NYE 2022

I’m sitting in yet another unbelievably beautiful Mexico house in New Year’s Eve. The weather is perfect. My mental state is the best it’s been in years and I owe it all to the screaming children and wife who are just downstairs. 

There hasn’t been a lot of HamannEggs posts this year. Partly because, as Diana puts it, “The kids don’t poop on things as much.” Partly because I’m lazy. Partly because I’m trying to respect teenager privacy. Rest assured a lot of hilarious things happened and things still got pooped on. By me.

We lost our beloved Tutu this year, which broke our hearts harder than we would’ve imagined. We joined football teams and video game teams and cooked and watched R-Rated movies and loved each other like people who barely made it out of a global pandemic.

As is tradition, I like to write a little note to each of the HamannEggs fam. So here goes.

Elijah, you beautiful almost-man. Every year I get older I realize just how lucky I am that Diana and my DNA mixed in such a way to make the kindest, funniest, smartest kid ever. You are crushing it in high school. Your friends love you. Your teachers love you. Every person you meet loves you. I know we only have a couple years left with you under our roof and I will cherish every second. I love you buddy.

Luca, you crazy, goofy sweetheart. Watching you with your posse makes my heart sing. I love how you value friendship more than anything, I love your passion and zeal for anything involving a ball. I love your clicks and singing and independence. I love how you refuse to wear shoes in the dead of winter. I love how you try so hard at everything. I love how every mom tells us you are their favorite. I love you buddy.

Diana, you unbelievable beauty. You are the most amazing person on this earth. Your store is an Evanston icon. The town practically revolves around your sense of humor, your sense of style, your sense of right and wrong. You make me feel safe. You talk me off every ledge. You put the world in perspective, even when it’s careening out of control. You are the love of my life. I love you, honey.

Jerry, I love you. You big dummy.

Happy New Year, folks!

THIRTEEN

Luca turned thirteen last month (I know I know, get in line if you want to complain about lack of postings). It was his first disappointing birthday. You know, you get everything you asked for and think, “Is this it?” Not in a spoiled brat way, but I think in a “I can see the next 60 or 70 of these stretching out before me” way. 

It was slightly depressing. 

Luckily, we called in the giant blob of arms and legs and B.O. that make up Luca’s friends.  The birthday activity included bowling and a sleep over. I’m still not sure how many showed up. Ten? Fifty?

 

Bowling was appropriately hilarious. Some bros were mad at other bros and one bro ate off a private party’s table and another bro (possibly the same one) was suspiciously polite, and one bro bowled a miraculous strike despite a shoulder injury.

Diana and Elijah attempted to escape the sleep over portion, feigning nervousness over Jerry and the boys. But when it was revealed they weren’t actually taking Jerry anywhere, and were just planning a stay at a luxury hotel, I put my foot down. 

A huge pile of pizza arrived and we hit a manageable level of pandemonium. Most of the bros screamed at the X-box in the basement, while a few meandered around peeking into our jewelry boxes. 

Diana and I opted to order something less unhealthy than pizza for dinner. I think we chose burgers. While we waited I thought, “No one would notice if I took one small corner of a pizza.” 

I grabbed a steak knife and sliced of a little bite. As I was concealing my crime, Luca’s friend rounded the corner at top speed and into the knife. I watched it enter his hand at the knuckle. 

We locked eyes. 

We had a silent, mental conversation.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“So, I just stabbed you.”

“Yes, I am aware of it. You see, blood is now coming out of my hand.”

“Do you think this is a hospital type situation? Stitches and such?”

“I don’t think so. But I will make you pay dearly for this over the next three to four years.”

“Like how?”

“Minimum? I get to spend the night every time I want.”

“Understood.”

“And I will take four donuts tomorrow at breakfast.”

“Deal. One more thing. Can you keep this between you and I?”

“Okay.”

The friend (after I put on a bandage) returned to the basement. I was glad his dad was the doctor dad and not the injury lawyer dad. 

I poured myself the biggest glass of wine in the world and heard Luca bellow from the basement,”"DAD???? DID YOU STAB MY FRIEND???”

Yes. Yes I did.

Baby’s First Motor Vehicle Accident

Elijah and I went into the belly of the DMV beast a few weeks ago to get his learner’s permit. It was almost as fun as that time Diana made us go to Ellis Island in New York. With slightly less standing in line.

We are now responsible for 50 hours of driving together. Or is it 90 hours? Regardless, we are holding steady at .25 hours.

