Bad Sick

For our anniversary, I was a big boy and made reservations for Diana and me and fetched a babysitter and actually made real plans. This is a fairly monumental deal for a man who hasn’t ordered his own wine in 13 years. I was feeling pretty proud of myself and looking forward to a rare night out with the missus.

Then Luca got sick.

He had some vague complaints about a stomachache and was a little grouchier than usual. But Luca has this habit of fabricating stomach issues when he’s bored or nervous or hungry or has a raging case of the flu.

On Saturday, Luca complained about a stomachache on the way to our weekly kid dinner at the Firehouse. I was dubious since he had just spent the last 3 hours racing around with his cousins, on top of earlier running around and eating cotton candy at the school Fall Fest. I said just suck it up and eat chicken fingers like a man.

I looked in the rearview mirror and he was slumped over in the back seat. Rather than respond like a human being by being concerned and caring, I lost my temper and said I didn’t believe him.

I grouchily drove home and said if he was sooooo sick, he had to go to bed immediately. I also made him some cruddy, tepid soup and scowled while he poked around the bowl. I called the restaurant and the babysitter and canceled our plans and stomped around like a big baby.

I looked over at Luca, who had begun to cry.

A little voice inside me tapped me on the shoulder. “Hey Rick,” it said. “You’re acting like a total a-hole to your little son. Do you want Luca’s lasting memory of you to be that time when you didn’t believe when he had the flu? Do you want him to recount the famous story of ‘The Unbelieving Flu Dad’ at his wedding and your eventual funeral?”

I raced across the kitchen and held Luca as he wailed. I apologized over and over for being a bad dad.

I then took him to his room and laid beside him for the next 12 hours, while he thrashed and cried and moaned and occasionally threw up. Diana came in from time to time and offered to take over, but I was determined to prove to Luca I believed in his flu so much that I wanted to bathe in his flu germs and get zero hours of sleep.

It was pretty awful. But I took every sweaty, shrieking moment as retribution for my jerky dadness.

The next morning, Luca was exhausted and sick and moan-y and I said, “Hey Luca. I’m so sorry I didn’t believe you last night about being sick. Sometimes I make mistakes. I try to be a good dad, but I screw up every once and a while. I’ll try to be a better dad. And I’ll stay with you all day to make you feel better. Is that ok? Do you forgive me?”

Luca said, “I want my mommy.”

Soccer?

One of the great mistakes I’ve made in the Fathering Arts is assuming my sons are just miniature versions of me. I made ½ of them, so of course they will only like Star Wars and video games and engage in a lifelong struggle with hair that sticks up in the back. Why would they be independent and unique kids when I can simply think of them as tiny Ricks?

Imagine my surprise when Luca wanted to play soccer this year. What? No. Hamanns don’t play soccer. One of my defining jokes around the office is, “Hamanns have yet to meet a ball they couldn’t drop.” We don’t play sports. We’re brainy. We’re funny. We’re nerds. Sports. Sports are for doofuses.

In the weeks leading up to the first practice and game, I could see the appeal. There were cool, European style uniforms to wear. There were cool, brightly colored cleats to clomp around in. Luca went so far as to learn how to tie his shoes on his own to capitalize on the new shoes. There were also cool weird socks and shin guards. But no jockstraps. Yet.

When it finally came to the first practice and first game, we ran into the Luca nerves. Luca hates not knowing what to do. He needs to know every single detail and get it straight in his head before he can participate in anything, including board games, school, eating and especially sports.

It didn’t help that, through some weird soccer birthday math, Luca was on a team with a bunch of kids who were two years older. These 9 year olds had been playing for years and walked around with that easy gait of David Beckham.

Diana tried to explain Luca’s situation to his coach. “Hey. Luca has never done this. So he needs a little extra help.”

The coach, not looking up from his phone, simply told Luca, “Get on out there.”

On the day of his first game, Luca was not happy. What was he supposed to do? Where does he go? What’s defense? What’s off sides? Do you dump Gatorade on the coach’s head before or after the game?

By the time we got to the field, Luca was in full anxiety mode. It didn’t help that the opposing team was filled with glandular giants they bussed in from the nearby penitentiary.

Diana again approached the coach. “Hey Coach, I think you gotta, you know, coach Luca.”

The coach said, “Get on out there.”

Luca burst into tears and Diana wanted to strangle the coach with his lanyard. The coach finally understood his job and knelt down to explain to Luca what he needed to do. Exactly. Which was basically, “Get on out there and kick the ball.”

And that is what he did. Luca ran harder than anyone on the field. It didn’t help that he was half the size of everyone. But it was amazing to see him race around, flopping on the ground and bouncing off the giants. He had this wonderful look on his face. Determined joy.

Diana and I screamed our support. “Go Silver Lightening! Go Silver Lightening!”

One of the nearby moms said, “Um. The team name is Silver Fire.”

“Go Silver Fire!”

Luca’s team got crushed. Even though you don’t keep score in AYSO, it was 13-0. But Luca didn’t care. He had fun and was so exhausted when he got home he was an absolute nightmare the rest of the evening.

I am proud of my little jock.

God’s Bladder

Like every family, we look towards the end of summer with a fond sense of, “Waaaaait! We have stuff we wanted to dooooooo!” One of which was suckle off the teat of all our friends with lakeside cabins.

One such cabin belonging to friends at the end of the block featured, among other things, a pontoon boat, a speed boat, kayaks, and hundreds of beers that magically appeared in coolers everywhere.

Eli proclaimed it the best vacation of his life. I reminded him that we just paid for he and Luca to visit castles in France. He looked at me with an expression that said, “Did I stutter?”

I had to agree it was pretty great.

At the far end of the lake sat a gigantic Christian summer camp. Families gather throughout the summer to connect with each other and God. I was not about to make fun of them using my Ned Flanders voice because the camp also lets heathens play on their incredible collection of floating structures, seemingly designed by God himself. There were inflatable towers, inflatable rafts, inflatable trampolines, and other odds and ends. It was amazing.

But the centerpiece was this massive floating bladder. Next to the bladder was this huge wooden ladder tower. The purpose of which was to leap from the top and onto the bladder. And then the next Christian leaps onto the bladder, shooting you high into the sky and I think into God’s arms.

Eli and Luca were overcome with that combination of really wanting to jump on the thing and utter terror. I appealed to their manhood. “Come on you big babies. Jump on it. Sheesh. What a bunch of babies. Babies.”

Luca and Eli, who are definitely NOT babies, eventually climbed the ladder and leapt onto the bladder. I shouted my congratulations and proclaimed them not babies.

“Dad, now you jump on!”

Come again? Oh no. That was a kid activity. Dads just stand nearby peeing in the lake. Dads don’t climb wet, slimy wooden ladders.

After a cavalcade of “Please????” I found myself standing on top of the wooden God structure. Luca was waiting on the God bladder below (Eli had bailed, tired of my wishywashing). I suddenly remembered I was deathly afraid of heights.  

But I sensed this was a defining moment in my dadness. I needed to prove that I was no baby too. We Hamanss may be slightly nervous neurotics who hate change and aren’t great at sports, but we are not babies.

So I reminded God that technically I am a Christian and I do go to church sometimes and I leapt. I landed awkwardly on the bladder and I twisted my ankle, but I sent Luca soaring into the sky and into the lake with the splash.

 The expression of pure joy on his face reminded me that maybe the Christians might be on to something.