New Years Eve 2021

 I was sitting on the couch making out with Tutu. I was well on my way to the proper buzz to sleep the night before a big Mexico trip. Our bags were packed. My brother’s dog watching bribe was set out like Santa’s cookies. The boys were mainlining videogames in anticipation of 8 nights away. 

Life was, dare I say, perfect?

Diana walked in. “Did you happen to renew your passport this year?”

Rewhat? 

Apparently there is a little date on your passport that indicates when you have to get a new one. Something like every ten years. It’s easy to miss. Especially when you don’t leave your house for two years. 

I searched my brain for evidence that I had actually renewed my passport and simply forgot. All I could find was Simpsons trivia.

Diana burst into tears and the boys simply said, “What?” over and over. 

I began to repeat, “Go!” over and over. Go. Don’t let my stupidity keep you from the vacation you planned a year ago. Go. My fragile emotional state can’t handle ruining 2021. Go. Go. Go!

Diana and the boys and our neighbors (oh, did I forget to tell you I ruined our neighbors’ vacation too?) decided to postpone. It was a sign from God. 

God wasn’t done.

Diana and Lexa scrambled to book someplace in the US. They found outrageously expensive tickets and accommodations in Puerto Rico. Yes. This is still salvageable. Let’s do this.

Just to be double sure, I looked at the COVID numbers online. There was a 3,000% increase in COVID over the last 5 days. Three. Thousand. Thanks for checking Rick. 

Our neighbors decided to get as far away from us as possible and just started driving west. We opted to head to the cabin. Yeah. The cabin. That’s right. We own a cabin. With toilets and a fireplace and everything. We can salvage this vacation. No one can stop us from our own darned place.

The next morning I ran to Starbucks to get us travel coffee. As I drove home, snow started dumping. I looked up into the sky and heard a booming voice say, “I don’t think so.” By the time I got home the weather folks had issued a “Don’t leave the house ever again” warning.

That pretty much sums up the year for us Hamanns. But you know what? We’ve never been happier. We’re closer than ever. We love each other more than ever. We’ve made it through another scary year together. Together.

As is tradition on HamannEggs, I like to leave a little note for each member of the family.

Diana, you are the love of my life. You still amaze me with every eye shot, COVID scare, and ruined vacation. You manage to see the good in everyone and everything. You keep us together. You are everything. I love you.

Eli, I am so proud of you. You are a wonderful, hilarious caring teenager. You’re the coolest kid ever. I am zero percent surprised you are doing so well in high school. There is no one in the world like you. I will also destroy you in Magic The Gathering later today. You make me so happy. I love you.

Luca, you’ve grown leaps and bounds this year. You are an awesome little sport-o. Your enthusiasm is contagious and hilarious. You make me laugh every day. You make my heart break every day. You are my special guy. I love you.

Jerry, you are a good boy. Stop eating shoes.

Tutu, don’t die. 

The. Worst.

 

A week ago, Elijah got exposed to COVID. One of his pals breathed their evil funk breath on him at lunch. Better safe than sorry, we kept him home for a few days. His symptoms included videogame addiction and making a huge mess in the kitchen. 

It quickly morphed from safely quarantining to just skipping school. So we forced him kicking and screaming back to high school. 

We had a few hours of peace and quiet and then we got a text:

ELI: What is happening? We are on lockdown.

DIANA: I have no idea. Is it because of COVID?

ELI: I’m really scared.

DIANA: Are classes still going on?

ELI: No we are huddled in the corner…If anything happens, I love you.

What the ever loving FUCK??? The worst text exchange a parent can possibly have. A living nightmare. Is this the world we exist in now? Our beautiful, smart, funny, caring baby hiding in the corner of a geometry classroom because of a gun in the goddamn school? Sorry for the swears. But if there was ever a time to introduce swearing into HamannEggs this is it.

We quickly found out that Evanston police had swarmed the school. There was a gun “incident” but it didn’t look like an active shooter. Thank the lord. But neither we nor Eli could be 100% sure it wasn’t turning into hell on earth. 

We kept texting him. Telling him we loved him. Asking him if there was people in the room he could hold hands with. Yeah, is there someone you can hold hands with in case this is your last moment on earth? We told him to do whatever the police said and under no circumstances should he put himself in any danger. 

He kept his sense of humor in his personal nightmare, texting us about his feet falling asleep and making (in hindsight some not great 9/11) jokes. I assured him when he got home he could have his first glass of wine. 

Luca eventually joined the text exchange, as he was on a soft lockdown because of the mess. He showed us a picture of a robot he drew with rectangular nipples. We discussed the benefits of rectangular robot nipples for a while.

Things eventually calmed down and we got the details. Apparently some idiots were smoking weed in the boys’ bathroom and got busted. When searched, a few guns were found. Morons. Jackasses. Blockheads. Fuckwits. 

Can you imagine the avalanche of excrement that is going to rain down on those kids’ heads? Just because they wanted to be cool weed dealers? Not to mention the army of Karens who will descend on the school administration. 

They sent everyone home for the rest of the year. Our last text on the subject was:

ELI: I think we should go see the new Spider-Man movie tonight.

You bet your ass we went. 