We’re not racking up the hours because our first supervised drive…did not go well.

But let’s rewind. We picked a giant parking lot in Michigan for our inaugural drive. It has everything. Wide open pavement. A little spot to practice parking. Best of all? No one around to ask us what we were doing there.

Luca joined to add a little spice and irritation. I even gave Luca a turn at the wheel. He executed a 360 spin into jumping over 7 school busses flawlessly.

After 20 minutes or so, Eli asked, “What’s next?”

I suggested we drive down one of Michigan’s sleepiest roads. Eli handled himself flawlessly, although I did mention driving 5MPH in a 30MPH zone was technically illegal. 

I noticed our sleepy road butted up against a real road with real cars filled with Michigan Militiamen. I suggested we pull into a driveway and turn around. Eli turned into nice little house and backed out.

Thud.

THUD! We hit something. Luca and I handled it like total pros. Meaning we screamed into Eli’s face and I jumped out of the car before he braked.

Pleasedon’tbeadogpleasedon’tbeadog.

Turned out that Eli drilled a mailbox. It sent across the poor owner’s lawn. 

Huh. What to do what to do? I will admit a big part of my brain was shouting, “LEAVE. RUN AWAY. GOOOOO.”

Was that the lesson I wanted to teach? If you get into a fender bender with postal gear, run away? Maybe. It technically falls into the “Do as I say, not as I do” category. Which is still a lesson.

Luca, sensing my evil thoughts, tried to stand the mailbox back up in its ruined hole. It fell over comically. 

I opted for honesty. Stupid honesty.

Eli was still vibrating in the front seat. I told him I would take the blame and wrote a note to the homeowner. “Hi. My name is Rick Hamann and I ran over your mailbox. Nothing would make me happier than jumping into a prolonged legal battle over your property. I look forward to learning that your mailbox cost $4,000.”

I stuck the note into the homeowner’s door and offered to drive the rest of the way home. Eli was still catatonic, so I just slid him over to the passenger seat.

A few days later I received this text:

“Hello Rick. My name is Darrel. You ran over my mailbox and left a note offering to pay for damages. I’m glad you left a contact number for me, that was very straight of you. And for that, don’t worry about the mailbox. I was going to move it anyway.”

Eli and I learned that honesty is the best policy. We also learned where the good driving schools are in Evanston. 

Twelve Hours of Videogames

 

At the beginning of the school year, we sat Elijah down and said, “You gotta do something. Gotta do something. A club. A sport. A play. Marching Band. Your father will give you a thousand dollars to do Marching Band, btw. But you can’t spend this entire semester playing videogames. Gotta do something.

Eli promptly went out and joined the high school videogame team. Checkmate. 

Before you ask, videogame teams are legit. There are real teams playing competitively across America. You can also get college scholarships. So, our mediocre parenting has paid off, baby! 

He had to try out and everything. The game he chose is “Overwatch.” One of those shoot ‘em ups, but with Robots and Genies and Gorillas. Less “Bang bang” and more “Pew pew.”

He made the J.V. team but quickly caught the eye of the team captains because he actually took an interest in participating. Eli held team meetings and had a team dinner and organized practices. 

But before the meetings and dinners and practices, Eli had to play twelve hours of Overwatch.

Due to some glitch, Eli didn’t qualify to play in high school tournaments. His…level…was…too…low…because…he…switched…yeah I’m bored too. Net net, he needed to sit at his computer until he reached some arbitrary number that allowed him to compete. 

Playing videogames competitively involves rabbit like reflexes and impossible hand eye coordination and screaming like a banshee. During the first 3 hours of his marathon, Eli would scream and pound his desk and shout, “Are you serious right now?” Which has become our family mantra. 

The rest of the family took this opportunity to visit the Greek restaurant where they light the cheese on fire and shout, “Opa!” I got a whole whitefish and gave Luca $5 to kiss the head on camera. 

We arrived home and Eli was still in his crucible. Or else we assumed he was with all the screaming from behind his bedroom door. I mean, he could have recorded himself screaming and pounding his desk and tricked us so he could sneak off to play videogames, but we knew this was important.

The next morning left for work (yeah, they make us work at office occasionally) and caught Eli in the hall.

“How bad?”

“Four a.m.”

But he made it. I’m proud of him. I’m glad he’s having fun and meeting new kids and competing and getting out of the house. Virtually, I guess. 

