me because I did not have to worry about foggy and cracked lenses, broken frames and a worn out bridge digging into my nose. I continued to wear glasses sporadically but began to notice how technology had made it's way into optometry, and once again began to enjoy glasses.

Recently I learned that for the first time in forty years my eyes had not gotten worse. The only caveat was that I needed prescriptive glasses for reading. I accepted this news with enthusiasm. I finally got the chance to wear glasses (over my contacts) sporadically and when needed, I could put them on my forehead and walk around! As a side note, they really help me read and I don't feel like I'm taking a vision test every time I pick up a book, or aspirin container trying to figure out what the hell it says,

Not only did it help me read, but I was able to feel like a person who could choose when to wear his glasses and not worry about a huge foreign object, like a car, running into me when they weren't on. I accept this as my lifetime achievement award. I am able to reach new levels of cool because I can pick and choose which pair to pick up. But most importantly, I can take them off and still see, which is something I had never been able to do.

Season Finale

The children were running around, hectically moving trying to find where they were supposed to be. Parents had a blank look on their face. Some knew what to do but most were just confused, waiting in lines they didn't understand moving in a direction, if at all, that seemed less linear and more anarchic.

Voices that were meant to tell people where to go were coming from places no one could see, in a muffled tone that would embarrass a New York Subway conductor whose muffled announcement is more a series of static and non-static than actual language.

This is not a scene from Black Friday shopping at Target, nor is it opening day at the Yard, or the much anticipated opening of "Fantastic Four" (which I am pretty excited about). This is the annual Trophy Tournament Swim Meet. A gathering of hundreds of swimmers and their parents that capstones the summer season.

The excitement is overwhelming. Truly overwhelming. Maybe it's the smell of chlorine, the kids walking around without shoes on or the people that have lawn chairs set up in the gym that look like they're about to engage in a family cookout. Or maybe it's just the mayhem and fear that among all this disorder you arrived too late and somehow missed your child's event. But you don't even want to think about that. You just hope that the staging area is moving slowly enough to jam your children into their event/heat/lane seat.

Then you leave them in their waiting area, which must have a “No Parents” sign posted somewhere because you're the only one holding your child's hand, more to pacify you than him, then you leave to find a spot to watch.

Climbing the wet steps to the galley above the pool, thoughts of accidents and tripping fill your mind. Why aren’t theses steps dry? Surely this is a violation of many safety codes? And I'm the more reckless parent. Why is my wife so calm?

Upon entering the galley the first thing that hits you is the heat, which explains the Boeing 747 Jet size fan that is pointing to the audience. This place is hot, and why wouldn't it be? The last thing they want to do is cool a room whose money is well spent warming the water. Apparently this room was not set up to host such a big tournament on a day that reaches 95 degrees outside.

There's a problem. No one is in the pool swimming. If nothing else this is one of the most efficient competitions in existence. They have the uncanny ability to complete events that a community pool may takes hours, even days, to do. So what's the hold up?

Then the announcer starts reading off license plate numbers that are blocking parking lots, and they are holding us hostage until the cars are moved. Blackmail at its finest, truly a bold and impressive move, but it's hot. Really hot.

 Finally the race is back on track. The swimmers move on through their events. Our kids swim. Actual viewing time, exactly one minute. Scores are quickly posted. Families exit, most without any trophies, but an abundance of personal victories. And summer continues, as does the countdown to next year's season.

It's Me Not You

I'm a dufus. But I'm functional, so sometimes I forget that simple fact. The good news I am also a parent so I get constant reminders of my inner workings.

This summer, like the past couple of summers, I have the pleasure of spending the days with my sons. It is truly a gift. Around May I start thinking about it.

About seven years ago my wife and I decided I would stay home with the boys rather than work over the summer. We realized that what I make versus what it cost for them to be in day care was about equal, but the cost was only one factor. We also talked about what the boys would gain from me being with them, and decided I would stay home.

That first year, as the time got closer, my wife asked me several times if I was alright with the decision. I assured her I was, but I wasn't sure. She plans activities, field trips as we call them. In her mind the summer would be a series of this trips which would be a huge scheduling burden on someone.

My approach is different; I just wing it, and while this may seem fun for me, it often lacks focus and structure. But that didn't scare me; ignorance is bliss. The result was less than stellar. The boys enjoyed the pool, and for a while that was fine, but eventually the lack of structure became an issue. I supplemented it by going to the library and embracing my wife's “field trip” strategy.

The following summer was much better, and the boys were able to participate in swim lessons at our community pool, accompanied by the swim team. This gave us the structure we needed, once the boys embraced the lessons, which they found overwhelming at first.

