HamannEggs

Boys vs Girls

2012-02-07T11:57:00.000-08:00

When we got back from Denver, Diana and I decided to actually go out and enjoy some adult time away from the boys from time to time. But the run up to actually getting out of the house and shouting, “We’re Free!” is tough.

To make it easy on our sitter, we try to condense the entire pre-bedtime routine into ½ hour of wiping, milking and shoving before she arrives. And that’s why I found myself huddled under our barely spitting shower with Elijah and Luca last Saturday night.

Much like blame in the advertising industry, grime travels one direction in the shower: to the shortest. I could actually see gunk travel from me to Elijah to Luca. He didn’t seem to care, as he was concentrating hard on throwing buckets full of water onto our bathroom floor.

After the third time I admonished Eli not to drink water run off from my body, he looked up at me and asked, “Dad? Is Luca a boy or a girl?”

“Look at him. He’s all man.”

“Why?”

I paused. Did I want to get into the whole girl parts versus boy parts thing with him? Did I want to be the cause of him shouting, “Boys have penises, girls have vaginas!” in his pre-school class (Name that movie reference. Too late. “Kindergarten Cop.”)? Quite frankly, I did not. But I couldn’t think of another way to answer the question without screwing him up or giving him an attraction to leg warmers later in life.

“Well, Luca has a wenis. You have a wenis. I have a wenis. Luca has a wenis. We’re all boys because we have wenises.”

Yes, I said “Wenis.” I honestly don’t know why I didn’t simply use the “P” word. Somehow I thought that was better.

Elijah stood there looking at our wenises (Or is is “wenisi?”) for a moment. I silently prayed we would not have to discuss their similarities or differences. Or if his mother had one.

I got my wish by way of Eli going back to drinking the trickle of water that trickled from my elbow.

Ruined

2012-02-03T14:07:00.001-08:00

Diana ruined Luca’s last pacifier. I want that on the record so he’ll be able to place that vague feeling he has a hole in his life, decades from now.

As you recall from the post just below this one, Luca is down to his last pacifier. Our passive aggressive way of weaning him off his paci habit for good. Luca’s doc suggested we adjust his last pacifier to keep him from ruining his teeth and end up looking like Steve Buscemi when he turns 3.

First, she said poke a hole in the top of the…uh…nippular region. Which we did a few weeks ago. I guess it relieves some of the pressure. Luca didn’t seem to mind. But when he sucked, it gave off a weird spitty sound. Like a Redneck disposing of Skoal juice.

As a nuclear option, our doctor suggested cutting the top of the pacifier off. Diana did this last night and destroyed Luca. After a few half hearted sucks, he became furious. And hilariously petulant.

He dramatically flung the pacifier to the ground and said, “Throw my paci into the garbage! Throw my paci into the garbage!”

We tried to put his pacifier on his dresser, within easy reach in case he needed comfort in the middle of the night but he couldn’t stand the sight of what used to be the most important thing in the world, now ruined. He wouldn’t stop crying until it was out of the room, in the garbage.

And then the withdrawals started. Luca cried out several times last night needing comfort. The kind of comfort usually supplied by a plastic chew toy. I’m tempted to go to Walgreens on the way home to get him an emergency pacifier.

But that’s called enabling, isn’t it?

Punching Deer

2012-01-31T11:09:00.000-08:00

Pre-children, Diana and I went to the western suburbs to see Neil Young play his guitar. He was on tour with some new, experimental (i.e. crappy) stuff, but I was happy to simply be in his presence.

Other people in the crowd weren’t so happy. Midway through the set, a fan started calling out, “Play ‘Heart of Gold!” Come on! Play ‘Heart of Gold!’” The request was so incessant that at one point Neil stopped playing and shouted, “Shut the f*ck up!”

It has to be irritating to be asked to play the same thing every day of your life. Almost as irritating as being asked to do the “Punching Deer” routine every day of your life.

It all started innocently enough. Luca has been struggling with an intense desire to hit. I decided to give him a lesson the evils of hitting, a parable if you will. I stood in the boys’ room having a conversation with a little stuffed deer.

Midway through my convo, I puppeteered the deer’s hoof into my face. Repeatedly. I then had a frank discussion with the deer about how hitting is bad and he not only hurt my face, but he hurt my feelings.

I directed my gaze to Elijah and Luca do see if my message had sunk in. Both of them were rolling on the floor, laughing. Tears were literally streaming down Eli’s face. In his mind, a stuffed deer hitting his father was the funniest thing ever to happen in his 4 years on the Earth.

He begged me to do it again. The deer parable turned into “The Three Stooges.” I was happy to oblige, because I love an easy audience. For Elijah, it never got old.

And that’s where the trouble began. It never got old. Elijah asks for the “Punching Deer” every minute of every day.

He asks for it while Diana and I are trying to have our one adult conversation a day. He asks for it while I’m pretending to understand what the contractor is saying. He asked for it at my Dad’s house this weekend, 100 miles away from the stuffed deer. He asked for it in the middle of the night after a nightmare.

I gotta find a new funniest thing in the world. I’m currently testing out a stuffed monkey scissor kick routine.

Last Paci On Earth

2012-01-30T09:38:00.000-08:00

Our baby doctor is pretty great. She’s built an entire career on the LVD method of doctoring.

L – Listen to parents’ crazy panic about nothing. “Doctor Doctor! Luca is obsessed with his pacifier. Does this mean he’ll be a drug addict when he gets older? We read on the internet that pacifiers are a gateway drug. Should we put him on Methadone just in case?

V – Validate their insane ramblings. “Well, I can understand why you are concerned. Maybe you stop standing on my examination table.”

D – Dismiss as gently as possible. “Eventually, Luca will become embarrassed at being the only kid in his Fraternity who still chews a pacifier, but if you’re freaked out, take it away from him.”

We’ve opted for the passive aggressive version of weaning him off pacifiers. Namely, we are not replacing them when they go missing. What was once a luxurious pile of plastic nipples has dwindled into one lone yellow paci.

Even though we haven’t informed Luca of our plan, he seems to know he’s down to his last pacifier. Every morning, he wakes in a panic. Over the baby monitor, I can hear him manically searching his crib. “Paci? Paci? Where is my paci?”

He flat out refuses to take it out his mouth. Which has turned his speech into a cigar chomping W.C. Fields. “Ni nant nan ilk, nease.” Thankfully, Elijah is fluent in Paciese.

“He said, ‘I want a milk, please.’ Sheesh.”

Last night, I extracted the yellow paci from his surprisingly strong grip with the intention of rinsing it off for the first time in a month. As I held it under the tap, I noticed just how horrifyingly disgusting it was. A thin layer of filth fell away like a moulting lizard.

I looked from the garbage can to my beautiful sun. He looked pleadingly into my eyes, knowing what was about to happen.

I popped the paci back into his mouth and hoped his fraternity brother would be kind.

Sledding

2012-01-26T12:05:00.000-08:00

Sorry gang, I’ve been a parenting blogger slacker due to some heavy workloads this week. Which also makes me a parenting slacker. But I’m back, baby!

Let’s back the documentation of my childrens’ lives to last Friday. During the big Chicago snowstorm (“Snowpocalypse!” “Snowmaggedan” “Thundersnow!”) I rode the El home with Callie and Liddie’s mom. Callie and Liddie, as you recall, are the little girls who Elijah declared he loves more than me.

Callie and Liddie’s mom suggested we all go sledding Saturday after the Snowtaclysm. I’ll admit, I almost declined because, well, Eli loves Callie and Liddie more than me and I am a petty, petty man.

But Callie and Liddie are too cute to pass up. As everybody (mostly Elijah) knows.

We bundled the boys up the next morning and headed to “Lovelace Park.” As I pulled into the parking lot I became the one billionth dad to think, “Hey wasn’t there a 70’s porno actress named Something ‘Lovelace?’”

The famous Porno Hill was jammed with kids. As we trudged up the hill with Elijah’s brand new blue sled, I watched as child after child slammed into each other’s shins at top speed, causing that ass over teakettle action that’s only awesome on the NFL.

I positioned Eli on my lap for Run Number One. As we glided down the hill, I realized very quickly that underneath the layer of snow we were riding was a thick layer of ice. Clearly the custodians of Porno Hill had hosed down the entire joint right before snowfall.

We immediately reached break neck speed and I put the brakes on. By “Brakes” I mean “Digging my giant boots into the ground.” This caused snow to rooster tail high into the air. And directly into Elijah’s face.

Snow + Face = Cry.

The only thing that kept us on Porno Hill was Callie and Liddie’s presence and the promise that cousin Finn was joining us.

The rest of the day was filled with gleeful trudging, snowy faces and the occasional backbreaking slip on the ice.

The Most Reckless Award goes to a tie: Rory and Luca.

Freaky

2012-01-22T10:37:00.000-08:00

I overuse the word “Dude.” It’s my all purpose address to anyone under the age of 12. It also gives me the cool cadence of Jeff Bridges from “The Big Lebowski,” or at least Aerosmith circa 1987. And it prevents that embarrassing stumble of names when you try to address a child.

“Put down that butcher knife, FinnRoryLucaJeffChuckBarack…Elijah!”

I don’t have really have any good reason to argue against my sons or their cousins adopting a little slang of their own. So why does the word “Freaky” sound like nails on a chalkboard mixed with Styrofoam squeak?

I can place 100% of the blame for the invasion of Freaky on the narrow little shoulders of my nephew Finn. A few Sundays ago, he strolled into our house armed with a new Lego toy and armed with…the word.

He waited until his coat was almost off his back before he unleashed it.

“That’s freaky,” he said to no one or nothing in particular.

Elijah and Luca perked up their ears like a dog who heard a box of treats being opened across the kitchen. The word quickly rose to the top of the charts.

“Don’t be freaky. That sounds freaky. He she it is freaky. Luca freakied in his diaper. This milk tastes freaky. I have a freaky stuck under my fingernail. I freakied in the freakiest freaky that ever freakied.”

I asked Finn, “What does ‘Freaky’ mean? Is it a good thing or a bad thing?”

He responded, “It just means ‘Freaky.’”

Since I couldn’t beat my nephew, I thought about punching my brother. But he works out now and is much stronger than me.

Diana and I have tried to outlaw the word in our house. “No Freaky talk,” we announce after every 1,000 times it’s uttered. In fact, I’ve tried to encourage poopy talk to get them off the word.

We took the crew sledding yesterday to a hill so crammed with kids you had to wait behind three rows for the chance to cry after getting snow in your face. Once in a crowd of kids, Elijah said, “This hill is freaky.” The children looked at him like he just invented fire.

I mouthed, “I am so sorry” to the other parents.

Terror Night

2012-01-16T13:25:00.000-08:00

The Internet Movie Database describes “Terror Night” in this way:

“Lance Hayward, a silent movie star, appears as various characters, killing quite a handful of unfortunates, using various weapons.”

I describe “Terror Night” in this way:

“Luca Hamann, devastatingly cute two year old, keeps his father awake all night using various screaming.”

Friday night, I was so exhausted from Luca’s ongoing night terrors that I did the unthinkable: I cancelled beer night with my brother.

Diana was doubly exhausted because she had to deal with a shattered Luca all day, including an epic night terror nap. She suggested I deal with Luca that night and I’d be allowed to sleep as long as I wanted the next morning. Knowing it was a trap, I was too tired to resist. So I said yes.

Luca’s first night terror occurred at precisely 9pm. And then erupted every hour on the hour. He would stand in his crib, completely asleep and scream at the top of his lungs. No, check that. He would scream at the top of Mount Everest.

I found the only way to calm him down was to carry him around. This didn’t turn out to be a viable long term solution, as I lack upper body strength.

So I tried another tact. I carried him downstairs and laid down on the couch, placing him on my chest. He gathered my chest hair into a makeshift pillow and fell immediately to sleep.

I thought I may actually get some sleep. Until I realized Luca’s version of sleep involves attempting to hurl himself off whatever he is sleeping on. I spent the next 6 or so hours catching Luca in midair as he leapt, rolled, and double gainered off the couch.

I honestly have no memory of when Diana came down in the morning and took over. But somehow I made it back upstairs to our bed.

On a positive note, Luca’s war on sleep ended Saturday night and he seems to be past his terrors. Diana has again promised never to leave again.

p.s. Today's photo is completely different than the last post. Luca's eyes are closed and you can see Diana's chin.

Out Of Town Blues

2012-01-13T10:38:00.000-08:00

When I leave town for business, the boys barely notice. While staring at the TV, they’ll wave a limp hand as I leave. And when I come back, they’ll excitedly call my name for exactly three seconds before returning to their constant drone of “Mommy? Mommy? Mommy? Mommy?”

But when Diana leaves town? Terrible things happen.

Diana had to fly to Philadelphia to take a big wine test (I’ve decided to no longer accompany these kind of statements with a cheap drunk joke). And while they were in the very capable hands of our awesome sitter, Hanna, things got a little sideways.

Elijah stuck his tongue out at his teacher at school. And infraction so strange and rare, no one knew what to do about it. I honestly think he surprised himself by doing it, because he spent the rest of the evening in a stupor, occasionally crying.

Luca seemed to do a bit better. He was clingy and whiney and constantly wanted to be held, but I took advantage of it because I like holding the little poop maker.

When Diana got home the other night, it was as if (insert your favorite female celebrity) strolled into our house. The boys literally fought over who could climb on her.

After they finally went to bed, Diana and I sat down to some wine so she could tell me how smart she is. From upstairs, we heard a bloodcurdling scream. Luca was shrieking in terror.

When we arrived at his crib, he was dazed and totally out of it, but howling as loud as I’ve ever heard. Diana and I looked at each other and said, “Night terrors.”

For those of you who forgot, night terrors is this weird thing where kids will scream in their sleep. It’s super scary and weird and I thought we’d skip this phase with Luca, given his mellowness.

But he got it full on. Every half hour, throughout the night, he would stand in his crib, totally asleep, and scream bloody murder. We’d hold him and rock him and calm him down, only to get back up ½ later to the same terror.

At about 4am, Diana went downstairs to look up night terrors on the internet. It turns out, one of the causes of night terrors is emotional distress. Emotional distress like your favorite person in the world leaving to take a big fancy wine test (glug glug glug – I couldn’t help myself).

Diana was filled with guilt that she caused this poor sweet little boy to cry out like he was being jammed under the fingernails with Star Wars guy guns. But I wonder if a small part of her is secretly happy her absence could cause this kind of disaster.

p.s. This is Luca’s impersonation of Tim, our contractor. It's dead on.

4th

2012-01-09T15:12:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I had a pretty great day with the boys. Diana was studying and we were pretty trapped in the house. But there was one point where we were watching Star Wars on TV and playing Star Wars guys on the couch and I thought to myself, “This is the greatest moment of my life.” And I was fairly sure Elijah and Luca were feeling the same thing.

About an hour later, I was leaning up against the counter while they both wolfed down a dinner I neither microwaved not purchased from McDonalds. There was even corn involved!

Elijah looked up from his plate (he was shirtless of you need more of a mental picture) and said, “Hey dad!”

I smiled and said, “What, honey?”

“Do you know who I like more than you? I like mommy first. Then Callie. Then Liddie. Then you.”

I was crestfallen. My relationship with Eli has always been being in love with someone who was in love with someone else. But I was under the assumption that I was second on his list. Not stuck in 4th place behind the two cute girls in his class.

Yes. He is 4 years old. Yes, he didn’t mean anything by it and probably didn’t understand what he was saying. And yes, I should take these little things in stride. But I began to babble uncontrollably.

“What’s so great about Callie and Liddie? You aren’t 4th on my love list. You’re tied for first! FIRST! I made you corn, for crying out loud.”

I also found myself getting a little desperate to boot, “What can I do to get out of 4th place? How can I knock Callie and Liddie out? A smear campaign?”

Elijah thought for a second and said, “Maybe if you buy me two big Star Wars ships and then a couple guys.”

Fine. Great. Done.

Later that night Elijah asked if he could take a shower instead of a bath. Because it’s way more fun.

I said, “Only if you put me ahead of Callie and Liddie on your love list.”

Ever the politician, he said, “I like you the same as Callie and Liddie.”

I relayed this story to Diana a while later and she said, “Whelp, at least you'll get a blog post out of it.”

Gone

2012-01-07T10:13:00.000-08:00

In a babysitting trade last week, Diana was watching cousin Finn and cousin Rory along with Elijah and Luca. The best way to accomplish this is to position yourself in a door frame or a bathtub with a heavy book over your head. Once the air raid sirens cease, it is safe to exit your home and look for the nearest State Farm representative.

Pam arrived to pick up her kids late in the afternoon. In my mind’s eye, I can picture what our house looked like. Every inch of the floor was covered in molded plastic. Each step through the house included that familiar “crunch” of action figure accessory embedding itself into your foot flesh. In other words, Diana’s personal hell.

To make matters worse, there was an extra flurry of worker activity on our basement. Cigarettes being extracted from packs. Cigarettes being lit. Cigarettes being inhaled.

As Finn and Rory put on their coats, Diana looked around. Where’s Luca? Oh that silly boy must be hiding. Diana did a quick scan of the usual hiding places. Behind the chair. In the closet. Under the table.

Nope. No luck.

Diana help up the cousins and asked them to help search. Cries of “Luca!” filled the house as the kids searched.

Nope. No luck.

This is where the flicker of panic set in. Where was he? The shouts got a little more urgent and the hunt a little more desperate. Diana looked in rarer, non Luca places. In the basement work zone. In the backyard. Up and down the street.

Nope. No luck.

Panic fully set in. The search became wild and erratic. Places a 2 year old can’t even fit. Open the toilet lid. Peer into the freezer. Behind radiators. Thoughts of calling 911 entered her mind.

Suddenly, Elijah called out. Luca was found. Diana followed Eli’s voice upstairs. Luca had crawled into an almost completely inaccessible crawlspace behind his crib. He had entered there with his blankie and his pacifier to take a nap and escape the chaos.

Diana was stuck with an intense desire to join him.

Switcheroo

2012-01-03T15:42:00.000-08:00

You know those movies where the kid and the parent both say “I wish I had your life” while peeing in a magic toilet and they switch bodies? We had the HamannEggs version over Christmas break. But with Diana and me.

My company gives us the week off between Christmas and New Years to make up for the awful coffee in the break room. Coincidentally or not coincidentally, Diana had to spend the entire week out of the house working at her new job and studying for a big wine test (I am currently pantomiming Diana chugging from a bottle).

So for the week I was the mommy and she was the daddy. I looked forward to the test. Partly because I love my sons and wanted to spend some quality time with them. But mostly to prove to Diana that being the one who takes care of the boys all day wasn’t as hard as she says and she should stop whining.

Day One I will refer to as “Superdad Day.” I was on fire. I cleaned the house. Occupied the boys without the use of television and fed them nutritious meals that included everything in the Government Food Pyramid or the Government Food Sphinx or whatever it’s called.

By the time Diana got home, the boys were ready for bed in matching PJs with their hair combed and fingernails buffed to glowing. I also believe they were knitting coats for the poor.

I leaned against the door with a look that said, “Gee. This parenting gig ain’t so hard.” It also said, “Gee. I am a passive aggressive jerk.”

Day Two through Day Seven I will refer to as “A Complete and Utter Disaster.” I quickly realized that full time parenting itself is not difficult. Parenting all day every day with no break to even go to the bathroom is where things begin to break down.

