F

When I was a kid, my dad used to say, “I don’t care what grades you get, just so long as you try your hardest.” I took this as instruction to stress myself into a decades long panic attack. With the boys, Diana and I are attempting to reduce the Hamann inclination to make mountains out of scholastic mole hills.

We may have been a bit too successful with Elijah.

The other night, he and I were playing video games and Eli casually said, “So, Dad. I’m doing pretty well in my classes. All A’s and B’s. But I missed one measly assignment in LA (Language Arts) and I have an F. But I’m turning it in tomorrow, so I’ll be fine.”

This was genius, because he knew I wouldn’t have the brain power to pay attention while I was trying to destroy him in the digital Super Bowl.

I believe my response was, “Yeah yeah yeah. I don’t care something something just so long as you try hard or something. Damn it! What button is for tackling?”

The next day, when my brain was firing on all cylinders, I received an email from his LA teacher that said Eli was, in fact, getting an F because he had “several” missing assignments. Several? Several? What does “several” mean?

At the same moment, Diana texted me, “Ooh. Eli is in trouuuuuuble.”

I emailed the teacher back in my best Dad Voice. I used words like “unacceptable” and “post haste.”  

When I arrived home later, I simply held out my hand for Eli’s phone. He knew he was busted. No screens until I had written confirmation from his teacher that all his assignments were in. Plus, a punishment to be determined once I conferred with his mother.

Eli is such a sweet kid. I felt bad for being so hard on him. But I worried if we didn’t discipline him, he won’t eventually become Chief Justice of the Supreme Court (Ref: “The Simpsons” season 4, ep 6).

Eli went to his room to sulk, not even coming down for delicious calzones made by our amazing babysitter, Vince.

He later showed me electronic evidence that all his assignments were in, but I held to my demand that his teacher confirm everything in writing. Apparently, his teacher isn’t addicted to her phone like the other 99.999999% of the planet, because we didn’t hear back from her most of the weekend.

Non-screen hands are the devil’s workshop. Eli spent the weekend requiring our undivided attention. But not in a cute “I wuv you” kind of way. His attentions were more punitive. And poor Luca was on the receiving end of almost constant brotherly abuse. At one point, Eli ran up from the basement demanding as many towels as he could carry.

Eventually, his teacher emailed me back assuring me that Eli was back in her good graces, with the subtext that maybe I should lighten up a bit. He got his phone back and gobbled it up like a man who hadn’t eaten in months.

His other, longer punishment is to clean the dishes every night for the foreseeable future. He does this with much clanging and banging, disturbing Diana and my obsession with the show “Succession.” So, I usually end up telling him to leave the dishes for me.