New York Pt1

Time is running out. 

We barely see either kid anymore. Eli is wither working or hanging in Chicago or trying to hack nuclear codes in our basement. Luca is constantly with his ball of arms and legs and baseball hats. The day that Diana and I officially become empty nesters is fast approaching. 

We’re on a constant hunt to find ways to force them to hang out with us. We can barely get them to sit with us long enough to shovel food down their throats before the night shift of friends begins.

So we decided to take a trip to New York. I have a soft spot for the city from my publishing days. Maybe I could get one of them to move to New York so I can come visit every weekend and continue my search for the most beautiful person and/or the craziest person on the planet.

By coincidence, it was the hottest week of the year. “It will just be like ‘Do The Right Thing!” I’d say, not remembering the second half of the movie. 

It stormed in Chicago the morning we left, and our flight was promptly cancelled. 

While people scrambled around O’Hare, Diana and I silently agreed not to freak out. If this was one of our last vacations together it was the kids who were going to ruin it, not us. Diana found us a flight on a competing airline and I asked not one, not two not three, but four different people if our luggage would arrive in New York.

“Oh yeah. Totally. We have our top people tracking down your luggage. Why I think I see your luggage right now. They’re black squares, right? Yeah. Those are going to meet you at the gate.”

We arrived in New York and spent a delightful hour trying to track down our luggage. The hilariously New York baggage dept laughed when we told them the tale of our helpful O’Hare crew. They waved their arms at the thousands of misplaced luggage littering the terminal.

Don’t freak out, we silently said to ourselves.

We promised everyone new wardrobes if the stuff didn’t arrive the next morning. We b-lined to our hotel (which was lovely) and decided to grab some provisions before dinner. I forced Eli to join me in visiting an authentic bodega.

“Look at this city, Eli! The energy. The people.  Ooh look. That person is beautiful. Ooh, a crazy person! Don’t you want to live here?”

“It smells.” 

I shoved him into the first shop I could find. Upon entry, I realized I should have done a little more research with my eyeballs. It was less “Bodega” and more “Place you go to take a B.M. after shooting up heroin.” The plywood shelves sagged with sadness. The patrons coughed on each other (and us). The owner was unrecognizable behind 14 inches of bullet proof glass.

I tried to make the best of it. “Huh. I bet you’ve never seen anyone that strung out before, huh Eli? No sir, I will not buy you a Coors.”

After buying the oldest toothpaste in the world we hightailed it out of there and met Luca and Diana for some real authentic touristy Italian food. The wine was delicious, the waiter was hilariously surly and the boys were in high spirits after we promised to buy their love with as many souvenirs as they could carry.

Our luggage arrived the next morning in perfect condition. Stay tuned for part 2.

Imposter Dog

 

We take Jerry to Doggie Daycare a couple times a week. It’s our way of avoiding taking him for walks. Plus, he turns into a real jerk if he doesn’t get 17 hours of exercise a day. The process is pretty easy. Drive to the place, call the number, worker person comes and gets Jerry, Jerry has fun. At the end of the day, the process goes in reverse.

Or it doesn’t.

Diana and Eli drove to daycare a few weeks ago and called the number. “We’re here for Jerry!”

A minute goes by. Another minute. Five minutes. Eventually, a worker person came out and popped their head through the window.

“It seems like we have a little problem.”

Go on…

“We think we gave Jerry to the wrong person.”

Interesting. It was difficult for Diana to calibrate her rage. The daycare dropped the ball on the most fundamental of jobs. MAKE SURE THE ANIMALS END UP WITH THE RIGHT PEOPLE. 

But Imposter Dog’s owner is not without sin. How do you drive away with the wrong dog? Yes, we live in an affluent north shore suburb. You are issued a Goldendoodle at the same time you are issued your hybrid car. They just let Jerry jump into their car and thought, “Close enough.”

Diana and Eli went home because where else where they going to go? To the Dog Detectives?

An hour or so later, the Vet called. Imposter Dog’s owner took Jerry to get vaccinated. The Vet had gone so far as to tell them, “Wow, Imposter Dog seems to have gained 20 pounds since your last visit.”  Imposter Dog’s owner just shrugged and said, “What a fatso.”

The Vet checked the little chip inside and discovered that this was not, in fact, Imposter Dog, but was Jerry Friggin Hamann. 

Diana rescued Jerry and Imposter Dog was reunited with his idiot owner. 

