New Year’s Eve 2018

We’re in Mexico, so we aren’t doing our usual tradition of stumbling across the yard to Chris and Lexa’s. We’re planning on stumbling across the pool to the hotel restaurant, where they’ve planned a little extortion meal for everyone dumb enough not to make reservations somewhere else. It’s so expensive that Diana flat out refuses to tell me the price.

We spent the day poolside, constructing elaborate games. One was called “Jesus Christ, it’s Jason Bourne.” We chopped off the JC part of the title after we realized it was offensive. Our games all involve some kind of tag, mixed with making sure Luca doesn’t drown.

Right around siesta time, a massive storm blew in. As Diana collected our stuff, the boys and I decided to tough it out. Wind turned once peaceful umbrellas into weapons. Seagulls shouted at us to leave our French Fries and run. We decided to high tail it once we saw the staff leave their tips and make for shelter. But not soon enough to miss getting utterly drenched. Right now I am sitting among the soggy garments of lazy children.

And I wouldn’t change a thing.

Now is the time where I leave a little New Year’s Eve note to my fam.

Dear Elijah,

You’ve become so independent, so sure of yourself, so confident. You own junior high. And you’re the first kid I’ve ever met who got a Christmas love note from his teacher saying how amazing they are. Every year you get kinder and sweeter and funnier. I hope 2019 brings you happiness and many, many victories. You may be better than me at Fornite, but I still love you more.

Dear Luca,

You make me laugh so much. You are just so silly and fun and goofy. You have such spirit. I love that you find your own things to be into, like baseball. But you still keep one foot in our family. You’ve got such a fun little crew of goofballs and I’m glad you are so loved. I hope 2019 brings you lots of adventures and lots of laughs. You mae be better than me at Fortnite, but I still love you more.

Dear Diana,

You are so strong, so amazing. I can’t believe you are able to keep such a sense of humor among all your ailments. You are an inspiration. Thank you for making me brave and making me take risks. Your bets always pay off. I can’t wait to see what we do next year. I hope 2019 brings you peace and calm in our cabin and lots of amazing wine. You may be better than me at decorating, but I still love you more.

Dear Grover,

Don’t die. I love you.

p.s. Sorry for the photo. Flashes are for suckers.

Bros Nest Is Back On The Air (Eventually)

During our daily vacation siesta, Diana and I sleep off our lunchtime margaritas while Elijah and Luca watch their favorite YouTube stars. Sometimes I crawl into bed with Luca and get a second hand dose of his favorites, which include a genre of I like to call “Bros Doing Stupid Things.”

Sometimes bearded, always wearing hats backwards, the Bros Doing Stupid Things sometimes eat gross/hot food, scare each other, hurt each other, win useless Guinness World Records and say “Bro.” A lot. At first, I hated them with a fiery hot anger of someone who doesn’t have fun at his job. But I soon learned to love those 20-something millionaires.

This morning after breakfast, I was inspired.

“Guys. Let’s re-start your YouTube channel. But instead of posting nothing, let’s do challenges like the Bros Doing Stupid Things.”

Years ago, the boys started a YouTube channel called “Bros Nest.” They didn’t really post much because their dad didn’t encourage their creativity. But now their dad would! At least for a little while.

First, we needed a challenge. The pool at the hotel has two levels, separated by a little waterfall with many, many gringo warnings. We decided I would throw a football from the upper level to the lower, and the Bros would leap from a little ledge and catch it before splashing into the pool. Easy Peasy. We also planned on giving our hotel credit for the whole thing, you know, as branded advertising. We’re no dummies.

Next, we needed a video camera. We decided to use Diana’s phone because she was relaxing and wouldn’t notice if it was stolen.

Third, execute, Bros Doing Stupid Things, style.

I tossed while Eli filmed. Luca missed the first 400 throws. No problem. That’s what editing is for. I started to feel a little click in my shoulder, so we switched cinematographers. Luca opted for a much higher angle to add drama to the success.

After the next 300 misses, a pain started shooting up and down my arm. Plus, storm clouds approached from the west. I kept saying into the camera, “This next one is gonna be it, guys.” And then I would accidentally bean some little kid in the head.

We decided to save our strength and finish our successful Bros Nest challenge tomorrow and went to have margaritas and chips y guac.

Bros Nest!

Vacation 2018

Hey everybody! The Hamanns are going to Mexico! What? Yes. I am aware that we just purchased a cabin. Yes. I am aware we haven’t spent more than 24 hours there. What are you, the vacation police? We made these plans before the cabin was a glimmer in Diana’s eyes. But yes, I get your point. We’ll probably not be doing another big Christmas trip again.

Until next year.

In anticipation of our trip, we watched “Home alone.” KEVIN!

As you can see from the photo, I was in charge of packing the boys and me. Great packing job or the greatest packing job? You decide.

