Dadblog

Off she goes

I took Alex to summer camp yesterday, along with her friend Becky and Becky's dad Tom. This year, Alex fell asleep at 10:00 the night before, unlike last year when she reported lying awake, petrified, all night long. Also this year she grew increasingly bouncy and gleeful as we approached the camp gates. Last year she pulled into her snailshell.

I don't expect that we will get any mail from Alex in the two weeks that she's gone. I did ask her to please, if she sees the camp photographer who posts the daily photos online, that she elbow her way to the front of the crowd. Rachel and I check for new pictures multiple times each day.

When the little guys woke up on Sunday morning, Rachel told them that Alex had already left. Andrew busted out into tears, which was touching, but upon further investigation turned out to be linked to Alex knowing how to get to Queen Elsinor's castle in some video game, and Andrew needed her guidance. Elizabeth's reaction was to sprint upstairs and sit on Alex's bed, in Alex's room, and touch all of Alex's stuff, all of which are normally forbidden activities.

food blog

When I was a college freshman, I shared a mailbox with alphabetically adjacent Cheryl Sternman. Twenty years later, in addition to having children named Alex and Andrew, she also has an awesome food blog, which I hope you'll check out.

Had to try it

On Sunday afternoon, Andrew and I drove Uncle Bill home to West Philadelphia. It was a lovely day, and the scent of barbecue was everywhere, making Andrew salivate.

"What's that smell? It's delicious! Can we go?"

I had left Elizabeth to play with neighbor kids. Andrew had changed his mind about coming with me at the last second, but I told him he had to travel. (Leaving two kids is way, way outside the boundaries of acceptable behavior.) He was grumpy about that, so I offered a compromise. When we got home, I said, we'd make a picnic and take it to the park for dinner.

We came home and Andrew and I picked up playing with the neighbors. I thought the subject might be forgotten, but when Rachel came home Andrew informed her of my promise. She agreed it sounded nice, but what would we eat. "Fried chicken," I declared. Then I set out to find some.

I was back in 25 minutes with some supermarket fried chicken - bronze colored, breaded and sitting under a heat lamp for three hours, grapes, and tortilla chips. Elizabeth was also bronze colored, appeared breaded and hot. Alex came home from dress rehearsal for her play and flopped on the couch, asking to be reminded to go to bed early. Andrew and Elizabeth started picking at each other. If this picnic had been an airline flight, it would have been canceled due to engine maintenance, but we figured that getting out of the house would improve everyone's mood.

We put the exhausted youngest child in the big wagon and tugged it up the hill to the school playground. Rachel had to use an angry voice to break up the argument over who was going to get to pull the wagon up the hill, claiming that privilege for herself.

At the school, we sat around the circular picnic table and Rachel passed out plates and cups. I distributed chicken parts. The weather was a perfect 72 degrees and there were still hints of flowering trees perfuming the air. Another family on the playground looked over at us with admiration. "Whose idea?" the mother asked. Rachel and I pointed with our non-chicken-holding hands to our beaming son.

After a few minutes of pleasant eating, the kids put their food down and ran to the swings. Alex and Andrew were laughing and playing together, and I mentioned to Rachel that I never get tired of seeing that sight. I still reflexively fear that she's going to punk him. Elizabeth started calling for me to push her on the swings. I had already pushed her on the swings for about an hour earlier in the day during Andrew's t-ball game, so I didn't jump up when summoned.

I asked Rachel if she pushes Elizabeth on the swings every day after school. "Sometimes I do," she said. "Sometimes I don't, and sometimes I look up and some other parent is pushing her." The calling continued so I went over to do my fatherly duty.

After a few minutes of "Higher! Higher! Now Underdoggie!" I suggested that we play Red Light Green Light. I waved Rachel over to join us, but when she heard my plan she rolled her eyes. As in, you should know better.

For context, last weekend at the picnic, I was very impressed with the host dad who (without being asked by his wife) assembled all the kids and when they were tired of kickball and got them all playing party games. Specificly, he played a CD, had the kids dance, then freeze when he hit PAUSE. Anyone caught moving after the music stopped was out, and the last survivor got to operate the PAUSE button on the next round. Everyone between ages four and nine loved it. I was very impressed by this dad's initiative. He made me see that if you want kids to just go play, sometimes you need to provide matches and fuel. Metaphorically, of course.