I don’t think Luca or Elijah actually changed clothes for the entire week. What clothes they did have on were caked in, well, cake. Because I lost the ability to make food. I’m fairly sure Luca’s diaper was on fire at one point. But I’m not sure since he was hiding in my closet most of the time. Elijah acquired a conk shell and proclaimed himself King Of The House. He was a benevolent ruler so long as “My Little Pony” was on TV constantly.

And this is no joke, we had to have our babysitter come yesterday to give me a break.

New Years Eve 2011

2011-12-31T19:17:00.000-08:00

All right. New Years Eve letter time.

Dear Elijah,

A few hours ago, your mom and I were watching you run through the house and she said with a sigh, “He’s a boy now.” She’s right. Over the course of the last year it seems like you’ve leapt from being a baby to a full fledged boy. It’s heart breaking and awesome in exactly equal measure.

Each day I think, “Okay. I can’t possibly be more in love with this kid. Surely I’ve reached my love limit.” But each day you prove me wrong.

I love you, pal.

Dear Luca,

You. Are. Incredible. Yesterday, we made a little fort in your room and we sat there with your stuffed animals and a flashlight and just…hung out. We didn’t need to talk. We just sat there. Like friends. That’s what I love most about you. You’re simply a great friend.

Dear Diana,

This year could have, should have been a back breaker for us. But we are together because of your strength and your capacity for love. Our sons have my genes, but it is you who makes them special. It’s your humor that makes them funny. It’s your love that makes them lovely. It’s your joy that makes them joyful.

I can never thank you enough for this family.

I love you.

Dad.

Merry Poop

2011-12-30T08:35:00.000-08:00

It’s all our fault. We brought this down on ourselves and we’re powerless to stop it. It’s the Poopy Talk Epidemic 2011. Luca has it bad and we can’t make him stop. Partly because it’s adorable.

Lemmie back up. It started with a simple question: What would you like to eat for lunch? Would you like lavies (ravioli) or a poop sandwich? Every meal, the choice was whatever we were cooking or a poop sandwich. Luca and Elijah would burst into laughter. Oh mother and father, your potty humor is so very droll. Thank you for enriching our lives with the gift of scatological humor.

But then somewhere it dawned on Luca. Waitaminute. Mommy and Daddy get huge laughs when they say “Poop.” I wonder what would happen when I said such a word?

And so it began.

Luca began inserting “Poop” into every conceivable sentence. When our new sister in law Dana said, “Luca, you’re cute,” he responded, “You’re poopy!”

When someone sang “Jingle Bells?” Luca sang “Jingle Poops.”

When you told him you loved him? He said, “I love poop!”

We decided to put an end to it. Whenever Luca inserted the brown noun, we said, “No no, Luca. No potty talk.” On the surface, this is good parenting. When your kid says something inappropriate, correct him. But unfortunately we were correcting him while suppressing belly laughs. At best this is a mixed message. At worst, it’s a reward.

So we need to get serious with this. No laughing. No giggling. No smiles. But damnit, it’s hysterical when he says “poopy.” His pronunciation is that of actress Anne Ramsey in the 1987 movie “Throw Momma From The Train.”

Those of you who get the reference know what I mean. Those of you who aren’t 39+ years old, just imagine a elderly woman who talks as if her mouth was always filled with Braunschweiger.

All right, I have to get back to playing “Construction Site” with Luca. Or as he calls it, “Construction Poopy.”

Santa Claus

2011-12-28T08:21:00.000-08:00

About a month ago, Tim, the guy who dug out our basement came by at about 8pm. As the boys and dog attacked him he brushed past everyone and said to me, “I gotta talk to you.”

As Tim headed downstairs, I noticed he was carrying a large garbage bag. I thought, “Is he going to bury a body in our basement? If so, fine. He’s giving us a heck of a deal on concrete.”

We reached the bottom of our stairs and Tim said, “Take a look in here.” Fully expecting a sack full of human heads, I peered in. Inside was a full Santa Claus outfit. Red coat. Boots. Beard. Even wire rimmed glasses. I’ll admit I was a tiny bit disappointed.

“I was doing a Montgomery Wards demolition a few years ago and this came out of a wall!”

I then learned it was Tim’s Christmas Eve tradition to walk from house to house, delivering presents and he wanted to add us to his route.

“It’s going to blow their minds!”

On Christmas Eve, Steve’s family came over with our pal Kitty and her new daughter for some wine and appetizers. I felt it was my job to hype Tim’s arrival to the kids.

“Guys! Patrick just called and said he saw Santa Claus in Skokie! And he’s coming our way!”

The kids immediately positioned themselves at our window to look for the man in red. According to Tim, he’d be at our house at 6:30pm.

6:30 came and went and I started to get worried. Our phone rang and it was Tim. He and his construction buddies were enjoying a little holiday cheer and he was running late. I began to picture Dan Aykroyd’s character from the movie “Trading Places,” who stumbled around drunkenly in a filthy Santa suit and at one point stuffed a salmon into his pants.

I stared down at Kitty’s salmon platter and wondered if we were about to ruin Santa for Elijah and Luca.

Tim called again and said he was on his way. I told the kids to resume their positions at the front window.

And then it happened. Santa came dancing up Ashland Avenue. The real Santa. If decades of cynicism wasn’t coursing through my veins I would have sworn he had arrived with eight tiny reindeer.

Kids cheered. Parents cheered. We pounded on our window as we watched him stand on our porch and dramatically reach into his bag for gifts for not only Elijah and Luca, but Rory and Finn as well. He extracted a bottle of wine and a box of chocolates for Diana, who had been particularly good this year.

He tipped his hat and waved to us before bounding back down the steps and heading back to into the night.

The kids began to pick apart the logic of Santa arriving at 7:45pm and not while they were asleep and why did he sign the packages “Snata” and didn’t they specifically ask for a Star Wars thing and not a bean bag game.

But for me, it was the real deal.

Church

2011-12-26T08:08:00.000-08:00

On Christmas Eve’s eve, my brother was drinking beers at my house and we were making plans. Or rather, I was telling him what his plans were. “And then we’ll all go to mass dressed in identical white turtle necks and red sweaters that I am planning on knitting between now and 3pm tomorrow…”

Steve got a scrunched look on his face and said, “Uh, I don’t think we’re going to church tomorrow. Too much of a hassle.”

“What? That’s our tradition. It’s in HamannEggs Volume 1. We go to church Christmas Eve. It’s in the book. In the entry right before my first weepy New Years Eve post.”

He changed the subject to Star Wars. Shrewd. The next morning, Diana bailed on church by sweeping her hand over the filth that was our house. She would need all day to get the house ready for Christmas Eve guests.

A little later, I took Eljah to the liquor store. He’s a wiz at choosing spiced rum.

“Hey man, I think it’s just going to be you and me at Christmas church this year. What do you think of that?”

“Well. Sometimes I like to do things with you and sometimes I like to do things with mommy. And this time I think I want to NOT do something with you.”

I quickly explained that the only way Santa was coming to our house is if he went to Christmas Mass. Suddenly, Elijah got very religious. The fact that he would be able to wear a necktie was a bonus.

When we got home, we had exactly 3 hours before church time. Unfortunately, I had to prep my Christmas boeuf bourguignon, which takes 3.5 hours. I spent that time internally cursing Julia Child and externally cursing at anyone who dared disturb by kitchen.

Boeuf in the oven, I crammed Elijah into his tie and pants and we raced to Church. We were late (in Hamann terms, 5 minutes early is late) and couldn’t find a seat. An usher shoved over an elderly couple and made enough room for Eli to sit in my lap.

Having no memory of church, Eli was fascinated. And he was adorable. He stood on the pew and tried to sing along with the choir. He crept up the aisle to see the nativity play and actually tried to listen.

As I watched him in his little tie, I got welled up and thought, “We could do this every week. We could be church people. Just me and Eli. Two churchy guys churching it up, church style. Maybe he’ll become one of those athletes who are super religious. Like Tim Tebow. Yeah, he could be Tim Tebow. Throw a touchdown, take a knee, point heavenward.”

At that moment, Elijah turned to me and said so loud that it echoed off the holy walls, “Dad! I want to leave! And I don’t want to do this ever again!”

I quickly scooped him up and escaped through the side door. We walked up Washington Street to our car and I said, “You did a pretty good job, Eli. Let’s go wait for Santa.”

Vicks

2011-12-23T11:09:00.000-08:00

Earlier this week, Luca had a terrible, terrible cough. He would cough so hard he would wake himself up, crying at midnight, 2am, 3am, 3:15am, 3:30am and 3:31am. For some reason, he would call for me. I think it was because he doesn’t want me to have a job. His chest and throat was so bad that when he spoke he sounded like a three pack a day diesel truck driver who had a cold.

As I slumped over my desk, I remembered an old wives’ tale. If you rubbed the bottom of a kid’s feet with Vicks Vapo Rub, it would cure a cough. Normally, I am not in favor of these quote, unquote treatments. It’s 2011. We’ve faked putting a man on the moon. Why would I stick chicken bones on my kid’s ears to treat an ear ache?

I was desperate and too sleepy to listen to reason. I did a cursory internets check and discovered the Vicks foot treatment hadn’t been debunked. But it also hadn’t been proven. But more importantly, I couldn’t find any evidence of kids losing their feet from it.

I suggested the treatment to both Diana and our new babysitter, Hanna. Diana thought it sounded crazy, but Hanna heard it worked. I decided to go with the 22 year old Art Student’s recommendation.

Luca was exhausted and didn’t fight us wiping stinky slime on the bottom of his feet. And wouldn’t you know it? He slept through the whole night without a single cough. Miracle!

The next night, he hacked and coughed and cried all night. Until Diana wiped more Vicks on his feet.

I am currently stock piling chicken bones in case he gets an ear ache.

Brawl

2011-12-20T10:54:00.000-08:00

Diana has a motto: “If you wanna play rough, you gotta be tough!” No, she is not referring to our make out sessions. She’s referring to the almost constant battle that occurs whenever more than 2 Hamann cousins occupy the same fifty foot radius.

For example, we visited my dad and stepmom this weekend for pre-Christmas. They put on their usual awesome spread of deer sausage, cheese, taco dip, chex mix, pickles rolled in ham and cream cheese, fudge, peanut brittle, chips, cookies, wine, beer, whisky and joy.

All the Hamann brothers were there and Dave and Steve brought their kids. But there seemed to be a constant ringing of a boxing bell, because the kids wrestled, punched, kicked, and pretended to shoot each other in the face for the entire 19 hours we were there.

It used to really bother me when the cousins fought. I mistook their fighting for actual angry violence and I would spend entire afternoons chasing them, shouting, “Quit yer fighting!” in a vaguely southern accent. But then I slowly realized there was no use in fighting their fighting. Fighting is good exercise and as cubs, this play fighting is useful for them later in life when they’ll have to hunt for food for the Pride.

And rarely do they actually hurt each other. The crying usually occurs when one of them realizes they don’t have their parents’ 100% attention at any given moment. Or when Luca’s giant head shifts weight and he smashes into a coffee table.

So I sat back and let them go at it. Knowing it would be years before they’d be able to take me in a fair fight.

p.s. Today’s photo is Luca demonstrating his favorite Christmas present this year. Thanks Dad and Connie.

LICE!

2011-12-15T11:02:00.000-08:00

Elijah’s school sent me an email the other day. Now, normally I view messages from them with the same interest that I do the never ending avalanche of “luxury watches” and “male enhancement” spam. But I perked right up when I saw the subject line: “Illness Alert: Lice.”

A note to spammers. Maybe you’d get me to open your dumb spam if your subject header was “Illness Alert: Lice.”

Here’s something you may not know about me. I. Hate. Lice. The very idea of it makes me viciously scratch my head. I’d rather stick my head into an Amtrak men’s room toilet than deal with tiny little bugs eating my scalp.

I came home that night and found Diana in our kitchen. Before she could even say a word, I launched into it, “Let me tell you something. If our son comes home with lice, I am going to sleep at the office. Not before I burn our house to the ground. I will make sure you aren’t here, however. But I am serious about it.”

Yesterday, I was sitting in a meeting where smart people were saying smart sounding acronyms and I was nodding my head in an attempt to keep up when my phone rang. I excused myself and picked up.

“Yellow?”

“Hi. Is Diana there?”

“No, this is her awesome husband.”

“Oh. Well this is Elijah’s school. As you know…we’ve had some lice issues and Elijah…”

“NO!NO!NO!NO!NO!NO!NO!”

“We’re going to need Diana to come pick him up.”

“NO!NO!NO!NO!NO!NO!NO!”

Lice. Little creatures eating my son’s brain (I assume). I didn’t go back to the meeting. I ran to my office and got online to look up lice symptoms. I then was hit by a crystal clear mental image: Elijah laying on my pillow the night before. In reality, he was saying, “I love you daddy.” In my mind, he was saying, “I’d like to introduce you to my parasite friends, daddy!”

I suddenly and furiously had all of the symptoms. I began scratching my scalp and screaming, “Get off! Get off!”

I called Diana and hissed into the phone, “He gave it to me. He gave it to me. That little sh*t gave me lice!” That’s the honest truth. That’s what I said. I’m terrific.

Diana tried to talk me off the ledge. Yes, his teacher found a lice on his head. But it was only one and he wasn’t infested. The teacher thinks they caught it before we could’ve gotten it.

I stayed at the office. Not because I thought I was safe. But because I could not be in that house. With those things.

Later that day, I received a video message from Elijah. He was speaking into camera with his hair still filled with Lice medicine. Diana had added a little animation to the video where little hearts leaped around his head. He repeated a script from Diana.

“Dad. Don’t worry, we’re getting rid of all the head lice. Because we love you and we want you to come home tonight. I got this goopy goo in my hair and it’s killing all the bugs except this one on my shoulder. I’m just kidding! See you soon.”

I reluctantly headed home and made Diana search every inch of my head for bugs. She found none. But I made her put all our pillows, bedding, clothes and hair into a pile in the yard and light it on fire.

Acul Don’t Care ‘Bout Santa

2011-12-13T12:47:00.001-08:00

Santa is keeping a close eye on our house. He is especially interested in if you kick or hit, if you are a lollygagger and if you wipe your butt and wash your hands after you go to the bathroom. As such, Elijah is the picture of good behavior as he waits for the bearded fat man to arrive. Coincidentally, Santa is also digging out our basement. But that’s another blog post.

Luca, on the other hand, could give a rat’s ass about Santa, and as a result, has catapulted into The Terrible Twos, or as I’ve described before, the invasion of Luca’s evil doppelganger, Acul.

I loath Acul. His presence is all the more offensive because Luca was known as such a sweetheart. This is a kid who liked to say, “Mommy? You’re the best,” not three days ago.

But now? Here’s how the one hour I was home before the boys went to bed went:

I walked in the front door and found Acul hitting Eli repeatedly in the bathtub. Eli, who views Acul with bemusement, accepted the wet slaps of flesh. We yanked Acul out of the tub and told him to sit on the steps. Instead, he ran at full speed and leapt back into the tub, spilling water all over the floor.

Upstairs, I had to drag him kicking and screaming from our closet to get his pajamas on (fairly sure he whizzed on my sweaters again). I attempted to read Acul and Eli a bedtime story, but he spent the whole time kicking Elijah in the face. Rather than retaliate, Elijah envisioned Santa looking down at the scene with his huge telescope and marking “coal” next to Luca’s name and “helicopter” next to his.

I gave up and wrestled Acul into bed, to the refrain of, “No! I’m gonna puke!” I flicked off the light and told Eli I was sorry he had to share his room with him (or it).

I barely got to the bottom of the stairs before Eli shouted, “Luca got out of his crib!” I found Acul standing in the middle of the room. Escaping from the crib is actually the evil doppelganger’s official calling card.

It’s a good thing he looks so cute in lady’s hats.

Sweaters

2011-12-08T15:57:00.000-08:00

Remember the other day when I talked about Luca’s penchant for hiding in my closet? That seems to be only half the story.

A few days ago, I stumbled upstairs after pretending my sleeping on the couch was somehow keeping Elijah and Luca safe between 6 and 7am. I was groggy and the tiniest bit grouchy from the glass of tequila Diana tricked me into drinking the night before.

I threw on a pair of jeans and thought, “Today is a brown sweater kind of day,” and nabbed one from my closet. Once the sweater was over my head I noticed something was off. Something smelled strongly like pee pee. I stuck my head into my sweater and, yes, it stunk like a two year old had recently saturated it with his diaper juice.

I immediately yanked it off and threw it onto the floor and did that gross out dance. Not only was my son using my closet as his own personal hideout, he was using it as his own personal latrine.

I went downstairs and put the sweater in the official Rick Hamann dry cleaning pile, otherwise known as the floor directly in front of the door. I found Luca and knelt down to baby eye level.

“Luca. Please don’t pee pee on Dad’s sweaters. I need them so I can stay warm and look cute.”

He responded in his usual manner, “Can I watch Fireman Sam?”

And this morning, I got out of the shower, went upstairs, thought, “Today is a green sweater day,” put on my green sweater and immediately smelled pee pee.

Pee on me once, shame on you.

T-Rex Café

2011-12-07T07:18:00.000-08:00

A good, solid imagination is extremely important to me. As an advertising professional, I use my imagination constantly. To think of other career paths. Ahh…busdriver.

In the constant battle with TV, I constantly try to find places for the boys to use their imaginations rather than lay back and let entertainment wash over them. And Diana has been really stepping it up, by creating some of the most the most boring imagination games in the world.

The other night, I came upstairs to check on them and found the boys scurrying around, delighted.

“What are you playing guys playing?”

“T-Rex Café!”

Ohh, were they imagining going back in time to explore uncharted lands and battle fierce dinosaurs? No. They were pretending to order food at the Denver Natural History Museum food court.

Now, truth be told the kids were actually using their minds and learning valuable food ordering skills and generally having a ball. But really. “Chicken nuggets and macaroni and cheese, please” wasn’t exactly stealing a page from “The Lion, The Witch And The Wardrobe.”

I added a little comic relief by playing the part of the inept waiter, who couldn’t seem to make it to the table without pratfalling. And for some reason I needed a French accent. If America’s comedic tastes were that of Elijah and Luca, I would be the most famous comic of all time.

After my fifth or sixth fall, I realized the only thing I was adding was letting the boys imagine they were watching terrible dinner theatre at the T-Rex Café.

I gave up and let them go back to their playing, which soon morphed into a rousing rendition of the game “Go to the Grocery Store.”

Where’s Luca?

2011-12-04T08:24:00.000-08:00

When Luca was a baby, we, like most parents, played that game where you drape a cloth diaper over his head and say, “Wheeeere’s Luca? Wheeeeere’s Luca?” Then we’d lift the diaper, we’d shout, “There he is!” baby laughs would be delivered from New Jersey and we’d repeat until he needed to eat.

Luca hasn’t figured out that we stopped the game.

We’ll be minding out own business, most likely explaining to Elijah why he cannot watch his 30th consecutive hour of television, when one of us will say, “Where’s Luca?” But not in that entertaining, draw out the “e” way.

And then we search. For someone who hasn’t lost his delightful baby fat, Luca can cram himself into some pretty tight quarters. His favorite location was, until recently, my closet. And why not? There is a ton to entertain himself with during the hunt: Plaid shirts, unused dress pants. The occasional tag from the dry cleaners. Lint.

