tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67577712738300642142024-03-13T11:36:57.848-04:00Father Knows Little....Petehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13569790730185885807noreply@blogger.comBlogger382125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6757771273830064214.post-43745756428224251612024-02-20T14:47:00.003-05:002024-02-20T14:47:34.025-05:00Coach<p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Seems like every year I get pulled into <a href="https://fatherknowslittle.blogspot.com/2020/02/the-coach.html#comment-form" target="_blank">coaching my son’s basketball team</a>. And don’t get me wrong, I love it. It’s great to watch the
team progress as we go through the season. I get into it, usually taking
on little pet projects, working on something in particular with each kid individually
while also working drills with the team.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">But if I've learned anything through the years, it's that coaching kids takes p-a-t-i-e-n-c-e. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Deep breaths. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDLmqkbGaZEPkCvj7DH7aMWs-1ShSuCxmRiY4XyszgEuuQXxW6OMk4RbM5-fHoVHcntRnQae-2o6Qc80TDY1A_mtoJDGxeUrHMJSGMAow6IS1Ve3b5qyu_0CZIZABdrjkebJlz-2de2MKoZH_9crY0r7Sobv3t0SvHehB-Wy97h95yWLSXH2q_0_sWKGI/s2016/roster1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDLmqkbGaZEPkCvj7DH7aMWs-1ShSuCxmRiY4XyszgEuuQXxW6OMk4RbM5-fHoVHcntRnQae-2o6Qc80TDY1A_mtoJDGxeUrHMJSGMAow6IS1Ve3b5qyu_0CZIZABdrjkebJlz-2de2MKoZH_9crY0r7Sobv3t0SvHehB-Wy97h95yWLSXH2q_0_sWKGI/s320/roster1.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;">This year began like most of the others, as I come up with drills and teaching moments and prep with notes I will never use. No matter how prepared I am, it never fails. It all falls apart. </span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">My wife, a second-grade teacher, gets this amused look on
her face when I get home after an hour of coaching, flop down in the chair and
exclaim how the kids just won’t listen to me.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">But I’m not teacher. I’m only a man trying to organize a
decent after-game snack schedule. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Again, each year I start with high hopes. Take for instance, my gameday lineup. Look at that. All neat, with
little notes and observations, things to work on.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Fast forward to last week. See? See the frantic scribble of
a man at the end of his rope. This is the scrawl of someone hoping people show up.
Because that’s another thing. All the kids want to play, but they can’t drive.
So you never know just who is going to show up. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoZPNziF1PZhlobKflnrqTB9wvSEnbNG1eu0HZdu1R6L-LUah-bHL98-WaY4fY1jSuuUmKQ_J-iyYyoU81xvFjoTgz7Jt0ZZaQXBCdxsjOwSDlI2QM_ycewhI0QW8Q_By0ghzMaAYc1MBO-tHq7kMQy_qP0RyYVG8XULl9wc2FrIUyoI2UEFG1n9m46ZA/s2016/Roster2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoZPNziF1PZhlobKflnrqTB9wvSEnbNG1eu0HZdu1R6L-LUah-bHL98-WaY4fY1jSuuUmKQ_J-iyYyoU81xvFjoTgz7Jt0ZZaQXBCdxsjOwSDlI2QM_ycewhI0QW8Q_By0ghzMaAYc1MBO-tHq7kMQy_qP0RyYVG8XULl9wc2FrIUyoI2UEFG1n9m46ZA/s320/Roster2.jpg" width="240" /></a></span>There were times--okay lots of times--during the year, when it
all came together. I’d look at their faces, brimming with confidence, having soaked
up all my lessons I’d drilled into their heads, and I'd think <i>hey, it's working. It's really working. </i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I’d
taught them how to move without the ball, how to box out and rebound, keys to the two/three defense. I'd instilled the discipline of staying in
your spot. The results were beautiful. Defensive stops. Rebounds. We were off
and running.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Other times, I’d stand to the side, bewildered, the whistle dangling from my lips as
I watched a bunch of kids who'd completely ignored any and everything I’d tried to teach them. They’d
bicker and argue and crowd together and clamor for the ball. And I’d wonder
what in the world I was doing wrong. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Such is how it goes, I guess. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Each year brings it’s own problems. Years five and six was simply
herding cats. <i>Why did you take your shoes off?</i> There was no hope, only survival. Years seven and eight was the
attention span. <i>Stop dribbling. Stop, okay please stop dribbling. </i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">But this year, it was all attitude. Lot's and lot's of attitude. One minute, things were going swimmingly, the next time down the court, it was nearly a street fight. I’d watch the clock, wondering if I should just let them have
at it or try to actually coach. Then gameday would come and I’d do my best to
put them in a position to have some fun. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">And to my surprise, they did. Everyone made strides. Everyone mostly enjoyed themselves. And as the final buzzer went off on Saturday, I breathed </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">a sigh of relief. It was
over. I’d survived.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">But now, well, I find myself thinking how I sort of miss
those guys. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Petehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13569790730185885807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6757771273830064214.post-83930541845305423422023-10-19T15:48:00.016-04:002023-10-19T16:02:03.438-04:00It's Not Easy Being the Prince<p><span style="font-family: verdana;">In the never ending world of Disney that is my three-year
old’s life, it can be difficult to keep track of all the characters I’m
supposed to play. From villain to hero, be it animal or, well, I've even played a tree, I do my best with the roll I'm assigned. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">But usually I'm a prince. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Only it's not what I had in mind...</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">At 48, being royal can be taxing. Ideally, it would mean a life
of luxury. At least a castle. And while I do have the castle, (in the basement,
it’s pink and built out of cardboard), things are not quite as charming as I'd imagined. In truth, it can be a bit grueling,
and I almost long for the days of <a href="https://fatherknowslittle.blogspot.com/2016/08/on-your-markget-setslow.html" target="_blank">pirates, swords, and football. </a><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">With this being the second child, I thought I’d be more…
prepared? I’m not, but a am much older now, and the other kid was a boy and so things—trucks,
sports, explosions—came naturally. Not this time. Now, everything is pink, and
there’s more role playing, whether I’m ready or not. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhymnxql0UIFpAVzVPNZDXP5xUOWi05mnevrleZolKBN2Uf7hDQ_XCHbZjK3lQ_5YSS7TUNL1Hf37rEmTk8QZ2gL0Zdx4Tc92kjjjEENltYnvd4jmRGXSuio6FvOMRF0gY7o1bPjusEq7cYGEDyguO5yiXUDc-P_ChYio4L1wrGkFF1Q_t37q0epZlCxAc/s640/Bellaaa.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhymnxql0UIFpAVzVPNZDXP5xUOWi05mnevrleZolKBN2Uf7hDQ_XCHbZjK3lQ_5YSS7TUNL1Hf37rEmTk8QZ2gL0Zdx4Tc92kjjjEENltYnvd4jmRGXSuio6FvOMRF0gY7o1bPjusEq7cYGEDyguO5yiXUDc-P_ChYio4L1wrGkFF1Q_t37q0epZlCxAc/s320/Bellaaa.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;">In the mornings, usually before I've had even a whiff of coffee, we’re reenacting
scenes. If I don’t have my lines pat, there's trouble on the set. Once we're in the car, it's more of the
same. I'm not ashamed to admit that the other day I read two pages of The Little Mermaid while at a stoplight.</span><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">And still, my knowledge of these fairy lands remains unsatisfactory. What little I do know is taxed at every turn. My inflections and voices are under razor sharp scrutiny and I have to be repeatedly corrected. <i>No, Daddy, not like thaaaat. </i></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Depending on her mood, diva or devil, I can bring things to a halt with one
slip of the tongue. Call Ariel Aurora and oh boy, pay the price. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">My meager talents aren't limited to royalty. At times, I have to play
the heel as well. I’m the beast. I’m Gaston. I'm King Triton and I’m Hans. Sometimes, I'm mere livestock (which does wonders for my knees). <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Now, it's not always so crucial. Sometimes, I'm hilarious. Most of the time is good clean fun. Morning. Day. Evening. Repeat. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">But my hard work is paying off. The other night at dinner,
Mom sat down at the table while daughter and I were midway through one of our fairytale skits. Upon seeing her, our princess turned to her
mother, AKA The Favorite, AKA Numero Uno, AKA The Head Honcho, and politely asked, “Can you go back
in the kitchen?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">My wife and I exchanged looks of astonishment, before my wife cocked her brow and
backed away, no questions asked. She had like a million other fires she needed to put out anyway, so she was more than okay with taking a free moment when offered. A little smirk my way as she took off. "Sure, I’ll give you two some time.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">With the matter settled, my little princess turned to me and
batted her eyes. “Now, you will be Gaston.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Things could be worse…<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></o:p></p></div>Petehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13569790730185885807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6757771273830064214.post-39438222681640332872023-06-13T08:22:00.011-04:002023-06-29T08:24:18.301-04:00No Regrets<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP_lZ4fiCwsWly43PHZrOb1N78iUpwSzqQQchcVj0f5JSUL0MMbVqnpJbjwR27HNmerwxNwLWgkzer0e6jdSTRlzz9r88B3Zg-OdSvz5fu79XN1O9g-YlwmFe_ZpTZ8pgWfKXdFBgQFSqDUv00aMWBx2xrWRkJprYPTaq3EN_HfyBv-CMkM-Xfnnzu/s2016/house.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP_lZ4fiCwsWly43PHZrOb1N78iUpwSzqQQchcVj0f5JSUL0MMbVqnpJbjwR27HNmerwxNwLWgkzer0e6jdSTRlzz9r88B3Zg-OdSvz5fu79XN1O9g-YlwmFe_ZpTZ8pgWfKXdFBgQFSqDUv00aMWBx2xrWRkJprYPTaq3EN_HfyBv-CMkM-Xfnnzu/s320/house.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Sometimes, in the Groundhog Day repetition that is parenting
with a toddler, when we do the same things over and over again and one day
blurs into the next, middle age comes creeping into my thoughts and I start to
wish I’d done more with my past. Be it travel, or work, or wishing I had a do-over for all the dumb mistakes of my youth, I don’t
have many regrets but every now and then I find myself wondering what I could have done differently. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">But those thoughts are fleeting, and as it is, I find my
happiest moments are in or around my little house on my little patch of land in
my little town. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The other day I was in my backyard with Bella, my two year-old
daughter. We’re playing in the pallet house and she wants to do
my hair. Only there are rules in place and so I have to crawl out of the house and then return so that I can knock before coming in and make a proper entrance. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Oh, uh, right. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I do as I'm told. This time I knock </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">and she welcomes me inside. There’s a toy
sink with actual running water wedged into a corner. I’m instructed to sit against
the wall. A siren wails in the distance, somewhere outside these magical walls, as she
sets her hands in the water—probably filled with mosquito larvae and who knows
what else—cupping them as she carries the water to my head and splashes my hair
with it.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">“Beautiful,” she murmurs, wiping down the sides of my face. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">“Thank you,” I say, water dripping onto my shirt, kind of
looking around. She does this again, maybe four or five more times. Then uses a toy set of pliers to cut my hair. She's fully focused on her task and takes time and care to do the job right. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">“Does it really look good?” I ask, as she drops the pliers and starts to clean up. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Bella looks up from the sink and regards me with big blue eyes.