Magic

When Elijah came home from camp last summer, he regaled us with stories of defeating rival Camp Mohawk in the annual camp Olympics and getting lost in the woods and learning to love and watching his friends get picked off by Jason Voorhees’ mom.

Naw, he doesn’t tell us squat. 

He did, however, tell us about a game he played constantly: Magic The Gathering. Diana and I simultaneously gave him a wedgie and swirly.

Despite being a fashionable nerd, I missed Magic The Gathering (MTG). It always felt more like a theater dork game than a band nerd game. But in a desperate attempt to cling to my son in any way shape or form before he leaves for college, I asked him to teach me.

The game is based around collecting little cards with dragons or elves or spells on them. You use them to fight someone else’s dragons or elves. There are tens of thousands of cards in existence, so it is physically impossible for someone to try to buy them all. 

But I was determined to try.

Egged on by Eli, I started buying up cards. Cards that ended up on the floor, in huge piles around the dining room table, under the couch, in my pockets. Diana hates this game with every fiber of her being.

Pretty quickly, we learned the best place to waste our money was at Evanston Games. THE place for Evanston nerds. Eli and I immediately found our home. Eli loves it because EGames is a wonderful, welcoming place that attracts kids who don’t really fit in anywhere else. Lots of gender fluidity, awkwardness, and dorky hairdos. 

EGames loves Eli because he is a naturally charming kid who wants to help anyone and everyone. Plus he is bankrolled by a dad with more money than sense (remind me to tell you about the Simpsons toy collection I just purchased). 

They love me because I like to burst through the door and shout, “I would like to purchase your most expensive card, good people!”

We’ve become so invested in the game that we attend Friday night “drafts.” Which is basically me, plus 12 kids half my age tearing open card wrappers and playing a little round robin tournament.

I am not joking when I say the kids are half my age. The other week I was playing against a ten year old person who identified as “they/them” and they stopped playing to stare at me for a moment.

“Are you a DAD?” they asked.

“Uh, yeah. I’m a dad.”

“Whose dad are you?”

I pointed out Eli. “I’m his dad.”

They stared at me for another beat. Then asked, “Can I have a dollar?”

Yes. Evanston Games kid. You can always have a dollar. 

Janet

I spend 23.5 hours a day in the same spot in my office. Staring at a computer screen, surrounded by my special ukulele, my toys, my legos and a slowly vanishing collection of wine stuff from when Diana actually stepped foot in here. 

Oh and there is always a filthy little dog at my feet who would love nothing better than to sit on me.

My command center and hibernation chamber is great and serves its purpose, but does mean I’m trapped from the outside world. An outside world that occasionally need to interact with my world. 

Inevitably, when I am just about to present an amazing advertising idea to a person who could fire me with a snap of their fingers, someone knocks at the door. One of the 3,000 Amazon deliveries we get a day. Or a Luca friend. Or a nice young and not totally scary man who wants to sell me some magazines.

We tried to give Luca his own key, but it’s nearly impossible for him to remember something so important. Plus, our front lock sticks, so he is usually forces to pound on the door or repeatedly ring the doorbell until I excuse myself from a high powered meeting to let him in.

I’ve taken to leaving the door unlocked so I no longer have to move from my chair. Or move at all. I look forward to the day when I am so obese I get to wash myself with a rag on a stick.

Yeah, it’s not the safest thing in the world, but we live in Whitey Whiteville. We don’t get much crime in these parts. 

Moving on. A few weeks ago, I was sitting in my bedsores and Luca was watching his phone on our blue couch when we heard the door open and a woman’s voice said, “Helloooooo?”

We both figured it was Eli, and thus ignored the greeting.

“Helloooo? Hellooooo? Janet?”

Janet? That’s a new one. Must be a Tiktok trend. 

Luca then shouted, “Daaaaaaaaaaaaad!”

I strolled into our living room where a young woman had just broken into our house. Luca stood at a safe distance.

As I looked at the woman, I thought, “Am I within in my rights to kill this person?” Now, this woman was zero threat. She was a good hundred pounds lighter than me and had the look of a cat enthusiast. 

But still. What am I supposed to do here? Yell? Brandish a steak knife? Get a nerf gun?

Luca and I just started laughing. No, Janet doesn’t life here. Just two idiots who couldn’t stop laughing. Janet’s friend began apologizing profusely and wanted nothing more than to go back to her cats.  

She let herself out and quickly walked down our sidewalk, where she encountered Elijah, who was just arriving home from school.

The woman tried to explain why she was in Eli’s house and he burst out laughing as well. I hope she found Janet eventually.

80's Summer

A few weeks ago, one of Luca’s buddies was laying on my couch, eating my chips, watching my TV, and breathing my air. In my most dad voice, I asked, “Don’t you have anywhere to…be?”

He barely looked up from his phone (drinking my Wifi) and said, “I’m having an 80’s Summer.” Do tell.  In reaction to being cooped up for a year and a half, his folks just shove him out the door in the morning and let him make his own plans. 

Wait, what? Aren’t we responsible for scheduling our kids 24/7? I thought our social agreement was to shove as many camps, clubs, playdates, sleep overs and sleep unders as humanly possible into their lives so they won’t have a single second to suffer that greatest enemy ever: boredom. WHAT IF MY CHILD IS BORED?