But after yanking down the clothes bar and burying himself in J Crew, he banned him from my closet. So he’s had to find new places to hide.

We’ve found him in the sill of our front window (which, when naked, gives passersby a nice show) and in our Christmas present closet. Luca hasn’t yet figured out if he turned his attention from hiding to opening, he’d discover Santa’s loot. But he much prefers to awkwardly lean heavy boxes onto his own body in painful dedication to his art.

In the end, it’s never too difficult to find the boy. He can’t resist laughing when you go from room to room asking for him. This is why I think he won’t make it as a criminal. At any crime scene, the police will merely have to say, “Wheeere’s Luca?” into their megaphones and Luca will respond, “Tee hee hee…”

First Movie

2011-11-30T15:20:00.000-08:00

As a child, asthma prevented me from being able to play outside with the other kids in my neighborhood. So I found comfort in the magic of movies, which turned into a lifelong passion. I would go on to direct masterpieces like "Taxi Driver" and "Goodfellas." Wait. That’s Martin Scorsese. Well, still. I like movies a whole lot.

And for four and a half years, I’ve been waiting for a time when Elijah would be able to sit through a whole 2 hour flick at the theater without freaking out and forcing me to leave early (Rick Hamann fact: The only movie I’ve ever walked out on is Ghostbusters 2).

Well, last weekend I decided it was time for Eli’s first movie. Not because Eli had reached any major developmental milestone. “The Muppets” came out and I wanted to see it and going by myself would seem creepy at best.

Now, if you are Tom Goodrich, you are probably thinking, “Hey. He’s lying. Rick and Eli went to see Cars 2 with me and my son Davis in Colorado.” To which I say, “Tom, let’s keep that to ourselves and let me tell my story, huh?”

Where was I? Oh yes. Lying.

Last Sunday, my brother and his kids went with us to “The Muppets.” While we waited for them to pick us up at our house, Eli hit Luca and I threatened him if he hit his brother again, I’d cancel our movie and we’d just stay home. He hit Luca again, but I pretended not to see it. The show must go on.

We arrived at the theatre and Elijah was extremely excited. Not for the movie, but for popcorn in a bag. So, Sodium in hand, we took our seats in a theater packed to the gills with kids. I figured even if Eli had a meltdown, he’d be in good company.

I loved the fact that he demanded to sit next to his best pal and cousin, Finn. But it also broke a chip off my heart.

Eli wasn’t quite sure how to behave at the movies, so he aped everything his cousin did. I could not convince Eli to take his jacket off because Finn wore his. And then Finn removed his jacket and I got to hold Eli’s.

None of the kids really liked the film (My review: 3 ½ HamannEggs) but they did great and I hope to take Eli to many, many more movies soon. Does anyone know when “Saw VI” comes out?

Two Luca Stories

2011-11-28T15:16:00.000-08:00

Luca’s official birthday party went off without a hitch. It was great and hilarious and filled with friends and cousins and cake and pizza and probably the greatest fire truck in the world (thanks Iris). But you know what the problem with a perfect birthday party is? It ain’t blog worthy. Filling this page with a detailed account of how well behaved everyone was is b-o-r-i-n-g.

So I’ll give you 2 short Luca stories to make up for it. One involving poop.

ONE:
Diana says it best: On time for a Hamann is ten minutes early. I need to be on time. Ask anyone who works with or is married to me. On. Time. Unluckily for me, no one in my direct family takes after me. On Thanksgiving, our goal was to hit the road in the morning. And well after noon no one was ready to go but me and I was a little testy about it.

I gathered up a sopping wet pile of clothes from the bathroom and huffed up the stairs. Half way up, I smelled something…evil. Logically and illogically, I placed my nose into the wet clothes in my hands to find the source of the stink. Nope, just garden variety urine. Three quarters up the stairs I found it: a perfect poop. It was really flawless. If I asked you to draw me a piece of poop, this would be it.

Naturally, I blamed Grover. I balled up my fist (in my mind) and searched him out. But at the top of the stairs I found Luca, naked, standing over another perfect poop.

He said, “I made a poop, Dad!”

“I can see that,” I said, trying to act angry.

Luca said, “I sit on the steps?” (For those of you who are new to the blog, you wrong me? You sit on the steps).

I said, “Sit? You’re one letter off, pal.”

TWO:
As I alluded to on Luca’s birthday post, we are digging out our basement. Our current basement was built in 1890, apparently when people only grew to be 4’5” tall. So I have to duck whenever I want to sneak beers in peace.

Anyhoo, Diana got the idea to dig out our basement to make it normal person sized and eventually make a kick ass playroom to sneak beers in. Digging out our basement is the awesome Tim, from Windy City Unlimited Concrete. Tim could not be more Chicago if he was constructed from parts of Mike Ditka and Dorothy Hamill (She’s way more Chicago than Capone).

Anyway, as a pure Chicago man, he feels the need to come over every once and a while to make sure as the man of the house I’m okay with his work. He’ll come over and pound on our door, crush my hand in his paw and use words I have never heard like “underpinning” and “manual labor.”

The other night, Tim was standing in our basement explaining again how this procedure will not destroy our house when Elijah came running in. I shooed him out saying, “No no no. Men talking here. Besides, it’s dirty down here. And double besides, you need to be upstairs watching Luca.”

As if on cue, Luca entered the filthy basement having freshly removed every bit of clothing I had recently applied. Luca then began a very authentic impersonation of a home inspector. Looking in corners, kicking cement, knocking on pipes. Tim didn’t miss a beat except to say, “Kids are funny,” and continued speaking contractor-ese to me.

p.s. My brother Steve wanted me to advertise his new art blog to all seven of my readers: stevehamann.blogspot.com.

TWO!

2011-11-25T07:42:00.000-08:00

On Wednesday, God gave Luca his birthday present a few days early by way of “Windy City Unlimited Concrete.” A massive cement mixer parked in front of our house. The purpose of which will be revealed in another blog post. No, it is not a full sized statue of me. Despite my lobbying. Luca and his cousin Rory sat by our front window screaming like it was Beatlemania. Luca kept shouting, “That’s crazy! That’s crazy!”

Yesterday, we took the crew out to Lisle for Thanksgiving and a mini Luca party. Diana’s dad provided the best gift of the day, a massive yard that has yet to be raked, and will not be raked this year. “I plan on letting the snow cover it,” he said proudly. The boys and their female doppelganger cousins, Sheila and Serena, jumped in massive piles of damp tree droppings.

The adult guests tried and mostly succeeded to keep the mood up, as this was out first Thanksgiving without Di’s mom. We had a lovely meal and Luca received some awesome gifts. I’ll give you a hint what they were: it rhymes with “truck.”

Luca slept so hard on the ride home that woke terrified and screaming when we unbuckled him from his car seat. His screams echoed through the house and he woke up several times throughout the night to scream. Apparently, turning his personal calendar over is painful. I completely understand as I look down the barrel of 40.

Tomorrow, we will be giving Luca an official birthday party with the Evanston crew. Elijah, and only Elijah, thinks it’s a surprise party. He keeps saying, “Let’s just tell him not true things!”

Luca, this next part is just for you.

I love you, buddy. But it’s not like you make it hard. You are simply the most loveable kid I’ve ever met. You are the funniest, happiest, kindest, cutest little boy currently residing on planet Earth. You approach everything with such glee. Running, playing, watching TV, crying. Even your screams in the middle of the night seem to come from a place of glee. As I write this, you are perched on a stool, shouting, “Help! Help!” But your shouts are nothing but gleeful.

I wish I could give you a cement truck every day of your life.

El Again

2011-11-22T07:44:00.000-08:00

Since moving back to the greater Chicagoland area, I’ve contracted a little germ phobia. Maybe it’s because I got a little too used to the sterility of Denver. But every time I hop on the subway now I get the heebie jeebies. I don’t remember the poles being so hot. And wet. I’m about five minutes away from carrying a permanent tissue in my hand.

So what better way to rid myself of this fear than take Elijah and Luca on the train? Back in the infant Luca days, Eli and I would escape the crying and boobs and ride the rails like two hobos. And what’s better than two hobos? Three hobos.

We walked to the El and I noticed how people would actually slow their cars down to check out my cute boys. I’d tell Eli and Luca to wave at them to see if they’d crash their cars.

Once we got to the El platform, I gave the rules. Rule number one: DO NOT fall onto the tracks. Rule number two: DO NOT push your brother onto the tracks.

We looked across the tracks to the Southbound line. The only other people at the Dempster stop was a dad and his son. Clearly on a crying/boob escape run.

Of course, Elijah shouted, “What are you doing?”

The dad said, “We’re riding the train!”

Eli responded, “No! You’re riding the El!”

The man shuffled his son away and our train arrived. The conductor came out and said, “Are these boys or girls?”

I thought, “Really? They’re in blue jackets and Star Wars hats.” But I let it slide because she offered to toot the horn for them.

Luca was entranced. He loved ever moment of the train. He kept looking at me dead in the eye and saying in hushed tones, “We’re riding the train…”

Eli cured my germ phobia by constantly biting the train pole. I informed him that if the train stopped short he’d get his teeth knocked out. He looked at me like, “That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

We hit the end of the line and back and I added on a trip to the pet store, where the awesome clerks brought out a giant turtle. I discovered Elijah is terrified of giant turtles.

Kiss it!

2011-11-19T12:13:00.000-08:00

I share an office with a pretty great guy whose kids are much older than Elijah and Luca. We were speaking the other day about when the constant panic of being a dad wanes. I told him I expected it to happen when Luca gets married, because then he’ll officially be someone else’s problem. Hopefully when he's 15. But my office mate assured me that his parenting sphincter loosened (maybe not his exact words) when his kids stopped falling down all the time.

Yeah, I thought. Maybe it’s his disproportionate head size. Maybe it’s his proximity to pointy things. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s a klutz. But Luca’s body is in a constant state of healing. As of this writing, he has a split lip, a scratch on his face and around thirty bruises.

There are advantages to being a klutzy almost two year old. He gets lots of kisses from his mother. At least thrice a day Luca will smash into something, like Elijah’s fist, start screaming and then find himself in the loving arms of his mother. She’ll soothe him by asking, “Shall I kiss it?”

To which he always says, “Yesh.”

Lately Luca has been skipping a few steps to save time. He’ll reach out a hurt appendage and say, “Kiss it!” Usually, this appendage is covered in Beefaroni. Or slugs. And he’ll hold it out, dripping and say, “Kiss it!”

“Do I have to?”

“Yesh!”

I can’t say no, so I try to kiss his Beefaroni finger or eyeball with as little actual contact as possible. It’s all the more difficult because I’m beginning to suspect the Beefaroni appendages aren’t actually hurt and he just wants to see if he can get me to do it.

Just know, Elijah came into the room and asked what I was doing. I said, “I am writing a story about Luca.”

“Why?”

“So I can remember the funny stuff you guys do.”

“Will you read it to me?”

So I just read it to Elijah and he simply said, “Hmmm,” and walked away.

Everybody is a critic.

WHEEEOOOOO

2011-11-17T09:10:00.000-08:00

Elijah is by no means a bad kid. He’s extremely well behaved 99% of the time. But we’re greedy, so Diana instituted a sticker behavior chart.

When Di attached it to the fridge, I was surprised by its complication. The chart was a maze of Elijah accomplishments from “Listening” to “Being nice to Luca” to “Breathing in and out.” 5 stickers would result in a trip to Target to purchase a Star Wars guy of his choice.

Because the behaviors included “Putting on your clothes” and “Trying new things,” Elijah nailed 5 stickers in about 15 minutes. So off to Target we went.

Standing in front of the Star Wars figures wall, I found myself arguing with him about what guy to buy. Luca sat patiently in the cart, wondering how he could be related to these two nerds.

Plastic figure selected, I moved on to buying something for son #2. No, he doesn’t have a sticker chart. But his cuteness alone warrants a constant stream of gifts. Besides, buying Luca a toy is like shooting fish in a barrel. Fire Trucks. End of story.

We went to the truck aisle and I handed him a few fire trucks to review. He ended up selecting a truck with little yellow buttons on the top, when depressed sound like this, “WHEEEOOOOO!”

In the vast landscape that is Target, I didn’t realize how loud this sucker is. But once we got into the car, the sound filled the tiny space with horror. WHEEEOOOOO! WHEEEOOOOO! WHEEEOOOOO! One the ride home, I kept pulling over to let emergency vehicles pass that didn’t exist.

Once we got home, I realized what a huge mistake this particular toy was. It was loud. Real loud. WHEEEOOOOO! WHEEEOOOOO! WHEEEOOOOO! Because it was so loud, Luca loved it. His tiny fingers were mashed on the yellow buttons 24 hours a day. WHEEEOOOOO! WHEEEOOOOO! WHEEEOOOOO!

But, as it turns out, tiny chubby fingers weren’t the only way to make this horrific sound. Pick up the fire truck?

WHEEEOOOOO!

Trip over the fire truck?

WHEEEOOOOO!

Look at the fire truck?

WHEEEOOOOO!

Think about the fire truck in the middle of the night?

WHEEEOOOOO!

Throw the fire truck into the garbage?

WHEEEOOOOO!

Remove the fire truck from the garbage when Luca cries?

WHEEEOOOOO!

p.s. Here’s Luca with his pal JB. They are in a fierce battle over who is the cutest baby in the world.

Fail

2011-11-14T15:00:00.000-08:00

I don’t want to be the yelling dad. I hate it when I raise my voice at Elijah, and to a hugely lesser extent, Luca. When I turn into Mad Dad I instantly regret it and feel like I’ve failed as a parent.

Which brings me to yesterday lunch.

I mentally agreed with myself earlier in the weekend to approach any and all Elijah frustrations with a Zen-like calm. Kill ‘im with kindness, I say.

I tested this approach by making both boys some of the grossest risotto in the history of the world for lunch. Before you think I am some kind of gourmet, it came from a bag, adding to its grossness. I tasted the orange (roasted butternut squash!) goo and immediately knew neither boy would consume more than a bite of it. But I was determined to expose them to food beyond macaroni and cheese, so I demanded they both eat one full spoonful before I would make them pizza.

Luca ate his spoonful with utter glee and then dumped the entire contents onto the floor for Grover. This kept Mad Dad at bay because, yes, he did technically eat one bite. Grover loved it, by the way.

One down.

Elijah took one look at the orange goo, made all the more disgusting by the fact I served it in an orange bowl, and retreated to the couch.

I quickly followed and explained the situation. He would need to eat one full bite of food in order to eat any other food for the rest of his life. Simple.

“I don’t feel good.” He made a little hugging gesture around his waist.

“Nice try. Get in there and eat one bite. Then I will make you delicious, non orange goo pizza.” I felt pretty good. He was being obstinate and whiny, but I felt completely in control.

He refused.

I calmly explained non-eating would result in me calling off our planned visit to see his cousins.

“I’m sick.”

“No you are not. Get. In. There. And Eat.” I could feel my skin turning slightly green, hulk style. But unlike David Banner, I took a deep breath and calmed down.

Rather than continue the fight on the couch, I gathered Eli up and gently placed him on his chair in front of the goo.

“One bite. That’s all I ask. Please. Then you can have a pound of pizza.”

“No.”

“One. Bite.”

“No!”

This went back and forth for a few rounds. And then I snapped like a cheap rubber band.

“Go sit on the steps!” I bellowed. I loudly proclaimed that Eli was not getting another bite of food until dinner and no one, not mommy, not Luca, not Grover, was allowed to feed him under penalty of getting some of the same yelling at Eli was experiencing.

Elijah sat on the stairs and cried. I angrily told him he was being a bad boy and was making me furious. Eli cried harder.

Eventually, I dumped the disgusting risotto down the drain and sulked. Elijah eventually came off the steps without eating and went until dinner with no additional food.

Turns out he was, in fact, sick. As a dog. As evidenced by his raging fever and stomach cramps that came on at 10pm last night.

As I smoothed his sweaty hair away from his forehead, I felt like I earned an F minus as a dad and I asked him for forgiveness. He did not grant me this. Or that’s what I could gather from his moans.

So I’ll simply attempt to raise my grade to a D this next weekend.

Photography

2011-11-12T07:50:00.000-08:00

I try not to make this a “Kids Say The Darndest Things” blog. For starters, Bill Cosby had that market covered in 1995. And if I spent all my time on this blog relaying the hilarious things Elijah and Luca say I’d be missing out on my favorite subject: me.

But today I’ll make an exception.

Last night I made it home in time to participate in crazy time. Diana and I laid in our bed and watched as Luca and Eli ran from room to room screaming and shouting and generally terrorizing Grover.

At one point, Elijah stopped short and looked at us in the bed.

“I have to get the camera.”

He arrived several seconds late with our ancient digital camera around his neck. He began to art direct us for the perfect shot.

“Turn that light off. Move over to the left.” He was practically saying “Work it…work it…”

He snapped off a few hundred shots and some of them were quite good. Diana said, “Eli, maybe you could be a photographer when you grow up.”

I immediately thought, “There’s no money in that.”

Eli looked at us and thought for a moment. He said, “No. I’ll be too busy being Luca’s dad.”

Elijah The Spaniard

2011-11-10T11:29:00.000-08:00

A quick story to begin that has nothing to do with today’s blog except for the fact it’s cute:

Diana tossed Luca into a shopping cart in the Target parking lot and they entered through the automatic glass doors. The moment they hit the red carpeting, Luca breathed deeply and sighed, “Ahh. Smells like Target.”

You’re welcome.

Anyhoo, we’re white. Really, really white. The combination of both Diana and my DNA is a black hole of pigment. This whiteness makes me I worry my sons will only have white experiences and white friends and white bread sandwiches. So whenever Elijah takes a mild interest in someone or something non-white, I overpraise to the point ruining whatever it is he was curious about in the first place.

Which brings me to Spanish.

Eli has been learning the occasional Spanish word at Pre School. When we’re driving around, he’ll say things like, “Dad. Did you know how to say ‘one’ in Spanish? ‘Uno.’”

“Oh my gosh! That’s so awesome! You know how to say ‘uno!’ That is the greatest thing in the history of the world! Uno! UNO! Wow. That’s really, really great. I hope you can use this talent with your future Latin American friends.”

Well, like any four year old whose father just spewed praise all over the back seat, he’s beun making up Spanish words to get me to say how smart he is.

“Dad, do you know to say ‘pasta salad’ in Spanish?”

“No sir.”

“Plecolatical flangol.”

“Ah. Are you sure? That doesn’t even sound Spanish.”

“Dad. Do you know how to say ‘cat’ in Spanish?”

“I know that one. ‘Gato.’”

“No, it’s ‘Plecolatical flangol.’”

“Wait, isn’t that just what you said ‘pasta salad’ was in Spanish?”

“No.”

Incidentally, Google just informed me “Pasta Salad” in Spanish is “Ensalada de Pasta.”

Late Night Luca

2011-11-09T09:40:00.000-08:00

After 4+ years, the blog has fallen into some predicable patterns. Summers are filled with stories of my intense fear of the boys near swimming pools. Spring is focused entirely on the lead up and let down of Elijah’s birthday and Winter revolves around my weepy and sappy year end notes to my family.