Our airport shuttle was all set to pick us up at 7:30am. Plenty of time to make our flight. I, however, woke up at 7:15am. KEVIN! I started screaming, “Up! Up! We’re missing it! We’re missing vacation!”

Diana casually turned the shower on. No! No showers. Only panic. She ignored me and stepped in.

I had more luck with the boys, because I am bigger than them.  I shoved them around the house, badgering them to get shoes on and get sweatshirts now.

Diana asked me to help her move the gigantic suitcase that is perpetually 5 pounds over the airline limit. I scraped it along her big toe, sheering off a good chunk of the nail. That got her moving.

The airport car showed up and I tried to stall the driver by very slowly taking our luggage out one piece at a time. He didn’t seem to care. I went back inside to find Diana and Eli having a huge argument over a sweatshirt. Diana was so angry she did that thing where she gets right in your face and growls. That’s the spirit! Luca smartly got his stuff together without complaint.

We finally got everyone outside and after all that pain and suffering were still an hour and a half early for the flight. Yes! Hamann time.

The flight was wonderful and our hotel is great. We spend much of today going for the world record in catching a football while leaping into the pool.

My abs hurt from sucking in my gut.

In other news, our awesome neighbors are watching Grover. They have a new puppy named Gracie and according to reports, Grover and Gracie have begun a passionate May-September love affair. Grover’s still got it.

Football

Sorry I haven’t posted lately. I’ve been traveling a bit. Plus, I was finding every post began with “So…Fornite.” I would rather this not turn into a Fortnite fan blog. Plus, I’ve officially quit the game after my miraculous victory. Going out on top and all.

A few weeks ago, the Hamanns experienced a brief and intense love affair with football. Driven, of course, by Luca. But to my surprise Elijah also started asking to play football at the park. I was all for it. Firstly to shift attention away from the game we shall not mention. Plus, I figured there was something Kennedy-esc about tossing the old pigskin around after a nice family meal and some low level corruption.

We even managed to convince cousins Finn and Rory to join us a few Saturdays ago. Plus Uncle Steve! After a brief and intense argument about teams, Steve and I couldn’t convince the kids to let us play on the same side. So it was me, Luca and Finn against the losers.

On the walk to the park, I stopped short and grabbed Luca by the arm.

“We’re playing for fun, right? We aren’t here to dominate our cousins, right? Fuuuuun.”

Luca responded by smearing mud under each eye. “Let’s do this.”

After a brief Q and A about the rules of football (no, this isn’t the one with the bat), we got it on. Oh, doctor. What a game. With the combination of ages and skill level, it was a fun, evenly matched game. Luca stalked the field with muddy intensity. Eli Gumby shape made him a perfect wide receiver. Finn is speedy on his little legs and no one wanted to hurt Rory so she scored a few touchdowns.

Steve and I made sure each kid got their hands on the ball and made darned sure we didn’t have to run.

Until the last play. We were on the one yard line, or the 50 yard line. I’m no longer sure. But we needed a big play. So we decided to execute the Statue of Liberty. Or was it a fumblerooski? Or picket fence? It’s the one where I hand it off to Luca, who then throws it to me. We’ll call it “The Achilles Tendon.”

I hiked it and my dear brother tried to blitz. But I knew he was winded. Because I was winded. I handed it off to Luca and he tossed it to me. Perfect catch, natch. But then I saw Eli close in on me, with an insane, “This is the time become a man” look on his face.

Eli can beat me in Fortnite. He can beat me in Star Wars Battlefront. He can beat me in Mario Kart, but I would be damned if I let him beat me in football.

So I ran, Forest. I ran. As my legs debated with my heart about what should kill me, I could hear Eli’s insane laughter behind me. My tendons made that sound rope makes in movies right before it snaps. I thought, “Snow boots were a bad choice.”

I made it across the end zone, or the imaginary line extending from the sad tree across the park. Touchdown, baby! I celebrated the only way I knew how: by limping home, ball in hand, my fans cheering with calls of “Come back!” and “We’re not done yet!”

We sure were.

Unsleep Over

Instead of a big trampoline palace party or Benihana thing, Luca opted for having a few pals join him to see a movie and then sleep over and play Fortnite way too late. Luca hand selected his most ardent Fortnight fan friends. Three pretty nice, fun goofballs who combined to be an absolute nightmare.

The movie viewing itself was uneventful. Except one kid thought it would be funny to shout out random things periodically to make the rest of the crew laugh. I did not laugh.

While Diana went to sleep, I let the boys stay up way too late playing the game while I read the new Jeff Tweedy biography. This was my downfall. I missed my window of opportunity to get them to sleep and they turned into the most annoying zombies on the face of the earth.

I managed to get them into Luca’s room and gave my usual threats. My head wasn’t even on the pillow before Luca was at my door.

“We think there is someone inside the house. We heard footsteps.”

I explained that those were most likely my footsteps trying to get back to my room. And we had a fancy security system, so if someone did get in, they were a super spy and we should be honored to be robbed by them. I sent him off to bed.