I suddenly loved this chip eating couch farter. We decided to lay off the scheduling and just let Luca hang with his pals. His 80’s summer has slid into an 80’s fall. Luca and his 4 neighborhood pals jump on their bikes and terrorize the local convenience store owners, play endless games of baseball and football, and map out their sleepovers in that classic kid way to maximize time away from your own bed.

This is 2021, so Luca’s 80’s life has more electronic tracking than the NSA. I don’t abuse his privacy too much, but I do occasionally check to make sure Luca and his pals don’t hang out at Ye Olde Drug Dealer’s Emporium or follow the commuter train tracks to see a dead body in Winnetka. 

I’d be lying if I said it didn’t break my heart a bit. More than once, I’ve offered to play catch or let him spend my money and he sheepishly admits he already has plans to track mud into a friend’s house. 

Luca is such an empathetic kid, I try not to make him feel guilty about spending so much time away. But he senses my pathetic-ness. It may be because I stare out our front window so much. I love when he doles out a little of his time like alms. “Father, would you like three farthings of my attention?” Heavens yes.

If I’m really good, Luca will let me watch him play video games. 

Later today, Luca set aside 3 hours to watch the Bears game with me. Now, I’m not a Bears fan. I haven’t given a crap about them in 20 years. But you better believe I am going to dig out my old Rex Grossman jersey and savor some real Luca time.

I may even try to hold his hand. 

Tutu!

 

A few weeks ago, Diana took a much needed break at the cabin while the boys and I slowly but surely destroyed the house. 

I was doing my best to pay attention to a Teams meeting while Spotify, Twitter, Reddit, Youtube and Simpsons trivia tried their best to lure me away. I got a little text alert from Diana that included a link to the Evanston animal shelter. Hmm. Must have been a mistake a slip of the finger. Moving on…

Ding. “We should totally foster her!”

Uh-oh.

I clicked on the link. “We have this INCREDIBLY sweet senior girl that really needs out of our kennel. She came to us from a less than ideal situation and deserves to live in a warm and loving home. Her name is Tutu and she’s probably about 13 years old. She’s mostly blind and deaf but has so much pep in her step. When she’s not sleeping like an angel, she wants to snuggle and get loved on. Can anyone take her in? She could probably go with calm dogs and kids that will give her space and time to settle in.”

What? Blind? Deaf? Situation? Loved on? I went into panic mode. We can’t afford another dog. Jerry is a jerk to other dogs. We just got used to our schedule with one idiot dog. Didn’t I swear we’d never have two dogs at the same time?

But her picture was just so cute. She looked like a Muppet. Or an Ewok. Or a Mewok. Plus, when the deaf, almost blind lady wants to take in a deaf, totally blind dog you kinda have to say yes. 

I went to the shelter to meet Tutu. I was a little worried about the whole “less than ideal situation” talk. What did that mean? Was she a pickpocket on the streets of London? Was she being used in a tiny circus? Was her previous owner The Situation from MTV’s “Jersey Shore?” 

The nice lady put Tutu into my arms and just started throwing her stuff into my trunk, convinced we’d fall madly in love. She was right. This fragile little old dame just snuggled into my arms and looked in my general direction with her adorable vacant eyes. If you shouted, “Tutu!” like a cuckoo clock, she would also cock her head as if to say, “Is there a cuckoo clock in this room?”

She’s settled in nicely. Jerry explained in great detail that his stuff was his stuff and she should not, under any circumstances touch his stuff or else he will bark very loudly. Whenever he barks at her she cocks her head as if to say, “Is there a cuckoo clock in this room?”

The only catch, besides her need to poop in our workout room, is an intense need to be held 24/7. To Tutu, the floor is lava. When she is not in our arms, she wanders the house, crying for someone to hold her. But, she’s blind so I get it. 

It gets a little embarrassing when I am presenting to big wigs, but I just pretend I am Dr. Evil and Tutu is my Mr. Bigglesworth, “You WILL buy this commercial…for ONE MILLION DOLLARS!” We even bought a little dog carrying bag like a 60 year old rich woman. Which makes me feel like a pretty 60 year old rich woman. 

The Evanston shelter hasn’t really checked in on Tutu, so I assume she’s already moved from the “Foster” category to the “Forever ours” category.

Batting a Thousand

I forced Luca to watch the 1989 baseball classic “Major League.” A film that could never be made in 2021. You know, because of the racism and misogyny and the Charlie Sheen. We quietly ignored the particularly awful bits and concentrated on the dramatic baseball moments. 

As a result, Luca’s love of the game skyrocketed. He asks me for a catch every night after dinner. I can say without hyperbole that throwing pop ups to my son as the sun sets and I get eaten my mosquitos is the greatest feeling in the history of the world.

It’s a bummer that Luca hasn’t been able to play on a real, live baseball team in two years. Until now (cue dramatic music).

One of Luca’s buddies, the one who wore a sport coat to our last Superbowl party, asked Luca to join his team for the playoffs. The brief moment of COVID dip sent most of his team’s families on vacation, so they were short.