A small nod. “Definitely.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">And that’s it. I don’t need to go anywhere. I’m good here, hunched
over in this make believe bug infested pallet shed hair salon, with this sweet
little stylist who hands our compliments like candy. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></o:p></p>Petehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13569790730185885807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6757771273830064214.post-73618630377874743202023-02-22T09:15:00.017-05:002023-02-23T20:19:58.762-05:00Bella and the Bad Guys<p><span style="font-family: verdana;">My two year-old daughter is sweet and charming and a
complete goofball most of the time. She bumbles around the house clad in
pink, her hair in pigtails. She's a bundle of joy in her light up boots, as she rides her little tricycle up and down the
street, taking everything in. It's such a fun age, watching her play in the sandbox or discover new adventures. But I’ve noticed something else about my sweet
little girl.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">She likes the bad guys.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8QK-tNOGvaYGBd6-dHyfUM7_AYCrdgBfA1p5qSsI-11CAGN_o4aBi5qrWc2LFpwnI312jL2CNZz_ByBeOg3dJs27LPnUf4qI50BB76DqdKSHD78jj_wrJk0z9CCqRmnPuugIzfUlf36YBmI09eelXsAIq_H441SkrqPVmx-CZRoTeSQZL0qrDpO75/s225/gruff.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8QK-tNOGvaYGBd6-dHyfUM7_AYCrdgBfA1p5qSsI-11CAGN_o4aBi5qrWc2LFpwnI312jL2CNZz_ByBeOg3dJs27LPnUf4qI50BB76DqdKSHD78jj_wrJk0z9CCqRmnPuugIzfUlf36YBmI09eelXsAIq_H441SkrqPVmx-CZRoTeSQZL0qrDpO75/s1600/gruff.jpg" width="225" /></a></span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Whether we’re reading books or watching cartoons, or even
telling stories, she’ll make me go back to the naughty part. The other day we
were reading three little pigs. You think she was worried about those silly
pigs? Nope. It was all about the wolf. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">It all started back around Christmas. She was watching Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer and couldn't get enough of the <a href="https://villains.fandom.com/wiki/Abominable_Snow_Monster" target="_blank">Abominable Snow Monster.</a> I'd been worried she would be afraid of the beast but instead she only wanted to watch the scenes with him in it. She loved him so much we even got her a little stuffed animal, which she cuddled and cared for as though it were a baby doll.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">And then we noticed a trend...</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The wolf. The Grinch. The Gruffalo. That boy sitting in the corner in Timeout. If it’s hairy or spikey,
or makes terrible decisions, count her in. No matter what the situation, if she
has to pick between Clark Kent and his arch enemies, she’s picking those three
lunatics in black.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Maybe she likes a challenge, or enjoys the turning point in a story, but something about her giggle, they way her eyes light up when the villain gets the upper hand, it makes me wonder what kind of company she's going to keep as a teenager. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Then again, I think it’s commendable, how my daughter sees
through a monster's scaly exterior to find the good inside. These are trying times, when everyone
could use a friend. So hey, if s</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">he’s willing to take on a project, help a brute find his shine, who am I to tell otherwise?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">But where does it end? Measuring for curtains at the Death Star? Finding ACME discount codes for Wile E. Coyote? And back to that teenager thing. At
this rate, I fully expect her to leave the house on the back of a motorcycle.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0gq69-F5GAHrOxyNCQF7dd1uyhAoypeyb9BmKHSJNUU5GUemM-I1QTmvLS7Wfbxdh6wF4_yBVE1nAAQPLB9IVyHW_gapQloQhiSuze4SK1t8fj8kQC3M9_pZa7_TRsE3Upg0GpkdPWmK-83pv2ElrucYWpk-i6Lxb4fiGzzggt3tHsF9jMD8t3a6b/s640/fas,.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="380" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0gq69-F5GAHrOxyNCQF7dd1uyhAoypeyb9BmKHSJNUU5GUemM-I1QTmvLS7Wfbxdh6wF4_yBVE1nAAQPLB9IVyHW_gapQloQhiSuze4SK1t8fj8kQC3M9_pZa7_TRsE3Upg0GpkdPWmK-83pv2ElrucYWpk-i6Lxb4fiGzzggt3tHsF9jMD8t3a6b/w238-h400/fas,.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><p></p>Petehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13569790730185885807noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6757771273830064214.post-9817576036012946492022-10-25T14:12:00.001-04:002022-10-25T14:12:10.348-04:00The Worst Halloween Ever<p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Okay <i>*deep breath*</i> i</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">t’s been two years, so I guess I can talk about it.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Halloween 2020. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">A cruel joke in the year of Covid. The year of Zoom. The year of virtual school, work, shopping and family gatherings.
For our family, like most, it was a year of </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">setbacks and change and continuing global crises. Of learning on the fly. T</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">he
only good thing, besides daytime pajamas, was the tiny little addition we were expecting. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx3rUxJB3pG_KgoJJX4cv8vsQoyBm7UxNukeou6XweRWp4gj2P_tdM5m0ce5aLCysPApnC7nW1dasICrhgsfnfJbGBQLz6IfRof9jj1KAHkJlxc--dUT_DKi9Ezdvh4HqKcrq_pUIJz5pYYAvHlhYPf6cA8ZbL-FUAvjteaK4YZmLPv9GCevnnILUr/s780/adfd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="637" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx3rUxJB3pG_KgoJJX4cv8vsQoyBm7UxNukeou6XweRWp4gj2P_tdM5m0ce5aLCysPApnC7nW1dasICrhgsfnfJbGBQLz6IfRof9jj1KAHkJlxc--dUT_DKi9Ezdvh4HqKcrq_pUIJz5pYYAvHlhYPf6cA8ZbL-FUAvjteaK4YZmLPv9GCevnnILUr/s320/adfd.jpg" width="261" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Our baby girl arrived in September of that forsaken year and her seven year-old brother was thrilled for about fifteen minutes. A newborn baby is, for a seven year old boy, boring at best and annoying the rest. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Obviously, Halloween was going to be different. With Covid running rampant, trick or treating was more or less cancelled,
as were parties and gatherings and anything to do with real life living, breathing people. Still, I wanted my son to have <i>some </i>sort of Halloween experience. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I took him to get a costume. We ended up with this
half Jawa, half grim reaper type thing that under normal circumstances I never
would have bought. We bought our own bags of candy. We got pumpkins and watched movies and had a fire out back and the leaves were flying around and I
was thinking, Well, m<i>aybe this won’t be so bad. </i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">After some scrambling, we caught wind of a community
farmer’s market a few miles up the road in the county. They were having some kind of
costumer/candy party scheduled for around seven that morning. Yes, morning, but again,
we were desperate, and so we packed up the car with the brand baby, stroller, along
with our pint-sized grim reaper and decided we’d make the best out of it. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">When I think of a farmer’s market, tents, fruit stands, some
old guys in overalls and maybe a little country band comes to mind. Or maybe
I’d been watching too many Curious George reruns. Either way, what we found was
not that. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Tables scattered along a path. A few local businesses. Insurance. Realtors. It
was maybe forty degrees and oh yeah, it was seven in the morning. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Out of the van, my kid ripped off his mask and surveyed
the scene.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I set a hand on our little jawa's shoulder
as he shrugged, deflated, his little Jack o' lantern bucket empty as sea shell. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The baby in place, we trudged on, stopping to sniff some
homemade candles. And we made the best of it. My kid collected maybe four
pieces of candy (although one was a cough drop), before the baby had had enough and we packed it up and
headed home. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">We tried. We played spooky Halloween music. We carved pumpkins at
the dinner table. We even ordered pizza and planned to have a fire with a
giant sack of candy. I let him fill that bucket until it spilled. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">I thought it was going to be okay. Not the best Halloween in
history, but with enough junk food and candy and activities to get us through
it. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Then came that magical time of a fall afternoon, when the sun was slipping down and the air was cool and crisp. It was that time we'd normally be getting ready to set off for trick or treating. But we weren't, we were in the dining room, where the table was covered with newspaper and pumpkin guts and how many times can you listen to Monster Mash and Thriller when you knew that was it? It was all too forced. And then the baby started to cry. She was wailing away and Mom had to rock her and it was like
something just kind of cracked. I glanced down at my son and his eyes full of
tears.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">And I couldn’t blame him. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Here was a seven year-old kid who’d taken everything the
world could throw at him like a champ. He’d adjusted on the fly, absorbing closures
and cancellations and life-changing events and readjustments by the week. The world. School. Home. His family. He hadn’t been in a classroom since March. We’d added a family member. We were always packed in the house on top of
each other. Now no Halloween? It was too much. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">We’d marveled at how well he’d been doing. We made jokes
about how easily these kids navigated the computer. He’d come accustomed to
meeting people through pixels and internet speeds. Now he’d lost Halloween. This
wasn’t fair. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Hell, I was crying with him. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">But now here we are again. We're ready and willing and we’ve just spent a small fortune on
a Darth Vader costume. And yes, we went trick or treating last year but that
2020 Halloween will take five or six more trick or treats to get over. So bring it. Rain or shine we’re
getting out and knocking on some doors. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Trick or Treat. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></o:p></p>Petehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13569790730185885807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6757771273830064214.post-4420776783405929892022-03-28T11:14:00.002-04:002022-03-28T11:16:52.991-04:00A Tale of Love, Loss, and Rock and Roll<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjRuznXFR-bCPsoiqA64Oir7M6YP30V8BPqBrJsbw_ANrX9wB01FdlMtUUVPQi_XU7-H0UkFflcBs4Elfcy7Zbv4P6dnAtBkJowm1NY5xTw6jBDBVFdgdk6EIkEAuq8vnkfFWLDa6PX_ETEvQWqGMwRN52N8X3w6g5BPRf8RR2w5bgXE92jvqavox8/s2475/TTAD.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2475" data-original-width="1575" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjRuznXFR-bCPsoiqA64Oir7M6YP30V8BPqBrJsbw_ANrX9wB01FdlMtUUVPQi_XU7-H0UkFflcBs4Elfcy7Zbv4P6dnAtBkJowm1NY5xTw6jBDBVFdgdk6EIkEAuq8vnkfFWLDa6PX_ETEvQWqGMwRN52N8X3w6g5BPRf8RR2w5bgXE92jvqavox8/w408-h640/TTAD.jpg" width="408" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">My middle grade novel, The Thing About Dad, is out now and available everywhere. Here's the summary:</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i style="font-family: verdana;">For
thirteen-year-old Jack Lansford, moving from upstate New York to Virginia is a
prison sentence. At least that’s what it feels like when his dad takes a job
down south and asks him to “give it a year.” Moving in, Jack's misery turns to
confusion when he stumbles across a box of letters to his mother that forever
changes the way he sees his light-hearted dad.</i></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>As close as Jack is with his father, they never talk about Mom, or the
car accident that took her life when he was only three. So Jack can’t help
himself from sneaking back to the journals—pages of heartfelt confessions about
the mother he never knew. School begins and Jack tries to find his place—playing
drums in the basement band with his dad and the neighbors while making a few
friends along the way. <o:p></o:p></i></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Jack
confides in Miranda, the girl next door with the voice of a young Aretha
Franklin. But when he shows her a poem his father wrote about his Mom, she
decides it’s the song they should perform at the local band jam. With that, The
Wallywalkers are primed for the big time, but first Jack has to summon the