12.5 seconds later, Luca was back.

“We heard someone trying to open up my door.”

I made a dramatic display of searching every room in the house for the super spy. No spy. Off to bed.

12.5 seconds later, Luca was back.

“(Name Redacted) is scared and he keeps making me scared and we’re all scared.”

Out of desperation, I offered to sleep in the room so I could take the first attack from the super spy, giving them time to escape.

I crawled into bed and was witness to late night 9 year old chatter:

I’m scared. You are a baby. No, you are a baby. I’m sleepy. I’m not sleepy. I’m going to stay up for 4 days. You can’t do that, you’ll die. You suck at Fortnite. No you suck. I totally head-shotted you. Who is the best at Fortnite? Me. Me. Me. What’s your favorite Fortnite dance? Ew (Name Redacted) farted! I farted. Me too. That smells like pepperoni pizza. I want to go play Fortnite.

I sprang out of bed. “Enough! No more talking! No more farting! No more fun! Only sleep!”

I quietly slammed the door and stomped off to bed. I heard giggling farting through the wall.

12.5 seconds later Luca was back.

We Bought A Cabin

I was folding underwear in our bedroom, watching NFL football and enjoying the one place in our house where you can’t hear Elijah and Luca screaming over Fortnite. It was, dare I say, peaceful?

I was suddenly called from my underwear peace to our office, where Diana showed me the cabin she wanted to buy. Diana then explained her reasons as I curled up in a ball on our hardwood floor.

We had a little money in the bank for a down payment. Plus, the wine store was doing well enough to cover mortgage payments, etc. We only have a few more years with the boys before they turn into teenager jerks and don’t want to hang out with us anymore. It would be great to build some memories and traditions. I wasn’t able to get away this summer due to my insane work schedule, so a weekend place would be practical. And most importantly, it would be a place where the boys would actually see nature instead of play Fornite every minute of every day.

“Guh,” I said. Followed by, “Guh.”

Over the next few days, our family split into two distinct groups: Eli was all for it. He loves buying things. Luca, on the other hand, felt it was too much money and recommended several annuities and IRAs, or investing our money in Fortnite.

In the end, Luca and I acquiesced because taking away a blind lady’s cabin was a real jerk move.

We spent a few days in our new cabin putting together new furniture and speaking with the resident handyman. His answer to every one of our questions was, “This is a cabin in the middle of a forest. What do you expect?” I forced the boys to go outside several times and allowed them to carry a football as a tether to the civilized world. We visited the local Italian restaurant and immediately fell in love with its amazingly dated décor and menu. Luca and I went hunting for the rumored hunting stand on our property and worried about becoming the hunted. We even installed a wonderfully spotty Wifi connection.

The morning we left for Evanston, I paused on the little bridge overlooking our creek while taking the trash to the street. Rain ratatataded the leaves. The air was just cool enough for a jacket. I couldn’t see our neighbors through the trees.

Suddenly, I felt a strange sensation. My blood pressure was no longer in the “Immediate Heat Attack” range. Was I actually…relaxed?

We all piled in the car and hit the post Thanksgiving traffic on the way home and my blood pressure went right back where it belonged.

The Better Mousetrap

I’ve written before about Elijah and my secret late night TV watching. I don’t care that he’s grouchy all day or that his grades are slipping or that he has dark circles under his eyes. We’re bonding!

Last week, we were sitting in the dark, making our way unto our third episode of “Parks and Rec” when Eli cocked his head.

“What was that?”

Skritch skritch skritch. A mouse.

I was not in a mental state to see a mouse. So I said, “I don’t hear anything. Besides, if we stay really still maybe the nothing thing will go away.”

Skritch skritch skritch.

“Dad. Turn the light on. I’m scared.”

I walked over to the light switch, which gave me a chance to pray that it was homicidal maniac and not a mouse. But when the light went on, we saw a little mouse darting around our stovetop.

Diana has requisitioned our humane mousetraps for the wine store, so we had no humane way to deal with this fury, frightened fella.

Eli shouted, “Burn him!” Burn him? That could work, but I wondered what a flaming, panicked mouse would do to our kitchen. Most likely run up my pantleg.

I grabbed a large bowl and Eli did the same. I wasn’t sure what we were gonna do with the bowls, but I was kind of hoping the mouse would do us the favor of hopping into one and saying, “Cheerio, chaps! Just drop me at the nearest leaf pile and I’ll be one my way!”

The mouse took one look at the big bowls and raced to our big spoon holder thingy. There were little holes in the big spoon holder thingy, so he squeezed inside and hid among the things that touch our food.

I ordered Eli to open our side door and I grabbed the big spoon holder thingy. I ran outside squealing, “Don’t run up my sleeve! Don’t run up my sleeve!” The mouse leapt from the big spoon holder thingy and raced outside.

I slumped onto the couch with Eli and we decided to celebrate by watching another three episodes of our show.

