2019 Cold

Everyone has the day off due to extreme coldness, but there isn’t much blog-worthy about it. We’ve all sunk into our normal at home routine. Diana is taking the government down one Tweet at a time. Luca and Elijah are digitally murdering their friends and I am sitting in front of the fire pretending to work and listening to The Pixies.

But we’re feeling good. The 2019 cold bug finally left the premises. But not without a fight.

A really nasty cold brings out the true character of whomever it attacks. My Lutheran/German-ness came out big time. I wanted, no, needed to work through my illness. “No…I’m…fine,” I would spit through my teeth while sweating my way through a meeting. The fact that I was contaminating everyone I worked with mattered not. If they were good Lutherans they would come in to work as well. And people would talk fondly of us when we died.

The cold leapt from me to Luca. I know the exact moment this happened. It was when I kissed him on the lips. I couldn’t resist because he was acting so hilarious and cute. My bad. Luca becomes angry when he’s sick. Very angry. He sprawled out on the floor in front of his bedroom and refused any attempts to move him the 8 feet to his bed. He told Diana he did not want her near him, but demanded that I sit on the hardwood floor and listen to him moan. No, I could not read or listen to music. I was being punished.

The cold then made its way to Diana. I know the exact moment this happened. It was when she kissed me on the lips. She couldn’t resist because I was also acting hilarious and cute. Her bad. Diana got it worst of all. She legitimately couldn’t get out of bed for two days. I’m sure the executives at HGTV noticed a spike in “Househunters” viewership. Because when you boil Diana down to her essence from a cold, she is HGTV.

Elijah did not catch the cold, and thus had to attend school. Eli would rather be bedridden and dangerously dehydrated than sit through math. But he hilariously couldn’t catch the bug. He tried kissing everyone infected. He licked our used silver wear. He drank our contaminated Nalgene bottles. No luck. He half-heartedly tried to fake a cold (cough cough), but we all knew he was a big old faker.

I fully expect him to catch it two minutes before our Superbowl party.

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Death Hill

A big old pile of snow dumped on Evanston over the weekend. Which means three things:

1.     I woke up extra early to shovel  everyone’s walk in a pathetic attempt to win “Best Neighbor.”

2.     I lost my Apple Air Pod headphone in said snow as God’s commentary on materialism.

3.     We went sledding on Mount Trashmore.

Longtime readers of HamannEggs know Mount Trashmore is the local heap/hill featuring an Easy, Medium and Death hill. For the last eleven years, we’ve been content to safely glide down the easy slope. But this year, the boys and their cousins decided not to be big babies like the babies on the Easy hill and spent most of their time on the Medium hill with the faux snowboarders and other tweens.

I was not feeling well, so I sat on the ancient wooden fence/toboggan run and handed out witticisms to the other parents as a public service. My other duty was to tell Luca when it was clear for him to sled down the hill, as he was terrified of smashing into someone making their way off the hill. I feel ramming into a kid with your sled is a rite of passage, so I always said it was clear.

Sorry for this detour, but it was brutally cold. And there was one dad who just wore jeans and a long sleeved shirt. No hat. No jacket. No gloves. His manliness was a marvel. The rest of the dads all agreed if our wives left us for him it would be understandable.

Back to the story. After an hour or so of Medium hill, Elijah decided he wanted to head to the Death hill his cousin Finn. I assumed they would both chicken out once they got to the summit, so I said go nuts.

It’s called “Death Hill” because there are many, many signs posted by the city explaining there was a 100% guarantee of death from sledding down this hill in big red letters. Of course it was packed.  

Eli and Finn and I stood at the top of Death Hill and I awaited the back peddling. But no, they were determined. I gave them an out by saying Diana would be mad if she heard about them messing around on the guaranteed death mound. They simply said, “What she doesn’t know won’t kill her.”

I’m not doing the top of this hill justice. The wind was nuts. Huge swirls of snow and ice brutalized our faces. It was, at most, 6 degrees. And for some reason, dogs roamed around, unleashed. I guess their owners figured the animals had a better chance of survival on their own.

Eli and Finn decided to share a sled, so they gave me their spare. I looked at Finn’s thin little frame and realized I didn’t exactly have my brother’s permission to kill his son. I gave them some quick advice. Don’t put your feet down. Don’t turn. Don’t stop. Hold on for dear life.

They zipped off with shrieks of glee. They accelerated to collarbone breaking speed, but made it to the bottom of the hill without incident.

I found myself in a quandary. At the top of the Death hill. Too tired/sick to walk down. But I was also not interested in a trip to the E.R.