But Fall? Fall is all about Daylight Savings Time. This meaningless turn back of the clock never ceases to toss our family onto its ear. It always, always breaks the boys. They wake up at 4am. They sleep fitfully and angrily. They make me grouchy at new jobs.

Luca has been particularly affected this go around. Each night at bedtime, he stands in his crib shouting our names to tuck him in for the 99th time. Even Grover. He springs awake 5-100 times a night and attempts to wake up his roommate brother. All of which can be heard over the baby monitor.

“Eli! Eli! EEEEEEEEEEEEEELI!”

“Luca! Be. Quiet.”

“ELI!”

“Luca! No! Bad boy!”

After this goes on for a while, I feel compelled to save Elijah and try to get Luca back to sleep. I kind of love it, though. Oh, I try to act mad when I go in there.

“Luca. You need to go sleepies.”

“Can I watch Fireman Sam?”

But then comes the greatest part. The rocking. Even though Luca seems wide awake, he’s usually exhausted from sleeping ½ hour a night. So when we arrive at the rocking chair, he clamps onto me like one of those Kuala Bear thumb toys.

It takes about three seconds for him to fall asleep, but I like to just sit there and listen to his heavy breathing.

Baby sleep experts will tell you this is the worst thing you can do. To reset the sleep patterns, you gotta put them down to bed and walk away. Allowing a baby to be rocked in the middle of the night will create a pattern of neediness and sleeplessness that can take months to fix.

But I’m fairly sure if the experts were hugged by Luca in the middle of the night, they’d give me a pass on this one.

Night Before The New Job

2011-11-06T06:31:00.000-08:00

I officially had my first day at the new job this week. And with that comes a lot of stress. What button down shirt do I wear? The checkered one or the other checkered one? And don’t get me started on choosing those first day pair of jeans. Come in on the first day with the wrong jeans? You may as well just turn right around and go home.

So it was with these things on my mind that I bedded down on New Job’s Eve. I managed to drift off fairly easily (Thank you, inventor of Pinot Noir). However, the germs that had invaded Elija earlier collectively decided I should not have the opportunity to sleep.

I awoke at 2am to a bull seal attempting to crawl out of Eli’s throat. He was coughing so ferociously it rattled the windows. Like any caring father, I closed our bedroom door to shut out the sound. I then prayed he would remain in his bed and not want to sleep with us. The answer to my prayer came in Elijah coughing into my face.

“I’m sick,” he moaned.

“Climb aboard,” I whispered, wiping my face. As Eli nestled in, I looked at the clock. If I immediately fell asleep, I would still be 50% alive on my first day. I shut my eyes.

This is when Eli decided to put his cold feet on me. Two pieces of sashimi laid across my thighs. I whispered, “Please don’t put your feet on me. I hate that. Daddy needs to sleep or he won’t make a good impression on his first day and first impressions are the most important…”

Eli responded by coughing.

I abandoned ship, knowing I’d never sleep in the current situation. Elijah responded by rolling completely onto my side of the bed.

I was exhausted. So I stumbled into the boys’ room and crawled into Eli’s bed. Check that. I crawled into Eli's torture chamber. The rock hard mattress and sharp particle board was specifically designed by the good people at IKEA to ruin my first day at work.

I stared at the ceiling for hours, feeling the particle board dig into my calf muscles. The last time I looked at the clock, it was 5:15am. I closed my eyes. At 5:35am, Luca discovered me in his brother’s bed and began shrieking happily at this oddity.

So now I’m known at the office as the sleepy guy.

Chocolateless Halloween

2011-11-02T19:29:00.000-07:00

My brother and his Star Wars posse showed up at precisely 4:30pm. We snapped our yearly Halloween photo on the front steps, which looked like a group photo in front of Comicon, then we headed out on our official Trick or Treating route: from our house to Kitty’s house for beers.

Before we hit the first smashed pumpkin porch, we coached Elijah. “Here are your lines: ‘Trick or treat!’ Wait for the candy. Then, ‘Thank you!’ Wave to the audience and move on.”

Eli nodded his comprehension and attacked.

“Trick or treat! I don’t like chocolate!”

This little ad lib took our neighbor completely aback. A four year old who doesn’t like chocolate? Um. Isn’t chocolate the complete point of Halloween? Our neighbor peered into her plastic orange bowl.

“Well, honey. All I think we have is chocolate…”

Elijah looked at the Snickers in his hand and threw it, disgustedly back into the bowl. Life lesson time.

Eli listened intently as we explained Halloween is not a grocery store. If people were nice enough to give out candy and it happened to be chocolate, he was to say, “Thanks anyway!” and either smile and back away from the porch or take the chocolate for dada.

For the rest of the night, I took sick pleasure at watching the expressions on people’s faces when Eli informed them that he was not a fan of chocolate. A few dads rushed back into the house to find a replacement. We’d shout, “Don’t worry about it,” from the street, but some people were determined to find something, anything to give this tiny Star Wars guy. A spoon. A chicken leg. A TV remote.

Eventually, we made it to Kitty’s house.

Now, if you remember from last year, Kitty really does up her place. Spooky music. Bonfire. Hay. And she also had a battery operated zombie that caused Elijah permanent mental damage. This year, I thought, “He’s 4. He can handle a little zombie action. Hell, he’s seen countless dudes get murdered on Star Wars. What’s a little bloody grey guy?”

Um, no. As soon as Eli caught sight of the zombie, his memories from last year came flooding back and he began screaming hysterically. Spilling his non chocolate treats all over the grass.

I scooped him up and shout-whispered in his ear, “He can’t hurt you. He can’t hurt you. He can’t hurt you.”

But Eli wouldn’t listen. He shrieked until we got him safely inside Kitty’s, where I could calm myself with a Bud Light.

We asked Kitty to keep the zombie every year until Eli comes to grips with his fear. Then we will allow him to smash it with a baseball bat. That doesn’t seem like psychological abuse at all.

Allergyween

2011-10-28T07:16:00.000-07:00

Last night was Elijah’s school’s Halloween party. Eli went as Jango Fett (Star Wars bounty hunter), Luca went as the most adorable Yoda ever and I went a Darth Vader. Well, I didn’t have the helmet, so I looked more like the clone of Luke Skywalker from the book, “The Last Command”…I’ve lost you already, haven’t I?

Diana went as a hot and tolerant mom.

The party started an hour before leaving for school with the ritualistic decorating of cookies. My role was to yell at Elijah and Luca to stop eating my masterpieces. Their role was to eat everything not nailed down. Diana’s role was to make fun of my art.

Right before we left, Luca barfed. Natch.

But by the time we arrived at school, something else was up. Luca was drooling uncontrollably and was slurring his words. “Dada” sounded like “Lala” and he kept telling people he was dressed up as “Yola.” We started to panic a little that he had eaten some peanuts (for those of you not keeping track, Luca is allergic to them).

Diana started to get that look of a mom whose kid is about to go into allergic shock. She basically stood on a cafeteria table and shouted, “Is there a doctor in the house?”

I believe the man who looked at Luca was a Paleontologist. But he had a “DR” in his name, so that gave him the right to stick his fingers in my son’s mouth. He said Luca didn’t look like he was in any real danger, but we should give him some Benadryl just in case. Yeah, Benadryl. That would have made sense to have on hand with a kid who is allergic to mystery things.

I offered to run home and get some. I offered this because I did not want to be alone with a kid having an allergy attack. The idea of having to use the emergency “EPI” pen fills me with dread. But Diana was the only one who knew where she hid the Benadryl, so she took off in a panic.

I held Luca in mu lap, praying the parents would stop staring at us with concern. It was about this time I realized if this did go really south and Luca’s throat did close, the dreaded EPI pen was in the car with Diana and I’d have to perform a tracheotomy with a Capri Sun straw.

From behind me, I heard a voice. “Hey. You Darth Vader! That awesome! Hey. He Yoda! That’s awesome!” I turned and saw a kid who was clearly Autistic. That special kind of Autistic kid who loves Star Wars more than anything. It’s really the only part of Autism I understand.

I started to say, “Hey buddy, I’m having a bit of a panic attack here, “ but the Autistic kid would not be denied.

He pointed at his own shirt, which featured the Wookee, Chewbacca. “You know Chewbacca? He’s awesome. He has lots of weapons he can use to fight off bad guys and his friend is Han Solo and he’s real strong.”

I said, “Well, technically those aren’t weapons. That’s ammo for his laser crossbow…” A fresh pool of Luca drool snapped me out of my own Autistic trance.

Diana rushed in a few minutes later and we administered the Benadryl. Within minutes we were back in the business of trying to figure out how to use the restroom in our Star Wars costumes.

Milk Strike

2011-10-26T16:06:00.000-07:00

With Elijah, we were fairly strict about weaning him off pacifiers and bottles and other things he derived any and all pleasure from. It was our attempt to toughen him up to make in on the mean streets of upper middle class Evanston. And as he entered his private pre school in his $40 leather Converse sneakers this morning, I think he appreciated how tough we were.

Luca, on the other hand? Meh. He can do whatever he wants. If that means he wears rubber rain boots and a diaper to the Whole Foods, fine by me.

But he is a little long in the tooth for bottles. I’m not wild about the oral fixation-ness of it. Won’t that lead to smoking? Delicious, delicious smoking? Smoking that made you look so cool when you were 24? Man, it would be soooo great to just buy one little pack. No one has to know. One cigarette wouldn’t hurt after all these years, right? Marlboro. That was my brand. Marlboro Ultra Lights. Mmmm. Ultra.

Where was I?

Oh, yeah. Bottles. Well, we decided the best possible time to wean Luca off bottles was after uprooting him from his home, forcing him to drive across the country and sleep in a room he doesn’t remember in a house that is essentially foreign to him.

Yeah, what could go wrong? Well, he has decided, no bottle, no milk. Flat out refuses to drink milk from a sippie cup, a regular cup, a flask, an udder. Nothing. He simply looks at it like it used to taste good and says, “Baba,” in a wistful way.

I was of the mind that he would eventually come around and drink milk like a normal kid. But it’s been a long time with no vitamin D. He’s starting to get that stooped over look of those old foreign women. And I think his bones are getting brittle. I thought I heard a “crack” when I hugged him today.

Well, long story short, we’re back on bottles. Kid’s gotta have milk. I figure he can go with bottles until he’s 18. Legal cigarette age.

First Sleep Over

2011-10-22T19:28:00.000-07:00

I’m trying to come up with the specific reasons we moved back from Denver. Telling people, “Denver just felt like that friend who is really nice, really into triathlons but has no sense of humor,” just gets confused stares.

I guess one of the big reasons is we realized out there how important being close to family is to us. I really, really missed my twin brother. But I also missed my mom and dad and stepmom and non twin brothers and nieces and nephews a ton.

So on our jaunt back to Evanston, I built in a stay over with my older brother, Dave. He has a lovely family in my hometown of Normal, Illinois. We used to fight like cats and dogs as kids and had a bit of a cold relationship in our twenties. But through a lot of effort from mostly him, we’ve become pals in our thirties. To top it off, he has this awesome 5 year old kid with the equally awesome name of Fox.

As you can imagine, the second we entered the house, Fox and Elijah became best friends forever. It didn’t hurt that Fox has an arsenal of plastic guns the likes of which would never be allowed in a certain hippie woman’s house.

The boys refused to leave each other’s side all night. So when bedtime came around, the suggestion came up that the boys may want to sleep in the same room. That familiar “ding” went off in my head, “Hey…this sounds like a blog entry waiting to happen…”

We put an air mattress in Fox’s room and after a few books we said goodnight and went downstairs to watch “Extreme Couponing.” The next hour was like watching action through a strobe light. But the distance between strobes was about 10 minutes apart.

We’d sit for a while, watching coupon hoarders and then hear that telltale thump of kid activity. We’d go upstairs and catch the boys in mid-crazy. Flash, they were jumping. Flash, they were fighting. Flash, they were half out the window. But each time they got busted, their reaction was like, “Hey, it’s completely normal for a four year old and a five year old to be hanging from the ceiling.”

Eventually, we decided to cancel the sleep over and I put Eli in the guest room. Based on the complete fit both boys threw at the act of leaving each other the next morning, I still think it was a success.

The Ride Home

2011-10-20T12:52:00.000-07:00

Dear Inventor Of The Portable DVD Player,

Hi. My name is Rick. I have this blog. It’s a nice blog and once in every great while, someone reads it. The subject is my family (Hamanneggs, get it? You know, eggs?). Sometimes it’s sappy, other times it’s funny. The thing is, I prefer to write about the funny stuff. And the funny stuff that happens to my family comes in the form of disasters. You know, poop on the floor, puke in cleavage, pee in the hair. That sort of stuff.

Which brings me to why I am writing you. We recently moved back to Evanston from Denver, Colorado. By car. A four year old and a one year old trapped in a car. For sixteen hours. I was convinced those 16 hours would be good for at least thirty entries. In my mind’s eye, I saw a Subaru flying down the highway on fire, windows covered in jelly, with a dog attempting to leap from the from the trunk. Yes, the dog would be on fire.

But once we started on our journey and turned your invention on, there was nothing to write about. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Elijah and Luca sat quietly for 16 hours. Not a cry. Not a whine. Poop remained safely where it belongs. The only disaster I could see was the destruction of their attention spans from sitting in front of a video screen for 16 hours. But we won’t see the results of that for years. Years, man.

Thanks for nothing, jerk.

p.s. This is where we lived in Denver.

Dr. Hamann

2011-10-12T12:24:00.000-07:00

Over the last ten months, I’ve completely lost the ability to drink. Maybe it’s the altitude. But after a glass or two of wine, grandpa needs his nap. Thankfully, my meth addiction is going strong.

Last night, a few co-workers took me out for a goodbye beer. And at the time, I didn’t think I had that many of them. There was no lampshade atop my head. My knuckles were decidedly un-bloody. But when I woke up this morning, I had one great hangovers. My head was bounding. My stomach churned. I was covered in sweat.

And then Luca and Elijah woke up.

Now, I could’ve pawned off wake up duty on Diana. But that would have meant cashing in one of my husband chips. I don’t have that many left and I want to use it for permission to go to Las Vegas one of these days.

I managed to get milks delivered and the TV turned on without barfing. And then laid on the floor and announced that Dada was not feeling well and it would be awesome of we kept the crying and shouting and jumping on me to a minimum.

Elijah immediately took a seat on my stomach. At which point the world tilted 45 degrees and I decided it would be a great idea to stick my head into the toilet.

After spending a while thanking the porcelain, I hear the door open. Luca toddled in carrying his toy doctor kit. My heart almost exploded. What kind of almost 2 year old leaves the joy of early morning cartoons to administer medical care to his hung over dad?

He handed me the plastic stethoscope and plastic bottle of pills (there was no toy Vicodin inside, damn it) and then actually came over and gave me a hug. Not surprisingly, the hug made me feel lots better. I tried to explain to him I wasn’t actually sick and had brought this all on myself, but he kept rubbing my back and murmuring, “Dada sick…”

Diana eventually took pity on me and took over so I could take a half hour shower. I told her about her son, the most compassionate baby ever and she said, “Well, you may feel like crap but at least you’ll get a blog post out of it.”

Be Prepared

2011-10-11T10:36:00.001-07:00

Luca is obsessed with the TV show “Fireman Sam.” In his unbelievably cute halting style, he’ll tell anyone who listens, “Fireman. Sam. To. The Rescue!”

For those of you who don’t watch TV at 6am M-F, Fireman Sam is a Welsh animated series where mildly Mongoloid-ish people learn about fire safety. But Elijah and I have learned something valuable from it: Always be prepared. For Luca’s pee.

Much like the titular character, Eli and I are always poised for the announcement from the basement, “Luca went pee pee on the potty!” When those magic words come, you have to drop whatever it is you’re doing and run, don’t walk to the bathroom.

We’ve dropped full bottles of water. We’ve left stove burners on high (what would Fireman Sam say?). We’ve left Grover in mid butt scratch.

The screaming is deafening. Di, Eli and I shout our intense approval. “You went pee pee! You went pee pee!” Positive reinforcement.

Luca usually stands there, naked, with a huge grin on his face. Elijah then dramatically unveils a Thomas The Tank Engine sticker for Luca’s pee pee chart. I don’t know why Luca doesn’t get to do his own sticker, but like all Welsh Fire Fighting techniques, you don’t want to get in the way of the bureaucracy.

And then there is the ceremonial dumping of the pee from the baby potty to the toilet. My least favorite part of the program, Eli and Luca’s most favorite part of the program.

From there, it’s life as usual in the firehouse.

Cock Robin

2011-10-07T13:14:00.000-07:00

I watched a George Harrison documentary the other night and I was struck yet again by how many musical geniuses were exposed to great music when they were very young. Now, I’m not sure I want either Elijah or Luca to become musical geniuses when they get older. You know, because of the heroin. But just in case there is musical genius rattling around inside one of them I yanked the guitar off the wall.

Feel sorry for them. Feel very, very sorry for them.

I announced we were going to play some music and they needed to get some instruments. They both chose drums. Of course.

I found an ancient chord book of Children’s songs and made my way though the classics while they smashed stuff. “John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt, B-I-N-G-O, She’ll Be Coming Round The Mountain,” etc. Yeah, we weren’t nailing “Hey Jude,” but it was fun.

Elijah was the first to get bored and he yanked the chord book out of my reach and announced he was choosing the next song. He immediately picked a song called “Who Killed The Cock Robin?”

“No,” I said, “I don’t know that song and it’s creepy. And it says ‘cock.’” He was adamant about hearing who killed the drawing of the dead bird on the page.

So I made up my own version of the song, all in minor chords. It sounded like a funeral dirge.

Of course he loved it. He demands to hear “Who Killed The Cock Robin,” every time I come within 50 feet of the guitar. And now he constantly walks around the house singing:

Who killed the cock robin?
Who killed the cock robin?
“I” said the sparrow with my bow and arrow.
It was I…oh it was I.

p.s. Today's photo is another in the “Insane Clown Posse” series.

Back Trip

2011-10-05T14:10:00.000-07:00

Now that’s we’ve made the decision to move back to Chicago, which meteorologists are predicting will have the worst winter in the country, we need to figure out how to get everyone back.

If you’ve been a longtime reader, you’ll recall we did the move out here in long, drawn out stages. Di and I drove out here and then I flew to Illinois, and flew back with the boys. Yeah, that didn’t work out for me. I think I still have post traumatic stress syndrome from that flight. In fact, I think I’ve blocked most of it out from my memory. I seem to recall something about pee.

So this cross country trip, I decided to make it easy on us and propose a new plan. I suggested to Diana that she fly home with Luca and I’d drive with Elijah and Grover. I figured we should split the pain rather than double up on one parent. And I think Eli would get a kick out of seeing the vast emptiness that is the Midwest. Check that. I think Eli would get a kick out of watching 18 hours of DVDs.

Her response? No. Way. Not in a million years. Her suggestion was for me to fly with the boys and she’d drive with Grover.

Did she even hear me? I explained it again. Me go with one boy. She go with other boy. Man to man defense. Share pain. No heap pain.

Again, no way. Not going to happen. After a little digging, I discovered the root of the problem. Diana holds a massive fear of flying with children. Not a fear of flying. A fear of flying with children. Any children. It fills her with intense dread.