Then we went on a ride called The Apology Express. The daycare owner was so distraught in their mea culpa that they debated closing the business for good and moving to a deserted island with no dogs. Diana just said a million free days at daycare would suffice.

Imposter Dog’s owner also sent a lengthy apology via email. It turns out that Imposter Dog’s owner was an absentminded professor at the local college, which made perfect sense. 

In the days that followed, the daycare instituted a whole new set of rules regarding pick up and drop off. Two-step identifications. Little handwritten reminders of who was who. Not smoking weed every 15 minutes. We like to call them “Jerry’s rules.”

But within a week or so they stopped all the new protocols. Next time we pick up Jerry I hope we get a Dachshund.  

Bunnies!

Jerry absolutely loves the cabin. I feel like that's a given. It’s in a forest and he’s a dog. We often just let him run wild and go adventuring. He typically races off and returns a small while later covered in goop and smelling like dead things.

We worry a little bit about letting him loose, but we are pretty far from the road and at heart Jerry is a scaredy cat who really only adventures under our porch. Plus, he knows where the extremely expensive dog food is located.

We were hanging around our little game table which has a lovely view of our back yard. We were playing “5 Crowns,” which has the dual honor of being Diana’s favorite game and the one she is the worst at.

Suddenly, Luca started screaming. This is nothing new. Luca’s two main modes are scream and loud scream. He and Elijah raced outside and Eli joined in on the screaming.

I looked through the part of my trifocals designed for mid distance and saw Jerry toss something into the air. It was a baby bunny.

No no no no no no. Please don’t be a bunny killer. Please don’t be a bunny killer.

Diana and I raced outside and wrestled Jerry, who had another baby bunny in his mouth. The baby was screaming like, well, a baby bunny in a dog’s mouth. 

We released the bunny and it did it’s best to hide in plain sight. Maybe if I curl into a ball on his sidewalk, the giant monster won’t get me.

Upon inspection, the bunnies seemed, okay-ish. Traumatized, yes. But they weren’t bleeding or in half. Which was weird, because one of Jerry’s teeth was the size of a baby bunny.

I think he was just playing with them. “I’ve always wanted a bunny rabbit. I will name him George and I will hug him and pet him and squeeze him…”

We gently placed the trembling bunnies back in their little nest. Their version of hiding was to stick their heads into the bushes and stick their white tailed butts into the air.

These rabbits weren’t winning any Darwin awards.

 But we decided to make sure at least our dog wasn’t the one to kill them. We locked Jerry in the house for the night. Jerry barked and cried and whined and threw himself at the door. “But I want to go out with my rabbit friends, George. I want to hug them and pet them and squeeze them…”

The next morning, I raced out into the yard to see what was left of the bunnies. They were gone. I am 100% sure they had moved to the city to make it in organic farming. 

Coach Hamann

 

Luca exists in a blob of 4-10 boys. It’s an unstoppable mass of arms and legs and b.o. that crashes into homes, consuming all snacks in its path. The good news is all the boys in this blob are kind and hilarious and tolerate my special brand of stupid dad.

A few months ago the blob decided to join a flag football league. They really wanted to play full contact football with pads and helmets, but…Evanston. The blob doesn’t care what kind of football because the blob just needs to keep playing. Blob is play. Play is blob. 

The flag football games took place at the big inflated indoor fieldhouse across town. On the outside, it looks like a giant, quivering marshmallow. On the inside, the stench of 1,000 tweens hits you in the face like a bucket of socks.

On the morning of the first game, Luca and I arrived the Hamann-required 20 minutes early to meet the coach. Instead of a coach, there was just a pile of uniforms. As gametime neared, the pile didn’t magically turn into a coach. The blob didn’t seem to mind, but we dads felt it was necessary to have a coach. 

Luckily, an Alpha Dad stepped up. He is an E.R. doctor, so, you know, qualified. He coached the blob to a huge, lobsided victory. His technique was to stand on the sideline and do and say very little. The blob was so in sync that the just rolled over the other team. Blob is play. Play is blob. 

This went on for the next couple weeks until Alpha Dad had to go out of town. This left the blob coachless. The blob nominated me to coach. Not because of my apparent skills, but the blob thought it would be funny to see the unathletic, glasses nerd stand on the sidelines.

In the days leading up to the game, I asked Luca what I needed to do.

“Just say, ‘Good job,’ and stay out of the way.” I could do that.