courage to have the talk of all talks with his dad.</i></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Thing-About-Dad-Pete-Fanning-ebook/dp/B09N38Q22Z/ref=sr_1_1?crid=18QRLX62W5ZPK&keywords=The+Thing+About+Dad+pete+fanning&qid=1648480415&s=books&sprefix=the+thing+about+dad+pete+fannin%2Cstripbooks%2C115&sr=1-1" target="_blank">Amazon</a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-thing-about-dad-pete-fanning/1140807538" target="_blank"> Barnes & Noble</a></span></p></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p>Petehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13569790730185885807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6757771273830064214.post-22310130472469899292021-09-01T11:36:00.005-04:002021-10-20T13:17:34.384-04:00My Kid's Room<p><span style="font-family: verdana;">There’s something to be said about my baby Bella’s room. The
books, the blocks, the crib, the loopy swirl of her name on the wall. It’s like
a separate universe in our house. In Bella’s room we sit on the floor. We use our
imagination. We play with stuffed animals or Barbie's. We don’t think about all
that stuff on the news.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">There’s a lamp on, casting a cozy glow over us as I look at
my daughter, into her wide, all-encompassing eyes. It’s where I find the
absolute best in humanity. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">After a while she’ll crawl to me, bash into my chest then
slide down and bury her little head in my lap. I’ll stroke her little tuffs of
hair and her back while she murmurs softly. Then she’ll look up and say something
like, “Blah.” Her mix of ball and dog. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I say it back to her. “Ball.” She smiles, coming alive. She
crawls around, muttering to herself, pulling up on the dresser or crib as we
talk colors and shapes. We point at things that spark our interest: a book, a
shoe, the ceiling fan. Outside it might be raining, or hot, or windy or dusk, but
it doesn’t matter. Not when we’re in her room, with the lamp on, talking shop. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">When I’m in Bella’s room, I’m not thinking about work, or
writing, of past failures or even worrying about Covid. I’m content to play and sing and laugh until she gets
hungry or tired or simply grows bored with me. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">My little girl's room is a safe place, for her, but for me as well. It’s
where time stops and holds still in our laps—even as she’s growing so quickly. Where we wind up the music box and let its clicking melody pull us away. It’s where
bears talk, turtles fly, monkey’s dance and I can take a moment to catch my
breath. </span><o:p></o:p></p>Petehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13569790730185885807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6757771273830064214.post-62972981327216795542021-06-07T13:34:00.006-04:002021-06-07T13:36:40.729-04:00Fairy Dust Fumble <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pLyue4bLNxE/YL5YcHLV85I/AAAAAAAAD1E/L73t4AhqxjkgJLE2Exkr_jTj1meFa__OgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/FDF.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1384" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pLyue4bLNxE/YL5YcHLV85I/AAAAAAAAD1E/L73t4AhqxjkgJLE2Exkr_jTj1meFa__OgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/FDF.jpg" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;">Less than one month to go before my middle grade romp, Fairy Dust Fumble hits the shelves. My first four books have covered some pretty heavy topics. Not this time, my July release, Fairy Dust Fumble, tells story of Colton Clutts going from third string bench warmer to superstar phenom. And It’s plain silly fun.<br /><br />Here's the summary:<br /><br /><i>Twelve-year-old Colton Clutts is looking for a breakthrough. But as the third-string quarterback of the middle school football, he team does himself no favors when he agrees to play the part of the fairy in the school play. Clad in tights, wings, and armed with a wand, Colton achieves school-wide fame after he tumbles off the stage during rehearsals. If that isn’t bad enough, a drafty backside incident on the football field quickly goes viral.<br /><br />Things at home aren’t much better. Colton’s little sister thinks she’s a witch. She casts protective spells for Colton because she’s convinced he’s cursed. But when she stumbles upon a spell that actually works—turning theater-issued glitter into magical fairy dust—things start happening. It begins with crazy slam dunks in gym class, then Colton runs wild in a middle school football game. Just like that, Colt-the-Bolt is born—a superstar athlete who gallops into the record books.<br /><br />For Colton, it’s a dream come true. But a feisty school journalist is chasing the story. And Colton’s sister no longer wants to be a witch. His drama crush isn’t interested in a superstar who’s skipping out on play rehearsals and his best friend is tired of being the sidekick. With the varsity coach calling and ESPN proclaiming him a “phenom,” the Colt-the-Bolt trend is nothing but a big glittery mess. And now, with the spotlight awaiting him and the fairy dust dwindling, Colt finds himself onstage and completely out of magic tricks.</i><br /><br />Release date is 7/6, but for now here’s an excerpt—after Colton’s little sister has “spelled” his stage prop glitter and he realizes his new magical abilities:<br /><br /> -<br /><br />The blitz comes storming and there is nowhere to go.<br /><br />Correction. There is nowhere for a mere mortal to go. My<br /><br />feet, however, have other plans.</span><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /><br />They take me left. And when I say they, I really mean it.<br /><br />My feet are driving and I’m only hanging on for the ride. A<br /><br />wall of defenders close but I find a crack of daylight in the<br /><br />middle. I slip between two hefties but more come calling.<br /><br />At the last second, I catch a glimpse of Harrison streaking<br /><br />down the sidelines with a couple steps on his guy.<br /><br />I chuck it with everything I’ve got.<br /><br /> <br />The pass flutters in the wind. Harrison slows, his<br /><br />facemask to the sky as he makes the adjustment. A roaming<br /><br />defensive back converges on what should be an easy<br /><br />interception. What happens next will be discussed for<br /><br />years.<br /><br /><br />Doing all that running, I hadn’t put enough muscle into<br /><br />the pass, so the ball floats like a sagging balloon at a parade.<br /><br />The safety arrives perfectly on time to make the play, but<br /><br />it’s like someone has hit the pause button. The balloon<br /><br />slows to a magical stop in midair. I mean, the football halts<br /><br />and hangs there, like a cloud, until the poor safety goes<br /><br />crashing into his own bench.<br /><br /><br />Only then does the football drop safely into Harrison’s<br /><br />hands, where he stands stock still, looking down at the ball<br /><br />like it’s a meteor rock. Hundreds of jaws drop in complete<br /><br />silence. Finally, Coach Barber cries out for him to run, and<br /><br />he mechanically jogs into the end zone.<br /><br /> <br />No one chases Harrison. Probably because no one<br /><br />knows what in the heck they’ve just seen. Me included.<br /><br />Without peeling his eyes away, the referee slowly finds his<br /><br />whistle and eventually, cautiously, raises his hands to signal<br /><br />a touchdown.<br /><br /><br />Both sides of the bleachers are as quiet as a library</span><br /><div><br /></div></div>Petehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13569790730185885807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6757771273830064214.post-7788870794017997652021-05-13T15:48:00.015-04:002021-05-14T08:00:14.382-04:00Tale of Two Dads<p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I slide into safety, taking cover between the bushes. Having escaped enemy fire, I catch my breath and wait to ambush my assailant. A quick peek out, when I don’t hear
footsteps. But I force myself to hold still. This war is won with patience, not bravado. I clutch two guns, both cocked and ready. From my vantage point I have an excellent view
of the field, the hill between the houses, even the back door. I have
everything covered. It's a perfect plan. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-K65DORNpgFU/YJ1-NVqwd2I/AAAAAAAAD0E/wwh3RiXRyHUdElzWNbqeHsO64AayzvtRACLcBGAsYHQ/s1632/Nerf.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1632" data-original-width="1224" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-K65DORNpgFU/YJ1-NVqwd2I/AAAAAAAAD0E/wwh3RiXRyHUdElzWNbqeHsO64AayzvtRACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Nerf.jpg" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Minutes pass. A fly lands on my nose but I don’t dare move a
muscle. I have to be ready for anything. But nothing is happening. Maybe the plan is not so perfect. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Slowly, against my better instincts, I leave the safety of
the bushes. Arms raised, wielding my pistols, I climb the hill to the front yard. My ears perked,
my eyes open. I swing around, wildly, my arms like hands on a clock. But there’s no sign of my attacker. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I creep to the maple tree in the front yard. I clear the treehouse then step down, allow myself to
relax. Then, I make a crucial mistake. I wander out of the shaded safety of the trees to the street--no man's land--where I hear a snicker. I look up.
There, I spot my pint-size opponent, fifty yards away, rifle in hand. I hang my head in shame. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I’ve been outsmarted, outmaneuvered, my impatience has doomed me once
again. But luck is on my side, as his cartridge drops from his rifle. He looks
down, then back to me. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I smile.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">With only one option left, I go full Braveheart on him. I charge, </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">pistols extended, Tarrantino-style as my feet
slap the asphalt. Neighbors take notice. In the confusion, a couple of the neighborhood kids join in, running behind me. I look left, then right, as one kid’s face is covered full in
war paint, the other wears a towel around his shoulder, with… one boxing glove?
I shake it off. There’s no time for questions. It's go time. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The gleam in my opponent’s eyes turns to surprise, fear, panic. He rushes to retrieve the cartridge as I bear down on him. Twenty feet… ten… <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Just when I think I have him, my forty-eight inch target stands tall. My first dart
whizzes by his ear, the second falls short at his feet. I keep gunning,
reloading as I approach, until I hear the snap of the cartridge and he takes
aim like a dueler at high noon. I shoot again, but it’s too late. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I’m hit. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">He nails me between the eyes. I let out a wail, stumbling, my arms out, pistols skidding along the street. My opponent shows no mercy. A second shot finds my ribs, and
I crumple to the street, mortally wounded, staring up the lazy clouds passing
through the evening sky. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I stammer over some last words as my assailant takes aim and
looms over me, when my reprieve comes from the house. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">“Honey, can you take the baby? I’m trying to fix dinner.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">“Huh? Oh, yeah.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I roll over, amidst a collection of Nerf darts and oil stains.
I get to my feet and wipe myself off. “Well, I gotta go.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">My son lowers the rifle. I hand the pistols to the other two
kids. I know they’ll take good care of my weapons. “Until next time.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">As I hobble into the house, defeated but smiling, I’m
handed a bundle of pink and told I have a leaf in my hair. A wide-eyed munchkin squeals at me. I make a face, she giggles. I tell her about the battle with her brother. She grabs my nose. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Being the dad of an eight-year old boy and an eight-month
old daughter is a great thing. It’s also very confusing at times. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">It means waging an all out Nerf war outside, then coming in to
read about purple monkeys and bubble gum trees. It means being careful not to
get bike chain grease on the pretty pink onesie. It means wrestling on a
trampoline then gently pushing the Little Tikes swing. It means trying to keep
the baby from eating your UNO cards. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">But at times, when it all collides, when my wild man eight-year
old stops and hugs his sister, when she lights up with a smile as he dances for
her, it’s not confusing at all. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">It’s easy. </span><o:p></o:p></p>Petehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13569790730185885807noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6757771273830064214.post-64129835062167693252021-03-08T10:17:00.013-05:002021-04-05T07:59:36.636-04:00Sticks and Stones and ... DON'T EVER SAY THAT<p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Race relations always seem to find its way into my books.