He had one day to prepare, which was just enough time for me to completely freak him out. “Don’t panic. Don’t think about the fact you haven’t played in two years or don’t know anyone on the team or that you are prone to nervousness or how important this game is or how many people will be staring at you or that this could very well be the most important moment of your young life.”

I don’t think Luca blinked for 24 hours.

Thankfully for both of us, he got a ride to the game with his pal and I was left to my own anxiety. I arrived at the game the requisite Hamann half hour early and Luca had already slipped into the casual camaraderie of athletic tweens. Every other word out of their mouths was “bruh” and Luca speaks fluent Bruh. 

He raced up to me and excitedly told me about pre-game batting practice and bruh this and bruh that and I could see in his eyes that he was in heaven. He had two requests: Could I film his at bats and please don’t embarrass him. I guaranteed at least one of the two.

Diana arrived with Jerry, who wanted nothing more than to lovingly attack every single kid in a uniform, and we settled down to watch the kickoff. Or tipoff. I prayed my pre-game prayer, “Lord, please let absolutely no balls be hit towards my son. Amen.”

The team got absolutely clobbered, but Luca played well, which is kind of perfect. He even caught a fly ball to briefly stop the other team from reaching the slaughter rule score. 

Then it was time for Luca to bat. I raced to shove my camera in between the chain link fence. Keep in mind the other pitcher was in the middle of a brilliant no hitter. He was throwing like that pitcher whose name you recognize. 

And then that little jerk got a hit. Right up the middle, over the pitcher and into the outfield. Diana and I screamed our faces off and Jerry thought it was the apocalypse. 

In case you are wondering, this is still a Hamanneggs post so I totally screwed up filming him. I have some great footage of my feet celebrating Luca’s hit. 

Did we overdo it congratulating Luca? Did we put wayyyyy too much importance on sports? Did we set him up for disappointment down the road? We sure did. Ice cream, kisses, his choice of whatever dinner he wanted, his face tattooed on our faces.

Charlie Sheen, eat your heart out. 

Festival of Lights

Every time we drive to Michigan, we pass though the “Firework Zone.” Two massive structures bookending the highway that scream at us about their mental stability and low prices. I’m always vaguely disappointed they aren’t on fire when we pass if only to keep the kids from begging for fireworks. 

We always vaguely argue, “It’s not even 4th of July,” which works exactly 51 weeks out of the year. And this year it bit us in the butt. The boys cashed in their chips and we found ourselves in front of the big white crazy explosive building and not the big red crazy explosive building.

Diana went in with the boys because I could not be trusted. It was determined by all parties that I would get conned into buying the “Thumb Remover 2000” and not even the boys wanted that responsibility. I was on Jerry duty. While the rest of the family shopped, we had an adventure exploring the fried chicken trailer in the parking lot. 

They emerged with their loot and Luca shouted, “A hundred dollars!” in an attempt to make me angry. Elijah was mortified because Diana dared ask an employee for help. She also asked for the “safest” fireworks they sold, and Eli was sure the teen would follow us all the way to the cabin and give us each a wedgie while shouting, “Haw haw!”

The majority of the ‘works were of the “snake” variety. You know that little disk you light and then it poops out carbon in the shape of a snake? We got a bunch of those, a bunch of sparklers, and some smoke bombs. 

But the real spectacular was the “Festival of Lights.” The giant box didn’t seem to celebrate the Tirthankara (savior) Mahavira's attainment of nirvana, but we all agreed it would make a nice finale to our Michigan trip. 

Leading up to the “Festival,” I had consumed enough beer to lose a bit of my Hamann-ness and enjoyed both the fire and the works. I also had the Uber Hamann, Luca, with us who poured thousands of gallons of water over each and every spent item. Soon our driveway was a mess of soggy cardboard and soot. Luca would also scream, “RUN!” every time a wick was lit, so our thumbs were pretty safe.

Then it was “Festival” time. We were giddy with excitement and Michigan IPAs. Just as we flicked our BIC, the neighbors started their fireworks display. The forest lit up as hundreds of pounds of TNT erupted. It was spectacular and dangerous and loud. Jerry decided that under the cabin was a perfectly reasonable place to live out the rest of his days.

We didn’t have to search for the “Festival” wick because it was as bright as midday. It ignited and was noticeably anemic compared to the warzone next door. It sizzled little fountains of sparks and pops and smoke. But it was all ours. 

And it was glorious. 

El Diablo

At the end of the school year, the boys were becoming gross, pale Basement People. Only emerging from their video game hovel to eat hot cheese snacks and recoil from the sun. My plan of unfulfilled threats wasn’t working, so we signed them up for organized sports. 

Elijah attended flag football camp (more on that in a future post) and Luca was a double threat of track and soccer. I have no idea what happened in track, as events occurred during the week. So make up your own HamannEggs post. I’ll get you started: “Luca’s desire to be in track sure did lead to something funny…”

Although Diana and I were vaccinated, Luca and his team were not, so the league took extra precautions. The kids were required to wear masks at all times (although most wore theirs in a jaunty, under the nose style) and they had to play the same opponent every game of the season. 

I was worried at first because playing the same team every week seemed mighty boring and my entertainment is really all that matters. But the teams were evenly matched and every week was a barn burner. Except the first couple games, where the kid, all still suffering from Basement People Syndrome, were gassed by the first quarter. 