Double Barrels

The “Who Can Leave The Best Dad Note” competition started suddenly. Elijah crept into my room in the middle of the night and left a giant heart on my bedside table with the words, “I love you Dad!” 

Not to be beaten, Luca left me a note with a Snickers bar that read, Dear Dad, eat this in the morning. Happy Halloween. Love, Luca.”

And then there was the Eli classic, “I am sorry for flicking you off” note.

Yes, my life is now broken into two parts: Pre flick-off and post.

I was a little grouchier than usual last Saturday, so my patience wasn’t great. Leaving food on the floor, whining about flu shots, not eating your dinner were all met with outsized reactions. Mostly the yelling kind.

Diana and I had just settled in for some gross salmon and Netflix. It’s our chance to have a little adult time and re-connect after a long and stressful week by staring at the TV. It’s how marriages have been kept alive for decades.

It also happens to be the time the boys like to test how annoying they can be before getting yelled at. Eli had stolen some of Luca’s gross homemade goo and was doing that thing where you wave the contraband with one hand and use the other to stiff arm your brother, who screams bloody murder.

I snatched the goo out of Eli’s hand and said, “You are banished. Get out. Go upstairs.” Eli sulked his way down our house-long hallway.

I turned to make sure he was heading to his room when I saw it: Two middle finger barrels pointed right at me.

His aim was true, because each middle finger ruptured my heart. My little guy who used to laugh at everything I said, who used to play firetrucks and build Legos and have massive tickle fights was now giving me a literal F-YOU.

I reacted how anyone who just got their heart broken would: I ran down the hall yelling my head off. No screens! No screens! Bed immediately! Luca and Diana and Grover sat on the couch, holding each other and witnessing my wrath.

I immediately felt bad about flying off the handle. Eli didn’t know what the double barrels really meant. And he is at an age where he is trying out different personalities and seeing what sticks. He’s a deeply sensitive kid and the kindest eleven year old I’ve met. But he did flick me off.

Twenty or so minutes later he handed me his apology note. I said I was sorry for getting so angry, but we needed to keep his punishment of no screens. But it would take effect in the morning and we watched some inappropriate TV while Diana put Luca to bed, who made a mental note to not do whatever hand gesture it was that got dad so pissed.

The next day, Eli didn’t watch any screens. Except for when I made him watch me play Fortnite as extra punishment.

Daddy’s First Fortnite Victory

Remember Fortnite? It’s the violent video game obsession of millions and millions of kids across the globe. We attempted to ban it at the Hamann household, but we’re weak.

For those of you who aren’t in 4^th grade, Fortnite is a game where 100 avatars get dropped on a digital island packed with weapons. The last man/woman/skeleton/lama standing wins.

Luca is fantastic at the game. Watching him is like watching Michelangelo play Fortnite. Elijah is also quite good, but it makes his temper explode. He’s had to replace 2 controllers with his own money due to rage. I’ve had to establish a no screaming rule because if often sounds like cats being tortured in our basement.

Hmm. Reading those last couple paragraphs make me reconsider the Fortnite ban again. But the truth is, I love playing the game with the boys. There are modes where we can play as a team, and I act as a gigantic albatross. The boys often have to warn online players that their dad is currently playing and things are going to go poorly.

My favorite mode is when I play solo and the boys act as my coach. There’s a hilarious role reversal where they become the dad and I act as a petulant 9 year old. They’ll gently tell me I’m doing terrible and I’ll snap at them for bad coaching. Elijah has written me off as a lost cause when I was zero for 4,000 games. Luca hangs in there, encouraging me with one eye while staring at YouTube with the other.

Sunday, I had an hour of free time while the flavors of my spaghetti sauce got to know each other and I asked Luca for a Fortnite coaching sesh. As I fumbled through the first few minutes of the game, Luca had his nose in a tablet and would occasionally mumble, “Don’t take that gun,” or, “Don’t go there.”

By pure luck, I managed to get into the top ten and the game intensified. Luca finally took notice of my play. He stood behind me, giving me instructions on how to maneuver, how to build little forts to avoid getting killed and where to hide from the good players.

Suddenly, I was in the top three. A personal best for me. Luca started screaming at me to hide. For the love of God, hide.

Right outside of my crude fort, the two remaining good players duked it out. Luca’s hands gripped the back of my chair. He whispered, “Don’t. Move.”

The two good players finished their battle and one remained. By some miracle, he or she had their back to me, trying to figure out why their remaining opponent was such a chicken. I made my move. Luca screamed, “Shoot! Shoot!”

I aimed and fired my weapon. Into my opponent’s butt.

The screen froze and the words “Victory Royale” flashed.

I am a 46 year old man. I have a mortgage. Two cars. A wife, two kids. I am an executive with an office and a parking space. But winning that game was the greatest success of my life.