So it should have come as no surprise to me that one of boys was very reluctant to join the swim team this year, which is a social mass of youth kicking and splashing water, lining up and exercising their right to make as much noise as they can. The team is very successful so there is a strong argument to be made for enjoyment leading to success.

The issue, however, is that it is overwhelming, and I saw the look on my one son's face as he watched the exuberance with hesitation. It was my opportunity as a sensitive parent to recognize the signs on his face and change course. Or fight him on it.

He simply did not want to participate. As the days went by I took it as an official challenge to my authority. I became angry. When my wife suggested private lessons I explained that swim team was the lesson! It was perhaps one of my worst parenting moments.

The only thing that made it worse was the similar reaction later that week he gave to receiving laughing gas for cavity fillings in his teeth. He refused the dentist’s remedy, and I again saw this as a personal affront, even thought he dentist assured me that some children don't even make it to the chair, which my son did. It was the mask that he found so disagreeable.

I kept wondering where this stubbornness, and pseudo reckless behavior, was coming from. And more importantly, who was he to challenge me?

These of course were gross overreactions, and a bit of misplaced intent. My son isn't calculated or conniving. He is scared, and I just couldn't get my head around that. Fear is an inhibitor, but as an adult it takes on a different connotation. It becomes an amalgamation of past experiences and memories that contribute to impulses we don't always understand. For my son it was much more basic. He was just scared, and it's not up to me to always help him struggle through it, a therapist can do that when he is older and strores up some more hostility towards me. Sometimes I just need a “Plan B”, as my wife continues to remind me.

 Plan B for swimming is private lessons, which have worked out magically and gives me warmth when I see a smile on his face every time he gets in the water. Plan B for the dentist is just to wait. There really isn't much more to it than that. Sadly I lost sight of these basic practices, because, I'm a dufus.

Mornings

My wife often asks me how I get the boys out in the morning so efficiently. While I do not generally consider myself an organized person, I have to admit the routine has been surprisingly effective and efficient. The boys have even commented on how quickly I get them out because they get to Playcenter early and can play longer with their friends.

While it is hard to put my finger on what I do, or compare it to what she does, I have attempted to break it down.

Fundamentally, we just need to get up, get dressed, brush teeth, brush hair, have breakfast, grab lunch boxes, put on coats, get in the car, fasten seatbelts and drive six blocks.

6:00

My alarm goes off, I hit snooze, turn on news, and fall back asleep for fifteen minutes.

6:15

Get up, head to the shower.

6:45

Come out of the shower; yell to boys to get them awake. Tell them we are leaving at 7:20.

7:00

Fully dressed, go to the boy's rooms and get them up. Tell them to get dressed, because we leave in twenty minutes, head downstairs.

7:05

Get lunches out of fridge, yell to the boys, and start making breakfast for myself.

7:10

Go back upstairs, check on progress of boys. Remind them to brush their teeth before they come down. Explain they only have ten minutes.

7:12

Run up stairs, bring boys downstairs, and chastise them for not brushing their teeth, which they deny, until I threaten the fresh-bresh test.

7:15

Get boys to table, force feed them cereal and a breakfast bar while I drink my milk and eat heaping teaspoons of yogurt.

7:16

Find boy's shoes while boys eat a cup of cereal with no milk and find the brush for their hair, which is sticking up in many different directions

7:17

Fight the brush through the boy’s hair, spray water on their head to calm it down, force shoes on their feet and throw coats at them, still looking for the brush.

7:18

Zip up coats, wipe food that is falling from their faces while simultaneously putting their backpacks on, avoiding the dripping water coming from their heads.

7:19

Force glove on their hands and help zip lunches into backpacks, still avoiding the water from their heads.

7:20

Abandon hair brushing and put wool hats over the boy’s wet, moppy heads.

7:21

Climb in car, tell boys to buckle up while we are on the road, which becomes a moot point since they are not even in their seats and at this point we are two blocks from the school.

7:22

Pull into school’s circular drive, screech to a halt in the fire lane, park illegally, run out of car with the boys, which is quick because the boys never put their seat belts on, and head straight for school’s side door.

7:23

Check boys into Playcenter, give quick hugs to the boys who are still wearing their jackets and wool hats, go out the emergency exit which is closer to the car the car and sprint to car, drive to work.

The End of an Affair

I started riding motorcycles fifteen years ago. It is something I wanted since I was a kid, but just never got around to. Once I settled down, and stopped drinking, it all just fell into place. My friends rode and we bonded over bikes. Even my brother rode, and the estranged relationship we once had dissipated once our shared hobby emerged.