It was a ready-made rivalry and we got to know the members of the opposite team as well as Luca’s. We knew the kids whose parents forced them to be there, the kids who were kind of jerks, and quickly learned who the studs were. Namely, El Diablo.

El Diablo was amazing. This kid could score a goal from the parking lot. He could literally Bend it Like Beckham. He was the fastest, toughest, most accurate kid on the field at all times. He had a humble attitude of an athlete who was playing a completely different game than anyone else. 

Every time the Luca’s team would go up by a score or two, the opponents’ coach would give El Diablo a look that said, “Whenever you’re ready” and the kid would blast a goal through the back of the net and into Wisconsin. Thankfully for everyone (and my attention span) the coach would only deploy El Diablo sparingly.

As Story Writing 101 would have it, the last game of the season had both teams tied. Luca was positively electric. Not only because Diana said, “If you don’t score a goal, don’t bother coming home.”

The game was delightfully tight and they entered the final period tied. That’s when the opponent’s coach did the unthinkable: he put El Diablo in goal. El Diablo was amazing at any position, but it was bizarre to put your howitzer so far behind enemy lines. I truly respected the coach’s sportsmanship and wanted him to pay dearly for it.

With seconds left in the game, Luca had a breakaway with the ball and was one on one against El Diablo. I began bellowing like an injured water buffalo. “Errrrooooooo! Luuuuuuucaaa! Bloooorgh! HamannEggs Storyyyyyyyy!” 

Luca fired a shot with all his might. A beautiful laser that streaked across the field. And careened off the goal post. The “clunk” was deafening, but the crowd cheered his almost amazing play. We parents gave each other smiles and knowing nods, content with the fact that this wonderful rivalry would end in a tie.

But then Luca’s teammate scooped up the rebound and scored on El Diablo. Haha! Take that, kid who is great at his sport!

Luca was thrilled and celebrated by going to the basement to play videogames. 

Graduation

 

Just like that, Elijah is a high schooler. 

His grade school career ended like most things this year, with a hearty “Meh.” I think there is a virtual graduation ceremony happening. I think we’ll watch, but knowing Eli he’ll have a second screen dedicated to “Grey’s Anatomy” going the whole time.

Eli is almost through all seventeen seasons of the hospital drama. 369 episodes. 15,000 minutes (not counting two hour season cliff hangers). It’s arguably his greatest achievement in grade school. I, for one, am proud of him. Maybe he’ll become a doctor. Or Patrick Dempsey.

We don’t put a ton of pressure on the boys, school wise. As my Dad used to say, “As long as YOU feel like you tried, I don’t care what grades you get.” That bit of psychology scared me into straight A’s. Eli’s approach has been a little more in the “Hey, I woke up. That’s trying” variety.

Like all smart/lazy kids, he has been experimenting with how much to actually try. Midway through the year, his grades slipped into C’s. Diana and I had to apply the requisite threats of no more “Grey’s Anatomy” until grades came up. So he applied foot to the gas ever so slightly and pow, all A’s. 

He’s got it in him. I am hoping a Michelle Pfeiffer in “Dangerous Minds” style teacher will inspire him. My own English teacher once said I was “The greatest waste of potential I have ever seen.” And now I am an Executive Creative Director of a multi-billion dollar packaged goods company. So there.

I’m not worried about Eli in high school. He’s a great kid. He’s sweet smart and genuinely cares about other people. Call me a slacker, but I think that’s all he really needs to know in life. Plus, he hacked into Diana’s email and sent me a note reading, “Hey Rick, let’s get Eli a super expensive Lego for graduation.” He’ll be fine.

Most importantly, when asked in first grade what he wanted to be when he grew up, his response was “Happy.” 

I love you, pal. Congratulations. 

14!

Bad blogger! Bad! Bad!

I have this note on my desk that reads, “HAMANNEGGS!” But it’s faded into the giant pile of Simpsons toys, ukuleles, heart medication, old tires and raccoons cluttering my space. 

But I’m here to tell you about Elijah’s golden birthday, not quite a month late. Just pretend it’s April 15th. You’ve just gotten your first vaccine, you’re looking forward to a balmy May, you can’t wait for Chadwick Boseman go win his well-deserved Oscar…

Eli knows I lack the ability observe the world around me enough to know what to purchase for birthdays or weddings or anniversaries. He manipulated my hand on my mousepad to purchase the exact items he wanted. Which was fine because I kind of wanted all the Legos and toys and Nerf guns he got anyway. I’m almost 50.

This was Eli’s golden birthday. I recently realized this wasn’t a universal thing. The golden birthday is when your birth date matches your age. 14th…14. When my twin and I turned 16 on the 16th, my mom invited a hundred kids over to our house for hot dogs, soda and a live performance from our high school’s notorious punk band. Our neighbors never spoke to us again.

Eli asked that we decorate the living room in gold for him. This was Diana’s secret dream. Redecorating our home in the style of Donald Trump’s toilet. She went to the party store and cleaned them out of gold streamers, gold balloons, gold balls, gold necklaces and, for reasons that are obvious, a gold cape and cowboy hat.