Luca and I jumped up and down and screamed. We hugged. We kissed each other. If there was champagne handy we would have poured it over ourselves.

I looked into Luca’s eyes and there was real, honest pride in them. His son had won.

I think I will retire while I’m at the top.

Parent Teacher Conferences

Elijah’s parent teacher conferences represented the combination of my best anxieties: meeting new people, authority figures, talking, the potential for conflict, school urinals.

Diana smartly let me handle this one solo.

My meetings were scheduled for 6pm, so naturally I left work at 3pm. I stopped by Diana’s store to say hi and she suggested I have a glass of wine. I anxiously wondered aloud if it was a good idea to go to parent teacher conferences with wine on your breath and Diana said maybe I should have two.

I arrived at school a nice, Hamannly 30 minutes early and stood anxiously in front of Eli’s math classroom. I ran through all the possible worst case scenarios in my head. What if she yelled at me? What if she said Eli was a moron? What if she pants me? Were swirlies still a thing? Maybe she’d make me take a math test as some kind of DNA test.

Eli’s teacher appeared at the doorway and looked exactly like my teacher brother Steve: tired of everyone’s b.s.

We sat down and she said, “Eli is a wonderful kid. He’s kind, conscientious, engaged and smart. Any questions?”

Nope.

Next, I visited Eli’s English teacher. This lady was notoriously mean. According to parental rumor, this lady doesn’t hold punches and likes to accuse people of letting their kids watch too many screens. According to my spying, he was doing worst in English, a B+. I sat down and prepared for the worst.

She said, “Eli is a wonderful kid. He’s kind, conscientious, engaged and smart. Any questions?”

Nope.

I finished with Eli’s music teacher. Eli texted me that she was his absolute favorite. I believe his exact words were, “My music teacher is lit.”

Hi lit teacher sat me down and said, “Eli is a wonderful kid. He’s kind, conscientious, engaged and smart. Any questions?”

The whole thing lasted 20 minutes. I came home and told Eli how proud I was. He was clearly trying in school and, more importantly, he was being kind. And in our house, being kind is better than straight A’s.

He said, “How much money is that worth?”

Whisper Scream

Luca and our Alexa machine are in the middle of a passionate love affair. He seems to be the only one who talks to her, asking her forty times a day who won what game that day. He’s very nice about it, unlike my snapping at her to stop playing whatever Grateful Dead son Diana played before leaving the room. Alexa will surely spare Luca when the machines rise up.

Luca’s fandom came to a head when the Cubs had a one game playoff to get into the post season. By the time I got home that night, he was in a fever pitch. His voice was unable to lower under scream level.

Unfortunately, Diana had her eyeball shots earlier that day, which really knocked her out. She didn’t see on the calendar it was National Clumsy Technician Day, so her eyes were pretty beat up. The best plan of action was to sleep.

Our bedroom happens to be directly over our little TV area, so any and all sports screaming travels up our walls and air conditioning ducts and into our bed.

I made Luca a deal: If he could resist screaming, he could watch the entire game, even if went past his bedtime. Elijah asked if he could have the same deal, but without watching the game. Nope. So he suddenly became a Cubs fan.

Within the first 10 minutes of the game, Luca screamed his head off. Strike One. He got to Strike Two after seeing one of our clients were advertising in the game.

I suggested he try a technique I like to call “Whisper Screaming.” This worked surprisingly well. But for some reason the boys had to also move in slow motion. They would slowly leap from their chairs, slow motion strut across the room and whisper, “Whooooohooooo!”

This seemed to disturb Grover the Dog more than if the boys were legit screaming.

The game ended up tied at the end of the 9^th and I was tired. I canceled our stay up past bedtime deal. But I agreed to buy them some Fortnite crap so they still got to Whisper Scream in delight.

Lost Bike

My mother used to have a “Saturday Box.” If she found a toy or article of clothing or sandwich on the ground, she would pop it into a little cardboard box, which we could not access until Saturday morning.

It was meant to teach us how to clean up after ourselves. All it really taught us was how to wait until Mom had her nightly bottle of wine and go raid the Saturday Box after she went night night.

We do not have a Saturday coffer at our house. And as such, our floors are littered with child detritus. Shoes and socks being the greatest offenders. Kid gets home. Kid removes shoes and socks. Shoes and socks get chucked. Child asks parent later where his shoes went. Parent yells at child.

Yelling at them about it has ceased all meaning. I’ve taken to just pointing at items until they get removed. I like this method because it’s so passive aggressive.

As you can read from the title of this blog, Elijah lost his bike a couple weeks ago. We rode by our little park after a nice long bike adventure and Eli spotted some of his friends. Excited by the prospect of him doing something in the actual sunlight, I bid him a farewell and went home to practice Fortnite. Eli came home after dark, which made me very happy.

The next morning, we were climbing in the car to attend Luca’s soccer game when Eli became ashen faced. “I left my bike at the park,” he breathed, eyes wide with fear.