My first accident happened in a parking lot with no other vehicles. My friend and I still laugh at that one, which happened fourteen years ago. The bike slid across the asphalt and I went the other way. Fortunately, the leathers I wore took the brunt of the mess.  It took me weeks to get to the doctor and by that time, the damage was done. There was no one diagnosis, but I had trouble lifting my arm for about two years.

I had roughly ten bikes since that first one. Some for the street, some for the dirt and a couple in between.  It is hard to count up all the injuries but they were plentiful. Eight weeks before the birth of my twin boys, I crashed my dirt bike and broke my thumb, which had to be pinned for six weeks.

The injuries kept coming, year after year, and were mostly minor. This last one shook me the most. Staring at an on-coming car from the ground as my motorcycle slid in front of me scared me. Once it was all over, and I crawled to the side of the road, I knew I was okay, maybe not fine, but okay.

Once again, my wife stepped in as caretaker and the family rallied around me. As I lay in bed, parents, relative and friends came by to help, and their kindness is overwhelming, but I felt helpless because I was unable to do the heavy lifting that one needs to raise a family and support a household.

 It is a good feeling to know people care, but I am tired. That’s not completely true; I am the opposite of tired. I am active. I have twin seven-year-old boys that want to run and play. And I want to be there to do that. The back brace I found myself in made some of my favorite activities impossible, but this is temporary. I will heal. But the bikes are going.

Riding has been good to me, and has provided some of my best memories. Right now, though, my attentions are elsewhere and the price is more than I want to pay. I don’t condemn bikes, and if my sons choose to ride, I will support their decision, and hope they enjoy it as much as I once did.

Faces

My boys have an interesting way of describing people. They have often pointed out that I have a round face while my wife is more square, or oval. This description has carried over into their descriptions of classmates. "You know dad, the boy with the round face, like yours", or "the one with more of an oval face, like mom's."

The dialog has even been extended to family members. At first they asserted that my family is full of round faces, while my wife has more ovals, but they are willing to accept that certain members have cross-over features. Some of my relatives have "sort of oval faces, but not like mom's family", and some of her relatives have "rounded faces, even though they are on her side."

Recently I began to lose weight. My wife put on many pounds during her pregnancy, and managed to lose them all. I was not as diligent as she is and kept mine on, so finally decided to start losing my own baby weight.

A month ago my son pointed out that my face was becoming oval, due to my weight loss. This is no coincidence as it is shown that round-faced people carry weight in their cheeks, which I can certainly attest to. This study also shows that round faces age better, while ovals get hollower cheeks. I was excited about this new development in my appearance but my one son, with the round face, was upset. He thought he would be the only round face in the family. My wife and I assured him that even if my face becomes more rounded, I would still have a "mostly rounded-face", and this seemed to appease him.

In time I will teach the boys about the heart and rectangular shaped faces, when they're ready, but until then I will try and maintain my round, slightly oval face, knowing that if I stray, my boys will point it out.

Hands

"I get a little choked up when I see you", the guy at the pool said to me. I wasn't sure where he was going with that statement. I had never met him and didn't think I heard him correctly at first. I thought he was about to tell me about something I did to him.

"When I see you come down here holding hands with your boys...it's just really cool." That could have gone a few different ways, and it took me back just a little. It's not every day that I see someone that gets sentimental while paying me a compliment, while at the same time breaking the guy barrier by giving me a compliment. I guess that's what you call it.

The comment was not lost on me and it was well received. I like the way my boys hold my hand. I often tell them that they should expect to do it well into adulthood, which they have agreed to, much like the kiss I give them in the morning when I drop them off at school. But there were many things being said in this little statement.

This interaction happened at the community pool during the day. Traditionally, this has been a place where mothers and nannies spend their days while the children swim. Of course there is transition taking place as fathers, like myself, who are teachers and stay at home dads, start to take more prominent roles in the rearing of their children. This new reality means that the look of families is evolving. My appearance at the pool is a daily ritual, which probably also brought me to the attention of other mothers and fathers. If I showed up once walking hand in hand with the boys it would be amusing. To see it daily conveys a different message, that this isn't a fluke.

I understand the apparent dichotomy of my boys and I walking hand in hand. I'm not a little guy. I'm often described as "big".  It's not that I'm tall, or overly muscular, it's just my profile. I used to get the same reaction when walking Aggie, my ten pound dog. It's a funny picture and I get that. Throw in the tattoos and the shaved head; the picture only gets more amusing. "Loving/ doting father" are probably not the first words that come to people when they first meet me, until they get to know me.