Maybe it’s because I'm from Virginia, or my childhood, how I was raised. Either way, it’s not always by
design but it’s there, creeping onto the page... Racism, bigotry, injustices large and small. Yep, that’s me, never afraid to let it rip. </span></p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Me the author? Fearless. But me the dad? Not so much…</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-puZhUMqGEcA/YEY-l_g2MqI/AAAAAAAADww/OR4_eGFapzEeYfaWBOydG2JWfpnma6-fwCLcBGAsYHQ/s259/1_VGkc7fZMua3zNdRTFjPlpw.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="195" data-original-width="259" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-puZhUMqGEcA/YEY-l_g2MqI/AAAAAAAADww/OR4_eGFapzEeYfaWBOydG2JWfpnma6-fwCLcBGAsYHQ/s0/1_VGkc7fZMua3zNdRTFjPlpw.jpeg" /></a></span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The other day my eight year old son came home and told me he'd learned the N-word. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I stopped whatever I was doing. I froze. I found myself getting angry, blaming people. I gave the word all the power it needed to thrive. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Eight years old. And while he knew there was such a thing as the N-word, he didn't know what it was or what it meant. All he knew was that it</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> was off limits. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Now he'd overheard it, from a kindergartner, of all
things. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">He was shy about it, unsure, his eyes wide. He hadn’t said it
right, hadn’t wanted to say it at all. I asked all the
wrong questions.<i> Where did you hear this? Who said that? </i>I looked at my wife<i>, </i>like<i>, How did this happen?
</i>That we were in our kitchen and he should’ve been telling me about a game of tag, or even freaking Minecraft. Instead, this precocious, beyond-his-years kid, was
asking me about the N-word.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">My skin lit up. My breath caught short. Of all the talks I’ve had
with this kid, about any and everything, from Coronavirus to Trump to more recently the Capitol
riots, this was the one I’d secretly wanted most to avoid. Like so
many other white people, I thought (hoped) that because <i>we </i>weren’t racist, because <i>we </i>didn't use words like that, well, he would never
encounter it. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I know, I know...</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">It wasn't that we had never talked race before. But now, as he asked me about this terrible word, I could only cringe. I imagined him saying it, unknowingly, just because it was a
bad word. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Last year, pre-Covid, back in first grade when he learned
the F-bomb it was like some sort of secret power he held in his mind. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">But this
word is different. It’s heavier. It’s…</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">…That kid in the woods when I was five <o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">…That dude at the park who looked around before
he told a joke<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">…The old man when we cut through his
yard to play ball<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">…The kid in the rich neighborhood when he saw my dad’s van as I was getting dropped off<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">How could I expect my son to magically understand the power of this word?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I couldn't. Instead, I let him watch me stammer and stutter and nearly scold
him on how he was never, <i>ever</i> to use that word under any circumstance. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">And I could tell he wanted to know <i>why</i>. This kid who once told me he wanted to learn every word. Why was this bad word different than other bad words?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">As adults, or parents, I think sometimes we assume our kids know stuff we take for granted. But again, I can't expect my kid to somehow just <i>get it</i>. To understand exactly how horrible this word is, to grasp the back breaking weight of it. Because it's not just a bad word, it's... much uglier than that. It carries a history that many of us wish to forget. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">But we can't forget. Because it's still there, on the tip of a kindergartner's tongue. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">And while trying to raise a kid without that kind of hate or ignorance, it's been easy to pretend none of it exists. When we’d discussed the Civil War, we'd touched on slavery as this awful thing in the
past. But was that enough? </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">To explain that word? Why it still lingers?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">We hear all the time about black father’s having <i>the talk</i>
with their sons. And that’s devastating. From that context, I'm lucky. Here I'm worried about my kid using a word that is off limits when some parents are having life and death discussions. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Yet at the same time can I honestly
look at this little white kid before me and tell him racism was something in the
past? Pretend it doesn't exist? I thought I could, hoped I could. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">But…<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">…A coworker, with a nudge, when it was just him and me in
the van<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">…That guy at work who said I only hang around ------s<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">…A friend of a friend’s father, at the dinner table<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I can’t. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">And later that night, in bed after I had some time to think about it, I could only try to explain. To help him
understand what has happened and how that word came to be. I could only tell him what I've</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> witnessed. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">The damage a word can cause. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I haven't felt it, not like my friends have. But I’ve been close enough to its hurt, the tears, the anger and rage it carries. I’ve watched it hit my friends full on. I've seen their reactions. I've heard my friends use it in an attempt to take the word back, in songs when it was reclaimed and rearranged. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">From there, we talked about hatred and atrocities. We talked about the Holocaust,
about Hitler and what he he'd done to the Jewish people.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Then we talked about slavery. We talked about all men being
created equal. We talked owning humans, their ancestry. We talked segregation,
Jim Crow, and Ruby Bridges. What it must have felt like when she walked into
school each day, that word being slung at her like a brick. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Imagine how that felt?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">It was a lot for an eight year old. But I realized by shying
away from it, I’d only delayed the inevitable. I thought since I didn’t talk like that it
would be enough.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">But it wasn’t enough. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Sure, I’d shielded him from that word, just as I’d shielded him
from violence. But now it’s here, in our kitchen. It’s time to talk. To listen.
To try and understand and go forth and do the best he can for the world around
him. To try and be the solution. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Damn, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I need to take my own advice. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></span><o:p></o:p></p>Petehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13569790730185885807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6757771273830064214.post-82885509010433338242021-01-08T13:45:00.011-05:002021-01-11T08:33:45.532-05:00Back Up and Running<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>M</b>y son and I like to roughhouse. We love playing football at
the field at the end of our street, which lately always seems to turn into some
sort of Braveheart battle scene. We play basketball. I go hiking in the woods
with my dogs. We ride bikes, climb trees, wrestle. I’m pretty much his tackling
dummy/stunt guy. Everything he wants to do, I’m game.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">But… my back.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NnZVnzPfOVY/X_ioLzvPv8I/AAAAAAAADtg/w7X5sI1pudAL0mYtmKIuIT9WE1GMcjP6gCLcBGAsYHQ/s390/man-back-pain-medicine-health-260nw-1139612750.webp" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="280" data-original-width="390" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NnZVnzPfOVY/X_ioLzvPv8I/AAAAAAAADtg/w7X5sI1pudAL0mYtmKIuIT9WE1GMcjP6gCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/man-back-pain-medicine-health-260nw-1139612750.webp" width="320" /></a></span></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">At forty-five, I guess I might need to slow down a bit. But I tweaked my
back over the holidays (could’ve been the street hockey goal he got for
Christmas). I never stopped doing what we do, until I couldn’t do what we do. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I gave it a day, then two. By day three it was still bad. I
couldn’t walk or sleep, and my posture was crooked. My wife, a lady I watched
give birth to a child without the help of any epidural or medicine at all, was
hardly sympathetic to my whining. The next day I called the physical therapist.
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">My appointment was three days out, so by the time I walked
up the street, feeling darn good about magical healing powers I might add, I
was considering cancelling altogether. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I mean, this stuff was for old people, right? Ladies in walkers,
old men with new hips, that sort of thing. I was only a bit sore, at least
until I coughed and almost cried. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The therapist welcomed me in. We’ll call her Tara. Before I
could tell her I thought it all might be a waste of time, Tara pointed out the
way I was slumped to the side—which I totally thought I wasn’t doing. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">She looked me over, and to my horror didn’t laugh me out.
Didn’t tell me to go run off with the young bucks. Nope, she asked me to lie
down. She looked me over. I kept on about how I was fine. Tara said she had to
get “Jim” because he was a strong guy. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Odd</i>, I remember thinking. <i>Why would she need a
strong guy?</i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Before I could think much more about it, Jim walked in. A barrel
chested guy with broad shoulders and a penchant for rolling his neck, he looked
me up and down holding back a smirk. He told me lie back and relax and grab the
sides of the bed, as he began admiring my shoes. He straightened my legs out,
as I sat back and laughed. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Oh, okay, I laughed, telling him all the silly stuff my son
and I do together, I mean, you know how--WHAT IN THE WORLD DID YOU JUST DO TO
ME?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Jim yanked my leg with the force one might use to start a
lawn mower. Something clicked, and after my initial shock, I noticed and
immediate difference. “That ought do it but maybe we should do one more,” he
said, a wild look in his eyes. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I walked out with a second appointment. I was feeling like
an old man. I mean, my back was significantly better but gone were those awesome
days in my twenties when I’d hurt myself and wake up the next day good as new. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">But I’m on the mend. Just no more hoisting my kid up on my
shoulders. And I’m not ready to give up Braveheart football or street hockey or
much of anything else. No way. I’m armed with new muscle activating techniques, some
youtube stretches and strengthening exercises. I mean, as I’m writing this, I feel ready to go...<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">To my next appointment.</span><o:p></o:p></p>Petehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13569790730185885807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6757771273830064214.post-91696915928011252172020-12-30T13:39:00.005-05:002021-01-03T12:15:15.458-05:00A Few Things...<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Go back to any post on this blog in 2013 and it’s easy to
see my kid is my world. So what happens when a new baby comes along? Well,
I’m supposed to say my world has evolved And it has. But…<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">It’s different.</span></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><p></p></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Of course I love the new baby. Don’t be silly. But it’s like
I’ve entered this strange new place where it’s now </span><i style="font-family: verdana;">baby world</i><span style="font-family: verdana;"> and </span><i style="font-family: verdana;">kid
world.</i><span style="font-family: verdana;"> We have jibber jabbering and baby talk in one room and a boy whose whole
life has changed way too much in one year in the other.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I mean, not only does my kid (and everyone) have this Covid thing endure, with school
shutting down last spring and now this hybrid stuff without friends. Toss in a baby and the new dynamics of our family and well, we're off to a rocky start. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Again, I don’t claim this problem as ours alone. It’s not
original. But I don't write about everyone's experiences, I write about my own. And this is new to me and it’s no easy adjustment.</span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">My son loves his new sister. He’s great with her. They play
and he’s already deemed her a “princess warrior.”<br /><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">But, well, babies cry. And they need lots of attention.