It was gaudy, blinding, and completely unnecessary. In other words, perfect.

Per Eli’s wishes, we ordered Chipotle catering. It’s been his dream since he was a baby to eat lukewarm cubes of beef from a giant foil tray. Since we ordered enough food to kill me four times over from salt intake, we invited both sets of neighbors, which is always a friggin delight. 

Kids ran around, teens lurked in the shadows and parents plowed through wine. Oh, and Jerry was a cute little pest. It was a perfect birthday.

 Eli, I’ve said this to you after too much wine, but let me reiterate sober: You are an amazing kid. You are so kind, so wonderful, so funny. You have a big heart and literally everyone on the planet loves you.

Especially me.

Bird is the Word

After we sent Grover to that big, warm rug in front of a fireplace in the sky, we spent a few days at the cabin to lick our emotional wounds. 

We all assumed our positions: Diana on the couch, me at my Lego building table, the boys in front of the TV. Jerry spent most of the time looking for his old friend. Sigh.

About three days in, I heard a cry from the other room. “Daaaaaaad!” I assumed it was just a continuation of whatever it’s-my-turn-on-the-Xbox fight that has been going on since 2018. But the “Daaaaads” grew louder and more urgent. 

I found the boys standing in front of our old iron stove in the corner of the house.

“There’s a bird in there.”

I ignored the “Peep! Peep! emanating from the stove. I assured the boys their ears were tricking them, as there was no way a bird could be stupid enough to fall all the way down the big, iron pipe.

Eli pointed through the foggy old window and sure enough, there was a little blue bird sitting on the metal grate. “Peep! Peep!”

I had no idea how to get him out. I said, “Sunrise sunset. Sometimes things die.” 

The boys stared at me in horror. I just killed their dog and now was casually adding to the body count. 

Plan B. I closed off all the doors to the room except the one leading outside. I then opened up all the doors and little iron compartments and said, “Be free!” The bird just looked at me. His “Peep! Peep!” seemed to say, “Naw man, I’m good in here.”

Meanwhile, Jerry was freaking out on the other side of the door. He was dancing around like the Cowardly Lion. “Let me at ‘em! Let’s me at ‘em!”

Elijah appeared in full battle gear. Gloves, goggles, mask, spatula. And for some reason my old Patagonia fleece jacket. “In case he poops on me.” Great.

I gently shoved the spatula into the stove. “Just hop on, little buddy. I’ll give you a ride to the outside land.” His “Peep! Peep!” said, “No thank you. I’ve heard what you do to dogs.”

The bird decided it was far safer outside with the hawks and foxes and flew out of the stove and into the world. 

As he flew away he said, “Peep! Peep!” Which was bird for “I’m glad I could give you a story for HamannEggs!”

Grover

Nope, nope nope. No dogs. I am a cat person. I have no interest in a slobbery, filthy, idiot bark machine.

When we were first married, Diana desperately wanted a dog as a trial run for raising children. I was firmly against it. But like all wonderful things in my life, she eventually wore me down. I had two conditions: He had to be called Grover and we had to become the greatest friends in the history of the world. 

If you want to read about our Grover “Meet Cute,” be sure to check out Diana’s beautiful essay here: https://mailchi.mp/56bb29a1571e/the-summer-of-fro-s-1160829

We had a rocky start. Grover famously peed all over our dog training book. He also spent an entire day distributing the contents of a gigantic potted plant to every corner of our apartment. Our friends would find excuses not to come over for fear of being attacked by our little furry monster.

But then…balls. Tennis balls became life. It mellowed him out and gave him purpose. I’d chuck the ball high into the air and he would leap majestically to catch the bounce. Thock. Thock. Thock. Hundreds, thousands, millions of throws. Thock. Thock. Thock.

Somewhere in there we became best friends. We loved each other fiercely. Late at night, I would creep downstairs, spoon him on the floor and tell him all my fears and doubts, sometimes crying into his black fur. Grover would always assure me with one of his patented sighs. 

As our family grew, we stayed close. No matter how many times a baby pulled his tail or dumped stewed carrots on his head, he knew the next morning we’d be at the park rain or shine. Thock. Thock Thock. 

A couple quick Grover facts: He was a terrible watch dog. The time we got robbed the thief essentially had to step over him to get our TV. Dancing of any kind made him hump uncontrollably. He also loved to lick blue jeans, especially of the jeans wearer was not a dog person.

Five years turned to ten and then sixteen. I used to joke that Grover and I made an agreement that he would never die. He held up his end of the bargain, even though his hips went years ago. He went deaf and almost blind and dementia sent him on late night missions all over our house, click clacking in search of something he never found.

We stopped playing ball.

Last week, Grover fell down the stairs and cried out for me in the middle of the night. It was the most heart breaking sound I’ve ever heard. He was scared and broken and tired. So very tired. 

We decided to let him out of the deal

In the days leading up, I slept on the couch downstairs to be near him. I couldn’t bear the thought of him being alone on his last nights on Earth. The morning the nice lady came over to put him to sleep he hobbled over and licked my hand as if to say, “It’s okay man. I’m ready.”

We made a fire and played John Prine songs and told him we loved him over and over. And then he was gone. 