Lastly, there is an irony in this statement that my wife brought to my attention. She pointed out that this probably would not be as significant for a mother. No one would take a second look. It would be an expectation rather than an anomaly, and there is something unfair and one-sided about that.
All this aside, I like my role and my relationship with my boys.

I can't begin to predict what long-term effects this will have but it certainly makes my summer worthwhile, and I appreciate the heart-felt feedback I was given.

Ahh That Smell

"You know how I know we're at the dump dad? The smell."

Those were Max's words as we drove up to the County dump, or as we used to call it, the greatest place on earth.
I don't remember when the dump became so cool for us as kids, but the mere mention of it would send goosebumps up and down my spine. My brother and I thought it was the coolest place ever and we always came home with something.
With this in mind, I was taken aback when my son's told me this past weekend that they didn't want to go. What was wrong with them? Did they not know of the hidden treasures one could find?
"It's disgusting dad."
"Yeah, and it smells really bad."
Finally I was able to convince Max, with a little bribery, that he should go. And off we went.
The car slowly crawled up the highway with a heap of stuff so poorly tied down it was a miracle that we only lost one piece of wood, which was at the entrance to the mecca. "You lost something", the gatekeeper said, "but I'll pick it up for you."
There are so many signs and arrows, I needed a GPS to tell me which direction to head. There was a time you could just dump the contents of your haul into one big pile, now it needs to be separated and placed in the right spot, lest a "dump worker" will address you.
I barely escaped this fate when one such worker asked me about the roll of wire I brought. Forgetting about it, I almost took it to the wrong place, but he was good enough to redirect me. The guy next to me at the junk pile wasn't so lucky. He haphazardly discarded a baby stroller, which of course contained metal.  A big no-no. When I saw the dump worker coming our way I thought he was going to bust me for the case of oil I deposited, but he had bigger fish to fry. I didn't stick around for the outcome. The two men were looking down at the old blue Chicco stroller (not a bad model but a bit outdated) as Max and I took off in a cloud of dust.
"It really didn't smell too bad today", Max said, gazing out the open window.

PlayTime

The elusive play date.

What is it? Depending on whom you ask there can be many answers.

Someone to watch my kid, or kids, for a few hours?

Time to spend with a fellow adult while the kids are occupied?

Providing free babysitting to a fellow guardian in hopes they will do it for you in the future?

The answer of course is all of the above. The issue is that you don’t know which one is relevant without picking up the subtle clues given to you by the parent. If you miss these clues, you may, as we all have done, be putting your host in an awkward situation. Here are some suggestions.

The first issue that needs to be resolved is making sure you understand who the invitation is including. As a parent of twins, my wife and I are especially sensitive to this issue. When we receive an invitation, we don’t want to make the mistake of sending both boys when only one is invited. At first we were sensitive about this distinction but with the help of our children, we have come to realize that they sometimes enjoy the freedom of being split up and leading separate lives, on a small scale. Follow the lead of the host. If they wanted both children they would have specified that in the invitation. No need to ask if they can take both if only one is specified. I often feel like my kids should come with a warning: “Please separate if you value your sanity.”

The next issue we’ve had to face as the kids get older is the big question: To drop off or to stay. This is a dilemma on par with potty training, wall scribbling, and proper video game use. But again, let the host be your guide. If they invite you to stay, take that as an invitation to hang out. If they repeatedly tell you, “ it’s fine to leave”, it may be their way of saying, “Please leave. I got this. I don’t feel like entertaining an adult.” Conversely, if they have food and beverages set out that only an adult would enjoy (use your imagination), it’s their way of saying “please stay”. Sometimes I think I’m doing the host a favor by staying, but I’ve come to realize that there are times when it’s easier for them to just entertain the kids without other adults around. I show my appreciation by doing the same for them.

I’ve thoroughly enjoyed the play dates my boys have had and some of my closest friends are people I have met through my sons. Many parents have had a hard time managing this issue as their children grow, and hopefully by the time the kids are in college, we will have it figured out.

Cafeteria Duty

When planning my spring break, the time I was going to have without students, including my own children, my wife suggested I volunteer at the boys’ school. My first gut reaction was to say, “No”. Why in the world would I want to volunteer at the boys’ school when I am being given the ultimate gift of not being around kids for one whole week? But then the other side of me kicked in. The side that remembered how much I liked being with my boys, and the curiosity I felt in watching them at their natural habitat, the one away from home.

I’ve heard stories about the boys for months, like how good they were and how they do all their work and pay attention to the teacher. I had a hard time picturing the boys I knew, the ones who insisted on jumping each other’s heads and tackling each other; the ones who yelled “I need you” for mundane tasks like using the bathroom and getting water. These are the boys that are exemplary?