So I tried to figure out the story problem. If two adults and two children are crossing the country with a giant black dog, what combination is the least awful? Then I realized I was terrible at story problems and just decided to cram everyone in our Subaru and drive together.

Because what fun is visiting hell if you can’t do it as a family?

Stay tuned.

p.s. That’s a Green Bay helmet Luca has on. We need to get back to Chicago immediately.

Nighttime

2011-10-03T13:14:00.001-07:00

I have a terrible memory. I think it came from living under those powerlines for so long. Or possibly the half bottle of wine I drink ever three hours, but if you ask me what Elijah or Luca’s birthday is, I get flustered. I know one is right around Thanksgiving because he gypped me out of turkey one year. The other one is the day after my mom’s birthday, which is in Springtime. I’m 80% sure.

That’s why we have the blog. With it, I can remember important things like birthdays. But I can also remember tiny things that would get lost in the yearly shuffle back and forth to Colorado. Things like the time Eli pooped in the tub. Or when Luca pooped on the floor.

Aside from poop. I’d also like to use it to remember the heartbreakingly perfect moments of the boys’ lives. Like every night ay 10pm. It goes a little something like this.

Every night when Diana goes to bed, she asks me to take Elijah from our room into his own room (Lately Luca is too noisy at bedtime for Eli, so he’s been getting permission to sleep in our room).

I challenge you to find something more beautiful than Elijah while he sleeps. He’s usually moving too fast during his waking hours to truly appreciate how gorgeous this kid is. But I usually sit for a few seconds and just watch him breathe. I then try unsuccessfully to lift him without disturbing his perfection. There’s usually a quick twitch of terror when I lift him. His arms and hands palsy in different directions but then he realizes he’s safe. He sighs against my arms and I feel happier than I can describe here.

I carry him across the house, pausing in front of Diana so she can look at him and make a dramatic weeping face. Then I walk down the hall to his bedroom and I whisper to myself, “Ramming speed.” I hold him out in my arms and I use his little feet to push open his door. He never stirs when I do this.

I then tiptoe him across the room and put him into bed. He immediately burrows into his pillow.

After putting his blanket on, I tiptoe over to Luca and peer into his crib. He just as perfect as Elijah, but in an intensely boy way. He’s usually sprawled across the blankets like he just finished a case of beer. I watch him too, and put my hand on his stomach to make sure he’s breathing. Because I have to. I just have to.

And then I try to gently pull his blankie out of his clutches so I can cover him. He rarely lets it go without a fight. I then drape the blankie over him and tip toe out of the room and think, “I gotta remember that somehow.”

p.s. Sorry about the lack of funny in this post. As a consolation, today’s photo is Luca after he just ate a Halloween cookie. Doesn’t he look like a member of “Insane Clown Posse?”

Drummer Face

2011-09-28T16:42:00.000-07:00

A few months ago, we stumbled into our local public library looking for something to do. After a few minutes trying to find that elusive combination of Star Wars and Dump Truck book (you’re sitting on a potential gold mine, George Lucas) one of the librarians informed us there was a kids’ drum circle ready to begin next door. This, we had to see.

The drum circle dude was the most perfectly cast gentle drum circle guy ever. He stunk, of course. He had inexplicable bracelets and non-ironic peace t-shirt. And shoes which were left at home.

He did a fairly good job keeping the attention of a room full of kids who’d rather be watching Sponge Bob. And he didn’t seem to mind that not a single one could hold a beat (because he was stoned).

But I didn’t truly fall in love with his gentlemen until he taught my son how to make the “drummer face.” He described it thusly: scrunch your nose up like you smell something bad. Then nod your head “yes” and shake your head “no.” It was perfect.

Elijah has been using his newfound drummer face a lot lately. Diana and I have been having a secret battle of music in the kitchen. “Phish” vs “Wilco.” It has to be confusing to our kids. Should they love music designed for white suburban 30 somethings or Caucasian 30 somethings from the suburbs?

Neither one really blows the doors off the house. They are designed to be listened to in dorm rooms by black light.

So the other night I was flipping through my ipod and stumbled across that classic Guns N’ Roses album, “Appetite For Destruction.” Don’t ask me why it was there. I must have been angry in the recent past.

I cranked it up and said, “Who wants to learn how to rock?” Then I played that anthem of trailerparks everywhere, “Welcome To The Jungle.”

Both boys stood agape. I actually thought it was scaring them. But suddenly, Elijah broke out his drummer face and started thrashing around the kitchen. Luca immediately jumped in and they made their own little pre-school mosh pit. Grover leapt on me and humped me furiously. I imagined our landlord neighbors peeking in our windows and praying we’d leave for Evanston sooner than we said.

Once the song was over, I tried to keep the energy up with “Sweet Child O’ Mine” or “Paradise City,” but Elijah kept shouting, “No! No Daddy! Put the surprising song on again. The SURPRISING SONG!”

And then he would make is drummer face.

An Announcement From The Dog

2011-09-26T12:02:00.000-07:00

Hi guys, my dad keeps asking me to let the dog do a post. Grover’s been kind of sulky lately, but he agreed to get off the couch and write. Take it away, Grover.

Hi gang, it’s me your loveable pal Grover. Sorry I haven’t written lately. I’ve been a little depressed ever since we moved to the mountains. The Man told me I’d get to hunt and eat an elk when we moved out here. But it’s been almost year and no elk. I’m fatter than ever. And my fur is falling out. All because I haven’t been able to hunt and kill an elk. It’s really affecting me. This elk thing. Seriously, if I wasn’t going to kill an elk, what was the point of being out here?

So I convinced The Man and The Woman to move back to Evanston.

It was hard. Because I can’t speak English. I had to do it with my eyes. I sat there at The Man’s feet and stared at The Man and told him with my mind, “This Denver thing isn’t working out. You miss Evanston. I miss Evanston. You’re a Midwesterner, man. Your sons want to go back. The Woman lost her mom and she should be with her family. You’ve got that house sitting there waiting for you. And there hasn’t been a single elk that’s come through the yard for me to hunt and kill. Your brother, The Other Man Who Smells Like The Man, is there. Your friends who smell like beer and basements are there. You gave it a shot and it was fun. But it’s time to move back. Time to be where you belong. You can get a job in Chicago doing whatever it is you do. Based on your breath, I assume it has something to do with liquor. I miss the toxic waste smell of Lake Michigan. I miss the stench of pretension on your neighbors. I miss the lax leash laws.”

And then The Man stared back at me with comprehension and said to The Woman, “Do we need to feed the dog?”

Then The Woman said, “Let’s go back to Illinois.”

The Man said, “Fine by me.”

So we’re heading back home. In a couple weeks. Stay tuned.

Pee Side Chats

2011-09-22T16:01:00.000-07:00

I mentioned this last week, but Luca’s end of the night ritual is to go sit on his little potty in our bathroom. It’s awesome for a lot of reasons. For one, it’s kind of tough for him to sit down on the potty with his back to it, so he looks an awful lot like an old man easing himself into his favorite La-Z-Boy.

But the real reason I love it is the chatting.

Since Luca isn’t really sure when and if his pee will arrive, he needs to sit for a little while. To help pass the time, I sit across from him on our full sized toilet. Mostly I have my pants on. Notice how I said “mostly.” Anyhoo, we sit and we chat. Well, I ask him questions about his day and he answers. It’s more like a Letterman interview, without the snark.

“Did you play in the sandbox today?”

“Yesh.”

“Did you eat any sand?”

“Yesh.”

“Did you play trucks?

“Yesh.”

“Did you eat the trucks?”

“No-o.”

And so on and so forth. The thing is, I think he genuinely looks forward to our little chats. I know I sure as heck do. Life goes by so fast, it’s rare when we can just sit down and talk like human beings. About eating sand.

Elijah sometimes comes in to listen. But he doesn’t butt in on the conversation. He just sits on my lap and listens to Luca’s answers. He’s genuinely interested in Luca and I love him for that.

Eventually, Luca will pee or not and I’ll force him to go to bed. And then Diana and I sit in front of the TV and quietly drink wine.

I think tonight I am going to invite her into the potty for some conversation.

Jake Pt 2: The Return of Jake

2011-09-21T10:45:00.000-07:00

I was kind of surprised by the response to my “Jake” post the other week. It seems a creepy kid who walks in unannounced seems to have struck a nerve. My brother in law Michael asked me never to write about him again.

Sorry, Michael.

Elijah, Luca and I went to the park last Sunday to let Diana study for her online wine course (glug glug glug). We were playing “Chewie, punch it.” Which entails holding a kid up in the swings until he cries, “Chewie, punch it!” Then I get to make a Chewbacca sound and release them into hyperspace.

After about the 50th “Chewie, punch it,” I realized Luca had completely filled his diaper. And I didn’t have a fresh one. So I pooped on our party and declared it time to go.

We were making our way through the park when I got a sudden chill. I spun around and there he was. Jake. My new nemesis. He was huffing and puffing and looking like that special kind of dorky that accompanies wearing roller blades and a red polo shirt.

“I’ve been looking all over for you!”

“Neat, you found us,” I said unenthusiastically. I wondered how this kid knew we were at the park. Was he evil enough to read minds?

I also spotted Miss Carol, his grandmother, trailing far behind in her motorized cart.

“You made your grandma come all the way over here in her cart?”

“What a grandma will do for her grandson, huh?” She said. At which point she hit a curb wrong and pitched over onto his side. A group of Denverites lifted her back up.

I then had to break it to Jake and his grandmother that we were headed in the opposite direction, given Luca’s diaper situation. I could see the thought of rolling all the way back home cross Miss Carol’s face. So I offered to walk with her and Jake back to our street.

Elijah blurted out the words, “Jake do you want to come over to play?”

I bugged my eyes out and hissed at him, “No no no no no no no.”

But Jake was already skating towards our house. I accompanied Miss Carol back to her house and I walked in saw Diana, who was not surprised we were with Jake.

“Judas!” I shouted. She had sold our location out. Jake ran off to play with Elijah. But he somehow found it necessary to remove his pants while he played.

I decided it was a perfect time for a beer.

Tacos

2011-09-16T08:03:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the short post today, but the following articulates exactly why I love being a dad:

Diana, Elijah and Luca were driving across town to pick me up after work last night. Elijah was most likely peppering Diana with constant questions about how to kill different Star Wars characters. Suddenly, the following exchange occurred:

Eli shouted, “Mom! Mom! Smell the air! Smell the air!”

Diana looked in the rearview mirror and said, “Eli, did you toot?”

Elijah began laughing uncontrollably. He had nailed the greatest four year old’s joke in the world. The car had almost calmed down when Luca piped up, enthusiastically.

“It smells like tacos!”

I believe it took everything in Diana’s power not to crash the car from laughing so hard.

Jake

2011-09-15T11:42:00.000-07:00

I spent a good deal of Sunday with Elijah at a birthday party. He was a complete joy the whole afternoon. The fact he got to spend 2 hours in a bouncy castle may have helped his demeanor. But I arrived home pleased as punch.

We burst through the front door and shouted for Luca and mommy, and there was a five minute running and jumping fest.

Suddenly, something felt a little off. There seemed to be too many of us. So I counted kids. 1. 2. 3. Three kids? I could’ve sworn we stopped at 2. So I counted again, thinking I was mistaking a black dog for a boy.

Nope. There was an extra boy in our house. I gestured to the new boy and Diana said, “How did Jake get in here?” The new boy had a name. Jake. And apparently Jake had followed Eli and me into the house. Walked right on in, unannounced. According to Di, Jake lives down the street with his grandmother, Miss Carol. And he likes to walk into our house. He stood there mouthing a fudgesicle and I got a little creeped out.

I volunteered to take Luca to the store and get dinner. Mostly to get away from Jake. As I exited the house I found Miss Carol on our front porch. Miss Carol is very, very old. And it clearly took a lot of effort for her to get to our house.

“Is Jake here?”

“Yeah, he just walked right in, Miss Carol.” I then offered her to come in and sit down for a spell. She refused, and began to make her way back to her house, content that her breaking and entering grandson was safe at our place.

Luca and I spent a lot of time at Whole Foods. I was trying to calculate how long Jake would stay at our house.

When we arrived home, Jake and Miss Carol were standing on our front lawn, having an argument. Miss Carol was trying to get him home for dinner with his mother. But Jake was not having it.

“I am going to eat at Eli’s!”

Oh really? I wasn’t aware of that. Knowing Diana’s feelings about Jake, I was sure Diana wasn’t aware of it.

“You can’t invite yourself over to people’s houses for dinner, Jake!” Miss Carol was at the end of her rope.

I peered into our grocery bag and said, “Oh sorry Jake. I didn’t get any extra food. Maybe next time. See you on the flip flop.”

At this point, Jake was on the phone with his mother, explaining that he was not going to eat with her and would be dining with the Hamanns. I bid Miss Carol a fond adieu and carried Luca into the house.

As I cooked dinner, I could see out our front window. Jake was sitting on a limb in our front yard tree. He was staring into our house.

I did what any red blooded American would. I closed our shades and went back to cooking.

First Pee Pee

2011-09-13T08:47:00.000-07:00

I did it! I finally saw a first! Luca’s first pee pee in the potty! I’m the greatest dad in the world!

Last night, I was in charge of getting the kids put to bed while Diana took an online wine course. I assume it involved sitting in front of Facebook and pounding half a bottle of Cabernet.

After the third reading of “Knuffle Bunny,” (Luca is one of those kids who inexplicably love to read the same book over and over) I declared it time for bed. Luca did not share my desire for him to go to bed, so he scrambled to find an excuse, any excuse to stay up.

“One more bookey! Knuffle Bunny!”

“Ah, no. It’s nigh nigh time, pal.”

Luca scanned the room for something else. “Ba ba!”

“Nice try. You drank your bottle.”

Then the little light went off in his head. “Pee pee on the potty!”

Ahh, checkmate. He’d actually done this several nights in a row. He goes into our bathroom, sits on the little plastic toilet in the corner with an awesome grin on his face and then leaps up after not actually doing anything. It’s just a brilliant way to stay up for five more minutes.

So, of course, I carried him into the bathroom and sat him down. He stared at each other, knowing full well this was another put on. But then…

PEE! Glorious pee. The first pee. Pee numero uno! I got to see it! I wasn’t in a meeting or on an airplane or typing something. I was there. I was there. The cat wasn’t in the cradle. For once!

I think it surprised him more than it did me. He looked down with genuine surprise. I grabbed him and made a huge, huge deal about it. Twirling him and shouting. Elijah, who enjoys pandemonium off all kinds, ran into the room and began screaming.

After the crazy died down and after Luca went to bed, Diana came down from her computer. I was disappointed she wasn’t drunk. But I told her the great news: first pee pee on the potty.

She burst into tears.

The Beautiful People

2011-09-12T15:25:00.000-07:00

It’s too bad this blog will prevent any chance Elijah has of becoming an elected official. Because he makes friends. He’s good at it. When he started pre-school in Denver, it wasn’t a question of if, but how many friends he’d accumulate.

Now that we’re a few weeks in, I’ve been asking, “Who are your friends at school?” His crew is a girl named India, a boy named Jacob and a girl with a name that sounds like Giselle. And it’s a pretty tight knit group. Every night I ask who he played with at school, and every night the answer is India, Jacob and the girl whose name sounds like Giselle.

Last Wednesday, I asked again and again the same three kids came up. Diana, who seemed to have been waiting for that question all day said, “Why don’t you ask him why he only plays with India, Jacob and the girl whose name sounds like Giselle?”

“Because they are beautiful!” Elijah chirped.

Whoa whoa whoa. Aside from the fact he refers to people as “beautiful,” Eli limits his playmates to only the beautiful kids in class? He nodded his head in the affirmative. Doesn’t want to play with the non-beautiful kids? Again, an affirmative.

For a second, I thought, “That’s great. He’s one of the beautiful kids. According to the New York Times, the beautiful people make more money, they’re more successful and they have much better after prom parties.

But then I realized that I may not qualify to be his friend. So it was life lesson time.

“You know, Eli. Just because someone is beautiful doesn’t mean they’re cool. Non-beautiful people can be really cool. In fact, I would guess non-beautiful people are way cooler than beautiful people. Because they have to try harder.”

“But I just like beautiful people better.”

“Why?”

“Because they are beautiful.”

Ugh. I then began a fierce nagging campaign him to make friends with non-beautiful people. When he finally begged me to stop, I knew I had made my point.

And Friday when I asked him who he played with he said, “Dad! There was a boy named Zac who was playing in the sandbox and Zac was not beautiful and I said, ‘Zac, can I play with you?’ and he said, ‘Yes,’ and I played with him.”

I praised him on behalf of non-beautiful people everywhere

Acul

2011-09-08T13:19:00.000-07:00

Finally! Luca finally did something naughty! I was beginning to worry about the kid. He’s so…sweet. By this time with Elijah, we had already named his evil doppelganger, “Hajile.” When Eli was almost 2, Hajile was toppling bookshelves, yanking his diaper off and whizzing all over everything that wasn’t nailed down.

Luca, is much more mellow (by the way, God. I owe you one). He would just rather lie on the floor and play fire trucks than cause me or Diana even the slightest bit of despair.

So imagine my surprise to hear Elijah running through the house shouting, “Luca did something bad! Mom! Dad! Luca did something really, really bad!”

I decided not to get into the whole tattletale thing with Eli because I was overwhelmed with curiosity. Eli led us to our guest room and Diana gasped. Elijah had drawn all over our white pleather couch with a red marker. Wait a minute. I just wrote “Elijah” out of habit. LUCA had drawn all over our white pleather couch with a red marker.

He had also drawn all over his tummy with a red marker, which was beyond cute. But the pleather couch was bad bad naughty.

“No no no, Luca! Bad boy!” The words felt new and exciting coming out of my mouth. Luca began to wail. I was getting kind of a kick out of it. But I could see Diana’s brain pot begin to boil, so I ushered Luca out of the room.

Luca looked at me and said, “I want to sit on the steps.”

“Good idea,” I said.

Luca dutifully sat on the punishment steps and I returned to the room. Diana was cleaning off the couch. Thankfully, Luca had used baby markers that easily wash off. He would live.

By then, Luca had returned from the steps. Apparently 1 minute was punishment enough. Elijah protested, “Hey! Luca got off the steps. He’s in trouble!”

I explained that he was too young to really grasp the concept of the steps, but I was sure he felt bad about his transgression.

We placed the markers out of reach and I took the boys downstairs. I could have sworn I saw a change in Luca’s face. A sense of satisfaction. Maybe “Acul” was born.

Drive

2011-09-06T12:39:00.000-07:00

Part of why we moved out here to the mountains was to give our sons actual experiences. I wanted to create monumental events that would burn into their brains, leaving them forever changed. Hiking mountains. Punching Black Bears. Shooting Native Americans.

The reality is we still live in a city and I work a job that takes me away from my family for days and weeks at a time. And the epic, live changing events I imaged are harder to come by when one member of the family needs to sleep 2-4 hours during the day. We’ve spent more time at the Denver city zoo than any mountain. By far. I’m not sure if that bothers me or not. It’s just not what I planned.

I found myself rolling these thoughts around in my head while I was driving Elijah home from King Soopers Saturday afternoon. The radio was on and Garrison Keillor was recounting the days before ipods and Facebook, when a great afternoon meant standing on your dad’s lap, steering the car while he drank a beer.