Fear of getting yelled at by me. And boy did he get yelled at. Responsibility. Carelessness. Kids who aren’t as lucky as you. Petty larceny. Spoiled children. These were just some of the topics of my lecture.

Diana, who is a much better parent than I am, suggested we drive to the park on the way to the game, in the hopes no one wanted a nice bike that was left under a gazebo all night.

The bike was not there. See? See? People suck!

There was, however, a note taped to the gazebo. The note read, “Found bike. Call if it’s yours.” Oh wait. People may not suck after all.

After a few panicked attempts, a nice man answered. He asked us to describe the bike just to make sure. We immediately forgot what Eli’s bike looked like. It’s blue? Maybe? Has at least one wheel. It’s either a Mongoose or literally any other bike brand.

Luckily, the man believed us and said he’d meet us at the park. I forced Eli to come with me and bring a bottle of wine as a reward. I continued my lecture explaining how much I hated meeting new people and he was making my social anxiety flair up big time.

The very nice man approached and we shouted, “Hooray!” Eli slid forward and offered the wine and a rehearsed mumbled thank you. The very nice man tried to refuse the wine but we convinced him to take it. Neither party knowing it was a super expensive bottle Diana was saving for a special occasion.

We happily walked home and I let up on the lecture. And as soon as Eli got in the door he chucked his shoes across the room.

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Curriculum Nights

The summer tends to be pretty brutal at my ad agency, and the last three months I've been particularly swamped. Imagine my delight when last week turned out to be pretty light. Like, sneak out at 4:30 light.

So how did I spend my stolen free time? Curriculum Night baby! Sittin’ still. Listening. Trying not to look bored. Everything an overworked man could want.

My first stop, Elijah’s school. I was particularly interested in this one because it’s his new middle school and, quite frankly, Eli refuses to give us any details. He won’t allow us to even drop him off at school. I’m fairly sure he just jumps on a boxcar the minute he leaves the house and has non racist Huckleberry Finn style adventures every day.

The Curriculum Night was opened by Eli’s massive Principal, Mr. Gigantor. Principal Gigantor is not a man you’d want catching you sneaking smokes in the boys’ bathroom. Huge. Intimidating. The minute he started speaking, I sat ramrod straight, with my hands folded in my lap. My friend Lexa, who sat next to me, tried to offer me a snack and raised my hand to tell on her. Luckily for Lexa, Principal G. didn’t see me.

His presentation included things he expects from us, as parents. I vigorously took notes on my iPhone, but then I was afraid Principal G. might think I was messing around, so I just tried to memorize everything he said.

The best news was Principal Gigantor doesn’t want parents helping kids with homework. Homework is meant to be a challenge and a way for kids to learn how to problem solve and rely on themselves.

Yes! I was already totally outmatched for Eli’s math homework and had fallen into awful sitcom dad clichés. “New math? What’s wrong with old math?” From now on, he’s on his own.

Luca’s Curriculum was a few days later. Eli had the same teacher years ago and we loved her, so I was crestfallen when she totally didn’t recognize me. But I managed not to pout through her presentation.

She gave us a well thought out Powerpoint, but the entire time my mind was screaming, “Go to presentation mode! You’re in slide sorter. SLIDE SORTER!”

She ended her talk by asking us to write a little note for our kid, which we could put in their desk. I wrote to Luca how proud I was of him and how much I loved him. And then debated writing “I farted in your chair” for a very long time.

In the end, I decided not to write the fart joke and it haunted me. After polling all my friends, they unanimously supported not writing the fart joke. It was inappropriate and could have gotten Luca into trouble.

I should have written the fart joke.

Rats and Texts

Last Sunday, Elijah had the choice between spending an hour in the beautiful sunshine attending Luca’s soccer game and coming to the office with me to sit quietly in a darkened, airless room while I rehearsed a new business pitch.

He chose the airless room with zero hesitation.

I was secretly pleased. I can feel my special little boy sliding away from me, with school and friends and other junior high obsessions. I relished the chance to spend a little forced quality time with him. Plus, I wanted to show off his insane hair to my co-workers.

The trip to the office was uneventful, except for our ongoing battle of whose music is worse. Kids today. You can’t tell the boys from the girls, I tells ya (shakes rolled up newspaper in the air).

Eli loves to visit my office. He loves the huge glass buildings, the fancy cars, the exotic animals. Like the giant dead rat oozing blood from every orifice we almost stepped on. This thing was gnarly. Even I, a seasoned dead rat observer, was grossed out.

I plopped Eli down at my desk with directions to the bathroom, snack area and the conference room downstairs where me and seven of my co-workers were interpreting “Sunday office wear.” I preferred a sweatshirt and jeans. My CEO wore a beautiful sport coat and loafers to spite me.

While I didn’t threaten Eli, I told him to think hard about how urgently he would need to barge into our rehearsal. Interrupting with an anecdote about something funny a Youtuber did on Fortnite was not good for my career.