Curiosity led me to volunteer on my week off. I wanted to get a glimpse of the boys in action, and besides, it was only one hour in an otherwise relaxing week. Then the snow came. My first day of Spring Break was spent watching my sons and keeping them occupied. My second day was spent keeping them busy during their two-hour delay, then escorting them to school and showing up early for my cafeteria duty. Fortunately, my services were put to use in one of my son’s rooms and I got to see first hand how his behavior was elevated to wonder child status, and what I witnessed was remarkable.

My son did not transform in school, but he was able to focus his attention. The frantic energy he showed at home was harnessed and directed in his classroom, where he was clearly a high performer. I didn’t see a different child , just one that showed a different side of himself. I would have liked to watch more of this but before I knew it, we had to walk down to the lunch room where my real job began.

I was given an apron, and told to just respond to hand-raisers. This sounded easy enough, and the first thing I did was visit the table of my other son and see how he was doing. I was struck by his comfort in a large social situation, without my assistance. I wanted to just sit and watch him, but before I knew it the social experiment that is elementary school lunch time was under way. And the hands went up. All over the place. I jumped from one child to the other, each repeating the same phrase: “Can you open this?” “This” was sometimes a yogurt tube, a yogurt cup, an apple sauce, fruit guzzlers, thermos caps, chip bags…You name it, I opened it. The elusive caps that initially confused me became simple. I moved through the tables like a superhero with the sole mission of opening things. It was stellar.

After a while I moved from the kindergartners to the first graders. I thought the older kids would be a challenge, surely they would only ask me for the toughest of chores, but even these became simple. Kids from all over were requesting me. I even had to use my problem solving skills when on one occasion a boy was spitting food, to his friend’s dismay. The friend wanted me to prosecute the spitter but after some deliberation, we decided the boy should just get a warning rather than turning him in to the proper authorities, his teacher, where he would have faced serious consequences. All was going well.

As I was passing my son, he called me over and held out his hand with something in it. I looked down and realized he had a tooth. I didn’t even realize he had a loose tooth but there it was. I asked his friends what we should do and they all said he should go to the nurse. As I later found out, this was a common occurrence. I assigned a buddy to go with him. I wanted to bask in the moment for a bit longer, but duty called. I had raised hands all around me that needed attention.

Finally, my shift was coming to a close. By the end, we had two teeth incidents, numerous bag openings, some discipline/critical thinking tasks and several clean-ups. This was not the day I had planned for my Spring Break, but in Cool Father World, it was perfect.

All hail the ...Patriarch?

Last Easter, in front of my cousins, and my extended family, I was called on to begin the traditional prayer. This is an honor mostly reserved for an elder. In attendance were several of my cousins who are older than me, as well as my immediate family, which included my father, who has since passed.

This was an honor for me, and the symbolism did not go unnoticed. My extended family is large. My father had four siblings, all of whom had multiple children. We all get along, but like most big families, have broken into what could best be described as clans.

This may sound somewhat archaic, or outdated, but it is still the best way to describe the family unit that we have. My cousins have their immediate families, which include children, wives and grandchildren. They now all gather amongst themselves for holidays, as it had gotten too big for any one person to host everyone, because we number around one hundred, give or take.

When I was called on to initiate the prayer it was an acknowledgement from one clan to another that there was going to be a power shift. It was well known that my father was dying, and that as the oldest son, I would be the elder of my clan. There was nothing especially Shakespearian about this power shift, although I believe that I did see my sister conspiring out of the corner of my eye (even her name, Renae, is closely related to Lear’s daughter, Regan!). I still think she’s up to something, but that suspicion aside, there is not much for a patriarch to do. I probably will not be called to a war council, and since we are not inordinately wealthy, there is no real trust to manage, nor a board to sit on. So what does a patriarch in my situation do?

There is no real answer to this question because it is not really a formal title. It may be a long time before the title is widely held by the family at large, and even longer for there to be concrete assignments. My father would step in and contact one of us, his children, when he thought we needed guidance. On one occasion he made me listen to him while he told me not to buy my house. I remember the phrase he kept repeating, “Do me this one thing”, as if he were asking for a “sit-down” with a rival crime family. Needless to say, there was nothing very dramatic about our talk but he thought it was his duty to have a conversation with me before I made a big decision. And this is the heart of the matter. A patriarch is a role of duty and symbolism. It carries no weight, but like an ambassador, is a recognized role.