 There will never be another dog like you, G-Money, Gobi, Gilbert, Gobert, Grove Stand. You’ll always be my special little guy. I love you, Grover. 

Football Domination

Spring is doing that thing where it delights in messing with you. Oh, do you like gorgeous days? Maybe I’ll drum up a perfect afternoon. Or maybe I’ll just dumb a foot of snow on your head. Ain’t I a stinker?

A week or so ago it was absolutely perfect outside. So much so, I was able to pry Luca’s fingers off his keyboard for some time…what do you call it? Outside. 

I voted baseball, but Luca filibustered his way into throwing the football around. I dressed like pro athlete: desert boots, camo pants, a striped shirt and jaunty bandana. Plus, a mask because of the whole pandemic thing. Despite it being in the low 50’s, Luca insisted on a t-shirt and shorts because he’s insane. 

We arrived at the park and immediately ran into our sport-o neighbor boy (I’m not sure I have permission to use his name). And soon our other neighbors, Chris daughter Callie, arrived (I totally have their permission). 

Luca suggested a good old fashioned game of touch football. Chris chose the teams: Luca and sport-o neighbor boy against the him, Callie and me. Seemed a little lopsided but it was all in good fun, right?

Wrong. Chris decided to put on a clinic of dad-style domination.

He used every trick play in the book. The Statue of Liberty. The Ball In the Sweatshirt. The dreaded Flea Flicker. He would send me into the end zone and just toss the ball into the air for me to use my 1.5 feet height advantage. He seemed less like nice, poet dad and more of a 1970’s older brother. Me may have been working some things out. 

Soon, Luca and sport-o neighbor boy were covered in mud and down two touchdowns. I could tell frustration was setting in when Luca punched me in the stomach. So Chris and I declared the next touchdown would be worth 3 touchdowns. 

I was fully ready to throw the game, but make it look like we were really trying. Oh no! You kids pulled it out in the last minute! You truly are the football champions.

Not Chris. He immediately intercepted the ball and said he had to go teach a poetry class. 

Luca and sport-o neighbor boy reacted by calling us dirty dirty cheaters who cheat and are jerks and dummies. I consider them the true winners because they weren’t secretly crippled by running in desert boots.

Mattress

The cabin has been a godsend over the last year. A pandemic-free place of peace and board games and late-night bawdy R rated comedies with Elijah. 

At just a couple hours away, it’s an easy Saturday/Sunday vacation. The only bummer is the occasional snowstorm. There is a stretch along 94 that acts as our nation’s snow magnet. If Chicago gets half an inch, they’ll get 45. 

I’ve white knuckled it more than once, passing giant twisted abstract art pieces made of SUVs while Diana and the kids gleefully scroll Twitter and TikTok in their protective passenger bubbles. 

We even had to cancel our last few trips because the weather report said, “Might get a teensy bit of the white stuff (wink wink).” But last weekend was gloriously melty, so we packed up the van and headed north for some mud stomping. I made my secret spaghetti, we drank wine and whisky and the mud covered dogs fought over the best spot in front of the fireplace. Normal Rockwell, eat your heart out. 

The next morning, we hit the road on the early side, as Diana’s alcohol purveyor status puts her just behind nurses and ER doctors on the COVID vaccine list and she had an appointment. 

After an unnecessarily vicious fight over what fast food to get, we cruised Evanston-ward. We happily listened to zero political podcasts and I tuned in to The Beatles satellite radio station, with their seemingly endless configurations of top ten songs. 

Just as we hit the tangled knot of Chicago’s highway superstructure, the sun hit some chrome in such a way to nail me right in the eyeball. My left eye turned into a gaseous ball of fire. But that’s why they invented two eyes. And who was I going to complain to? The blind lady riding shotgun?

Just ahead I saw a weird pile of snow in the road. Must have fallen off a truck. Why slow down? It’s just snow. In fact, why not speed up a bit?

The snow kept looking weirder and weird until I realized it was not snow. It was a big old mattress in the middle of the road. Why someone thought sleeping in the middle of a highway was a good idea, I’ll never know.

I immediately slammed on the brakes. Say what you want about the suburban sadness that is the Chrysler Pacifica, the thing stops. We came to a rest right before the filthy bed. After the screaming ended, someone (I assume Luca) said, “Dad! There is a mattress in the middle of the road.”

Before moving again, I requested that all car occupants, including the dogs, praise me for my fast thinking and Mario Andretti-esc skills behind the wheel. But then I looked in the rearview mirror. A giant semi was barreling down on us, the driver thinking, “Why slow down? It’s just snow. In fact, why not speed up a bit?”

I slammed the car into gear and cut in front of some poor schmuck in the middle lane, barely missing the mattress, the truck and about twenty angry drivers. My heart rate didn’t lower to normal levels until we crawled into the garage.

I collapsed onto the couch and watched all the Fast and Furious movies for research. 

 

Luca Surgery

Luca had surgery last week. Yes, I know you are thinking, “Didn’t he just have surgery over the summer?” That was Eli. We’re trying to complete our Lurie Children’s Hospital punch card, which entitles us to a free boob job.

Luca was totally cool with me explaining the surgery to you, but I’d like to keep one tiny shred of his privacy intact. It was a totally normal procedure, but he had to be put under and with all the COVID stuff, we were all on edge. 