I suddenly remembered Saturday afternoons with my dad when he would take us out driving in the country. I don’t recall a beer in his hand, but I think he was smoking cigarettes at the time. But I remember steering his old beat up yellow car as one of the great moments of my childhood.

I immediately swerved off Alameda and into a massive church parking lot. I turned around to Eli, who was cramming Skittles into his face, a reward for not making my life miserable in King Soopers.

“Eli. How would you like to drive the car?” He looked at me like I was nuts.

“How?”

“I’ll do the pedals and you steer the wheel. You can stand in my lap.”

His eyes lit up and he crawled across the front seats. I suddenly had a powerful desire for a beer. Or a cigarette. And I let my foot off the brake and put the car into my 4 year old’s hands.

And for about ten minutes, I thought Eli was making an actual memory. I knew I was.

p.s. This photo of Luca’s butt has nothing to do with driving my car. But it is just as awesome.

Boba Fett

2011-09-01T16:02:00.000-07:00

It’s been a while since we’ve talked about Star Wars here at HamannEggs. Mostly because I’m the only one in the house that still loves it. Let’s me re-phrase that. I’m the only on in the house who plays Star Wars correctly.

Allow me to explain.

Last night, Elijah and Luca were in a nice warm bubble bath. Luca had just finished whizzing all over his brother and the subject of playing Star Wars guys came up.

“Let’s get it on!” I shouted.

Luca chose Darth Vader, because that’s the only guy he knows by name. “Darth Vader Darth Vader Darth Vader.”

I tried to choose Boba Fett, but Elijah demanded he get to play with him. For those of you who don’t know who Boba Fett is, you have my sincere sympathy. But he’s this really tough bounty hunter who all nerds wish they could be when they grow up.

Anyhoo, Eli chose Boba and I chose an evil Storm Trooper. And then we started playing. Here’s Elijah’s take on Star Wars.

Cunning Boba Fett was afraid to go swimming in the swimming pool. And he needed his friend, The Storm Trooper, to hold his hand and tell him everything was going to be okay.

I kept trying to steer the conversation back to Star Wars Cannon. “Boba Fett! Let’s uh, stop holding hands and go kill us some rebels!”

“But I’m scared of the pool and bubbles are scary and I want you to hold my hand so I’m not scared anymore.”

“As you wish.”

Water

2011-08-31T09:34:00.000-07:00

The whole concept of a glass of water on the bedside table was completely foreign to me before I met Diana. I was simply used to a constant low grade dehydration all the time. Keeps the skin nice and brittle.

Elijah has fallen into the bedside water routine as well. In fact, if you toss him into bed and he doesn’t have a full glass of water, it gives him a great excuse to sneak out and watch you watch “The Wire” on DVD and drink wine. When busted for spying, he throws the blame on his waterless bedside.

But here’s the thing. The kid is a water magician. Over the course of one night, he can turn 7 ounces of fluid into several gallons. Every morning his diaper weight roughly 40 pounds. Not to mention a completely sopping wet bed. Every. Morning.

Yesterday morning, Luca was engaging in his usual early morning crib-side chats about Thomas The Tank Engine and Elijah decided to sleep on the daybed outside our bedroom. I awoke to Eli shouting, “Dad! I peed on the daybed! And on my pants! And on my shirt!”

Sure enough, I stumbled out to find him swimming in his own liquid waste.

So last night, I decided in my head that we were putting an end to the nighttime water. I got him dressed in his pjs, read some books and then announced “nighty night” and closed the door.

Diana had already popped the cork and we flipped on the TV. We were ten minutes into the Baltimore drug scene when we heard a door creak. Tiny footsteps announced his arrival.

“Daddy, you forgot my water.”

“No. We aren’t doing waters anymore. It makes you pee pee too much at night. We’re taking a break.”

I have never seen a sadder face in my life. Remember that scene at the end of “Raiders of the Lost Ark?” When the Ark of the Covenant melted all those Nazis' faces? That’s what it looked like. He was horrified and mortified. Huge tears streamed down his face. He wept the tears of a boy deprived of life giving water.

I told him to knock it off and go to bed.

But I couldn’t get that little sad face out of my head. All night the Ark of the Covenant melted his little face in my brain. Finally, I relented and placed a half full glass of water at his bedside.

This morning his bed was dry.

p.s. Sorry this was a light month for posts. August was busy at work. I promise more stupidity in September.

Puking Crazies

2011-08-29T14:13:00.000-07:00

With Elijah, we called them “Naked Crazies.” That hour between taking a bath and hitting the crib were all bets are off. Running, falling, laughing, jumping, kicking, screaming.

And with Luca, puking.

Luca gets so amped up during Naked Crazies that he’s taken to emptying the contents of his stomach all over the floor. Or all over Grover. Or all over Diana’s cleavage. It never seems to bother him all that much. He just shouts, “Puke!” and keeps running. Eli loves to see Luca puke to no end. He treats his younger brother like shaken up Budweiser can. And as soon as Luca pops, he screams with delight.

After the 5th or 6th night in a row of Puking Crazies, we decided to put a stop to it. We declared a moratorium on all running, chasing, bed jumping, etc. Basically, fun of all kinds was banished. From now on, the only things legal to do in our house after 7 are sitting quietly, reading, sipping warm milk and telling mommy she looks pretty.

But the Puking Crazies aren’t something you can simply regulate out of existence. Elijah and Luca treat their puke inducing fun as contraband. They wait until we walk out of the room and break out the insanity in small, intense batches. They scream and chase each other until we come rushing back into the room, scolding. Then they try to play it cool, pretending they were having a Shakespeare discussion. But it’s hard to cover up a massive pile of second hand milk.

Elijah spends a lot of time on the steps. We’ve threatened him with having to clean up the mess himself, but we think he’d enjoy sipping carpet cleaner too much.

Sceered

2011-08-25T17:23:00.000-07:00

When you look across the great genetic bouillabaisse that is your kid, you hope they get the stuff you like about yourself (ability to grow a fantastic beard) and you hope they skip the stuff you don’t really care for in yourself (beard that starts just below the eyeballs).

And for the most part, I think Elijah and Luca have lucked out in the DNA department. They have my baby blue eyes. They have Diana’s beauty. My love of Star Wars and Diana’s love of wine. I assume.

However, Luca seems to have inherited my childhood skittishness. Eli, as you well know, has no fear. There is not a stranger who can’t be talked to or a diving board that can’t be leapt from. But Luca, he’s a scaredy cat.

He gets that from me. I was a petrified little kid. I would vomit at the idea of going to Kentucky Fried Chicken with my grandparents. And not because of the idea of eating Kentucky Fried Chicken. Steve and I used to hide in our basement, huddled together protecting ourselves from dangers that never seemed to exist.

More times a day than I care to admit, he’ll look at you with pleading eyes and say, “I sceeeered, daddy.”

I’ll say, “What are you scared of, Luca?”

“People.”

Ugh. I’m hoping this is a phase. Or an attention getting device. Or something we can give him a DNA transplant for. And I did grow out of my sacredness and can, on occasion, eat at a KFC.

So when he says, “I sceeeered, daddy,” I say, “That’s okay. You can be scared. Daddy won’t let anything ever happen to you.”

And you know what? It kind of works. And I love that it works.

Love and Bagels

2011-08-18T07:48:00.000-07:00

Elijah has a full blown case of Girl Crazy. He loves girls. L-O-V-E-S them. And he is very vocal about it. But not all girls, however. He’s picky about who he loves.

There is an Old Navy commercial out right now with three unbelievably hot women (they may actually be teens, but who can tell?) dancing in a bowling alley. Eli will point to the screen and say, “I love that one and that one, but NOT that one.”

“Are you nuts? They’re all crazy hot.”

“I don’t love her,” he said matter of factly.

He’ll pick out female characters in his books that he loves more than others. For instance, in the book where the animal kids earn money to go on a field trip, he loves the girl fox (natch) but not the girl badger.

He will also pick out women on the street he loves.

“Daddy! I love her.” And he can’t really articulate why. Is her boobs? Is it her hair? Her boobs?

“I just love her.”

He fell madly in love with a girl at Einstein Bagels who was sitting on the other side of a plate glass window. She noticed he was staring at her and began flirting with him through the glass. He completely freaked out and hid. I encouraged him to go over to her and express his love. He balked. Because he’s a Hamann.

And the other week, we were pulling into a parking spot at Whole Foods when Eli proclaimed, “Daddy! I love that lady in the car!”

I looked to the car next to us and saw a woman in her late 40s who could hardly be described as love at first site material. Seizing an opportunity, I leapt out of our car and pantomimed for the woman to roll her window down.

“Excuse me. But see that little boy in there? He just told me he was in love with you. I thought you’d like to know.”

The woman was far more touched than I thought she’d be. She blushed and meekly waved at Eli and drove off with a massive smile on her face.

Eli was mortified.

Locked

2011-08-15T08:21:00.000-07:00

And now, I present the soon to be classic HamannEggs story, “The Time Diana Locked Luca In The Car.”

In the Denver Botanical Gardens parking garage, Diana found herself contemplating the sheer amount of crap you have to cart around when you’re out and about with two kids. She saw the stroller, the sippie cups, the purse, the diaper bag the snacks the kids the grappling hooks and the box of grenades and thought, “Too much.”

So Diana tossed the diaper bag into the trunk and closed it. Roughly 0.558 seconds after doing this, she realized her keys and cell phone were in the diaper bag, now locked in the car.

Oh yeah, and Luca.

For those of you who believe in heaven and hell, make no mistake you better be nice and pray a lot because if you go to hell when you die, it will be Lower Level 1 of the Denver Botanical Gardens parking garage.

Seeing the look of utter horror that crossed his mother’s face, Luca knew something was up and started to howl. Now keep in mind, we paid big money to have our windows tinted a year ago. So while Luca could see his mother’s panic, Diana couldn’t see into our car.

Diana tried to Get Luca to unlock the car from the inside, but he was strapped into his seat (stupid well constructed child safety products).

Luckily, a woman happened to be passing by and Diana begged her to use her cell phone. The woman said, “You should really invest in On-Star.” I’m not sure what happened next, but I think Diana murdered her.

The woman gave up her cell (since she was presumably murdered), but THERE WAS NO CELL SERVICE IN THE PARKING GARAGE. So Diana had to leave Luca and walk up to street level to make the call.

CUT to me in a plush editorial suite across town complaining about the quality of their free snacks. I saw a strange number on my cell and opted to answer it.

A voice that sounded like a robotic version of my wife was on the line. “Be quite and listen to me. This is an emergency…”

Roughly 30 seconds later I was screaming across Denver in a borrowed Mercedes SUV. I made it to the DBG and realized I had no idea where they were. So I slowly crawled around the garage hitting the unlock button on my key fob and swearing loudly.

Eventually, I ran across Elijah slumped over a stroller and Diana shout-singing the “Bob The Builder” theme song into our back window.

I popped the lock and Luca was extracted. He was soaking wet and covered in a hysteria induced rash. Diana covered him in smooches and he wept, “Push elevator buttons?”

Diana said, “Yes, sweetheart. You can push all the buttons you want.”

Elijah said, “But I WANT to push the elevator button.”

Best Day

2011-08-09T10:20:00.000-07:00

Dear Luca,

There will come a time, years from now when you’ll be asked a simple question. The question will most likely be posed after you’ve had three beers. Probably you’ll be sitting on a couch.

The question is, “What was the best day of your life?”

Now, you may be tempted to say something about a baseball game or a day you met a girl (or boy, no judgment) or a day you took drugs and saw a jam band.

But you will be wrong. Your best day was August 4th, 2011. Case closed.

Allow me to prove my point. Luca, you are one of those boys who love construction equipment. If it is yellow and moves earth of some kind, you love it. You have a set of yellow plastic loaders and dump trucks (dumb f*cks) that never leaves your side. You say goodnight to your construction equipment before bed. There is a book about diggers that you’ve forced me to read so often that I now know it by heart (A digger can dig a very big hole. A digger has a arm with two parts, the boom and the dipper…)

But your true favorite of the construction vehicles is the Backhoe Loader. The Backhoe loader is all you talk about. All you think about. You say the words “Backhoe Loader” so often, the words have morphed into a new word, “Backaloader,” which sounds an awful lot like “Baklava.”

On Thursday morning, August 4th, 2011, a trailer arrived in front of our house. Riding on the back of this trailer was, you guessed it, a Backaloader. When this fact was pointed out to you, you literally pooped your pants with excitement.

For the next 4 hours, you stood on our front porch shouting, “Backaloader!” and jumping up and down while clapping your hands. You watched the Backaloader do whatever it is they do with more awe than if a dinosaur suddenly appeared in our yard.

Eventually, the men and the Backaloader left and you spent the rest of the day asking, “Where backaloader go?”

Also making August 4th, 2011, the worst day of your life.

High Chair

2011-08-05T11:51:00.000-07:00

For the last couple of weeks, Diana has been suffering through a disturbing trend with Luca. The minute she turns her back on him when he’s eating, his high chair tray crashes to the floor. BAM! Food everywhere. Grover pounces, Diana scolds and Luca cries.

And the funny thing is, Diana couldn’t figure out how he did it. She’d jiggle the tray, Yank on it and shake it and it would stay locked in place.

But every night for weeks, as soon as Diana leaves the room to check email or answer the phone…BAM! Tray hits the floor. Grover pounces, Diana scolds and Luca cries.

Diana got to the point where she was seeking council from Elijah to see if he knew what was going on. Eli would just shrug and say, “Luca is doing it.”

Sick and tired of cleaning up yogurt and spaghetti, Diana called the manufacturer of the high chair for advice. They asked for 100 photographs to cover their legal butts and asked for $100 for replacement parts.

Diana then began the creepy process of finding a new high chair on Craigslist. But before she made the probably fatal mistake of visiting a Craigslist seller’s house, she just had to know how Luca was unlocking a tray that baffles his 39 year old father.

So she served up the boys a big plate of, oh let’s say spaghetti, and made a big show of leaving the room.

“Whelp, that’s all for me. Going to leave the room now. Not going to spy on you at all. Do whatever it is you do when you’re alone. Bye now! Bye bye!”

Then she stomped her feet in decreasing intensity and then quickly ducked behind the wall. And began spying.

This is what she saw:

Elijah looked around to see if the coast was clear. And then he (I am not making this up) literally tiptoed across the room to Luca’s tray. Then he quickly unhooked the tray and dumped it onto the ground.

“MOM! Luca dumped his tray on the ground!”

Diana leapt up and shouted, “A-HAH!” Busted. Busted. Busted.

Needless to say, he lost his screen privileges.

Play Thomas

2011-08-02T19:50:00.000-07:00

Our Illinois turned Colorado friends Jimmy and Liz are great friends. They’re incredibly kind. They’re funny as heck. They have good taste in friends. But they’ve introduced an evil into our house than I will never, ever forgive.

Thomas The Train (Insert evil dramatic music here).

One day I was minding my own business, playing Star Wars guys and talking about Star Wars and praising my children for mentioning Star Wars. The next day, there was a massive box in our basement filled with literally hundreds of Thomas The Train things. Tracks. Battery operated Engines. Bridges. Those circles where the train turns around and goes the other way.

It completely blew Elijah and Luca’s mind. But mostly Luca’s mind. Almost immediately, Luca began a constant plea to “Play Thomas?”

“Play Thomas? Play Thomas? Play Thomas? Play Thomas?”

It kind of screwed up my morning routine. My normal morning ritual is to change diapers, shove milk into face holes, turn TV on and enter that place of consciousness just above complete sleep.

Now, when I normally should be mostly sleeping, I hear a tiny voice plead, “Play Thomas, daddy? Play Thomas?”

I tried encouraging Luca to play by himself, leaving Elijah and I to bask in the glow of Fraggle Rock. But a couple things stood in my way.

First, the battery operated trains make a “tick tick tick tick” sound that burrows directly into my brain. Even from two rooms away, it’s as if Thomas’ little friends were nailing railroad spikes into my eyes.

And second, Luca can’t keep Thomas from hurting him. At least once a day, Luca will stick a battery operated Thomas into his beautiful brown hair. The little battery operated gears keep moving until they are completely filled with beautiful brown hair.

Scream scream scream. Yank yank yank. Snip snip snip.

So it’s far better for me to lay on Luca’s floor and moan while Luca points and shouts, “Thomas! Look! Thomas!”

I’ll get you, Jimmy and Liz. Oh, yes. I’ll get you.

The Haunting

2011-07-31T12:58:00.000-07:00

Our number one goal when Diana’s mom passed away was to get Diana to Illinois as soon as humanly possible. My boss, one of the few of the breed with an actual functioning heart, immediately gave me time off from work to be with Elijah and Luca while we prepared for our own trip.

I dropped Eli off at “Dinosaur Camp,” where they teach you how to take a beating from jocks in high school.

Then Luca and I drove around Denver trying to locate Grover’s doggy boarding place, which was both more luxurious and more expensive than the hotel we booked in Illinois. At one point, I realized I was on the exact wrong side of the city than “City Bark.” I slammed my fist on the steering wheel, expressing several emotions of the day, and shouted, “DAMN IT!”

From just behind me I heard a little gleeful voice chirp, “Damn it damn it damn it damn it…”

Later that evening, I slipped into our bed, exhausted from surviving the stuff Diana does every day of the week. Elijah was sleeping in there. His bonus for Diana being out of town.

I watched him breathe, hair splayed at impossible angles and was overcome with love for him. I smoothed his hair away from his forehead and he moaned, pathetically.

Trying to comfort him, I put my hand on his chest to let him know he was safe. He thrashed his hands out, defensively.

He was having a nightmare. I moved my hand to his, and gently squeezed. You’re okay. You’re okay. He cried out in terror.

Then a little voice in my head said, “It’s you that’s causing his nightmare, you idiot.”

Oh, yeah. My fingers in his hair must have felt like a giant spider laying eggs on his head. My hand must have felt like a goblin sitting on his chest. And my hand in his must have felt like, um, the soft hands of a man who has never worked a day in his life. Aaargh!

Diaper Flight

2011-07-28T15:55:00.000-07:00

Luca, Elijah and I entered the airplane that would take us to meet their mommy in Chicago and I hoisted the carseat up, rendering both my boys invisible to me. After much cat wrangling, I found our row and discovered that our seats were the center three in a five seat row. Which meant one unlucky traveler on either side of us.

Next to Elijah was a guy clearly suffering from a massive hangover. He begged the flight attendant for aspirin while Eli discovered the joys of flicking the overhead light on and off. Next to Luca, a traveling salesman who was desperate to talk to anyone. Luckily, he got to spend two hours listening to a constant refrain of, “Airplane! Right there!” and “Thomas! Train!”

I hunkered down, realizing I was essentially trapped.

As we taxied, Elijah shouted, “Daddy! I have to pee pee!” I thanked my lucky foresight to clad Eli in diapers.

“Let it flow, buddy. Let. It. Flow.”

Eli thrust out his hips and made that face Steve Martin made when he played Ruprecht in the film “Dirty Rotten Scoundrels.”

For the next two hours Luca slept and Eli watched DVDs, drank apple juice and urinated in his diaper constantly.

We landed at O’Hare after ten minutes of Luca shouting, “What’s Dat?” and me whispering, “The landing gear.”