It is an honor. As a product of an immigrant family, the fact that we have survived and flourished is significant. It is what our ancestors fought for and it is a testament to their hard work that we are here. To recognize the patriarch is to recognize the family.

So can I put this on my resume? Of course not. Does my family treat me differently? Not on a day to day basis but there are times when the role is apparent. There have been times when my involvement in family matters have been requested, when in the past they may not have been.

Being a part of a family goes beyond my immediate family, and I want my sons to see that. I want them to know that we are the product of something bigger than us. They don’t need to carry that message every day, but there will be times when they need to realize it. They may not be the patriarch, but they will need to recognize the ones that are, whether it be their father, their cousins, their uncles, or someday, maybe even their children.

And in the meantime I’m going to keep an eye on my sister, who may or may not be conspiring at this very minute to rally her minions against me. So when I am called upon to cut the pita on New Year’s Day, one of the few acknowledged duties of the patriarch, I will be extra careful when she hands me the knife.

No Max

Colin's new room

Recently my sons decided they were going to get separate rooms, or rather my entire family, wife included, finally convinced me the boys should have separate rooms.

I always knew this day would come, but it my mind it was going to coincide with something else, like college. 

I just always imagined the boys sharing a room. The place where they play together and pretend to sleep when they're actually talking. We'd read stories and listen to music.

There really is no rhyme or reason for this fantasy, it's just how I preferred to think about it. In my mind, they were going to be best buds, and play tricks on us, conspiring like Huck Finn and Mark Twain, sitting under a blanket with nothing but a flashlight to lay out complex plans. This is similar to the room my brother and I shared until my parents had a feeling that there may be bloodshed so they split us up and put me on the third floor. I thought my boys would be different, because they're twins.

Did I mention my view is antiquated? Of course I know that, but still...

I enjoy watching the dynamic between the boys, and support the way they strive for their own identity. It's something people often remark about. So I shouldn't be surprised that they are seeking their own space.

Seeing twins develop their own personalities is a good thing, I know this. I never wanted them to dress alike, or always do the same things. I supported them in separate classes at school, and understood that their interests and aptitudes would be different. But why separate rooms? And more importantly, why didn't I see this coming? Did I miss something along the way? Have they been unhappy for a long time? Did they stay together just to keep me happy?

Of course I see the irony in this dilemma. I am the grown-up and am supposed to be the model of maturity and judgement. I represent change and growth. And yet, I, probably more so than anyone in my family, has the most trouble with this. I used to get mad at my wife for constantly rearranging the furniture. I like things the way they are. My life tells a different story, but as an adult I find myself seeking comfort in habit.  There's an even bigger picture.

I have enjoyed fatherhood since the boys were born. I loved to sit with them when they were infants and  read while they slept on my chest. I liked taking them for walks before they could talk and watch them learn and recognize the world around them. I remember their first words, and their first steps. As they get older, though, it is apparent they need me less and less. And yes, I know this is a good thing and it is part of the cycle of life, but can't we prolong it just a little bit more? Can't I just keep them together little longer? Do we have to jump right to the stage where they make signs keeping one another out of their rooms rather than longing for the moments that they lay together for warmth and comfort?

This is clearly an emotional argument, not a rational one, and I know that I still have a few years before they go off to college, but it's becoming more and more evident that the day will come when they depart. So I will spend the next twelve years coming to terms with the impending separation, and will hopefully be ready when they make their leap into adulthood. Or I will struggle with it and continue to be consoled by wife, who clearly is better at dealing with this than I am.

Gone Daddy Gone

One of the greatest days in a dad’s life, and the one that makes him what he is, is the birth of his children. But it doesn’t take a card reader or psychic to predict the cycle of life; with the birth of one come the death of others. The moment the boys were born, I knew there would come a day when I would have to deal with my own father’s mortality.

No one wants to think about the death of their parent. Someone once said, “You’re not a man until you see the death of your father.” This doesn’t mean to go around waiting for something terrible to happen, but like a prediction from the oracle, it’s been said and the rest is a waiting game, so to speak.

Ideally, that waiting game is a series of incredible events. My boys had some great events with their Papou. They got to spend time at the beach with him where they played in the sand, swam in the surf and ate fresh seafood on the docks. They worked alongside Papou on landscaping projects, and helped him water plants. They worked with him in our shop and made wood projects and repairs. They went to ball games and museums together. As a family, we celebrated birthdays, holidays and anniversaries. There were many memories established and the boys will have vivid pictures of their Papou, which are tremendous and significant.