Hence, my offer to play Red Light Green Light. The caller stands at one end of the playing area, and everyone else assembles about 15 feet away. The caller turns his back on the players, announces "Green Light" and the players start moving towards him. The caller, at a random moment, calls "Red Light" and spins on his heel. The players must freeze. If the caller sees them move, he sends them back to the starting line. Then he faces away from them and calls "Green light" again. This pattern continues until someone gets close enough to touch the caller.

Problem one: Everyone wants to be the caller, and some overly tired players are willing to climb jungle gyms and pout if they don't get their way.

Problem two: Some children, when finally elected callers, call "Red light" and then scrutinize all players for 120 seconds, disqualifying them for breathing and hair gently waving with the breeze.

Problem three: After six rounds of problem two, when nobody has been allowed to get more than three paces from the starting line, players revolt and leave the game, infuriating not only the caller but those children who realize they will never get the chance to be caller (see problem one).

On a less tired day, maybe with another family around to inspire good behavior, this would have worked. We left the playground wistful about the picnic we might have had. But the chicken was surprisingly tasty.

JV Coach, continued

Continuing the story begun at http://dadblog.typepad.com/dadblog/2008/05/jv-coach.html

On the drive to the picnic, we passed an expansive lawn in the nice part of town and Elizabeth asked where we were. I said "Teletubby land! Look, there's Tinky Winky!" They thought that was humorous, so I added "And there's La-la" [switching to sad voice] "being carried off by an eagle."

As soon as I said this, I regretted it, as this is the kind of joke that I can make with Alex but can send my more literal son over the moon with rage. Fortunately, Andrew was in the mood for my humor and repeated it a few times.

We had a nice time at the picnic. My kids had arrived with sweaty hair and grubby, red cheeks, and they ran around playing lots of kickball with the other children so by the end of the dinner hour they were very beat. I was hoping to pull them home and get them in the bath before the Wii came out, but I didn't make it in time. Andrew and Elizabeth both like the idea of a Wii, but neither of them can play it as well as the Wii owners and they get frustrated. Add to this a field of eight children, some of them with only the most rudimentary negotiating skills, arguing over three controllers, and it can get unhappy fast.

I consented to ten minutes of play before shoes-on-let's-go. My stated departure time was 7:30 and I was privately willing to concede to 7:45. I got them out the door at 7:40 and they were totally bushed. We made quick work of baths, books and beds. I let them sleep downstairs again.

On Sunday morning, I enlisted their help to prepare snack for Andrew's t-ball game. The three of us had purchased some pretzel-cookie things in individual packets on Friday, but I was feeling feisty. I dislike the junk food snack tradition at organized sports, and I decided that without Rachel around to talk me out of it, I was going to take a stand. I cut up vegetables (celery, green pepper, cucumber, carrots and grape tomatoes) and loaded them into sixteen little plastic baggies. Blame it on the Prius.

About half the kids on Andrew's team looked at me in bafflement during the second inning when I passed around the healthy snack. How could I hand them this crap? Don't I know that they don't like it? I was prepared for this, but I hadn't anticipated the embarrassment their parents would feel. I wish I could have done it anonymously. The coaches did privately tell me how much they admired my choice, but I don't expect to see it repeated soon. Maybe someone will one-up me and bake inedible organic, whole wheat, sugar-free cookies.

JV coach

Rachel took Alex and about a dozen other girl scouts camping in Maryland last weekend. After work on Friday I rented a Prius (always wanted to try one of those hybrids) and picked Andrew and Elizabeth up at the friends house where they'd spent the afternoon. Figuring we'd start the weekend with a bang, I took them to the kitchy Japanese steak house in Ardmore, the kind where they cook at your table and make a big show of chopping up your chicken teriyaki with scary knives.

The kids had no idea what was in store. They were mostly excited that I ordered soda for them to drink. Then the chef came out, sliced a big onion into concentric rings and stacked them into a cone. He filled it with oil, told Andrew to watch out for flaming eyebrows, and made it into a volcano. My children were hooked instantly.