However, 24 hours to gametime, I started to get pretty nervous. What if they needed actual coaching? What if they played a team who could stand up to the blob? What if they lost under my non-coaching? I came very close to having an old school panic attack, but my brain miraculously turned off that spigot.

The morning of the game, I asked Luca if I would try or if I should act like a hilarious goofball. He thought for a moment and said, “Um. Maybe in between?”

My addition to the coaching regime was stretching before the game and doing that thing where you put your hands in and go, “One two three roar!” Which I would say only 50% of the blob understood for its delightful irony.

The blob crushed the other team. Blob is play. Play is blob. I mostly stayed out of the way and said, “Good job.” But after seeing the sad faces of the other team I suggested maybe we lighten up a little bit? The blob laughed. The blob destroyed. 

I barely got to congratulate Luca on his play before the blob moved on to someone’s house to eat all their chips. 

SOLO

Diana and the boys headed down to Georgia a few weeks ago to visit her sister. My German/Lutheran-ness wouldn’t allow me to take the three days off. What if someone needed me to attend a meeting about a meeting? What if???

They didn’t miss me.

The trip was simple: O’Hare – Savana. Eat good food. Hang with good people. Savana-O’Hare.

My plan was also simple: Watch crap. Eat crap. Drink crap. Finish my big Simpson’s Lego. 

Just as I was easing myself into a vat of crap, I began receiving urgent texts from Luca. “Dad. Mom is crazy. Dad. Make mom stop. Dad. Help.”

I called Diana’s phone to make sure she hadn’t gotten into a scuffle with TSA over her bomb of a figure. Bam!  Apparently, the flight was oversold and the agents were offering the staggering sum of $5,000 in travel miles to take a later flight. Her sister was planning a trip to France later this summer and Diana thought the dough would be a lovely sisterly gift. 

However the five G’s was only good for one, so the boys would have to fly by themselves. The gate agents felt like they were up to the task. Diana felt they were up to the task. Luca and Elijah thought they were walking into a disaster. 

I asked her to put Luca on. “You are witnessing what I like to call ‘Diana Crazies.’ There is no cure. There is no stopping her. I recommend you just get on the plane and if something goes wrong you’ll basically get to hold it over her head forever.”

Before Luca could respond they were ushered onto the plane. It went fine. They drank diet Cokes and watched videos. Di’s sister met them at the gate and they met up with Diana a few hours later.

Fast forward through great fun on their side and 4 kinds of self abuse on my side. They landed back in Chicago and Diana went to the airline gate to acquire about the miles, which had yet to appear in her frequent flier account.

The woman said, “Miles? What miles? No miles here.”

Eli and Luca took a seat and prepared to watch everyone’s favorite show, “Don’t Mess With Diana.” Did she take the later flight for her health? What kind of airline do you think you are running here? Say, where is your supervisor? And where is their supervisor? Yeah, let’s get all the supervisors here.

They did an amazing job of fighting off Diana. Miles? What’s a mile? This isn’t an airline. We make cookies here. Mr. Burns old fashioned extra chewy…”

Suddenly, Luca appeared at her side. In his pre-flight Tik-Tok-ing on the way to Georgia, he happened to record a pivotal moment in Hamann History. The gate agent speaking clearly into a microphone, “We are willing to give up $5,000 in miles for anyone willing to take a later flight to Savana.”

So many apologies. Diana ate the apologies like M&Ms. Nom nom nom. Delicious apologies. Oh, I couldn’t possibly have another apology. But you know what? You only live once. I’ll take another 40. 

And now Di’s sister and family will be traveling to France this summer on the dime of the good people at United Airlines. 

Today’s picture is the Lego I built.

R.I.P. Tutu

Years ago, my brother and I were driving through central Illinois and decided to drop in on our Grandma Carol at her favorite lunch spot. When we walked through the door, she caught sight of us and got so excited she spit chunks of tuna salad sandwich all over her booth mates.

This was the reaction Tutu gave every time she smelled me walking into a room. She’d paw at the ground and wiggle her butt and sometimes moan these little happy sounds. 100% of the time I would scoop her up and nuzzle her and explain in great detail why she was the best baby in the world.

As COVID dipped, wine stores opened, doggy daycare accepted blockheads and schools went back to in person, Tutu and I spent an unhealthy amount of time together. I carried her everywhere. When she wasn’t charming people on video conference calls, we were sneaking naps together in between meetings. All the while explaining why she was the best baby in the world. 