Unfortunately, Papou succumbed to a brain tumor. The nature of this condition was that it began in February and continued to grow through the summer, with a very apparent scenario obvious to the adults, but still vague to the children. The timeline was unclear, but by the middle of the summer it became more certain. Family trips no longer included Papou, and his visits to our house were less frequent. He no longer drove and time after time when the boys would visit him, his mobility became limited. His faculties were intact to the degree they needed to be to engage the boys, and he would often ask about their goings on, but they realized there was something wrong with him. 

My wife and I knew we were going to have to address the situation at some point, and that time came a few days before his death. He became bed ridden, and the boys hadn’t seen him for a week. I made the decision to tell them, not sure what they were going to say. Max told us it was alright because Papou would be in the clouds. Colin cried and was grief stricken for about thirty minutes, but there was no question we did the right thing, because the boys were given the opportunity to deal with the situation. To our surprise, Colin told my wife and I that he wanted to see Papou before he died. We decided to agree to his request and the boys saw their Papou just a few hours before he died. 

This will surely go down as one of the best decision I have made. I had no idea how much capacity my son had to deal with this situation, nor the effect it would have on the understanding he would develop. It’s hard to tell what the right way is to handle something like this event but more times than not it seems like children are their best resource for decision making.

The Great Skate

Winter, and specifically Christmas time, brings to mind wonderful images of lights, trees, snow and ice. Ice skating itself is practically synonymous with the season, so there was no hesitation when my wife suggested we take the boys to Quiet Waters Park in Annapolis, as it is the only outdoor rink I am aware of.

This was not the first time for the boys. In fact it was probably the third time they have done this activity, albeit three years apart. Still though, Cool Dad was thinking the whole way down about the rink. How he and his boys, like the Gretzky family, would overtake the rink and skate through the crowds with a combination of grace and power. After all, the boys had done it last year, and would surely be even better this year. They had been practicing for the last twelve months, not on skates but on skateboards, bicycles, and scooters. Surely this would pay off big when they hit the ice.

As we strapped on the skates the moment was tense, like the locker room before the Stanley Cup finals. We made our way out to the ice, and all systems were go. The boys walked across the rubber mats like they were pros, not in any way awkward due to the three inch blade protruding from the bottom of their feet.

The moment had come as they approached the slick ice. I went first and turned around to help them, prepared to catch a fall that often happens during the transition from rubber to ice. I circled and they were right there. We had made it. Now all that was left was to get in hockey formation and make our way around the rink.

Both boys quickly found their way to the wall and held on. While this wasn't what Cool Dad had in mind, at least they were on the ice. Slowly they made their way around. “Alright”, Cool Dad thought, “they just need some time to get used to it. Maybe a lap or two.”

The process was slow as I guided them around the rink, not straying far from the wall. As we finished lap one, Colin saw a metal frame, like a walker on ice, for unskilled skaters. Cool Dad didn't love this, but as long as the boy was on the ice, we were still in the game. After one lap, the behemoth green machine that is the Zamboni was summoned. Colin was just past the first turn when he heard the sound. He quickly did an about face and skated against the flow to get off the ice. Fortunately many others were doing the same.

However, in the activity, he somehow thought the Mean Machine was going to unleash it's mass while he was still on the ice. Once the ice cleaning was done, he decided he had enough.

While Cool Dad didn't like this, (how was the boy going to begin his hockey career on the stands), there was hope that Colin would see the fun his father and brother were having and rejoin the lineup. Then Colin discovered the snack bar, with the aid of his mother, and before long was more engaged in Cheeto eating than skating. While this was hard to take Cool Dad still had his wing on the ice. Until the wing saw the bag of Cheetos. It wasn't long before Max joined his brother. Cool Dad felt like he just watched Messier and Lemieux retire at the same time, before they even got started.

While this was humbling for Cool Dad, the lesson is the same. Boys will do what they will do, and there is nothing I can do about it. I can blame Mom, for no good reason, or just shut my mouth. (Of course that didn't happen.) There's no doubt that the family had fun. Will these boys be the next front line? Do they have a hat trick in them? Who the hell knows. And in the end is any of that important?

Zen and the Art of Dirt Bikes

Some dads probably got really exciting seeing their sons pick up their first lacrosse stick, or throwing their first baseball. My excitement came when finally teaching my four year old twins how to ride a dirt bike.

Teaching is probably a bit of an overstatement. Truthfully, they sat on the front of the seat and just held on as we went across a 2 acre mixture of dirt and concrete. This will probably never make it to Fuel TV, and the X Games will never be held on this particular track, but it was one of the most exhilarating moments of my life.