The food was sort of rubbery, and the chef at another table was juggling serious cutlery while ours just banged his tools together, but the intended audience was happy, so I didn't care. Andrew couldn't believe it when the chef started flinging bits of shrimp around the table for patrons to catch in their mouths. He started begging for our family to return to this restaurant soon, even before he'd finished his dinner.

Back home we set up the futon in the back room where Andrew and Elizabeth sleep on weekends. We got the TV tuned to the station with the good cartoons, and they went to bed. Some friends joined me for what would have been an impromptu poker game, except there were only three of us. We ate cheese, fruit and talked about work and politics. I told them that I hadn't heard from Rachel since she left, but I assumed that there was just no cell phone coverage on the remote Maryland shore, and not that she and Alex had been creamed by a semi-tractor-trailer on the Interstate. "Isn't it good to be a man?" my friends said.

On Saturday, we framed our day around a birthday party that both kids had been invited to at a local indoor climbing gym. I had them make cards and we wrapped the presents that Rachel, with her usual foresight, had picked up at the Please Touch Museum gift shop a week earlier. We got back in the Prius and got there early. We were the first to arrive, in fact. When the celebrant's parents told me to come back in two hours, I went shopping. First I picked up a digital TV converter with my new $40 taxpayer-funded coupon. Then I went to the grocery store to get food for the rest of the weekend, and to get drinks for a picnic dinner we'd been invited to that evening.

As I drove the groceries home to put in the fridge, I discovered that the Prius had a Dar Williams CD in the stereo. I am not sure if female singer songwriter music about social issues comes standard on all Priuses, or if this one was special. It felt like a good match, in any case.

After putting the food away, I immediately got back in the car and went to get the kids. I didn't feel too guilty about all the miles because the Prius goes out of its way to tell you just what awesomely efficient mileage it gets. The Prius and I were averaging 50 MPG together, according to the big, prominent color display on the center of the dash.

The kids looked happy and well excercised. When we got home, our neighbor Benjamin was there to greet us. He's a five year old who moved in across the street a few months ago. He is crazy in love with our family, especially Andrew. He calls all of us (me, Elizabeth, Rachel and Alex) Andrew. When he's in the yard and sees me coming home from work, he rushes to give me a big hug. My kids just look up and watch him.

Benjamin lives with his grandparents, who speak mostly Chinese and just a little bit of English. Sometimes his parents are around. One day, when Rachel had a yard full of neighbor kids, his mother walked him across the street and asked Rachel if she watched children. Rachel said no, but Benjamin was welcome to come visit anytime if our family was playing outside. "I think I bring him here every day," his mom replied. "No," Rachel said, still smiling, "but if you see us here, you can come over."

The thing is, it's not that difficult having Benjamin come over. He likes our toys, he's friendly, and he's willing to play by himself. Most of the time he just does his own thing, in parallel to whatever is going on. Andrew ignores him, which is a shame, considering all the times that Andrew wished the big boy who used to live in Benjamin's house would pay attention to him.

No, the problem is getting Benjamin to LEAVE, as I discovered on Saturday. It was time for our family to go to the picnic. We were expected at 5:00, it was 4:45, and I was arguing with Benjamin that he didn't have to go home, but he had to get the hell out of my house. "No! I don't WANT to go! Why I have to go?" he said.

I was thinking that nobody knew Benjamin was visiting. He had just shown up. Maybe I could lock him in the laundry room?

Finally, Andrew suggested letting Benjamin borrow a book to take home. We moved to the porch, where there happened to be a kids book nearby. Benjamin looked thrilled. I used the opportunity to grasp his hand firmly and walk him back across the street. His dad appeared in the door and welcomed him home, but seemed confused about the book. I ducked back out.

TO BE CONTINUED...

She can do it

Elizabeth wrote this version of her name the other morning, when she got up earlier than the other kids. It makes me so happy because I've wondered if her neurological abnormalities would affect her ability to read and write. It seems, though, that what she needs must be in there somewhere.

