Guns

We arrived at the cabin midafternoon. In the mad rush to attach all our devices to the Michigan Wi-Fi, I noticed our neighbors way off in the distance. They and a small group of friends gathered around a four-wheeler.

Then we heard gunshots. Bam…Bam…Bam…

“That’s an AR-15,” I said with authority.

“How do you know?” Di asked, mentally selling our cabin in her head.

“I’ve played enough violent video games to know the sound of an assault rifle.”

Luca, peering through our window in fascination and horror, said, “But dad, they are shooting a pistol.”

Oops. Regardless, I began lecturing the family about living in Michigan. This is gun country. It’s legal. They are clearly observing safety rules and are shooting away from the house. So let’s not get all liberal butthurt about…

BAMBAMBAMBAMBAMBAMBAMBAMBAMBAM.

Our neighbors had moved on to a real assault rifle. Even at 2 football fields away, the sound was deafening and terrifying. I casually shoved Luca away from the window.

Sensing the panicky Democratic hand wringing next door, the gun club disbanded. For the next couple hours, the boys would speak of nothing else. Will the neighbors come over and shoot us? Will a stray bullet reach us in the cabin? What if they find out we voted for Obama? Would they shoot Grover if he poops in their yard?

Diana decided to put a stop to it in the only way she knows how: wine. We walked over to officially introduce ourselves and supply them with liquid friendship.

Yeah, okay. I’ll admit it. I assumed they’d be soaked in moonshine, wearing nothing but overalls held up by oversized diaper pins. Because I am a terrible person.

In reality, they were a lovely young couple who looked more at home in a college lecture hall than the Hillbilly Jamboree I had in my head. They chatted about the town and the ins and outs of living next to a creek. They also offered to keep an eye on our place and handled Grover taking a human sized poop in their yard with aplomb.

We went home, satisfied that our neighbors now knew we had cute children who were not bullet proof.

Luca and I then moved onto our favorite Michigan activity: prying shotgun pellets out of highway signs.

Adventure Time

I’m entering a weird time with Elijah. He is still the most caring, funny, friendly kid on the face of the Earth. Proof: we got a note from his school calling out the fact that he took it upon himself to help a kid on crutches throughout the whole day, without being asked. We have the red form letter to prove it.

But I can feel him pulling away from me. Which breaks my heart into tiny little bitter pieces. No, he is not a jerk about it. We used to lay on his bed and read late at night, or tell secrets, or give each other advice. We called this “Be Withs.” Well, Eli isn’t into them anymore. He plays it off wonderfully by saying things like, “You must be tired from work, Dad. We don’t have to do Be Withs.”

Ouch.

And I find it harder and harder to force him to play with me. Again, he blows me off kindly. “Maybe later,” is his most common refrain.

Every ounce of my being wants to chain him to his radiator and make him laugh at my witticisms. But I’ve decided to take another tact: pushing him from the nest.

I realized he needs this. He needs to figure out who he is outside our family cocoon. He needs to become Eli, not just Hamann Boy #1. This is all part of growing up. It doesn’t make it any less devastating to me.

So, I’ve been sending out of the house on Adventures. The rules are simple: Go get some friends. Go walk around and get into wholesome trouble. Bring your phone. Don’t get arrested.

He resisted at first. The warm glow of YouTube is too comforting. But after I threatened him, he went out with pals.

And then, darkness. He came home several hours later. Happy, older, wiser, and with a bag full of candy purchased with all his allowance. I didn’t ask what happened, nor were any details offered.

At least I can still make Luca hang out with me.

18 Hour Vacation

A few months ago, Diana booked a little pre-Spring Break jaunt down to Mexico. From the start, it was unlikely I was going to be able to go. A lot of work junk was colliding. But we kept the option open that I’d be able to go.

As the week approached, the chanced dropped to zero. I was in the middle of two new business pitches and winning new business was the best way to continue being employed and be able to afford pre-Spring Break trips for the family. Everyone was bummed, but I had been jabbering so often about the chances being low that no one was particularly surprised.

Suddenly, a tiny little window opened. By some miracle, I found myself with a non-working weekend. I debated flying down. It was pretty stupid to spend all my airline miles for essentially 18 hours of time with the family. It was a waste of money and would very likely make me sick from exhaustion and general gross airplane grossness.

So of course I went.

The boys were excited. Diana was excited. I was excited. Grover was excited to be able to make out with the neighbor dog for 2 days.

After a small check in mess, I made it to Mexico and met the family.

They were determined to give me a full vacation in 18 hours. We went to the giant Mexican grocery store I love. We found the junkyard dog, who we named “Bubby” a few years ago. We played Marco Polo. We went to the beach. The boys disobeyed orders to not get their dinner clothes wet in salt water. I yelled at them. I took away their screen privileges. I drank a margarita. I gave back their screen privileges. We ate lobster. Diana and I drank too much wine. We found a lizard in our rental house. Diana and I stayed up late smooching and listening to Mariachi bands.

I flew back to Chicago the next morning and collapsed.

Totally worth it.

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