Again, nothing new here but we’re talking about a seven year-old who’s
emotional state isn’t always solid ground as he’s trying to navigate the
world’s many problems. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">And so sometimes, when the baby is crying and it’s
getting harder and harder to control our son’s downtime from technology our lives now depend on, as we work to figure out when it’s okay to play
games or do schoolwork or otherwise zone out and just look at pictures he’s
taken on his digital camera, it can get dicey to say the least. And I’m working from home in a laundry room,
trying to work a day job, write sometimes, sell books at others while my wife is exhausted from
going back to school and breastfeeding and being the bad guy who gets on our
son about school work to the point I almost seems like my son and my wife’s
relationship is just one more casualty of this stupid year in Covid...<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">It can be exhausting, you know?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">So uhh… How do you fix this?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">You don’t, that’s how. You realize you’re with the people
you love most in the world and it’s best if you just look at the bright side because
otherwise you’re not doing anyone any favors here, especially a new born baby. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">So here we are, in this new, bizarre, hybrid, online,
work-from-home environment. We have a baby. We have a kid who only goes to
school a couple of times a week. We are so far removed from our lives only just
one year ago that it’s hard to fathom. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">But…<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The other night, my son and I were at the dinner table. He
was moving pasta around on his plate and we were playing chess (hey, don’t knock
the dinner habits, at this point it’s survival). I had the baby sitting on the
table with us and he was making faces at her, trying to get her to laugh. At
four months, she’ll giggle and smile occasionally, try to tell us something in
baby speak. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">But then… <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">She started laughing. Like, real, belly laughs. Simon kept
on with the faces and she was hiccupping and giggling up a storm, just filling
up the house with the healing power of baby. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">After all the fights we’d had lately, all the family
arguments and the adjustments to having this new life form in our house, it was
a moment I’ll never forget. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Seriously, these little moments are what it takes to keep me
going. We have our health, our house, each other. I can complain about
everything else but what does it matter?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">For a few moments I was filled with enough joy to keep
plugging along. To remember what is important. Christmas was small this year, a
few yard visits with grandparents, a few neighborly hellos and a house full of
warmth and cookies. Just a few of everything...<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">But that laugh. Simon’s face. Things may have fell off some
from where we were but it’s proof we can get it all back. We can be happy
together. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">We can make it. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CklA-fxo1dQ/X-zJXqPyn5I/AAAAAAAADs4/NgPlMLqqh8kWhQeQh-e3joVNZ31qWcLgACLcBGAsYHQ/s640/s%2Band%2Bb.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CklA-fxo1dQ/X-zJXqPyn5I/AAAAAAAADs4/NgPlMLqqh8kWhQeQh-e3joVNZ31qWcLgACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/s%2Band%2Bb.jpg" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><p></p>Petehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13569790730185885807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6757771273830064214.post-31259509764871683162020-10-28T08:26:00.007-04:002020-10-28T08:30:10.636-04:00Bella the Beast <p><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The first baby napped. A little bit of playtime in the
morning then boom, nap. Up for lunch then he snoozed through most of the afternoon.
He napped before bed. He was regular. Life was regular.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">This time around. Nothing is regular. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5MRUSJIslhI/X5ljKuXiB7I/AAAAAAAADpc/9GixvN4HctoWTBFHEfA2eYGdgdaYyPNtACLcBGAsYHQ/s640/dfdadf.jpg" style="clear: right; display: inline; float: right; font-family: verdana; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5MRUSJIslhI/X5ljKuXiB7I/AAAAAAAADpc/9GixvN4HctoWTBFHEfA2eYGdgdaYyPNtACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/dfdadf.jpg" /></a><span style="font-family: verdana;">She’s a sweet little girl, I think. When she wakes up, she’s
bright eyed and looking around, the trees really get her attention. The world
is a special place, and she’s loving the view. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">But after five, ten, fifteen minutes max and her brow
wrinkles. Her color turns</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> from a milky white to a deep crimson. The
lip juts out and...<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Three… <o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Two… <o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>One…</i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The beast is here. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The beast will claw out your eardrums with her seek-and-destroy screams. She
will slap you into submission. She will shriek, wail, pause to fill the lungs before
she roars again. You don’t want to be short a bottle or breast when this thing is
hungry. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">She is just beginning to coo and jabber but blink and these little moments vanish. Usually, it comes with a smile, enough to melt your
heart until she destroys a diaper on your lap. And then the beast returns with
a vengeance. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">When she sleeps, we tip around the house like cat burglars.
Any creak on the floor and we exchange wide eyed looks, scowls, everyone ready
to turn on one another in an instant. In the case our seven year old forgets
the little beast is sleeping and comes rushing in flushed and loud—you know,
being a seven year old—my wife and I lunge for him, a single finger to our lips.
Shhhh!”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">She’s not quite two months old and seems to realize her absolute
power over us. She can change plans on a dime. She can get what she wants. All
she has to do is threaten to blow and she will be returned to Mom’s arms, ready
to nurse. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I know things will change. I’ll go back to work. We’ll all
go out into the world again. Maybe we’ll look back at this time together and
remember the good moments. The soft coos and the rare smiles. The impromptu
walks with my seven year old on my lunch breaks. This very easy morning commute
down the hallway. My open window, the birds’ morning songs and the slight
breeze in the fall leaves. The…<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Oh, baby’s crying. Gotta run! </span><o:p></o:p></p>Petehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13569790730185885807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6757771273830064214.post-62012199569772812142020-09-17T14:48:00.005-04:002020-09-17T14:54:55.065-04:00This Time<span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /><br />I'll start with the obvious: Pregnancy is a woman’s job, through and through. It's not for guys, it looks... hard. Anyway, I'm lucky to be married to an amazing woman. Let me explain.<br /><br />So here we where, at the end of this baby making process. We had a due by date and everything was sort of on standby. My in-laws drove down to hang with our seven year old and the plan was to play the waiting game. <br /><br />We didn’t wait long. <br /><br />While I’m working from home, my wife was still going to school to teach online. (Read that again if you have to, it’s the subject for an entirely different blog post) <br /><br />Anyway, the day after my in-laws arrived, my wife went to work and I logged on. At lunch, I took for a quick dog walk. I returned to find my mother in-law waiting outside. She said something like, “Two things…First…” <br /><br />She leads with the news of the Fed Ex man, something about a damaged package. And then, “Oh, and Anne is coming home. She’s having contractions.” <br /><br />I look up. “Um, what.” <br /><br />Sure, I knew we were at the any-day-now stage, but that day is today? <br /><br />Yep, my wife pulls into the driveway, and this time, unlike the other time, she’s struggling. <br /><br /><a href="http://fatherknowslittle.blogspot.com/2013/01/the-journey-begins.html">The first time </a>she was all, no lets’ wait. Now she’s ready. Our seven year old watches on as his mother, hunched over and wincing, takes deep breaths. You know, contractions. <br /><br />There’s no time to wait. We get in the car. We say a tearful goodbye. It’s all too weird, this second time around. The first time I was a mess, worried. This time I was a mess worried, but also leaving one kid to go have another. I know, people do it all the time, but we’ve been seven years as an only child family. It’s going to take some shifting. <br /><br />And shift I did. We drove to the hospital, did the whole Covid check in thing, and whisked right up the elevator to the birthing center. <br /><br />Bits and pieces come back to me. Of last time. While my wife is deep breathing, my mind is roaming, The little wooden stork’s the same, the floors are a bit more scuffed. No one in the waiting room. Oh look they redid the windows… <br /><br />“Honey, focus.” <br /><br />Right. <br /><br />We ring the bell. We wait. I offer my wife a seat but she can’t sit. Honestly she's not doing so hot standing up, either. The last time—yep, everything will get compared to last time—she seemed far more comfortable as we waited in one room, then after a while moved to another. This time we're going to be lucky to make it through the doors. <br /><br />We ring the bell again. <br /><br />A nurse comes out. "Hi yes. Um, can you wait a minute. Yeah, we’re getting the room ready." <br /><br />Seems it’s a busy day in the maternity ward. <br /><br />We don't wait long. Something in my wife's pale, pallid face must have gotten the point across, because soon the nurse returns and we get in the room as they’re still mopping. My wife doesn’t notice. She locks herself in the bathroom, long enough to where I’m kind of listening for baby wails. <br /><br />Then, she comes out. They help her into a gown. They ask if she wants an epidural. She nods, her head spinning exorcist style. <br /><br />More nurses. A doctor. Seven, eight people, including the nice lady still mopping. My wife mentions the epidural again. They do some prodding. <br /><br />“No time, girl. You’re having this baby.” <br /><br />“Oh,” I perk up. If there’s ever a time for a man to feel helpless, it’s in the delivery room. Last time it was slower. Or maybe time smoothed the edges so it seemed that way. But last time I hung out, watched it happen. This time my wife is sweating, writhing around, looking for a shot of whiskey. We might as well be in a covered wagon because this baby is coming right now. <br /><br />“That’s it. Push.” <br /><br />And then, forty-five minutes after we walk through the doors. Baby.<br /> <br />A baby girl arrives in the world. She’s purple and messy and connected by a cord that supplies everything she’s needed up until right…now. It’s one of those all too surreal moments in life where you realize just how much matters and how little control you have over anything. <br /><br />And people might say things are a mess right now. But it’s a good time to have a baby. We’re together, all of us. One, bigger, happy family. Stay tuned. This ought to be fun...</span><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hkculnvd0cc/X2OvTm34ZRI/AAAAAAAADe0/UUjsWls-zucOk1rGqmw5A8OkBbhq6jk3gCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/be.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hkculnvd0cc/X2OvTm34ZRI/AAAAAAAADe0/UUjsWls-zucOk1rGqmw5A8OkBbhq6jk3gCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/be.jpg" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><br /></div>Petehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13569790730185885807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6757771273830064214.post-66719769689698994952020-08-05T16:56:00.001-04:002020-08-05T16:56:10.521-04:00Getting Closer<p class="MsoNormal"><font face="verdana">Well, here we go. In a month, give or take, a little girl is coming into our lives. Well,
my son’s life, my life, pretty sure she’s been in my wife’s life, bouncing
around all this time now. <o:p></o:p></font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><font face="verdana">But as the baby room comes along and I find myself hanging flowery things, and the baby seat is ready and
waiting, it’s clear this is getting real—fast. We bought a minivan. A minivan.
Us, although I will say it’s plenty roomy and with the seats down I can get my
bike in there pretty easily. But, where was I. Oh yes. <o:p></o:p></font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><font face="verdana">A girl. <o:p></o:p></font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><font face="verdana">My life is a blur of Nerf darts and tree forts. And yes, who
is to say a girl can’t partake in all of that, but for a while this thing is
going to be a baby. Meaning nap times and lullabies, and "Please don’t shoot me
in the ear while I’m working!”<o:p></o:p></font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><font face="verdana">Sorry. <o:p></o:p></font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><font face="verdana">This chaotic 2020 has been one for the ages. But it hasn’t
been all bad. I mean, I’m fortunate enough to hang onto my job and work from
home. We’re having a baby! I’ve had two books published this year. And while
those dreams of book signings and brick and mortar stores have gone the way of
handshakes and hugs, who’s to say it won’t happen down the road. <o:p></o:p></font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><font face="verdana">My son is ready to go back to school, but that will have to
wait. As the Covid-19 cases continue to climb, he’ll be remote for a while.
Sure, he’s bummed, but it’s for the best. We’ll all be here, under one roof,
all day, all night, living the dream. <o:p></o:p></font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><font face="verdana">So hey. People are fighting for their lives out there.