I would wake up at all hours of the night (see my previous post) to feed, cuddle, administer eye goop and explain again why she was the best baby in the world. She would return the favor by curling up in the crook of my arm and lick clean all the evil from my skin.

We knew she wasn’t long for the world even when we picked her up from the pound 32 weeks ago. She was covered in tumors and was blind and deaf and had lived a rough, rough life. But it was our goal to spoil her rotten for whatever time she had. And spoil her we did. Little pink sweaters. Obnoxiously expensive food. Plus, a general agreement that her little feet need never touch the ground. And, of course, my continuous explanation why she was the best baby in the world.

When I was alone would I occasionally sing directly into her head so she could feel the vibrations? Yes. Yes I would. 

Tutu had gotten tired over the last few weeks. Less interested in food. Often shaking like a leaf for no reason. But she never lost her cuddly, sweet, “Grandma Werewolf” personality.

Friday morning, I was nudging her towards her uneaten food when she collapsed in my arms. She was so scared. She howled as I held her tight. It's okay. It's okay. Eventually she calmed down but couldn’t stop shaking. 

I dressed her up in her very best pink and white turtleneck sweater and wrapped her in the little blanket she slept on at the pound and we went to the emergency vet.

Diana met me there and the doctor explained that if our goal was to give her the best life we could, it was better for this to be her last day than to have her heart give out in the next 48 hours. 

They brought her in to say goodbye and she lit up. Her little tail wagging. It was the man! I held her and began to weep. I cried so hard I thought my eyeballs would pop out of my head. I blubbered my final explanation why she was the best baby in the world. She was the best baby. She was my special, special girl and she was my favorite baby. My baby. My itty bitty baby. My Tutu.

I'll miss you, gal.

We Broke Tutu

My old co-worker used to describe the blog as a detailed catalogue of one man’s failure at raising his children.  Sometimes we forget that I am also failing at raising two dogs. 

Dad’s who didn’t want dogs is an internet cliché, but I fit it to a t. I carry Tutu around like an infant all day every day. I speak to her like an insane person. She is my special baby. Does she know she is my special baby? Does she know how much I love my special baby? 

We also dress her like one of the “Golden Girls.” She has a sweater for every holiday. A little yellow one with “Boo” on the front. And the little red sweater with “Ho ho ho.” Diana’s favorite is a little black number that looks like a tutu. But my all time favorite is the pink and white turtleneck. She is the spitting image of my great aunt Verle whose apartment what also all pink and white except for the occasional splash of dark brown whisky in a glass.

Around Christmas something shifted. Tutu started waking up in the middle of the night to bark. That’s weird. She never barked before. We’d let her out and then she’d calm down. But it steadily got worse. 1am turned into 1am + 3am. And then 1am + 3am + 4am.

Bark bark bark! It was like someone pounding a drywall nail into my ear canal. The sound could penetrate Diana’s deafness and would drive her crazy. She escape to our guest room. Jerry would moan and cry in the corner of the bedroom. Why oh why did you bring this tiny bark machine into our home, Hoomans?

I began to just stare at the ceiling waiting for the barking to start every night. I was getting less and less sleep and was turning into a real a-hole during the day. Something had to be done. 

We began pumping her with enough drugs to drop a water buffalo. We would walk her around the house for an hour before bed to wear her out. I would roust her awake during the day to get her days and nights calibrated. 

And every night and 1, 3 and 4 she would bark. And I would cry.

A few Fridays ago, I was playing Simpsons trivia with my pals (it’s as cool as it sounds) and I got a text from Diana that simply read, “OMG.”

I immediately called her, fearing she had calculated how much I spent on Legos this year. 

Diana had been combing the internet for solutions to our geriatric canine insomniac. She stumbled across an article about dog sweaters. It turns out it’s really bad for dogs to be in sweaters for more than 3 hours at a time. It overheats their little bodies and is super uncomfortable. 

Tutu had been in a sweater non stop since we discovered humiliating sweaters.  We were boiling her every night and her barking was pleas to stop the torture. 

It couldn’t be that simple, could it? That night Diana took off Tutu’s sweater and the slept through the night. And every night since. 

Here endeth the failure. 

X Marks The Spot

Screams from the basement are nothing new. It’s where we keep our evil third son, Hugo. It’s also where the videogames are. Usually the screams are from shooting/killing games. We lost the violent videogame battle years ago. But lately the screams come from a new kind of genre: pirate games. 

