Tooth 2

This is a short one.  But I want to get it down on internet paper before I forget.

Elijah lost his second tooth.  Was it biting into an apple? No. Steak? No. Did he get punched by a bully or tie it to a door via dental floss?  Nope and nope.

He lost it biting Luca in the butt.

The news of this reached us in New York via Hannah and Nanny.  There was really no other explanation and Diana and I were left to our imaginations as to how this transpired.

When we got home we asked Elijah to tell us the story of how it happened, hoping to shed some kind of light on the butt biting.

Eli said, “Well, Luca was there and I bit his butt and my tooth came out.”

“Why did you bite his butt?” We asked.

“I just did.”

“Yes he did,” Luca added a little too enthusiastically.

I believe my brother, who was acting Tooth Fairy at the time, gave him a few extra bucks for creativity.

Spiderman

Luca is still at the age where he firmly believes superheroes are real.  Every time I fly to New York, he says, “If you see Spiderman, tell him I said hi.  He lives in a big red building with a Spiderman on the front.”

He’s always visibly disappointed when I arrive home with no stories of being attacked by the Green Goblin, only to be saved by a wise cracking teen in spandex.

This past weekend, Diana and I spent our anniversary in the Big Apple, eating, drinking and walking.  But mostly eating and drinking.

On our way back from a delightful $28 hamburger, we cruised through Time Square, where we immediately put aside any and all thoughts of moving to New York. I was patting and re-patting my wallet in my front pocket when Diana shouted, “There he is!”

In the midst of the groping Elmos and Sponge Bobs and other dingy Furries, he stood.  The man in red and blue.  The Web Slinger.  Web Head.  The Caped Crusader. 

Diana and I rushed over to him, dodging a pretty aggressive Captain Jack Sparrow.  We were suddenly overtaken with shyness and celebrity awe.  “Sir?  Mister Man?  Would you do us the honor of letting us take our picture with you?”

“Of course!”  He said in a thick but indeterminate accent.  Like he was actually there to be paid to get his picture taken with idiots instead of fighting crime.  The fanny pack filled with $5 bills was a good sign.

We gave the most trusting person we could find our phone and asked them to snap away.  I had to bodily remove a Mini Mouse from our photo and we finally got one we liked.

Diana immediately sent the photo to Steve with instructions to tell Luca we found the real Spiderman.

Seconds later we got a text saying, “They’re predictably freaking out.”

We got home the next day with tales of perfect meals and conversations with straight out of central casting construction workers.  But Luca only wanted to hear about Spiderman.

“Was it the real one?  You can tell me if it wasn’t.  I just want to know.  Was he real?”

I looked at him in the eye and said, “It was the real Spiderman.”

I caught Elijah’s disbelieving eye and stared him down.  Luca is going to believe his parents met a real super hero for as long as humanly possible.  

Let’s Talk About Sex

We used to have this birds and bees book that was very graphic and medical, yet still playful in its 1970’s construction paper depictions of dogs, birds and humans doing it.  Whenever we had a question about sex, my mom would ash her cigarette and say, “Look at the book.”

Luckily for Elijah and Luca, there’s premium cable. 

A few months ago, Diana and I were watching “Game Of Thrones.”  This season, there was a controversial scene where a brother forces himself on his sister.  It’s ok.  They were in love.  Anyhoo, right in the middle of the getting busy, I heard a cascading laugh come from our dining room. 

You see, if you’re four years old and want to watch a brother and sister have sex, all you have to do is position yourself in the doorway between our kitchen and dining room.  You get to witness anything your parents are trying to keep from you.

I bellowed, “Get back to bed!” Loud enough to erase any and all full frontal nudity.  I hope.

And the other night, Diana and I decided to watch the Neflix show “Orange is the New Black.”  For its depiction of the harsh environment of minimum security prison and not for the hot lesbian sex.

And sure enough, right during a particularly graphic nipple-y scene I heard Luca’s innocence slip away with a thud.

But like any good Christian, I haven’t asked Luca if he wants to talk about it.  Or if he wants to know how construction paper dogs make babies. 

I figured Eli will tell him everything he needs to know.

Therapy

Late last school year, Luca’s teachers asked for a conference with Diana.  It seems as though Luca was going through some anxiety around school and they suggested he go see a child therapist. 

Diana pffft-ed it.  Saying that there was a big difference between having anxiety problems and simply not liking your pre-school teachers.  Who weren’t that cool anyway.  Luca may have his Hamann inherited moments, but he was not in danger of recreating the titular character in “What About Bob?”

I, on the other hand, insisted he go immediately to get his head shrunk.  Because the teacher said so.  The teacher.  Voice of authority for my whole life.  The. Teacher.

Diana reminded me that I insist on taking Grover to the vet every time he hacks up a Milkbone and it costs us $150 every time I overreact.

I ignored her and took it upon myself to find him a child psychiatrist to help him deal with the now life and death mental illness I had conjured up in my head. 

Because our insurance doesn’t really allow for panicky father, the price tag for putting Luca into therapy would be steep.  Like double my first rent in Chicago steep.  But I was willing to plop down any amount of money for my Luca.

The therapy joint also informed us we had to pay for 5 sessions. Up front.  No give backsies.

Can you see where this is going?

Luca sat with the therapist for an hour and did his usual Luca cute routine and unfortunately for her did not do his latest dance.  At the end of the session, the doctor said, “Nope. He’s fine.  Normal kid.” 

The doctor said this while holding her hand in the “gimmie gimmie” style.

I happily wrote the check, knowing at least I felt better.  But Grover has this bumpy thing on his chest we really need to get checked out.

Simpsons

I don’t think I’ve ever printed a retraction on HamannEggs.  Mostly because this is really all about me and I never misquote myself. 

However, I recently blamed Hannah the Nanny for introducing Elijah and Luca to the foul goo that is Korean pop music.  If you read my last post, you’ll see my utter hatred for those pink and blonde haired, sexually ambiguous quote, unquote singers.

But Hannah let me know that she did not, in fact, expose them to that awfulness.  It was one of Eli’s camp councilors.  I think I can sue the camp for this, right?  Any lawyers out there want to represent me? 

Sorry, Hannah.  Consider this your official retraction.  But I still don’t forgive you for Lady Gaga.

Now on to happier things.  My sons are addicted to The Simpsons.  The cable network FXX recently played all 500+ Simpsons episodes in one big marathon.  I am not ashamed to say it consumed my life.  Every non working waking hour was spent in front of our TV, remembering (or not remembering) my twenties, when I was obsessed with that yellow skinned family.

The boys realized they could watch their best friend, the TV, when Dad was home so long as it was The Simpsons and nothing else.  They quickly fell in love with Bart, Homer, Lisa and little Maggie.  They loved the occasional violence, the almost swears and they loved watching their dad laugh at his own constant Simpsons quoting.

I wondered for a minute if the show wasn’t appropriate for a 7 and 4-year-old.  My dad famously said The Simpsons represented the fall of western civilization.  But I figured it was like giving them a graduate course in comedy.

I love to hear Luca and Eli discuss their favorite bits. 

“Remember when Homer said ‘butt?’”

“And when Krusty said ‘boobs?’”

Maybe my dad was right.