People are getting sick. People are losing their minds. But people are also out
there well, having babies. <o:p></o:p></font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><font face="verdana">You can’t make this stuff up. All you can do is enjoy it. <o:p></o:p></font></p><br />Petehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13569790730185885807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6757771273830064214.post-69481865593169450752020-05-11T08:12:00.001-04:002020-05-11T08:12:36.152-04:00Oh Boy, Oh Boy. It's a Girl!<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Well, here go again. Older, wiser, armed with a vast arsenal of parenting knowledge. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tyscE6sBluM/XrlBINXJitI/AAAAAAAADcY/fipGr5lukfE9SF94lWHjv3OvYLcpbo6zgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/its-a-girl-on-the-way-and-this-cute-pink-diaper-pin-pregnancy-design-makes-a-great-baby-girl-maternity-announcement.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="650" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tyscE6sBluM/XrlBINXJitI/AAAAAAAADcY/fipGr5lukfE9SF94lWHjv3OvYLcpbo6zgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/its-a-girl-on-the-way-and-this-cute-pink-diaper-pin-pregnancy-design-makes-a-great-baby-girl-maternity-announcement.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Okay, maybe just older. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Back in January, when my wife first mentioned she might be pregnant, I was working on edits and I’ll admit, my mind wasn’t completely
in the conversation. Hey, it wasn’t my fault. Things were finally taking off.
2020 was looking to be <i>the</i> year. I’d signed a book contract. I
was finally getting published. Something I've been dreaming about for nearly a
decade.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">So… baby? My mind was miles away. <i>A book baby. Yeah, I've been writing and rewriting then editing... after all that rejection, then rewriting and editing all
over again, well,it is almost like carrying a baby. Pretty much the same thing...</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">A few weeks later she said it again. Only, by then she'd scheduled an appointment and was chucking out cash for the early learning center to hold a spot for the fall. Now she had my attention. "Wait, do you mean to tell me...? You're <i>pregnant?</i> Like a… with a human?" I made a rocking motion with my
arms. “You mean like a <i>baby baby?”</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Really, it's amazing my wife is still with me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Anyway, so the day before my novel came out, you know, the big dream and all, we took a trip to the women’s center, where I sat
back, sort of looking at my wife like, this is cute. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">"Remember doing this?" I said, thinking back to my wide-eyed self. So terrified about the prospect of fathering human life. What I
didn’t say was, <i>Remember doing this when you were really pregnant?</i>
Because I’m not going to lie, she’d refused to by a store-bought pregnancy test
so I really didn’t believe this was actually happening. But dumb as I am, and I’m
dumb, like, brew-decaffeinated-coffee-in-the-morning-by-mistake kind of dumb, I’m
still smart enough to know when to keep my mouth shut. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">So anyway, there we were, heading down the halls we walked
nearly eight years ago, back when I started this blog. I took my seat, set my hands
behind my head and got comfortable, hoping the nice lady would let her down
easy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Lights out. Show time. The lady wiped the gunk on my wife’s
tummy and I turned to the screen and what’s that? That little peanut is moving.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">So fast forward. The book came out, there’s a major pandemic
going on. I got a little spot on my face and turns out, I had to go to the doctor’s to have
it removed (</span><span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">2020 is still my year, dammit, but it’s kind of kicking my tail). </span><span style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">And it just so happened this was on the same day my wife went to find out if this little surprise baby is a boy or a girl. So my son went with her, which was kind of cool. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And t’s a girl. <i>A girl</i>. And considering my son filled
up the bathtub with sticks the other day, I’m really okay with that. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Sure, I’m hitting my mid-forties, and I’m okay with that
too.If anything, being a parent has taught me patience above all else. And what else to I have to do besides raise kids who make me feel like
a kid again? To laugh at silly jokes, tell silly stories and watch silly movies?
Of course, parenthood comes with battles and issues and all sorts of problems I
could never dream up all by myself, but you know what, 2020 is proof that
nothing is guaranteed, the world has a way of throwing you for a loop, so when
things happen, like Covid-19, skin cancer, global instability, and mass
confusion, you take the surprise news of a surprise little girl coming into
your life for exactly what it is: a gift. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Petehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13569790730185885807noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6757771273830064214.post-59759713131473845692020-03-06T12:02:00.000-05:002020-03-06T12:05:30.950-05:00Hey I wrote a book!<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">You’ve probably wondered where I’ve been. No? Well, anyway,
I’ve been working on some novels, and now one of them has been released into
the wild.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It’s hard to believe the day has come. For years I’ve been
writing and editing and writing more. But now, it’s here, on Tuesday my debut
novel, JUSTICE IN A BOTTLE was released and it’s a dream come true. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3vt14Y8yPp8/XmKBtnPjt1I/AAAAAAAADas/k5ZvdcxrDDcvZRIGwQ7bKPG91762eyOIQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/Justice%2Bbanner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="750" height="170" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3vt14Y8yPp8/XmKBtnPjt1I/AAAAAAAADas/k5ZvdcxrDDcvZRIGwQ7bKPG91762eyOIQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Justice%2Bbanner.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This is shaping up to be quite a crazy year for sure. More
on that later, but for now, I can sit back and enjoy all my success. No again? You
mean, I have to like, market this thing? Release parties and book signings and
bask in the spotlight? Ugh. Not my style. It’s so much easier to sit behind a desk
and write stories. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But it’s happening. As an indie author, it’s up to me to
spread the word, so I’m trying to do that, here, like right now to you. Check
out my book, if you want to, </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">you don’t have to, but here are some links just in
case.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Thanks!<br /><br /><br /> Amazon - <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Justice-Bottle-Pete-Fanning/dp/1733908587">https://www.amazon.com/Justice-Bottle-Pete-Fanning/dp/1733908587</a><br /><br /><br /> Barnes & Noble - <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/justice-in-a-bottle-pete-fanning/1134550612">https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/justice-in-a-bottle-pete-fanning/1134550612</a></span> Petehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13569790730185885807noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6757771273830064214.post-68387398128876993582020-02-12T08:47:00.000-05:002020-02-12T19:28:03.039-05:00The Coach<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-31kmDHGAJJA/XkQBm-iF2jI/AAAAAAAADaM/H1AZ8jju63gemUrGROEe0NS8WBtn8rPHwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/coach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-31kmDHGAJJA/XkQBm-iF2jI/AAAAAAAADaM/H1AZ8jju63gemUrGROEe0NS8WBtn8rPHwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/coach.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I walk into the gym at 5:29, having changed clothes in my
car after a long day at work then the slog of a commute to the local Y. Not for
the first time I second guess my decision to coach youth basketball—I’ve been
skittish since Meet the Coach pizza night a few weeks ago. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Now, as I walk in, clutching a clipboard of all things, the
freshly opened Walmart whistle around my neck, I take inventory of the group. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Fourteen of them. All between the ages of 5-7. Everyone with
a basketball, launching it at the goal, balls ricocheting every direction. I realize the clipboard will come in handy for banging against my
head. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Hey guys,” I start. No one looks. I have grand plans for
these guys. I have a speech, somewhere, in the recesses of my head, about hard
work and discipline. Fundamentals and the results of drills and routines. But
that will have to wait, because two kids are licking the floor. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I clear my throat. “Over here, Suns.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The Suns, our team name. It seems fitting because this whole
thing is about to crash and burn. Even my own kid isn’t paying attention. In
fact, he may just be the worst of the lot because unlike the others, he knows
my true colors. He knows I'm not, <i>ahem</i>, exactly Mr. Disciplinarian. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I reintroduce myself, trying not to stare because some of
the kids are almost rabid. One monster is eating Skittles by the handful, a
rainbow of color around the lips, a glittering, <i>Apocalypse Now</i> sort of
craze in his eyes. Two twins—because of course I’d get twins—are tumbling
around the court with cones on their heads. Cones my wife brought for dribbling
drills. The only dribbling is the line of spit flowing from Skittle Kid’s
mouth. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Okay, um. Let’s run some layups. Or better yet, just run.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I line them up. Or, I try to line them up but that would
take four men on horseback and a couple of Australian Shepard’s. But eventually
I get them to one side of the gym. All have a basketball and no intention of
dribbling it. In fact, they look like foot soldiers about to charge a
battlefield. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I get out my whistle, give it a little spurt, and they
erupt. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">They come in waves, screaming, laughing, shouting, tripping
and pouting. I’m pulled one way because <i>Will took my ball</i>, then the other
because, <i>Is it time to shoot yet?</i> Someone unties my shoe, I’m kicked in the leg
then spun around. I yank my arms free from all the little reaching hands
because I’ve only just finished the two-hour Appropriate Touching video and
there are some clear violations taking place. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I blow the whistle again, then again, desperately, like a
traffic cop in Times Square until for the most part they get lined up again,
minus the kid licking the wall. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I check the clock. It’s 5:34. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">There’s no way. I can’t survive this. Practices. Games. Team
pictures. A quick glance at my wife, a second grade teacher, who either cannot
or refuses to hide her smirking. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Let’s take a water break.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Only they don’t want water. These kids are out for blood. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We regroup. Mia, the only girl on our team makes a layup. I
tell her that was great and try to coax her back to the line. “Who’s nex—"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">She’s crying. Head down and sobbing. I rush over to her. I’m
not used to little girls, but this one is devastated. I look over to her
mother, who’s on the phone and making the most of her reprieve. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Would you like, would you like another turn?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In a blink Mia breaks free and skips to the front of the
line, where she grabs the ball and winks—I swear she winks—then flits to the
goal. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">A teaching moment for Mia. She's learned the coach is a
sucker.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Eventually I corral them. I teach proper form, the bounce
pass. A basketball hits my head. We practice dribbling. We take another water
break. We huddle up, and I look over the panting faces. This is my team, huddled
and squirming, reeking of sugar and feet, looking to me to lead them through
the season. And so I set my hand out and they set their little hands out. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Suns on three. Ready?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">They all nod. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“One…” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Suns!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />Petehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13569790730185885807noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6757771273830064214.post-23369204897473338172020-02-04T15:01:00.001-05:002020-02-04T15:14:02.161-05:00The Elf on the Shelf ... Still<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We all know how it works. A few weeks before Christmas, a
cute little elf shows up at the house. He sits on the shelf, lounges by the windowsill,
keeping an eye on things. Then, at night, while everyone sleeps, he flies back
to the North Pole, gives a full report to the big guy, then gets back to the
house to assume a new position. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We’ve had some elves for the past three years, only not the store-bought
kind, some old guys who belonged to my father-in-law when he was a
kid.It's fun, stashing them in different places, all the shenanigans and mischief as we build up to the big
day. </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But then, later, after all the presents are opened, the elf heads home. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And that's what happened, until...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VqGvJ7PgyNg/XjnNdoIxlDI/AAAAAAAADZ4/u2WerQ7SXEgkgmatXH8WSuIJvonkfLefQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/1539806694-crossing-guard-elf-on-the-shelf-1539806678.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VqGvJ7PgyNg/XjnNdoIxlDI/AAAAAAAADZ4/u2WerQ7SXEgkgmatXH8WSuIJvonkfLefQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/1539806694-crossing-guard-elf-on-the-shelf-1539806678.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This past Christmas, we were out shopping a few days after the
holiday, spending some of that gift card goodness when Simon spotted an <i>Elf on
the Shelf</i> near the counter. A um, name brand one, in the box, with the book.
It was on sale, half off. So we figured, why not?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Let me tell you why not. </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This elf—the one my son named Triskit—was declared a
<i>pet </i>elf. Wanna know a fun little secret about pet elves? They never go away.
