CAMP

It’s been a little tough filling my HamannEggs quota because the boys have been at sleep away camp the last two weeks. Two loooooong weeks. The house has been disturbingly quiet without the pitter patter of screaming little feet. It’s been compounded by the fact we receive almost zero communication from Elijah and Luca, except for THE WORST CAMP NOTE IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD. Which I’ll get to in a bit.

The days leading up to camp were fairly easy. I was on packing duty, which I realized was my calling in life. Checking off lists? Folding? Placing things in bags, and then putting those bags into larger bags? I find myself getting a little aroused just writing about it.

Elijah was pretty Elijah about leaving for camp. Floppy haired and easy going. That’s his way. However, dark clouds approached in Lucaland. Those nervous, anxiety ridden genes I donated 9 years ago cracked their knuckles and said, “Let’s do this.” 

The night before drop off, Luca couldn’t sleep. He was too nervous. That about the swim test? What if his cabin mates were jerks? What if he got ticks? What if the food was bad? What if he couldn’t sleep? What if an asteroid hit the camp? WHAT ABOUT THE SWIM TEST?

I tried my best to calm him using bits and pieces I’ve picked up in my search to calm my own gurgling anxiety. Little bits of Psych 101, A smidgen of Zen, a little talking it out. I gave him all my tools except Bourbon, which we all know is the real secret. Eventually he drifted into a fitful sleep.

We decided to wake up extra early because camp drop off is a nightmare. 4 million kids cramming into 7 buses with no rhyme or reason. And 8 million parents getting in the way. Luca took one look at this chaos and his lower lip stuck out in an uncontrollable and exaggerated pout.

I grabbed Eli by the shoulders. “You HAVE to help your brother. I know he drives you nuts, but he’s scared and sad and you need to step up and big brother this. Your goal is to sit with him on a bus, any bus. Even the ‘Peanut Free Bus.’ There is a zero percent chance Luca will get bullied on the ‘Peanut Free Bus.’”

Eli immediately got separated from us.

We finally got everyone back together and to a bus entrance. Luca was in near hysterics. Tears streamed down his face. His little lower lip quivered and he kept turning around to hug Diana and I to cry. My emotional system completely shut down and I stood there muttering, “Everyone…on..the..bus. Busses…on…get.”

Once we reached the bus entrance, the helpful camp counselor cheerfully said, “Bus is full everybody! Go find a new one!” This reminded me of John Candy’s character in “National Lampoon’s Vacation.” “Sorry folks. Park’s closed. The moose out front shoulda told ya.”

We got into the next bus line and once we made it to the front, another cheerful counselor said, “Sorry folks. Park’s closed. The moose out front shoulda told ya.”

By the time we got to the third rejection, Luca had lost all pretense of keeping his sh*t together. He just went into full panic mode. He approached the fourth bus like a cat being thrown into a tub full of ice water. Eli dragged him on with look that said, “Gee thanks Mom and Dad. I can’t wait for this 5 hour drive sitting next to a plate of Jell-O.”

Diana and I went home and immediately wrote to Luca. There’s a little portal where you can type and email and the campers respond with a hand written note. We expected a note back saying, “Hey Mom and Dad! Camp is great. I have lots of friends. I’ve been voted King of Camp. I am now proficient in archery, wallet making and have gotten to first base twice.” Nope. His note, written in the hand of a hostage, spoke of sleepless nights, crying, fear and loathing.

To make matters worse, he refused to write us back after several pleading attempts from Diana. He also received all my passive aggressive DNA.

Eventually, we got a note that revealed he was, in fact, having fun. Thank the Camp Gods.

We also received a note from Eli saying he would not be writing us notes.

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Dad Drive

I have this beautiful memory of driving my dad’s yellow Mustang through the two lane roads of rural Illinois. I’m in his lap, steering. He’s manning the pedals and smoking a cigarette. It’s just us, classic seventies rock and a Summer wind pouring through the open windows into our fluffy hair.

Of course almost none of that is true. My dad had a Pinto. My brothers were there, probably arguing about which Star Wars guy was the coolest and it was most likely Fall. The cigarette thing was true.

But it was magical nonetheless. No play dates, no schedules, no destinations. Just meandering.

My schedule has been a little goofy this Summer (like all Summers), so I agreed to drive Elijah and Luca around one Saturday so they can play Pokemon Go in new, un-hunted areas of Chicago. I figured it was as close to 1970’s dad meandering as I could get.