I’m including the note Elijah wrote the night before, which is why I love Eli in one single document. 

My great friend Pat once said, “We project our insecurities onto our children.” And I just assumed Luca would have a complete meltdown over the experience. Because I would. I spent the week leading up to the surgery asking him if he was nervous. Are you super nervous? Are you freaking out? Are you? How about now? I made him listen to meditations on an app and do breathing exercises and generally made a nuisance of myself. 

The truth is, he isn’t “the nervous one.” Or “the sensitive one.” He’s just Luca, despite my efforts.

We got to the hospital and went through the while rigamarole of getting him into his gown and learning how the TV worked. 

After we got settled, the nurse offered Luca some medicine to calm his nerves. He politely refused. Diana and I went into full pusher mode. “Are you suuuure? It’ll make you feeeeeel good, it’ll make you feeeeeel good (echo echo). 

But he didn’t want to feel out of control. He didn’t want to feel woozy. Which I respect but 100% disagree with.

They wheeled him away with no tears, no panic, no drama. And in the time it took for me to respond to the 400 “I know you are off today, but I have a teensy question” emails, he was back.

After a little recovery, they handed us a fist full of pain killers and anti-biotics and sent us on our way. 

We got home and I scheduled out all the various pills for night duty. I felt totally prepared as we watched 400 Youtube videos before Luca fell asleep.

Oh wait. We never taught Luca how to take pills. Oops. Thus, began my personal nightmare. Luca was in pain, he was exhausted, he was uncomfortable. And all the ways he could feel better got stuck on the back of his tongue.   

“Just fill your mouth with water and shove the pill in. Viola! Pill gone,” I said.

“I DON’T DRINK WATER LIKE THAT!” was the reply. 

We eventually created little pill pouches out of string cheese. Grover and Jerry pleaded with their eyes to get their own Norco. It kind of worked, but pain pills taste terrible. The antibiotics were time release capsules, so chewing them wasn’t an option. 

Diana spent the next 24 hours calling every person even remotely associated with Luca’s surgery. Doctors, nurses, the nice man who wheeled him out on the wheelchair. No one called back. In our minds, Luca’s insides were liquifying without his medicine.

So Diana went into what she lovingly calls “Full Karen.” Her fury was so great that the doctor began calling her in between every surgery to make sure he wouldn’t get yelled at again. 

We got Luca the liquid form of his antibiotic, but he refused to keep taking pain pills. Wanted to tough it out. “What’s wrong with you?” I said.

Luca is totally on the mend and is still negotiating his reward. He’s leaning towards a 2021 Ford F150 Supercab. Or a new keyboard. 

Birthday Scheme

The other day, I walked up the stairs and found Elijah reading HamannEggs online. He looked at me lovingly and said, “You haven’t posted in a while, dad.” To which I lovingly said, “Shut your face.”

Yeah, sorry. I have no excuse other than sitting in the same place, staring at the same computer for 14 hours a day is a little de-motivating when it comes writing about poop and pee stories. But I got one today.

The difficulty of Diana’s birthday is it comes right on the heels of Christmas, the time of year that we try to purchase every present on the planet. Plus, Diana has a secret “fun fund” that she uses to buy all the stuff that I object to. We have a very happy marriage.

This year, when asked, Diana sincerely said, “I don’t want anything for my birthday. I am utterly content. I need nothing. All I want is your love.”

I think we can all agree that answer is hogwash. So now I had to do actual thinking. The boys were no help. They thought she might enjoy a new gaming mouse. In a late night bit of inspiration, I remembered Diana enjoyed music so I bought a new record player for the cabin. It also lines up with my desire to become an insufferable jackass who talks about why vinyl is the superior way to listen to The Beatles.

In case Diana saw through my transparent gift to myself, I went to my Diana go-to: The Anthropologie website. I found a purply sweater that looked like a Diana thing and a cute little yellow thing that looked neat on the 78-pound model. When I checked out, the site informed me my items were not eligible for return. Being overconfident, I clicked “buy.”

The items arrived and I piled them in my office, away from Diana’s prying eyes. Over the course of COVID, I’ve taken over our little home office. All the cute little wine maps and Rachel Maddow merch has been replaced by Rick and Morty dolls and Blood Pressure medicine. 

I just had to figure out how to get them to the cabin without Diana seeing. Because now Diana’s desire not to have presents was a thing to exploit. I put Eli and Luca in charge of stashing the stuff in our car, plus they had to write her a card because it was the very least they could do. Getting the gifts in the boot was simple because we have a rule that Diana can’t pack the car. She’s terrible at Tetris. 

We got to the cabin and started a fire and opened up some wine. I gave Eli the “Luke Skywalker nods to R2D2 on Jabba The Hutt’s sail barge” signal and he snuck out to the car and returned with the gifts.

Diana was genuinely surprised and delighted by the cards, the record player and the sexy Prince albums I added at the last minute and the Anthropologie sweater. When she got to the cute little yellow thing, we realized it was in fact, a crop top. More befitting a 7 year old child than a real woman.

As punishment for my ignorance, I was forced to wear the crop top for the rest of the evening. I felt kinda cute.