The boys of Evanston are obsessing over an open world game where you assume the role of old timey pirate and sail the seas in search of gold, skeletons and megalodons. Yes, you can shoot other kids, but that’s not the point. Which makes my soul feel better given the whole WWIII situation happening in Ukraine. So now the screams are, “Argh! Ahoy! Blouse shirts!”

One day on vacation, Luca and I found ourselves strolling along the beach, talking about pirates. Did pirates ever visit this surf spot? Did they drink margaritas at Don Julio’s restaurant? Did they stab that guy who plays tuba in the town square until 2am every night?

Luca discovered an old, rotten coconut in the sand. We immediately started a game called, “Throw the coconut into the surf.” For a kid who usually has seven screen going at any given time, a simple game of toss/retrieve was so simple. So beautiful.

The coconut quickly gained value. The coconut was gold. We morphed our game into the classic “build sand walls to protect thing from a million years of surf.” Dig moat. Build sand wall. Waves crash. Start over. 

In other words, perfection.

I got a little too hot (old man alert) so we decided to call it a day. But what to do with the coconut? Chuck it? Burn it? Take it home? Luca got an idea: What if we buried it?

Yes! “X” marks the spot. We looked for a perfect location. I suggested burying it between two topless sunbathers, but Luca suggested I not be a creep. We decided to bury it near a little bar where the patrons didn’t look like coconut thieves. 

We placed the nut into a little hole and found two big sticks for our “X.”

A few days went by, filled with surf lessons and snorkeling and bad hat purchasing. We were at the beach and I had assumed my position under an umbrella with my Nick Offerman book. I had recently purchased some roasted crickets from a beach vendor, which tasted like roasted crickets. They served the purposed of maintaining my “idiot” status among our wonderful neighbor girls. 

Luca suddenly remembered the coconut. Oh! Let’s see if it’s there! I leapt from my chair and we headed off with the enthusiasm of Blackbeard just before he murdered a bunch of people. 

Almost immediately I wished I had brought sandals. The midday sand was scorching. We “ouch ouch-ed” our way and ended up needing to stand in the surf for a couple minutes to sooth our burning tootsies.

Then came the issue of remembering where we actually buried the nut. It was by a bar, but the beach was littered with roughly 42,000 bars. The topless sunbathers were gone, apparently warned there was a creep around. 

So we would race up the beach, realize were in the wrong spot and then race back to the cool surf. 

Eventually we spotted the bar! With the bored people! Luca and I searched for the “X.” But no luck. There were a few old firepits around that contained lots of X carcasses. Well, who wants an old rotten coconut anyway?

Oh wait! Look. We spotted a half “X.” A capital “I.” Or a minus sign. We dove into the sand and dug. There it was! The rotten old nut. The greatest, most valuable rotten old nut in the world! 

We shouted and celebrated and danced and sang, “Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum.”

Then we chucked the coconut and went home. 

Whales, Dolphins and Dorks

 My transformation to Dork Dad was almost complete. I already had a paunchy stomach. I recently purchased a man purse/fanny pack for my SPF 100, glasses cleaner and wallet. Now all I needed was an oversized floppy hat. The kind that acts as universal birth control. Elijah and I found one at a local surf shop that was a little too big for my pinhead. When asked via text for her opinion, Diana said, “I hope you don’t bring that back from vacation.” 

I was ready to go snorkeling.

Our great and lovely neighbors like to spruce up any sitting on your butt vacation with at least one adventure. Last time it was screaming across the Mexican canopy via zipline. This year, they wanted to head out on a boat and mingle among the jellyfish and stingray and sea urchin.

At 7am, we jumped into a van with the intention of catching a boat a few towns over. The driver mentioned his cousin was our captain and was actually just at the bottom of the hill, which he gladly drove us to for $20.

I had all my Dork Dad gear, plus a flannel shirt, because of my allergy to cold. As I age, I tolerate cold less and less. Especially water. Cold water on my skin feels like a million pins and needles. It’s so uncomfortable that I often wonder how far along the Autism spectrum I am. I’ve all but abandoned pools and oceans unless it’s so hot I will burst into flames.

So why did I agree to go snorkeling? My hatred of missing out on fun with Eli and Luca beats my hatred of cold.

After meeting our hilarious and charming crew (I have yet to meet a jerkface Mexican person), we set sail (vial outboard motor) to the middle of the ocean in search of whales.