We gathered up the neighbor boy and cousin Finn and headed off. I let them be 100% in charge of directions. “Go left! Go towards the big lake!” they’d shout and then I’d almost kill us swerving to follow instructions. We ended up in a fairly sketchy part of Roger’s Park, but I assumed at worst we’d just be out four phones. No one approached our car due to the intense nerd waves emanating from within.

Eventually, and maybe with a little undetected Dad guidance, we ended up at the Lincoln Park Zoo. Yes, I see the irony of bringing 4 kids to a place with real animals to hunt fake animals, but I did manage to get them to peel their faces out of their phones to see a monkey wailing on his privates.

It was blazing hot and we stupidly didn’t bring water, so I decided to drive us home before I had to explain to the neighbors why their boy was panting like a dog.

I pulled onto Lake Shore drive and was immediately bored with NPR. Because NPR. So I flipped around the dial and stumbled across WLS, Chicago’s classic rock station. Their playlist that afternoon featured only songs that were burrowed deep into my brain. Songs I inexplicably knew every word to. Songs that brought me back to my Dad.

I rolled the windows down and let the heat pour in. I sang at the top of my lungs, “Some people call me the Space Cowboooooooy! Some call me the Gangster of Looooooove!” If I smoked cigarettes, I would have smoked cigarettes.

I looked into the rearview mirror and checked to confirm I was making a beautiful memory. They were all buried in their phones, hunting Pokemon. It was perfect.

Baby’s First Concert Pt 2

When we last left our heroes, they had just fended off a couple glasses of bourbon and a slightly exaggerated attack from a homeless person and found themselves in the historic Chicago Theatre for a YouTube stars show.

I was still operating under my secret agreement with myself not to poop on Elijah’s fun, despite my severe reservations about the YouTube stars. As we settled into our seats, having purchased many candies and a t-shirt, I was struck by the crowd’s enthusiasm. I assumed the attendees would sit slack jawed and dead eyed, which is the proper expression for watching YouTube stars. Dang it, Rick. Stop being a cynic. The kids, and they were 99% kids, were diverse, positive and happily queer-supportive. This was a club I was happy my son was part of.

The curtain rose and the capacity crowd went nuts. Like Beatles on Ed Sullivan nuts. Screaming. Shouting. Whoo-hoo-ing. So much screaming. This, despite a performance by the YouTube stars that was not exactly flawless. At no point in the show did all four YouTube stars’ mics work at the same time. And I like to think if you gave me and my pals $2,000 and an afternoon we could have written a funnier show. Dang it. Sorry. I’m doing it again. Eli loved it and that’s what counts. Plus, I found a few moments to enjoy, mostly around the self-described “gay one,” who was appropriately fantastic.

About halfway through the show, one of the YouTube stars performed a multi-media presentation about being a dad. He then asked if there were any dads in the audience. Not thinking through the possible consequences, I stood up and shouted, “I am a dad!”

Next thing I know Eli and I were being ushered onstage.

I had never been onstage at The Chicago Theater. Nor had I ever been screamed at by thousands of children. As someone with anxiety issues, I don’t recommend it.  

We were there to play a game. This game involved three dads dancing for the love of their kids. Dancing. I do not dance. I don’t dance at weddings. I don’t dance at funerals. I don’t dance at YouTube star shows. I briefly considered just walking out of the theater and not stopping until I reached the shores of Evanston. But the look on Eli’s face was, dare I say, pride?

So I danced. I Dabbed. I Flossed. I Robot-ed.

Unfortunately, the…eh…Rubenesque gentleman next to me played to his strength. His size made his dancing hilarious to the crowd. To which I say, not cool, crowd. I could sense my impending loss looming large, like a 280 pound bearded man in a trucker hat. I had to throw a Hail Mary.

I had to do the Worm.

Had I done The Worm since 1987? No, I had not. Did I know the proper technique for The Worm? No, I did not. But there I was, flopping on the filthy Chicago Theatre stage for the enjoyment of absolutely no one. Blood was pumping in my ears so loudly that I didn’t actually hear myself loose to the fat guy.

As the YouTube stars sent us on our painfully long walk back to our seats, Eli held my hand. His expression was still…almost pride? Mixed with a little pity.

For the rest of the night, kids would stop and shout, “You’re the dad!” In line at the bathroom, waiting for a beer to steady my nerves, out on the street. You’re the dad! You’re the dad!

And for a couple minutes I did feel like I was the dad.

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