My last dirt bike was sold two years ago. After years of engaging in the sport of motocross and enduro riding, time spent riding on weekends was substituted by time spent with the boys. This entailed activities such as the bowling alley, the fire museum, play-do, walks, occasional bike rides and general play supervision. Most of these activities will not go away any time soon, but “dirt biking” is now in the mix.

Four is still quite young. Obviously, they are a long way from riding them on their own, and even a longer time from riding on anything that is not flat, but this is a big victory because they are excited about it.

Fathers like to share their activities with their children (why else would something as boring as golf be so popular?), and this particular one is close to my heart.

I spent my youth wanting to have a dirt bike, but did not attain this dream until my thirties. Since then, I have learned the workings of the engine and have realized that mechanics is something I could do. And of course going fast is really fun, and landing a double is pure bliss. This realization gave me a confidence I never knew. I don't want to push the sport on my sons, but there certainly was a euphoria when I saw there smiles when they were riding.

This sport is certainly going to be a negotiation. My wife, the ying to my yang, has the same amount of reservation as I have excitement, and is a constant reminder of the danger of the sport.

While this puts a damper on my enthusiasm, it is a message that needs to be affirmed and supported, if for no other reason than an injury to the boys could bring this all to a halt, as my negotiating power would be undercut by any bodily harm, real or perceived.

A Walk in the Woods

In an attempt to prepare my boys for our trip on the entire Appalachian Trail (AT), I decided to take them for a little hike, so we couldall get to knowthe outdoors.

Granted, they are just three, but I think they should be ready for a six month outing by the end of the summer, when they will almost be four.

Granted, the experts are against this. One website encourages "family" camping, at a large campsite until the children are at least seven.

This sounds dreadful. How are we going to engage the outdoors if we are surrounded by other campers, along with their radios, televisions, RV's, fancy camping furniture and overly prepared food?

Camping is going in the woods, hiking until you can't walk anymore, and pitching a tent where you can find some flat ground, or maybe a designated sight along the AT where you can pump and purify your very own water. What three year old wouldn't like this?

So off we went today, into the wild. I parked next to Loch Raven Drive, which was closed to traffic so we could hike into our destination, the great Loch. While it sits a few hundred yards from the road, the adventure began almost immediately, as one of my boys decided he needed his bright yellow plastic baseball bat, then it was into the woods.

The boys quickly bonded with nature, and rushed hurriedly to the water. For the next hour we skipped rocks, followed ducks, dropped the above mentioned bat into the water, which I had to retrieve, then peed in the woods (them, not me).

I realized a few things:

1. My boys need some work with outdoors. One seemed to have no concerns with anything resembling danger while the other would stop dead in his tracks if he didn't the way certain trees looked.
2. Some fear of water may not be bad.
3. Their little legs get tired, although not as tired as they kept telling me, which I think was a ploy to be carried.
4. We may need to put off the AT trip.

I realize more and more that I want to be with my boys, and as I watch them get older, I feel our lives start to merge. I can envision a time when we begin to have shared hobbies, but it may not be on my time frame, and while this is frustrating, I am still going to have to leave home when I insist in engaging in certain activities that seem harmless, and perhaps indulgent to a 45 year old, because they may still be too dangerous for a three and a half year old, or two.

A Season Without Snowboarding

The winter started out very well, and I was excited to snowboard. I picked up this sport BC (before children), about eight years ago. I had skied for a few years and decided to branch out into something new, a trend my wife noticed many years ago and still holds over my head when I mention untried activities, often referring to my new fad.

I spent many hours on the slopes, falling on my face, bruising parts of my body that I needed to stay healthy, twisting things that should be straight and seeing the ground from the bottom up. Eventually I got to a place where I was comfortable on any run, and came to love the sport. Every year I got excited by the first snowfall, and felt a tingle when it flurried in early December.

This year was off to a great start, as the winter was cold and the snow fell, and yet, today was the first day I even looked at my board, sitting in its rack, where it has been all year. My son even asked why I had two boards and then he followed it up by saying, "Are they for different conditions?" (I've never been so proud of that boy.)

So what did I do this winter?

I spent a lot of time with the guys. We shoveled and built fires. I watched them collect sticks for the fire, as they crept through snow covered evergreen trees and built forts under the canopy of snow. They helped me hang the Christmas lights, none of which matched but still made them excited every time we pulled up to the house. And they learned the enjoyment of traipsing in the snow to go to the bakery for lunch followed by a ice cream dessert.

I couldn't

have asked for a better winter.

Maybe next

year will find me back on the slopes, with the boys tethered to me on the bunny hill while I am teaching them about my favorite winter activity, or maybe we will practice the fine art of snowman building followed by a snowball fight.