I’ve been fooled before on the old whale hunt. “Oh, they were just here yesterday. Shoot. You should’ve seen ‘em. They were asking about you and everything.”

But these guys knew their stuff. We came face to face with six or seven massive beasts, who all did us the solid of splashing their giant tails or doing that thing where they shoot salt water out of their heads. We even saw some frisky dolphins who were hilariously curious about our boat. 

Luca spotted a cluster of Jellyfish and I said, “Awesome.” Our captain replied, “Not awesome.”

We then headed to a little beach for the main event. We were outfitted with the world’s oldest and ill fitting-est snorkels and flippers were told to walk the plank. The second I hit the water I strung together a set of swears that would make Andrew Dice Clay blush. My facemask decided to poop out and my sinuses got a thorough salt water treatment. 

I wondered if 45 seconds was enough snorkeling when I noticed Luca was also struggling. He was in near tears. I directed us to the beach, where we regrouped. I was plenty happy to just examine every grain of sand. Ooh look. Sand.

The captain had taken a liking to Luca and arrived with a little life preserver to help with the snorkeling. All Mexican captains, surf instructors and waiters love Luca. They love to shout, Luuuuca!” and then laugh.

Luca headed off with the captain and the rest of the group to look at Dori and Nemo and Marlin. I stayed safely on shore to continue my sand studies.

Chris, my bromance partner, arrived looking like Daniel Craig emerging from the sea. He asked how my snorkeling was going and I lamely said, “Oh. Yeah. My mask is broken. I’m fine here on shore.”

“Oh, take mine. I’ve seen enough eels.”

I tried to argue with him, but Chris has this way of convincing me to bomb down hills on skateboards or take expert level yoga classes or ziplining. 

I re-entered the ocean and after much swearing, got the hang of snorkeling and saw some fun little fishies and little eelies and some rockies. It was, dare I say, fun?

We were beaconed back to the boat for peanut butter sandwiches (courtesy of Lexa) and headed back home. I was glad for my flannel shirt and big, dorky hat, BOTH of which I am bringing home. 

Baby’s First Hang Ten

Years ago, I took a surfing lesson in Australia on a commercial day off. I arrived out of shape, addicted to cigarettes and nursing a hangover. After twenty minutes of thrashing by Aussie waves and taking on more water than The Orca at the end of “Jaws,” my instructor gently recommended I do the rest of my lesson from the safety of my hotel room.

Since then, I’ve had an aversion to the surfing arts. To paraphrase Robert Duvall, “Hamann don’t surf.”

As with most hard and fast rules of my life, Diana had other plans. We are currently on our make-up vacation in Mexico with the lovely Murphy/Green family (See my New Year’s Eve post for the gory details). Diana could sense this was her opportunity to finally turn our kids into characters from “Point Break.”

In the past, the kids have been satisfied with kiddie activities. Your basic sandcastle building and minor splashing/salt water tasting. But now, as Testosterone and Estrogen surge through their bodies, they yearn for more danger and less clothes. 

When Diana suggested the kids take a surf lesson, I initially scoffed. Hamann don’t surf. But the kids were totally into it. So I did my best to ruin the fun by warning them that the chances they’d actually stand on the board was less than zero. Take it from my experience 16 years ago, kids. Surfing is brutal and you’ll hate it. Plus, don’t smoke.

Their instructor was a hilarious local who “pretended” to be tough, but no amount of order barking could hide the delight in his eyes. The kids participated in the on-land instructions with the appropriate teen sarcasm. Then it was off to the water. 

They lined up in the surf and the instructor found the most perfect wave in the history of waves. The shoved Luca, who popped up. The sun broke through the clouds and the heavens sang “Good Vibrations.” Diana burst into tears.

The girls quickly followed suit. Each riding a wave and splitting their faces with gigantic smiles. 

Then it was Eli’s turn. Surely, he’d prove me right. Hamann don’t surf. I was already preparing my Dad speech about the merits of quitting when he popped right up. His glorious mane floating in the Atlantic (Pacific?) air. 

The kids rode wave after wave and made Hang Loose gestures and Diana cried her eyes out, saying this was the greatest day of her life. 

I even emerged from the safety of my umbrella to shout and clap. I shouted and clapped so much that I got a bad sunburn. Which serves me right. 

p.s. As you can see from the Elijah photo, a bottom exposing interloper named “Prancy Nancy” seemed determined to be decapitated by rookie surfers. The professional photographer managed to include her in almost every shot.