Midway through our meeting, I got a mystery text from Diana that read, “Dadcomeupstairsrightnow.”

My first thought was Luca was texting me from our home, wanting to tell me an anecdote about something funny a Youtuber did on Fortnite. But then it quickly dawned on me it was Eli, who had hacked Diana’s text app with his iPad to send me a message. Was he being attacked? Was he lost? Did he find my secret whisky?

I excused myself from the meeting with a smooth excuse like, “I have to poop!” and raced upstairs. I immediately saw Eli had locked himself out of the floor and was pacing around the elevators. I thought about leaving him out there as a practical joke, but he was doing that little hand shaking thing that signifies a rapidly coming panic attack.

I let him in and he told me a harrowing tale of cutting through glass doors on his way to the snack area. I returned him to my desk and finished my meeting. Afterwards, we ate al fresco at a restaurant under the Trump building.

On our way back to my car, where the dead bloody rat was mysteriously gone, I tricked Eli into standing under the Trump sign and snapped his picture. I now have liberal Evanston blackmail in case he ever wants to refuse hanging out with me.

Baby’s First Rainout

I skipped the weepy first day of school post this year because there wasn’t any HamannEggs worthy tomfoolery. Eli walked to school. Luca repeated “I’m nervous” over and over and I died inside a little.

I had an especially busy week, so I was reduced to sitting on each boy before and demanding they tell me something about school. They would squirm out of my grasp and yell “Math!” before running off.

Around Wednesday, Luca started to realize he could use my work situation to his advantage. As he gave me the bare minimum information about school, he would pepper in information about Friday’s White Sox game. “I did reading. Did you know you can get tickets for $8?”

I was not above purchasing their affection and snatched up three seats in the outfield. If we  grabbed a home run ball, I could work late for the rest of the year.

We arrived early (Hamanns rule!) and found our seats among the cheerful, tattooed, working class south siders. We bought hot dogs and waters and I had one glorious beer and we irritated our row mates by going to the bathroom six times in the first three innings.

Elijah looked up in the sky and said, “Those clouds look really dark.” I looked at my phone’s weather app, which was reporting 20 miles north in Evanston and said, “There’s a zero percent chance of rain. Those clouds are just being jerks.”

Totally bored, Eli asked if he could go to the bathroom again. I told him to go by himself. Right when he got to the top of the stairs it started raining. As he finished his business, it started pouring. As he exited the men’s room, lightening flashed and 5,000 fans raced for shelter.

Luca and I made our way up the stairs to covered concourse in our overly polite Hamann way. After a good 10 soaking minutes, we made our way to the top and found Eli standing near a bar (he knows his father), looking petrified.

We tried to find a little pocket in the streams of soaking, drunk fans. Both Eli and Luca suggested we wait out the storm in the bathroom. I suggested we go to the ice cream stand where there was slightly less pee.

We walked to the ice cream stand and a gust of wind picked up and turned one of the umbrellas into a weapon, impaling a guy in a tank top (I think).

I knelt down and broke it to the boys that we were gonna have to leave. Eli looked absolutely relieved. Luca fought back tears. I promised him we would come back before the season ends. I also promised him he could play Fortnite when he got home.

Eventually made it back to Evanston, where the skies were clear. And the skies are always blue in Fortnite.

Camp

The night before Elijah went to camp, I crawled into bed with him and asked if he was nervous about anything. Pooping your pants on a hike? Homesickness? What to do in a Jason Voorhees situation?

After a beat, Eli said, “I’m worried that when you die there is no heaven and there is just nothing.”

That was a lot harder to answer than “ball your underwear up and stick it under a bush.”

Existential crisis solved, we woke up early the next morning only to realize we didn’t wake up remotely early enough. While Eli and Diana argued and jammed last minute provisions into his overstuffed bag, I rocked back and forth by the back door, muttering, “So late…so very very late.”

We raced to drop off and weaved our way through the Evanston parents standing cult like, remembering their own underwear balling memories from thirty years ago. Social anxiety mixed with a fear of busses rendered me useless. Diana handed me Eli’s bags and said, “Stick these somewhere.”

Diana checked Eli in only to be informed that we had not filled out any of the 400 documents needed to attend camp.

Let’s all climb into the Wayback machine to 6 months ago. It was a cold Sunday afternoon. Diana, sick of literally doing everything for our sons, put me in charge of camp. I dutifully signed Eli up and then promptly ignored all future correspondence with subject lines like “Urgent” and “400 Documents needed to go to camp.”

I know it’s a dad cliché to be clueless and dumb. But entire eleven years blogs are built on it. I volunteered to fill out the forms. Diana shoved me out of the way when I biffed Eli’s birth date.

We got Eli on the bus and waved vigorously at his mop top through the tinted window. He slinked down to dodge our love.

Camp went well and we received lots of letters with terrible handwriting. Eli explored and grew and got close to nature and made lots of friends for life.  