Spelling her name would have been much simpler if she'd accepted being called Liz, or even Lizzie. But she insists on having the longest name in the family.

Here's a salute to young Eva, who is fighting a tougher version of the same battle. I am very happy for her family as well.

Alex had a story too

After we got home from the trip described in the previous post, Alex went upstairs to her room with a pencil, a clipboard and some lined paper to write her assigned essay about a haircut (real or fictional).

I liked it enough to share it here:

I can tell you now. I did not repeat not want to get my hair cut. I cannot be blamed for what has happened. Well, I'd better start at the beginning of all this mess.

It all started out as a perfect day. My favorite shirt was out of the wash! My mom had finally restocked our supply of my favorite breakfast cereal, Lucky Charms. At school my teacher passed out our math test from last week. I got an A+! And to top it all off, we had no homework! I thought it would end as a perfect day too, but boy was I wrong.

After I got home, my mom told me "Don't take your shoes off, honey."

"Why?" I shot back.

"Don't you remember me telling you? I'm taking you to the barber's as soon as I finished peeling these potatoes."

I groaned. Not the barber's!

Oh well, mom looked pretty fierce. Best not to argue.

I got in the car and all too soon we were there. THere was no line so I hopped into the chair to face my punishment. What had I done to deserve this? Everything went fine until the barber started cutting. SUddenly I felt a sharp pain in my left ear. I glanced over and what I saw took my breath away. There was my ear, lying on my shoulder! I immediately started screaming. My mom quickly ushered me into the car. She drove me to the hospital. There I had to get my ear sewn back on.

Back at home, in bed, my mom knocked on the door. "That haircut looks uneven. We'll go get it fixed tomorrow," she told me. How nearsighted can my mom be?

Alex Stern 17 April 2008.

dinner and a story

Last night Rachel went with a friend to see Anna Quindlen at a fundraiser dinner. She brought the kids downtown on the train, and I picked them up at the big commuter station downtown and took them out to dinner. We went to a French creperie, where we got one savory crepe with ham, cheese, tomatoes and cucumbers and two Nutella-based entrees with bananas and pears. The waitress looked genuinely pleased to see us. I was very proud that even though there was a half hour gap between our order and the food's arrival, the kids all held their composure. Andrew was beat - he kept putting his head down on the table. Alex stippled and scarred her paper placemat to make textures. Elizabeth practiced hopping up and down the ramp to the restrooms. All these are quiet pursuits, and nothing I'm ever going to complain about in an uncrowded public place.

After dinner, it was getting late so I scuttled my ice cream parlor idea (and after Nutella for dinner, who was going to object) and made for the train home. We caught the 7:15 with one minute to spare. I brought out the bag of Swedish Fish I'd purchased in anticipation of the ride and told the kids to distribute them evenly. Everyone took two and elected to save the rest for later.

On the trip, I told a story about how, years ago, when I was a young man new to riding the Paoli Local, I saw the conductor approach a man and ask for his ticket. "I don't have a ticket," the man said. "Well, you got to pay," replied the conductor. "I don't got no money," the man said. "Well," said the conductor, "you better FIND some money or I'll have the police pull you off the train" and he left.

The conductor came back a minute later and asked for a ticket. The man explained that his non-ticket-having status had not changed. The conductor repeated his threat and left again.

Then the conductor returned and demanded to know the man's ticket plan. When he didn't get a ticket in return, he left the car and the train soon came to a stop somewhere in West Philadelphia, next to nothing.

We waited there in the dark for about twenty minutes, and when the conductor explained to anguished commuters that we were waiting for the police to arrive at the next station to remove a passenger who had boarded without a ticket, every Main Line lawyer on the train reached for his wallet and asked if they could pay for the man. But it was too late. When you call the police, you can't uncall them. The bell cannot be unrung.

I asked the kids what the moral of this story was, and Alex only took a few seconds to figure out that when you hear the conductor demand a ticket from a ticketless passenger, you should step forward and volunteer. (I would add that you have to decide whether the price of the ticket is worth the half hour delay - everyone has a different billing rate.) I did do this once. I came to the rescue of a feckless young woman without a ticket, and it was mildly embarrassing for both of us. I think the conductor assumed I was getting something other than a warm feeling out of the transaction.