Once the bell dinged twice, Eli unbuckled his seatbelt and stood to stretch. I looked over and gasped. Eli’s diaper must have reached saturation somewhere over Iowa. His seat was completely soaked.

And yet, I somehow found it logical to become angry with Eli.

“Look what you did!”

“You told me I could pee pee!”

“No I didn’t.” I was now a liar and a bad parent.

I sat him back down in his seat to cover the now stinking evidence. I had to plan our escape.

I waited until the plane had almost entirely emptied and then I made our move.

“Go! Go! Go!” I shouted and shoved them into the aisle. The boys were so excited by my urgency that they ran at top speed and I began to lose track of them.

“Freeze!” I shouted. They took this as a message to run faster.

Luckily, a flight attendant stepped into the aisle to run interference.

“Please stop them,” I pleaded.

“Oh my, look at those blue eyes,” She said as she scooped Luca up.

She made a face and said, “Oh, this one is wet.”

I grinned and guided my two adorable Ruprechts onto the jet bridge.

Grandma Sheila

2011-07-21T16:22:00.001-07:00

Diana’s mother Sheila passed away yesterday morning. After a five year fight against cancer, she finally let go. She was at peace and thankfully pain free.

This thing I write is about sons and fathers. But it’s about mothers, too. And there has never been a mother quite as wonderful as Sheila. In all the years I knew her, I never heard her say a negative thing. Ever. It just wasn’t in her nature. Even towards the end, when the disease had her firmly in its grasp, she couldn’t bring herself feel anything but completely alive.

Diana said it best, “The world is a decidedly less sparkly place without her.” She was right. There was something so…sparkly about Sheila. She was bright and funny. Gorgeous and kind. Sheila had a grace about her that seemed almost out of place today. When she burst into a room and chirped, “Bonjour!” you’d swear it was Audrey Hepburn handing you a glass of Champagne.

She leaves behind thousands of students who secretly wished she were their mother. And she leaves 5 kids who were lucky enough for it to be true.

Luca and Elijah both had the gift of saying goodbye to her when we visited last month. They were both sweet and beautiful and heartbreaking. Luca couldn’t possibly know the gravity of what was happening. And yet, he toddled over and grabbed her fragile hand dangling over the hospital bed. And he kissed it.

I’m going to take a short break from the blog while we head to Illinois for a few days. Do me a favor while you wait for us to get back to poops and summer camp. If you still have a mom who is alive, give her a call and tell her you love her.

F Minus

2011-07-18T13:16:00.000-07:00

I finally figured out what makes Luca angry. What turns our otherwise peace loving blue-eyed wonder into a raging lunatic: learning. He hates it. He bucks off your lap the minute you break out any 1-2-3 or A-B-C book. He’ll gladly tell you trees are green and fire trucks are red. Unless that is, of course, you ask him what color a tree or fire truck is. You’ll get a big pile ‘o nothing for that. Or if you’re lucky, a hissy fit.

Which brings me to yesterday. At 9:30am, we found ourselves in the parking lot of Denver’s Jewish Community Center readying our boys for swimming lessons. Nope. No JCC jokes. It’s awesome and kick ass. Case closed. Sorry, Anti Semites.

Elijah was fighting off a summer cold and was being kind of a pill. He was whining about not wanting to do swimming lessons and claiming he would cry as soon as he hit the water.

Diana asked him, “Do you want mommy or daddy to go to your lessons?”

I prayed, “Say mommy say mommy say mommy say mommy…”

He whined, “I want mommy.”

YES! I looked at Luca in the rearview mirror and imaged our awesome swim lesson. I imagined us playing Chicken with the other toddlers and parents. I imaged us doing back flips off the high dive. I imagined us politely refusing to rub suntan lotion on the other moms.

The very second we entered the pool, Luca began to cry. Huh? Wait. My swim fantasy did not include him crying. Luca spent the next 8 hours (it felt like 8 hours) flat out refusing to do anything the nice swim instructor asked. Kick your legs? Nope. Float on your back? Nu uh. Sing aqua related tunes? Pass. I looked with semi panic at the other toddlers retrieving bricks off the bottom of the pool, blindfolded

The only thing he did do was dunk his head under the water. Because I dunked his head under the water without his permission. The swim instructor seemed pleased with my attempted drowning of my son and let us go for the day.

Meanwhile, Elijah was gleefully swimming and singing and jack-knifing at the other end of the pool. Diana gave me the “thumbs up.” I held up a snotty, weeping Luca in response.

Real Bed

2011-07-14T13:33:00.000-07:00

After sleeping in the bitterly ironically named “Pleasure Way” for several nights, I was more than a little happy to cruise with the boys down to Peoria to visit my folks in Peoria.

They had quite a bit planned for us. Deer sausage eating. Jelly bean eating. Cousin Chasing. Chex Mix eating.

But I’ll admit I was most excited about sleeping in a non-van bed. Aside from actual sheets and pillows, my stepmom Connie puts bottled water on the bedside table like a fancy hotel. As someone who stays in fancy hotels semi frequently, I appreciate this small touch.

After a long day of snake fireworks and water balloons (my brother Luke nailed Steve’s son Finn in the face with a million to one shot), I threw Luca into my dad’s ancient crib and threw Elijah into the big hotel bed.

I whispered in his ear, “I’ll come back up and sleep with you after I deplete grandpa’s wine supply, honey.”

I sat with the adults and chit chatted and watched my favorite show, “Local Peoria News.” Eventually, Steve and Pam announced they were heading to bed. Seconds later, Steve came back to the room.

“Your boys are screaming.”

I ran upstairs and, sure enough, both Luca and Elijah were bawling their eyes out. I wasn’t surprised. If one goes, they both go. I started my consoling with Luca. Within seconds he was pacified with a pacifier and was out cold. Eli was still howling.

I went to the bed and picked him up. He was soaking wet. I placed my hand on the bed. Also soaking wet. And then I found the culprit. Eli had poured the entire contents of the fancy hotel water bottle all over the bed. The only part of the bed that wasn’t saturated was large enough for a four-year-old boy.

Which meant I suddenly became bed-less. My dad produced a sleeping bag and I unrolled it on the hardwood floor. I muttered, “It’s better than the ‘Pleasure Way,’” and attempted sleep.

A few seconds later I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Eli.

“Dad. The bed’s wet. Can I sleep wif you?”

He immediately commandeered the sleeping bag and I was left with a college blanket and no pillow.

I longed for the Pleasure Way.

Down By The River

2011-07-13T08:04:00.000-07:00

We were not the only ones who visited Diana’s parents over our vacation. Every single person with the Jacklich name decided to drop by Lisle at the same time. I think there was even a guy named “Jack Lick” there by mistake. But he didn’t turn down any beers.

It was glorious and hilarious and…crowded. Once all the kids emptied the nest, the Jacklich seniors downgraded to a tiny two bedroom house. After losing count of the attendees for the third time, I asked Diana where we’d be sleeping.

An RV loaned from a friend.

I lit up like a firecracker. I love RVs. Or rather the idea of RVs. The last time I slept in one was 20 or so years ago. I imagined one of those silver metal jobs with the cots that hang down from the ceiling and probably a hot tub.

Diana and her dad drove off to fetch that had become in my mind, Metallica’s touring bus.

She called me a while later.

“Um. About the RV. You and Eli are sleeping in it. Luca and I will be sleeping in the house.”

She could only mean the RV was so awesome that she wouldn’t be able to sleep. Or that Elijah and I were so good on the plane ride to Illinois that we deserved to have the hot tub all to ourselves.

Then they arrived.

Let me preface this by thanking the friends who let us stay in their vehicle. It was incredibly generous and kind of you and I am grateful. Seriously.

But it was a van. Not an RV. A van. Yes, it was a van that had a sink and a bed in the back. But it was a van. With the words “Pleasure Way” printed on the side. Pleasure. Way. Like, “If you want that special kind of 1970’s pleasure that can only occur in the back of a van, this way sir!”

Later that evening, Diana found us some blankets and pillows. I inquired about whether Di’s folks had rubber sheets. Nope. There was nothing between me and all the pleasure ground into the mattress.

Elijah loved it. I did not sleep well.

Flight

2011-07-11T14:51:00.000-07:00

I think I’ve mentioned this before, but I do a fair amount of flying for business. And I like to think I have it down to a science. Or better yet, a series of rules that govern me from taxi to landing.

First, if it doesn’t fit into a carry-on, don’t bring it. Who needs underpants, life saving insulin and life saving hair gel? Not me and my three cubic inches of pack back!

Second, limit your pre-flight beers to 2. Bladders have a tendency to urgently need to “make” in that critical time between lift off and that double “ding” that indicated you may turn on portable electronic devices and shove your way to the lavatory.

Third, and this is the most important rule of all, never, ever allow Luca to leave his car seat. Now, I rarely have to refer to this rule, since 99.9999% of my flying is without my youngest son. But that doesn’t diminish the importance of this rule. In fact, every time I board a flight to California for a mindless series of meetings, I look at my seatmates and say, “Let’s just all make sure we don’t let Luca out of his car seat, shall we?” And then they hide behind their Sky Mall magazines.

When we all headed to Illinois last week, we knew it would be tough. But Diana had a lot more anxiety than me. She was worried our gleefully loud children would disturb our fellow passengers. But mostly she was afraid of Luca or Eli kicking the seats in front of them. I’m not sure why this was such a big deal for her. Maybe she was injured by a three year old on a flight to San Francisco. But she was determined to keep our boys’ feet away from the magazine racks and tray tables.

I, however, could give a crap. That’s flying folks. Sometimes you sit next to a super hot member of the opposite sex. Sometimes you spend 4 hours getting a lower back massage from tiny feet.

As soon as we sat down, Diana offered to buy our neighbors a glass of whisky to compensate for any seat kicking. They refused. But as soon as Luca shlumped back into his car seat, he thought to himself, “Heeeeeyyyy. This seat in front of me is the perfect distance for some kicking!” And he proceeded to kick and kick and kick.

The woman in front of him glared over the seat and Diana panicked. And broke rule #3. She let Luca out of his seat. And there was no getting him back. When the pilot announced we were diving into Cook Country, Illinois, he became a cat over a bathtub filled with ice cold water. I wondered if shoving him into the overhead compartment constituted child abuse.

Eventually we hit the tarmac while I held Luca in a bear hug. And then we began our adventure in Chicagoland. Or as I now like to call it, Humidityland.

VACA

2011-07-05T17:15:00.001-07:00

I forgot to tell you guys, but I'm on vacation in Illinois this week. So stay tuned early next week for some great stories including:

Sleeping in a van!
Fireworks!
Sleeping in a van!
Airplane rides!
Sleeping in a van!
Humidity!
Sleeping in a van!

Have a great week.

Dumb F*ck

2011-07-01T16:26:00.000-07:00

A disclaimer. This post is about unintentional swearing. The swears have been changed to protect the innocent. But if you are a big fat baby and easily offended, f*cking forgive me.

I spent a few days out of town this week and had a flight home in which the pilot said over the intercom, “It could’ve been worse…” Worse being a fiery crash.

But I did manage to arrive home just before Luca’s bedtime. Diana handed him over and walked hopefully not out of the house forever. I dumped Luca onto the changing table and he looked at me ever so sweetly and said…

“Dumb f*ck!”

I said, “Uh, come again?”

“Dumb f*ck!”

“I’ll admit I’m no Rhodes Scholar, but let’s not stoop to name calling.”

“Dumb f*ck!” He was getting louder.

“Alright. Take it easy. You can’t speak to me like that.”

“Dumb f*ck!”

“Are you repeating something your mother said about me? I can’t be expected to remember to empty the dishwasher every day.”

“Dumb f*ck!”

“That’s it. We’re in a fight.”

I plopped him on the ground and slumped into the rocking chair, way more put out that I should have been.

“Dumb f*ck!”

“You know what? You’re the dumb f*ck! That’s right. What are you going to do about it?”

Luca was holding out his newest favorite book entitled, “Baby’s First Dump Truck Board Book.”

“Dumb f*ck!”

I put him on my lap and said, “I’m a dumb f*ck.”

Bankie

2011-06-27T15:13:00.001-07:00

I can see it happening and I’m purposely not doing anything about it. I know I should put a stop to it to prevent a future mental breakdown.

But Luca is acquiring an unhealthy obsession with his blanket and I love it.

It’s this old, ratty fleece number with what used to be a lion or a monkey or a tree sloth on it. But whatever jungle creature was there was rubbed off a long time ago.

In bed? Luca MUST have it. The very second you drop him in the crib, he scrambles around mumbling, “Bankie,” until it’s in his clutches. He then pulls it up over his head to sleep. I used to worry that he’d suffocate under the fleece, but Bankie knows what its doing. There have been times when I’ve checked on him late and night and tried to pry it from his hands to better cover him, but he holds it with a death grip. There have been times where he’s cried out for hours and hours because the blanket dropped to the floor.

Now he’s taken his obsession outside the crib. It’s not too bad right now. He doesn’t need it constantly. But several times a day he’ll snap to attention and say, “Bankie!” Then he’ll reach his little paw through the jail bars of his crib and yank it out.

Elijah’s instinctive big brother-ness comes into play when Luca carries the blanket around. Eli loves to yank it out of Luca’s hands and watch him scream. Eli gladly takes the on-the-stairs punishment.

Why do I love this? It’s not exactly healthy. Weaning him off this will not be pleasant down the road. And I wonder what it says about his addictive personality.

And it can’t be the Linus thing. Linus wasn’t my favorite Peanuts character. I’m a Pigpen man, myself.

You know why I love it? Because it gives him comfort. And his comfort is the most important thing in the world to me. I need him to have comfort. I need him to feel okay. I need both boys to feel okay.

And if a little, ratty piece of fleece can be his life preserver in this increasingly f-ed up world, I say, “Thank you, Bankie.”

Scream or no Scream

2011-06-23T13:52:00.000-07:00

Luca is teething. That is the only conceivable explanation for why he is acting like a complete jerkface these last couple days. He’s whiny. He’s cry-y. He clutches Diana’s legs with such ferocity that her pants end up on the floor at least 3 times a day.

And he simply refuses to sleep. When bedtime rolls around, we can expect at least an hour of him screaming, “MOMMY! WHERE ARE YOU????” before he collapses in exhaustion.

Elijah loves this latest development. If Luca is still screaming at his bedtime, he gets to sleep in our bed. And sleeping in our bed is the greatest thing ever. There are decorative pillows. It vaguely smells like dada farts. Diana’s stuffed bear is easily accessible and my stuffed Grover doll is never well hidden.

The question “Is Luca screaming or isn’t he?” has become the most exciting event of Eli’s night. See, we do Eli’s pre-bedtime books in our room, where we can’t actually hear if Luca is caterwauling. So when it’s time for him to bed down, I click on the baby monitor.

If we hear silence, Eli has to leave Contestant’s Row and sleep in his room (The studio audience groans). But if I click on the monitor and we hear screaming? Eli wins! The bells go off, confetti and balloons fall from the ceiling and Bob Barker reminds us to get our pets spayed or neutered.

I’ll admit I’ve been adding hype to the event. I try to get Eli whipped up by saying, “Whadda think? Do you think it will be ‘Scream? Or No Scream?’” And Eli stares at the baby monitor like it’s going to pop open and there will be a million dollars inside.

Last night he chanted, “Scream…scream…scream…” while pumping his fists. I flicked the monitor and there was only static on the other end.

Eli sunk his head in disappointment. I said, “Ohhhhhh. Sorry, Eli. Thanks for playing ‘Scream or no Scream.’ We have some nice parting gifts and of course the Scream or no Scream home version…”

And suddenly we heard over the monitor, “Mommmmmmmy!”

Eli jumped up and down like a college girl visiting Burbank, California.

Father’s Day 2011

2011-06-21T17:19:00.001-07:00

My first Father’s Day in Denver did not start out well. The children awoke at an ungodly hour and Diana began weeping uncontrollably, knowing it was her duty to let me sleep.

After a guilty and fitful sleep, I wolfed down my special Dad’s day eggs and suggested Diana go back to sleep for the good of all mankind.

I received some awesome Father’s Day gifts including a Dillon Panthers t-shirt (those of you who get the reference will know how awesome that gift is) and some Vans tennis shoes that were far too youthful for my rapidly graying self.

I also got a great multicolored scribble drawing from Elijah.

“It’s a Star Wars ship.”

“Of course it is.”

But the best present came much later in the day, when Diana transported us all to Illinois for dinner.

I’ve been really missing my hometown lately. Maybe it’s the picture perfect weather here. I’m beginning to wonder if I need 99 degrees and 100% humidity to be happy. But by some stroke of luck, Diana found a chain restaurant in Denver whose only other chain is located in Central Illinois.

It was called “White Fence Farm.” And it was awesome. It’s as if someone transported Pekin Illinois brick by brick to the mountains. There was a petting zoo. There were hundreds of lacy doilies on the table. There were 80 year old women everywhere. There were piles of deep fried chicken everywhere. All of the employees were forced to wear outfits that would make the strictest Mormon bored to tears.

I was positively giddy when we sat down to dinner. And then it dawned on me. We never go to dinner with Eli and Luca. They had no idea how to behave. Elijah wondered loudly why his food was not on the table when we sat down. Luca immediately began an hour long effort to cover the walls of White Fence Farm with food. Eli then announced he would be visiting every one of the 1,000 tables in search of friends.

We decided to have wine.

I sat back and watched it happen. The flying food. The vain attempts by Diana to keep things together. The sideways glances of the Mormon servers. And I realized I could not physically be happier if they were loading the mashed potatoes with Vicodin.

I love being a dad. I love it more than I ever thought possible. It’s the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me and I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Thank you, Eli, Luca and Diana. I love you guys.

Performance Parenting

2011-06-18T12:17:00.000-07:00

I was on a flight back from California last week when I heard a dad and his young son a row behind. After listening to them for a while, I began to become intensely irritated.

No, not because the kid was crying. I have a strict policy of not getting irritated by crying babies on planes. Hear me, Karma? Hear me?

It was because the dad was putting on a show for the other passengers. It was the “Aren’t I the most hilarious dad” show. His responses to his son’s most basic questions were in sarcastic quip format.

“No…I don’t think the pilot will let you fly the plane, Logan.”

“Maybe the flight attendant will let you have a beer, Logan.”

And then he’d pause for laughter and applause. I couldn’t understand why it bugged me so much. He wasn’t screaming at his kid. He wasn’t hitting him. And then it dawned on me.

I DO THE SAME THING ALL THE TIME.

I realized 99.9% of my conversations with Elijah and Luca in public are for the benefit of passersby.

I like to think it’s to show off their impossible cuteness and hilariousness. But…no. It’s to portray myself as some kind of awesome sitcom dad to complete and utter strangers.

Why do I care if the checkout girl at Whole Foods thinks I’m a cool dad? I actually caught myself fake laughing on the street at something Eli didn’t say.

I know most of you are thinking, “Um, isn’t this basically what you do on this blog? Write stories to make you look like a cool dad?”

YES!

Damn. I’m kind of a jackass. But as far as our neighbors are concerned, I’m a cool dad jackass.

p.s. I’m convinced Diana sent me these photos to kill me with cuteness.

Fire Truck

2011-06-13T13:24:00.000-07:00

On Saturday, we had a fair amount of errand running/house un-destroying in preparation for a friendly BBQ. In true man-to-man defense style, I decided to bring Luca along with my chores.