And he was the last kid to get picked up from drop off because we missed the email.

Night Watching

With the thousands of hours of screens Elijah watches, it’s difficult to monitor everything he sees. Luckily, I’ve put age limits on his Youtube content, which enrages him. But he figured out all he has to do is watch on Diana’s devices to unlock all the disgusting contraband the internet has to offer.

He also likes to linger in the kitchen while Diana and I watch movies or TV, in the hopes he’ll see something off limits. I’ve never seen a kid take longer with popsicle wrapper. We have to physically remove him when “The Handmaid’s Tale” gets too juicy.

But he’s recently found a loophole: me.

A few nights a week, Eli waits patiently in his room after lights out until he’s sure Diana’s asleep. He then creeps into my room and taps me on the shoulder saying, “Do you want to watch TV?”

You bet I do.

We quietly retire to our TV room and watch late night, semi off limits movies and shows. We watched the Wes Anderson masterpiece “Rushmore,” the disappointing “Ready Player One,” my favorite show of all time, “Rick and Morty” and countless hours of “The Office.” These have all been pre-vetted by me to make sure he isn’t exposed to anything too scarring. But they do give him enough naughtiness to feel like he’s getting away with something.

The real entertainment for me is how scared Eli is of getting busted. I do lay it on a little thick, saying things like, “If mom catches us you won’t be able to play Fortnite for a month.” If Grover pads into the room, we both freeze, not even daring to breathe. “It’s HER!”

The truth is, Diana knows we do this. She’s no dummy. Besides, Diana takes her hearing aids out when she sleeps so we could be starting a punk band in the basement and she wouldn’t notice. She also does us the favor of clomping to the bathroom every half hour right above us, which adds to the drama.

Eli’s white whale is the animated show “Family Guy,” the crass, one time funny “Simpsons” rip off that made Seth McFarland and FOX millions. Eli believed this must be the funniest show in the history of the world because I wouldn’t let him watch it.

But like all banned things in our house, like gun video games and Coke and rules about wearing underwear, Eli eventually broke me down and I allowed him to watch one episode.

There was a rape joke within the first five minutes. Best dad ever.

Grill

Every summer, Diana’s store holds a “Pink Wine and Swine” event, which features chicken and piping hot coffee. Nope. Strike that. They serve Rose and pork. In order to make the whole thing profitable, they team up with a local butcher and cook the Babe’s and Porky’s on site.

Which means we have to haul our grill from our yard to the store. Getting the thing into our car is an amazingly messy pain in the butt. The manufacturers also did us the favor of making all the edges of the grill razor sharp. Last year, we snapped off one of the wheels dragging it across the parking lot. It’s one of the three times a year Diana and I fight.

This year, as we were swearing and smearing a year’s worth of grill juice on our pants, Diana suggested we just leave the old junky grill at the store and I go buy a new grill. My frustration outweighed my frugality, so I agreed.

Elijah, sensing I was about to spend a lot of money, appeared out of nowhere and asked to tag along to the hardware store.

We went to the big old orange building and found ourselves in front of the gleaming fire makers. I was immediately at a loss for which one to buy. My plan was just to get the third most expensive one. Eli simply wanted one with a little side burner. “You know, so you don’t have to go all the way inside to make baked beans.”

Seemed like a reasonable request for an item we make 1.5 times a year.

Eventually, we flagged down a worker guy and asked if he knew anything about grills. “Sure, why not?” he said. He told us that the third most expensive one was a real disaster and if we wanted to have perfectly cooked food we should go with the second most expensive one. Oh, and look. It had a little side burner. Eli nodded so hard I thought his head was going to fly off into the lighting fixtures section.

Fine. I asked if they had any already built or if they could come set it up today.

“Well, we could get out to your house in 2075. Or we can just give you a box with a billion pieces in it and you put it together.”

“How long does something like this take to put together?” I asked.

“It takes our guys about fifteen minutes.”

That sounded easy enough. I made Eli promise to help me put it together. For bonding purposes. Eyeing the little side burner, he said, “Yeah yeah, bonding.”

We got the giant grill box home and I spread out the billion pieces on our deck. After 15 minutes of intense building, I realized I was roughly 1/928547567^th of the way done. Eli backed away and said, “I feel like this is one of those times when you might yell at me and I think it’s best if I leave you alone.”

“Yes. You are correct.”

Just then, Diana’s Dad, Stepmom and sister from France arrived. Oh yeah, did I mention the grill was supposed to be done for dinner with Diana’s Dad, Stepmom, and sister from France? They kept handing me white wine and saying, “Yay Rick!”

The encouragement was helpful. The white wine was not.

As the sun set, I finished my project and connected the propane. With a click and a tick it whooshed to life and we had delicious burgers a half hour later.

Come on. How many of you were thinking I was never going to get the thing together? How many of you were thinking I was going to set myself on fire? Shame on you.

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