Nope, they stick around all jolly year 'round, just a bouncing through the
house night after night. You never know where old Triskit might be hiding, so your kid has to leap out of bed everyday—and I mean e-v-e-r-y-d-a-y, at six thirty or seven,
even on a Sunday and hunt him down. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Don't get me wrong, there's nothing cuter than watching him wander through the house in pajamas, donning his punkrock bedhead hair, searching for this elf. What's not cute, is remembering to get out of bed in the middle of the night to hide the little freeloader. Every. Single. Night. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Old Triskit is living it up. He's got his own pajamas, a sleeping bag. I’ve even put in a little
shelf in my kid’s closet. Believe me when I tell you Triskit has it good for an
elf. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I’m not sure how long it will go on. Valentines Day? St. Patty's Day? <i>Halloween?</i> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In all seriousness, it's not that bad. And I can tell he's not fully buying this elf business, I think he just like’s
to pretend. Sometimes he’ll come out of the bathroom, eyes wide, arms out, and
say, “Dad, look where Triskit is hiding.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And I do. I want to know. Because even as I joke, it’s fine
with me. One day my kid will grow out of all this stuff. Or maybe he won’t and
things will be downright weird. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I'll keep you posted. </span></div>
<br />Petehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13569790730185885807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6757771273830064214.post-77656736748194067262019-10-18T16:21:00.000-04:002019-10-18T20:34:11.591-04:00Cursive Words<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I think we all want to protect our kids, to teach them right from wrong
and hope our lessons stick. We lead by example. We monitor what they watch or
how much they watch it. We hover and direct and guide and nourish. But there’s
only so much we can do, right?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-x5cS-48FNdI/XaoeH--E2-I/AAAAAAAADYQ/AHNulmktdAcwPZ0Js_B-RXKz3TrlbwdAgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/colourful-kites-flying-in-the-air-against-blue-sky-low-angle-view-malorny.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="600" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-x5cS-48FNdI/XaoeH--E2-I/AAAAAAAADYQ/AHNulmktdAcwPZ0Js_B-RXKz3TrlbwdAgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/colourful-kites-flying-in-the-air-against-blue-sky-low-angle-view-malorny.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">As a first grader, my kid is learning all sorts of new
tricks. He’s reading on a high-level, doing his homework and even writing his own
books. He’s hoping to have a book published on the same day mine is set to be published. That way we
can celebrate together.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">His behavior is … well, tricky. Mostly he’s fine. He throws
the occasional fit and has the occasional bad day at school. Sometimes he'll ask me about
a movie he’s hearing about on the playground. Apparently some of these
first-graders are watching <i>Chucky </i>or <i>It </i>or at least pretending to have watched them. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">He’s also finding
out all sorts of new “cursive words” as they’re called in our house. Words like
<i>jerk</i> or <i>suck</i> or his favorite saying, <i>Shut your piehole.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Yeah, I know. I shouldn’t let him go around talking like
that. And I don't. I mean, it’s rude and disrespectful and he knows that. Yet, part of me goes all
warm in the chest, thinking how well I'm doing. I mean, <i>cursive words</i>.
How cute, right? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Fast forward. He's in school. In class, sitting on the carpet as
the kids are doing some sort of group activity. The teacher is well, teaching, while my son, by his own admission, isn’t exactly paying attention (say what you will
about him but he is honest). </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">From what he’s told me, here’s what happened:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">My kid leaned over to his friend, a <i>friend</i> we’ll call Bryan. My kid said, “Hey, want to hear the naughtiest word in the world?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Bryan nodded, because of course he did. I imagine his lips curling into a sly grin, eyes gleaming at the opportunity to add to his arsenal. My
kid took a quick, not-so-discreet peek around, then unleashed his filth. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Shut your piehole.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I imagine my kid was awfully proud of himself, having acquired such a filthy
vernacular at such a young age. Yep, I expect he sat back, thinking, <i>Taught you something there,
didn’t I?</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">At least until Bryan, without missing a beat, deadpanned, “No
it’s not, it’s mother f****er.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Yeah. I know, right? I would've laughed if I wasn't watching my only kid’s innocence drift off into the sky like a runaway kite. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">When he recounted this story to me, he must have seen my eyes bug out of
my head. I tried to recover, but, I mean how?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Eventually we got things squared away. He knows the word but doesn't use it, (although he does tell me when he's thinking about "Bryan's word"). It's the nuclear option, something we don’t say in our house. We’re good, so I thought,
until he approached me the other day, stumped
while writing a scene, pondering his artistic liberties. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">He tapped the pen to his cheek. “Dad, I have some real naughty ghosts in this story. Can they
use that word, the one Bryan—”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“No. Nope. No, not doing that.”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Hey, I could've told him to shut his piehole. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />Petehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13569790730185885807noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6757771273830064214.post-68925129573893385052019-09-05T14:15:00.001-04:002019-09-05T15:19:54.297-04:00Fraud<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">My son’s a bright kid. I’m not bragging, the little guy is
just quick to pick up on things. We role play, we do comedy skits. Sometimes it’s
easy for me to forget he’s not yet seven years old. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WxAdbtCFYjQ/XXFQkU0yIjI/AAAAAAAADXg/Nhe-JuDrK4Mn4gbFraJ35E-vmR47harTQCLcBGAs/s1600/intl-credit-card-fraud.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="335" height="214" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WxAdbtCFYjQ/XXFQkU0yIjI/AAAAAAAADXg/Nhe-JuDrK4Mn4gbFraJ35E-vmR47harTQCLcBGAs/s320/intl-credit-card-fraud.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">We’re eating breakfast yesterday morning. Chocolate Cheerios
for him, Chex Mix for me. We sit, slurping up our man-sized bowls, and I’m
going through some mail left over on the table. One of them is a replacement
credit card.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I see him watching me, and I try to sneak the card back into the envelope so that I can take care of it later. Still, nothing gets by this kid. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Is that a credit card?"<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Yep. Oh, side note. He has this little prank he plays where he
opens the junk mail and fills out the forms (usually in crayon) then sends the prepaid
envelopes back in the mailbox, flips up the flag. He finds this hilarious. Usually,
either my wife or I intercept this secret return-to-sender when he’s not looking.
No harm done. At least until that time over the summer when a couple of elderly
funeral home employees arrived to follow up on our<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>interest to plan for this not-so-easy time. Oops. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Okay so yeah, credit card. I found my older, expired credit
card and handed it to him so that he could put it in his wallet with his library
card and at least four of my former driver’s licenses. (Yes, I know, not the
smartest move, but it’s not like the wallet leaves the house). But now he’s all
wound up, ecstatic, asking questions in detail. I almost thought he was going
to start grilling me about the interest rate and ATM fees. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“So, how much money is on this card?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I wave the new card in the air. “Well, until I call this one
in, I’d say about five grand.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">His eyes go huge. I’m still not catching on that he’s not
catching on the joke. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Really? I can buy those football pants I want?” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Yep”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“And a helmet, like, the hundred-dollar helmet at Dicks?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Uh, huh.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Candy?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“You bet. By the truckload.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Here I should’ve seen he was getting entirely too worked up.
But we play a lot of games in our house, do a lot of skits. I really thought he
knew I wouldn’t hand him a card and tell him to go spend five grand. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But he was flying high. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And that was it. I went to work and never thought twice about
telling my son he’d just been given a golden ticket. I get home from work that evening, ready
to play or hangout or otherwise have a normal evening. But just as soon as I
saw him … uh oh.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">His face was like a strawberry. I very upset strawberry. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“What’s wrong, buddy?"<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“You lied.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Tears come rolling, and soon I’m backpedaling. “Wait, I say,
trying to make sense of this. I, I was kidding. I wasn’t giving you $5,000.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I mean, right? I look around. Somebody? Anybody. It's then </span></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> I catch a look from my wife,
the one that says, </span><i style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">You're an idiot. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Eventually we get it straightened out. I explain to him I was kidding. You know, pretending. <i>That we're living in a material world and I am a material-</i>-He's not having it. It's how a victim of one of those prank
lottery tickets must feel. The guy's a little ticked about the whole deal. But we come to a compromise. Maybe, just maybe, if he does some chores around the house, gets homework done like he's supposed to, then we can think about those football pants. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It's not five-grand, but hey, it's low interest. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And then this morning, pouring our cereal, I find a sheet of paper on the
counter. I must have missed it with all the fireworks last night, but it's filled with scrawled crayon, attempts at my name, printed then scratched out then printed again until it's just right. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I point to it. “What’s this?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">"Oh," my kid shrugs. "I was practicing your name, for when I use the card…”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Oops. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />Petehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13569790730185885807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6757771273830064214.post-31661422319776007852019-07-01T14:37:00.002-04:002019-07-01T14:38:49.418-04:00One Good Deed<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">My son can be stubborn about things. He can be rude, temperamental,
irrational. He throws fits, rolls his eyes, gets himself in trouble. He can be a real
six-year old at times. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It can get frustrating, these battles. Not giving into his demands and standing up to a tyrant. I often remind him he’s not the boss. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4l9-faUKvR4/XRpQvgB-CBI/AAAAAAAADW0/ty46d2d5GzUyOJHMU-vSV0O-hm38o6gdgCLcBGAs/s1600/bb.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="807" data-original-width="605" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4l9-faUKvR4/XRpQvgB-CBI/AAAAAAAADW0/ty46d2d5GzUyOJHMU-vSV0O-hm38o6gdgCLcBGAs/s320/bb.JPG" width="239" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">When it comes to parenting, I do a lot of things wrong. I’m aware
of that. This blog is more of a journal than a how-to guide. Then again, I do
some things right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I’m always
trying. It’s never a lack of effort that is lacking on my end. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">As I’ve posted, he’s big into football. I mean, he's <i>really </i>into football. Every
weekend for the past oh, two months now, he’s up and ready, in full football
gear, ready to go to hit the field. This is our thing, and it shows no signs of
waning. These days he likes to wear the gear: shoulder pads, helmet, he’s even
got a mouthpiece. He likes to tuck in his jersey and hit the football field
looking like a pro. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">*On a side note, if you’ve never played one-on-one football
on a 100-yard field on a late June afternoon in Virginia, consider yourself lucky.
Or, if you’re one of those cross fitters, add it to your regiment. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Leaving the gridiron on Saturday, we were sweaty and
flushed. I suggested we get an early start on Sunday, being that it was 92
degrees and all. He agreed, so much so that by 9am on Sunday he was fully
dressed in a helmet and shoulder pads, mumbling “Dad, are you ready?” through
his mouthpiece. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“It was your idea,” my wife reminded me. And it was. So after
slugging down two cups of coffee, we hit the high school field ready for
action. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It was nice, though. Bright, quiet, the heat not yet taking hold on the day. We did some warm-ups, ran a few drills, then it was all business. After our game, I found myself sprinting a 40-yard dash. Bent over and heaving, Simon encouraged me. “Dad, you run like a teenager.” That was all it took. I found myself lining up and doing it
again. I think motivational speaking is in that kid’s future. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">After an hour and a half, he still wasn't ready to leave. I was, and this set off a fit. He had no problems letting me know just how unappreciative he was of his parents who’d just dropped
everything on a Sunday morning so that he could play football. He wanted to
continue kicking field goals. We had chores to do. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">So he lashed out. And he got consequences. Later, when he
pulled himself together, we went to the pool (because, you know, 92 degrees). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Redemption came at the pool. We were tossing the football when a group of kids wandered over and wanted in on the action. I took turns throwing it to each kid,
but when I went to throw it to the youngest boy, maybe four, the others waived
him off, “Oh, he can’t throw.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I tossed the ball back to Simon, dunked myself underwater.