Elizabeth didn't care about the moral of the story, she just wanted to hear it again. And again. I figured out she liked the part where the police came so I started cutting to the good part. I felt sorry for the poor citizen commuters sitting near us who had to hear the same story multiple times. The 7:15 local is not a children's train, and the kind of people who stay at work until what I normally think of as bathtime might not have so much patience with the young people.

While I was telling the story, Andrew was sprawled out on the seat, face to the vinyl. I had to remind him not to stick his legs into the aisle.

Every Dude has his Day

On Sunday, Andrew had his first t-ball practice and game. My parents were in town and came along for the fun. As we were lacing up Andrew's cleats, Elizabeth asked to come too.

As soon as we got to the ball fields in Narberth, Elizabeth just had to go to the playground. Narberth has the Cadillac of playgrounds. Even the abandoned toys left under the climbing gym there are better than the abandoned toys left at our regular playgrounds. My parents cheerfully watched Andrew meet his coach and teammates while I took Elizabeth to the slides.

Andrew is one of the older kids on his team. Here he is in his new uniform.

Elizabeth was already operating sand-moving equipment by the time Andrew picked up a ball.

My parents told me that Andrew very kindly allowed the smaller, younger boys on his team to take batting practice ahead of him. But when his turn came up, batting practice was over. Then the coach started putting kids into the field. Squeaky wheels got put on first, second and third base. Andrew was sent to left field. Finally, right before the game was going to start, the coach invited the kids to pick a name for their team. Someone shouted out "Dragons" and everyone agreed. Andrew still had his hand raised to be called upon. And he was looking grim.

Meanwhile, Elizabeth was spinning in the dish.

My parents took Elizabeth to the Head Nut to buy snacks for their drive home later that evening. I stayed to cheer on Andrew.

He found a place for himself at third base. Unlike his older sister, he watched everything going on with furious concentration. On one play he scooped up a slow roller to third base and dashed home, stabbing home plate with the ball to make an unassisted force out. I was amazed. I didn't know he was that aware of the rules of the game. To give some context, on the play before the batter had lifted the ball past the second baseman into short right field. All twelve infielders converged on the ball like a rugby scrum. The baserunner leaving first base ran over to join them until his coach redirected him to second base.

Then it was finally Andrew's turn to take the bat. He was the last player on his team to step before the tee, and therefore the last batter of the game.

He blasted the ball on his first swing. In t-ball, every hit is a single, but I think he could easily have gotten extra bases from this smash.

As proud as I was of his nascent baseball skills, I was even happier that he didn't devolve into his silly goofy act. His coaches were very impressed with his maturity. I laid the complements on really thick on the way home.

imperfect

Like many dads, I usually get a sense of the emotional temperature at home from the 4:00 pm phone call. Today I learned that the family had to retreat with dishonor from the playground after school because "all three of your children" made bad choices when playing with their friends this afternoon.

Joey and Andrew forage for sticks and branches every day. Today Joey threw a branch at Andrew, and Andrew returned fire. Joey had to go home with an eye injury.

Alex's friends were hucking rocks (ROCKS!) at the school. Alex took a rock and ground it against the wall to write "ANDREW STINKS". She was referring to an unrelated, fourth grade Andrew.

As Rachel was dealing with these twin offenses, a child she didn't know came up and indignantly asked her if that was her little girl over there - it was. "She just knocked us all off the slide!"

"She probably thought you were playing 'Squish The Lemon'," explained Rachel. "We weren't!" replied the moppet. Rachel walked over and Elizabeth burst into tears. "I SAID I was SORRY!" she blurted.

Rachel hauled everyone home, then sent Alex back up the hill with wet rags to wash off her graffiti. Alex sobbed "I had a really bad day today and it made it even worse when you yelled at me!" Andrew is trying to help Rachel determine what the appropriate ban should be on stick gathering. He also is trying to suggest punishments for Elizabeth, which isn't so helpful.

What should I bring home from work tonight? I'm tempted to act like nothing happened.