I decided to go the fast route and slide down. But safely. In control. Hamann-style. I sat down on the little plastic circle and scooched forward.

Without warning, gravity took its hold and I immediately forgot rule #1: Don’t put your feet down. The top of Death hill had been rubbed clean of snow revealing only dirty and gravel underneath. My attempts at stopping sent a rooster tail of debris into my eyeballs. I raised my hands to my eyes, which caused me to begin a death spiral (rule #2 and #4).

I was quite sure I would become another victim of Death hill, another notch in the Evanston City warning signs. But sooner than you can say, “Does anyone know CPR?” I was at the bottom of the hill.

I quickly convinced Luca that he was cold and we went home for hot chocolate.

Minivan

Nope. No way. Not in a million years. We’re not minivan people. We’re cool. We wear t-shirts and jeans. Look at our cool haircuts. Look at our glasses. Look at my beard. Minivans are for soccer moms. We listen to The Pixies. Did I mention my many tattoos? Our kids have super long hair. We swear. We go to concerts. We eat Indian food.

Damn it. We bought a minivan.

The Chrysler Pacifica war began with a Jim Gaffigan commercial. One that so charmed Elijah and Luca that they decided then and there that we must have one. When informed of this fact, both Diana and I burst out laughing (see above paragraph). Eli and Luca pronounced it “Ch-rysler” with the “CH.” But no amount of adorable mispronunciations would sway us.

But E and L were no dummies. They had already won a war of attrition to get us to let them play Fornite. They knew the rulebook. Keep asking. Over. And over. And over. Ask when your parents are tired. Ask then they are sick. Ask when they are vaguely hung over.

The boys would say things like, “You know. The Ch-rysler Pacifica has a sunroof. And a great sound system. And optional leather seats.” Nice try. We knew all they cared about was the DVD player on the back of the seats.

Suddenly, in a fit of brilliance, Eli said, “The Ch-rysler Pacifica comes in a hybrid.” Bingo. That was the day I lost Diana to the dark side. Suddenly, buying a 7 seater was the only way to save planet Earth.

One night, my family sat me down and laid out all the reasons. Think of the gas mileage. Think of the environment. Think of the trips to the cabin. Think of our poor old dog, who needs help getting into our SUV.

I rebutted in the dad-est way I could. “It’s too expensive.”

To my surprise, Luca came over to my side. But I think it was because he simply liked making Eli angry.

Diana considered my arguments thoughtfully and carefully and bought a nice burgundy Chrysler Pacifica Hybrid. I stewed and pouted and acted like a put upon dad.

But then, like all decision I pout about, I actually drove the thing. Heated steering wheel. Captain’s seats. Parking assist. XM Satellite Radio. Where have you been all my life? I’ve been suggesting trips to the cabin just so I can drive it.

Last night, I was hanging out with Eli before bed and he said, “You know what I don’t like about the Ch-rysler Pacifica?”

I told him it was best to keep that little tidbit to himself.  

Secret Tag

I don’t think I accurately described the joy of vacationing with two children who aren’t in constant danger of drowning.

Previously, I would spend 99% of my vacation with Luca clamped onto my side like a koala, his little talons digging into my skin for foothold. I would also have to be on constant lookout for Elijah, who had zero fear of water combined with zero swimming ability. He would leap into any deep end, surf or scalding hot tub, fully expecting his father to rescue him by the elastic waistband of his Avengers swimsuit.

But now, both boys have been through hours of YMCA swim lessons. They aren’t going to make the Olympic team any time soon, but they can keep their heads above water, which is all I care about.

So I can now actually have fun with them. If you read previous posts, you saw our Jason Borne (“Jesus Christ, it’s Jason Borne!”) antics and attempts at the jumping off a ledge and catching a football World Record.

My favorite game we concocted was called “Secret Tag.” I would pick an unsuspecting pool goer and the boys would have to tag them without them realizing they were part of the game. Mostly by accidentally bumping into them (“Excuse me, kind sir.”).

When I write it out, this game sounds super creepy. But it was more slapstick than gropey. Besides, I tried to pick people who wouldn’t call the cops or beat us up when they got tagged by an eleven year old.

Yeah, it really was only Eli who played the game. Luca would try his hardest to play, but every time he got within 10 feet he would shout, “I can’t do it! It’s too weird!”

Eli has no shame. Man, woman, baby, Eli would tag every one of them. He wanted to up the ante by trying to get a stranger mom to hold his hand. But Diana caught wind of it and shut the whole game down.

So we went back to diving for that piece of onion that dropped from my taco.