When I came up, I saw something I won’t soon forget. My kid approaching the
other kids, moving past the older kids and holding the football out to the
little boy, the one who, “Couldn’t throw.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Imagine my surprise, watching my son help this boy put his
fingers on the laces, then going through the motions of throwing the football. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The boy tossed the ball to me. I told him he did great. Then
I looked at my son, who was beaming with pride. And all I could think was how maybe
I am doing something right. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />Petehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13569790730185885807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6757771273830064214.post-44404081098470134262019-05-01T13:48:00.002-04:002021-10-20T13:11:36.997-04:00Goooooaaaaaal!<span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NDXOzSH_Y9k/XMnbxPoilSI/AAAAAAAADWI/9JbOCAQN2nQoCS12MWIPH-VhgB1MMFfEQCLcBGAs/s1600/gg.jpg" style="clear: right; display: inline; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><img border="0" data-original-height="197" data-original-width="255" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NDXOzSH_Y9k/XMnbxPoilSI/AAAAAAAADWI/9JbOCAQN2nQoCS12MWIPH-VhgB1MMFfEQCLcBGAs/s1600/gg.jpg" /></span></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif" style="font-family: verdana;">For three years now Simon has been playing soccer. It’s not
on the top of his list, but it gets him out and he likes playing the games.
Last year we discovered he was kind of a natural goalie, the kid who’s not
afraid to get down and dirty and stop the ball with his face.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif" style="font-family: verdana;">At times he was sort of lost out there on the field (I know
I was), but at six he’s able to turn the ball around and kick it in the right
direction. But still, I never really thought he’d be score, I always hoped
maybe the ball would ricochet off his foot and go in. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif" style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif" style="font-family: verdana;">I know, scoring and winning and all that doesn’t matter so
much, having fun, right? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif" style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif" style="font-family: verdana;">Right. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif" style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif" style="font-family: verdana;">But. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif" style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif" style="font-family: verdana;">Saturday, it happened. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif" style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: verdana;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Let me set the table here. He’d already been in the game
and come out. He’d watched from the sidelines, hair sweaty, eyes sharp, totally focused. He lay on
his stomach and took in the action while his teammates laughed and joked and pretended
to be babies. They stuffed grass down each other's shirts and otherwise behaved like a
bunch of six-year-olds. Usually, this was my kid. Never one to miss a joke, most
game days he could be found in the middle of the horseplay. Last year he liked to
pick dandelions and wander off in search of flowers. But not on Saturday. On Saturday, Simon was honed in. </span><br />
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif" style="font-family: verdana;">Something
was different. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif" style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: verdana;"><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">When his coach turned and told him he was going in, he was
up and ready. </span><span face="verdana, sans-serif">Back in action, he began with the normal routine, dancing
around the herd of kids, testing the waters with his toes but not fully getting
involved. The coach had gotten on him about not crowding his teammates, and so
I watched in awe as he took the coaches advice and broke down the field (pitch?
I’m not up on my soccer terms), And he was still breaking towards the goal when
the ball hit him in the waist and sort of rolled down his leg.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif" style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif" style="font-family: verdana;">Wait. I stood up as he made the adjustment, getting his foot
under the ball just as the defenders closed in. He kicked. I leaned forward. The
little soccer ball shot towards the goal. The goalie reacted late, just as the
ball rolled through the goal. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><span style="font-family: verdana; mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif" style="font-family: verdana;">Whoa. He just scored a goal. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif" style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif" style="font-family: verdana;">His face, though, just after he watched it go in. Awe,
disbelief, a flush of excitement found his cheeks and then he looked over to
me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif" style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif" style="font-family: verdana;">Yep, kid, you did it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif" style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif" style="font-family: verdana;">And who cares if it hadn’t happened. These kids are five and
six years old. That said, he’d been going to these games, practices, watching
all his teammates score. So to see it happen for him was pretty damn
remarkable. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div>
<br />Petehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13569790730185885807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6757771273830064214.post-1692512260126332492019-04-24T16:02:00.000-04:002019-07-01T14:40:10.148-04:00Super Tecmo Madness<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We’ve all heard the dangers of too much screen time for
children. TV, tablets, phones and game systems. How often do you see kids (or
adults) zoning out with a phone in their hands.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">At our house, we’re hyper-vigilant</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> about this sort of thing.
But then again, we’re not.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OVkU5q7T184/XMDAlLCmXvI/AAAAAAAADV8/xqROk9p8mrITxoO40dx-FJuFr9lfMGf0gCLcBGAs/s1600/Ray.tff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1231" data-original-width="1600" height="246" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OVkU5q7T184/XMDAlLCmXvI/AAAAAAAADV8/xqROk9p8mrITxoO40dx-FJuFr9lfMGf0gCLcBGAs/s320/Ray.tff.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We don’t let our kid play on our phones. If you do that’s
cool, we just don’t. In fact, I make a conscious effort not to be on the phone
in front of my kid. I don’t even have it on me when we’re together. Why would
I? What am I missing? A post, some terrible news? A witty comment on Twitter?
Nah, I’m good. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Okay, so what do we allow? Well, glad you asked. The short
answer? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Tecmo Bowl. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Yeah, that’s right. It’s actually Super Tecmo Bowl, released
in 1991. When I took on my new job s a computer technician, I started tinkering
with my old one in the basement. Simon and I would take out RAM, the harddrive,
simple stuff he enjoyed doing. I taught him how to change and create passwords,
profiles, set screen protectors and backgrounds. We’d pretend I was a new guy
at the job and he’d help me get logged in. What can I say, we’re dorks. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Then one day he noticed an emulator on the desktop. “Dad,
what’s that?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">“Oh, that’s,” I couldn’t control myself. I fired the thing
up and began. “So look, this is how you play Super Tecmo Bowl on the computer. It's actually a rigged up 2013 version of the classic, and I had to teach him how to use the keyboard as a controller. </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I figured he’d play it for five minutes and that would be
the end of it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Not what happened.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">As it happened, my son fell in love with one Ray Lewis. He's walking around in a 52 jersey, baffling kids and confusing adults, probably wondering why a six-year old is going on about a guy who
retired five years ago. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And not just that. The kid loves defense. We hang in the
basement, on this old Windows Vista computer. He plays D and I play offense. He
started asking football questions. I taught him about the downs, punting,
special teams and reading a defense. And I have to say, I never realized just
how complex the game of American Football actually is until I tried explaining
the difference between a field goal, extra point, safety kick, punt, and a
regular kick-off to a six-year old. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Believe it or not, it’s quality time. We go outside and play
football, running pass routes and reenacting Super Tecmo Bowl. Imagine my
neighbors, watching us act out a video game football contest, my son stating
the physical conditions (excellent, good, average, bad) of each player before
each play. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Now he’s learned football. Heck, he could coach football. He
can read a zone defense and blitz schemes. He can count by sevens. He can read
all sorts of variations of names. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">He can play offense now. He can work a keyboard, because in
the old edition you have to use a keyboard instead of the controllers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The only probable is that all of his favorite players are
retired. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And one last thing that’s come out of this. So, he really
likes Ray Lewis. When I liked athletes back in the eighties, I had him write
out a note, asking for his autograph. We’ve mailed it off with a self-addressed
return envelope. I chuckle, thinking about Ray Lewis, opening my son’s letter,
finding out he’s still someone’s favorite player. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Now we wait, and I really hope it works out because it will
be cool for him to see the power of the pen. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />Petehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13569790730185885807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6757771273830064214.post-24849020839511720012019-04-01T15:14:00.004-04:002019-04-01T15:43:35.064-04:00Defensive<br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I grew up playing basketball. We walked down to the park
every day. Four or five of us, joking and laughing, chasing down the ball when
someone dribbled off their foot. At the court, you had to wait your turn.
First, watching the older guys play, waiting to get our chance. Once on the
court it was time to prove you could play. You know the story. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">There were no parents on those courts. No refs, nobody to make sure
everything was fair. Some kids were nicer than others. It’s life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Now six, my son has taken a sudden interest in basketball and football. Sports
is something I’ve never pushed on him. In fact, I’ve always liked his engineer
like mind. When he started playing soccer last year I laughed because the coach
was telling the kids to be aggressive, to fight for the ball, when most of them
only wanted to pick dandelions. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But right now, it’s all about ball. And the adjustable
basketball goal that’s been sitting at the end of our street is getting some
use. Rain? Let’s go play basketball. It doesn’t matter. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I love it, I teach him what I can, only what coaching he
wants to take. I never push because again, it’s not important. I’m just happy
to be spending some time outside with my kid. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">So yesterday he invited the kids down the street to join.
Brother and sister, eleven and eight. Two on two. We had ourselves a game. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">My first mistake was agreeing to be on teams with my kid. We
usually play against each other. That way I can control—yes control—the
situation. But this was different. It wasn't long before we found ourselves in a clash with this formidable brother/sister combo.
And while it began fun, Simon playing defense and laughing, it soon became
something else. Something too much for him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The eleven-year-old boy, doing what eleven-year-old boys do
I suppose, decided he wanted to come out and double team the little guy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">They pressed. They stole the ball. The eleven-year old blocked
and blocked and blocked Simon’s shot. I directed things the best I could, set some picks and worked to get him open, but
after a while it got old. I’d had enough. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">So I did what all mature adults would do. I gave him a dose
of his medicine.</span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-izx-AimWfQU/XKJgv1-OOQI/AAAAAAAADVE/_qZqSlNFnyQeRK3ptNTP9WYghpXx-b8sQCLcBGAs/s1600/dfdffdfdfd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="163" data-original-width="310" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-izx-AimWfQU/XKJgv1-OOQI/AAAAAAAADVE/_qZqSlNFnyQeRK3ptNTP9WYghpXx-b8sQCLcBGAs/s1600/dfdffdfdfd.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I blocked the big kid's shot, twice. Maybe three times. Any time he decided
he would take the ball from a six-year old, I did the same to him. Okay, not quite, but enough to get the point across. I mean, come on, the kid was double his size. And maybe I'd had a bit too much March Madness but it seemed like the right thing to do at the time. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The
game ended. I gave my kid a pat on the back. I was proud of him, but I could
see how upset he was. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I tried to explain how it would help him, playing against
bigger kids. He gathered up his bike and helmet and nodded. But he was upset. And again, I realize it’s okay to lose and be upset, trust me. I can't always </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">be there to guard the rim. He'll have to learn on his own how to deal with jerks, adversity, failure. And I can’t come down and remove every obstacle in his path. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But he's <i>six</i>. And we <i>are </i>teammates, after all. So while I</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">’m not proud of what I did, I'm not exactly ashamed. Besides, in a few years, when he's eleven, he'd better do the same for me because I'm going to need some help down low. He'll be the one protecting the rim. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I'm getting too old for this...</span></div>
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<br />Petehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13569790730185885807noreply@blogger.com0