Why did I choose him? First, because he isn’t at the stage where he questions my every move like a certain 4 year old we know. Second, I could guarantee at least two cripplingly cute things would come out of his mouth per hour. How can you not want to hang out with a kid who uses the word “Yippee” without a trace of irony?

Luca and I arrived at King Soopers after pointing out every car (“Car!”) and squirrel (“Kitty!”) along the way. For those of you who don’t know, King Soopers is exactly like Jewel Osco in the Midwest, except they can’t spell “Super.”

At least three times over the course of our shopping I had to stop and allow Luca to have an in depth conversation with an old lady. It would go something like…

“HI!”

“Well, hello, young man. Don’t you have the most beautiful blue eyes.”

“Car!”

“You have such a beautiful smile.”

“Car!”

“Are you shopping with your daddy?”

“Car!”

“Um…well. I must be going.”

“Car!”

While searching in vain for something Diana surely put on the shopping list to torture me, I spotted a rack of Matchbox cars. I could honestly think of no other child in King Soopers who deserved a 99 cent car more than Luca. So I nabbed a fire truck and handed to him.

“Fire truck!”

“That’s right. A fire truck. It’s yours, pal.

“FIRE TRUCK!!!!!”
I realized I had made a mistake. Luca wanted me to open up the package and let him play with the fire truck. Opening up things at a grocery store goes against everything I believe in. I loath parents who let their kids cram their fists into cereal boxes in the store (Diana does this). Why? It’s stealing. Pure and simple. What happens if you suddenly get called away to an emergency and you can’t pay for your opened package? You go to hell. That’s what happens.

I tried to ignore his increasingly loud pleas of “Fire truck!” I tried to explain in detail that he would get his mitts on the fire truck the moment we left, but I simply didn’t want to break the law and go to hell just for a little piece of metal and plastic.

“FIRE TRUCK!!!!!!” He had hurt little tears in his eyes and I could not prevent him the object of his desire any longer. As I ripped open the package (among what I imagined was the coming horde of security guards) and handed it over to the gleeful cherub, I wondered what I would’ve done if he was screaming “BUTCHER KNIFE” or “VIAL OF COCAINE!”

Luca spent the rest of the day showing everyone his “New fire truck! New fire truck!” Right before our BBQ, he fell down our back stairs because his fire truck stuffed hand wasn’t holding onto the railing. I felt like we were being punished by the King Sooper gods.

Big Boy Cup

2011-06-09T10:08:00.000-07:00

I came home from work yesterday in kind of a grump mood. My grump mood lasted almost 30 whole seconds before Elijah came up to me and gestured me to bend down to Eli level.

“Dada,” he whispered. “I think we should tickle Mommy. I’ll distract her and you tickle her.”

At which point he walked up to her and shouted, “I am distracting you, Mommy!”

Suddenly, life seemed full of endless possibilities. And I decided right then and there to switch Luca from bottles to Sippie Cups. Our doctor has been encouraging us to wean Luca off bottles for a while. I’m not sure the medical reason. Maybe she doesn’t want him to have to bring baby bottles to college.

Anyhoo, we haven’t been really trying to get him to make the switch. Why? Because he looks so damned cute walking around in nothing but a diaper with a bottle in one hand and a fire truck in the other. And I’ll miss his shouting of, “BA-BA!” at 5:50am.

But I was full of milk and vinegar last night and declared in my head that I was making the switch.

After his bath, I asked Luca if he wanted to drink his milk out of a “Big Boy Sippie Cup.”

“Ho-Kaaaaayyyy.”

I handed him the cup and said, “Look out! Big boy coming through! Stand back!”

The funny thing is, he was actually proud of himself. There was a distinct swagger to his toddler stumble. And he stopped in front of Elijah and dramatically drank from his cup to get his attention. Like all big brothers, Eli ignored him.

I scooped him up and laid Luca on the changing table. As I removed his diaper, Luca tried to drink from the Sippie Cup. A much different experience than drinking from the flow control of a bottle. He immediately chocked on the deluge of milk and had a violent coughing fit.

I righted him on the floor, repeating, “You’re ok, you’re ok.”

And then he barfed all over himself. And me. Disgusting, toddler food barf. Elijah just happened into the room.

“Luca barfed!”

“Barf!” Said Luca.

“Should I go get mommy?”

“No,” I said. “We don’t need to bring her into this,” I tried to mop up the barf with Luca’s pajamas.

“Barf!” Said Luca.

“I think we should get Mommy.”

“No! Leave her out of this!”

Eli then began shouting for his mother.

Diana came down and observed the situation. Child covered in barf. Husband covered in barf. Sippie Cup covered in barf. Floor covered in barf.

She realized life was full of endless possibilities.

Chocolate Pee

2011-06-08T10:18:00.000-07:00

I raced halfway across the country on my personal airplane that I shared with 500 of my closest friends. Once on the ground, I hopped in a cab. And $75 later, viola! I was in the puppy pile that is my loving family.

Elijah took time away from PBSKids.com to acknowledge my existence. He pointed out a pile of chocolate chip cookies sent by our friend Kitty on the counter. I asked how many he had eaten that day.

“I don’t like chocolate,” he said.

“What are you, a communist?”

Thankfully, Luca came running across the kitchen, shouting, “Cookie! Cookie! Cookie!”

I lifted up the man after my own heart and gave him a cookie. He greedily took a huge bite, smearing chocolate all over his face. My stomach turned a little and I set him back on the ground.

I announced to everyone that I needed to pee pee and I headed to our facilities. Luca was close on my heels.

I left the door open because it’s my rental house and I can do whatever I want. Luca entered, curious as ever to the process of non-diaper urination.

“Pee pee.”

“Yep, you got that right.”

“Peni.”

“Two for two. That is, in fact, my penis.”

Then Luca reached out with his still cookie clad hand.

“No! No! No! No touching my pee!”

I tried to bat his hand away with my one free hand, but he was quick. Within seconds, his once delicious cookie was saturated.

At which point his 19 month old brain wondered, “Does a pee covered chocolate chip cookie taste good? Or bad?”

I used my free hand to knock the cookie from his hand. He was furious.

“You should be thanking me!”

We then spent the next dozen or so minutes vigorously washing our hands and looking on the bathroom floor for a wet cookie.

The Brother Destroyer

2011-06-06T07:59:00.001-07:00

How do I know I’ve turned into an old man? I asked for J Crew pocket t-shirts for my birthday. That was it. No matter how hard Diana prodded, I’d just mutter, “J Crew pocket t-shirts,” and then go back to hiking up my pants and complaining about local government and teenagers’ hairstyles.

Thankfully, Diana wouldn’t take “J Crew pocket t-shirts” as an answer and surprised me with a visit from my brother Steve over Memorial Day weekend! Having him in town was better than a whole drawer full of J Crew Pocket T-Shirts. Even the ones that look like they’ve been worn by someone who actually works for a living and then sent to me.

He arrived late Friday night, well after the boys were in bed.

Sunday morning when they woke up at 5:55am, I made the mistake of telling Elijah and Luca that their long missed uncle was sleeping in their very house. I spent the next two hours fending off their surprisingly organized attacks on our guest room.

Eventually Steve did open the door and accepted their onslaught. Eli was positively giddy at seeing his uncle. Luca was a little more skeptical. I don’t think he remembered how much we look alike and was quite disturbed his dada doppelganger wore glasses. Steve had to walk around blurry vision-ed to keep Luca from bursting into tears.

Steve, Elijah and I traveled to Mork and Mindy’s hometown of Boulder to have lunch and visit the Crocs store and we spent a delightful afternoon drinking beers and playing in the Luca Car.

And then Steve destroyed our house.

Steve and I went out for beers after dinner. So many beers that the idea of coming back to our house and watching the “Family Guy” Star Wars parody sounded like a great idea.

As Steve figured out how to turn the TV on in the guest room, I suggested officially grabbing one too many beers from the fridge. Steve heartily agreed. I took one step into the kitchen and squished into 2 inches of piping hot water. I noticed water gushing from behind our dishwasher. The hot water line had burst.

Unfortunately, the water gushing wasn’t limited to our kitchen. We had a miniature waterfall in our basement as well. Thankfully (knock on soggy drywall) it was isolated to our laundry room and not on our sons’ heads.

But Steve spent is final day in Denver watching our landlord pace our house, biting his nails to the quick.

That Kind Of Party

2011-06-03T10:49:00.000-07:00

Too many hours in front of TV as a child has given me fairly unrealistic expectations for my holiday celebrations. If my Christmas morning doesn’t include footy pajamas and a Red Rider BB Gun, I fall into a funk. If Halloween isn’t attended by at least one WW1 Flying Ace, I sulk in my Han Solo/Pirate costume.

So when I heard we were attending a real, live Memorial Day BBQ at our friends, The Goodriches, I fought hard against my mental demands that it be perfect. But deep down I needed it to be completely awesome.

When we arrived, it was 72 and sunny. Check. There was delicious Colorado beer in ironic cans. Check. There were both hot dogs and watermelon. Check. There were water guns. Double check. As I watched Jimmy’s kids, Tom’s kids and my kids chase each other through the sprinklers and occasionally cry, I realized this may be it. The holiday that lives up to every Brady Bunch episode ever.

Then Madeline, Tom’s unbelievably cute daughter, asked for permission to take her pants off.

Jimmy’s son then exclaimed, “I’m a naked boy!” And before I could protest, every child in attendance took their clothes off. There was no where for my eyes to gaze that wasn’t filled with watermelon covered naked bellies and soaked superhero underpants.

Elijah, of course, needed to be reminded constantly that we were keeping our underwear on.

I noticed that Luca kept all his clothes on. He seemed to look at the other nudie kids with mild contempt as well. I mouthed, “I love you,” to him.

But ten minutes later I found him shirtless in the sandbox, rubbing sand all over his naked belly.

p.s. I have, literally, hundreds of photos of this inappropriateness. But they broke my computer.

Luca Car

2011-05-31T15:19:00.000-07:00

I was riding my bike home from work the other day when something caught the corner of my eye. I screeched to a halt and beheld a glorious sight: An orange plastic child-sized car. Attached was a sign with the magical words “F-R-E-E.”

I scooped up the car, ignoring the distinct rattle in the wheel, area and walked it home with my bike. A guy walking his dog said, “Now there’s something you don’t see every day.” I said, “Shut your face!” In my mind.

I arrived home and Luca immediately declared it “The Greatest Day Of My Short Life.” The kid completely flipped over the (most likely scabies covered) car. Never mind the fact that it kind of smelled. Never mind both front wheels do not move. Never mind the fact that, when pushed from behind, his little feet become trapped under the car.

We eventually placed the immovable car in the backyard where, among the uncut grass, it gives our home a distinctively white trashy feel.

If it was up to Luca, he’d eat, sleep and poop in this toy, which he has delightfully dubbed “Luca Car.” When he isn’t sitting in Luca Car, he is standing by our sliding screen door pointing and shouting, “Luca Car! Luca Car!”

Elijah, who has absolutely zero interest in cars of any kind, suddenly can’t stay away from Luca Car. Why? Because it makes Luca furious when Eli sits in Luca Car. And Eli loves to make Luca furious.

So whenever we walk out of the back door, Elijah bolts as fast as he can to Luca Car, often times shoving Luca out of the way. This makes Luca shake with rage as he waddles over to Luca Car. Eli takes great pleasure in pretending not to notice as Luca screams in his face and tries to drag him from the car.

I usually have to physically restrain Luca and demand Eli give the car back. He tries to protest, saying how much he loves sitting in the immobile vehicle, but he can’t help but crack a smile at his shrieking brother.

Eli better enjoy it, because I think Luca is about two weeks away from being able to beat him up.

Rapture

2011-05-23T13:27:00.000-07:00

Diana went home last weekend to visit her mom and dad. As the boys and I drove her to the airport, NPR did a story on the upcoming rapture. If you’re reading this in a non-rapture future, there was this preacher nutcase who, through careful misinterpretation of the bible, predicted the end of the world would come on 5/21 at 6pm sharp. It got a lot of media attention for no other reason than people were already bored with Arnold Schwarzenegger’s affairs.

Diana suddenly got a weird look on her face. “You don’t think it will happen, will you?”

Well, now that she mentioned it, I hadn’t given it much thought. But then I could read her mind that in the so-unlikely-it’s crazy event of the rapture, she would want to be there with Luca and Elijah.

That’s the hard part about being a parent to explain to non-parents. Our intense desire to eliminate all pain from our children’s lives makes us stress about imaginary disasters.

I pointed out that both our children were without sin and baptized. They would be riding the golden unicorn to Sesame Street. Diana and I were on the fence, savedly speaking. I said maybe we’d both get to share a pitchfork.

This next part is the rapture-honest truth.

Elijah piped up from his car seat. “I had a bad dream last night. I dreamt that I went to that place in the clouds, what’s it called?”

“Heaven,” I said shakily.

“Yeah, Heaven. I went up there and you and mommy got left behind. I was sad.”

I suddenly took the rapture .0005% more seriously. Saturday came and mostly went and I found myself emptying the dishwasher at 5:30pm. A half hour away from go time. I realized meeting the rapture with my hands in a dishwasher was really un-cool.

I found myself dialing the phone, almost unconsciously. I needed to talk to someone in the Central Time Zone. Knowing they’d be hit an hour before us.

Thankfully, my Peoria parents answered and informed me there were no Horsemen of the Apocalypse ruining their grilled veal.

Crisis averted, I hugged my sons and promised I’d never yell at them again. This lasted until we went to Whole Foods the next morning and I screamed at Elijah in front of a woman who seemed to have Child Services on speed dial.

Dinner with Darth

2011-05-17T16:39:00.000-07:00

This is a story that fell through the cracks, gang. But it illustrates Elijah’s personality so well, I have to tell it.

As you recall, my father gave Elijah a Darth Vader costume for his birthday. And for several days after, he wore it constantly. At any given moment in our house there’d be a tiny Dark Lord Of The Sith playing cars, pooping or watching Star Wars.

Inevitably, there was that moment when Diana had to ask herself, “Do I take a miniature Darth Vader to Chipotle? Or is that weird?”

She chose the dark side of the Force.

As she entered the Chipotle with Darth and Luca, Diana looked around. The only other patron was a suited businessman sitting on a stool, finishing off a burrito.

Almost on cue, Tiny Darth climbed onto a stool directly next to the hapless businessman and struck up a conversation.

Diana was far enough away that she couldn’t hear what they were talking about, but close enough to watch their body language. So she decided to just finish ordering and watch for the cue that the guy had enough.

What always strikes Diana about these situations is not how well Elijah handles himself. He has absolutely no fear of talking to complete strangers (the #1 reason he is never allowed to go anywhere by himself). No, it’s the way adults seem perfectly content to carry an adult conversation with a 4 year old.

From what Diana could see, the man fielded a barrage of questions from Eli without ever once stooping to patronizing and without even looking around to see if this tiny Anakin Skywalker (spoiler alert) had a parent.

Eventually, Diana and Luca crossed the restaurant to save the businessman. She said, “I bet when you woke up this morning you didn’t think you’d be having dinner with Darth Vader tonight.”

He said, “No. No I did not.” And finished his burrito.

Casa

2011-05-16T10:51:00.000-07:00

I awoke yesterday to the smell of waffles. Which I think means you’re having a stroke. But then I heard Elijah and Luca screaming, “Dada! Dada!” Then I realized I wasn’t having a stroke, but was having my yearly birthday breakfast in bed. Diana plopped down a beautiful tray of coffee, waffles, fresh fruit and turkey bacon.

The boys then attacked my breakfast, shoving fistfulls of fruit unto their faces and smearing syrup all over our comforter. I held my coffee above my head to prevent burns to myself and my children.

Diana asked what I wanted to do on my special day. I thought for a moment and said, “Let’s go to Casa Bonita!”

Now, given the fact that we had never been to Casa Bonita before, this received no response from the family. But from this day forward, “Let’s go to Casa Bonita!” will be greeted with shouts of glee.

Casa Bonita is a Colorado institution highlighted in a recent “South Park” episode. In fact, the only way I knew the place existed was from flipping around the upper cable channels a few weeks ago.

No amount of description can do this place justice, but I will now try.

Casa Bonita is located in a strip mall just outside Denver. You are greeted first by the smell of a place that has not seen fresh air since 1974. You are then greeted by a sign that demands you order an entrée. Now, what kind of place demands you order food? The kind of place who has been shaking rumors of open cat food cans in their kitchen since 1974.

After standing in a winding line for the better part of an hour, you receive your meal cafeteria-style.

Then the awesome begins.

The dining room is a massive man-made cavern. Its centerpiece is a 30ft waterfall cascading into a pool. Casa Bonita is not about food. It’s about entertainment. Entertainment like:

Sullen cliff divers!
The same sullen cliff diver juggling fire!
Skits!
Strolling mariachi players!
A gun that shoot bubbles!
An arcade that stopped buying new games in 1974!
Piñatas!
A scary cave that has not one, but two warnings about children under the age of 5!
Old Timey photographs!
One of the guys who draws your picture!

Elijah’s brain melted the minute we entered. He spent the whole time shouting and pointing, and not eating his food (thankfully).

Eli watched a pirate skit with rapt attention. About halfway through the skit, the table of uniformed American soldiers got up from their table to head to the bar. That crisscrossed Eli’s brain wires and he said, “Dad! Those army men are going to fight the pirates.” Later, Eli stumbled across the same soldiers and demanded to know why they hadn’t captured the pirates. They ignored him.

I can always judge the success of a place by the level of fit our kids throw when they have to leave. By that measure, Casa Bonita is the greatest place in he history of the world.

I am the luckiest man in the world to have Diana, Eli and Luca in my life. And Casa Bonita in my life.

Ghost Toes

2011-05-13T09:43:00.000-07:00

The boy’s bedroom is haunted. I’m not sure what kind of a-hole ghost gets his translucent jollies off scaring a 4 year old and a 1 year old, but this apparition has been working overtime lately.

At minimum once a night, but usually more like a thousand times a night, Luca or Elijah will call out in terror and begin hysterically crying. By the time Diana or I race over the ghost has already left, leaving nothing but ectoplasm (pee) in his wake.

The other night, Luca woke up screaming every hour on the hour. I’d race in, shout, “Got ya, Casper!” (with no luck) and lift Luca out of his crib. We’d then sit in the rocking chair for a few minutes trying to find a comfortable position. He’d squirm, adjust and flop around on my lap until I said, “Would you like to go back into your crib?”

“Okayyyyyy.”

This went on hourly until 4am when I realized Luca had been dressed by a certain wife in footy pajamas.

No no no no no. Has the woman learned nothing about our baby? He’s a weirdo. If he doesn’t have everything completely right in his crib there will be no sleeping. Blanket must be over head. Stuffed animals must be flanking his body. Light must not creep into room. And FEET MUST BE COVERED. Come on. She’s better than that.

When I grouchily jostled Diana for a 4am explanation, she said that Luca’s myriad skin ailments now include sheets of skin peeling off his big toes. I just threw up writing that.

Our pediatrician recommended a toe ointment to combat the sheeting. So Diana attempted to contain the ointment by putting him in footy pajamas.

I suggested in the most 4am grouchiest way possible that I would prefer to keep his toes in a jar over putting him in footy pajamas ever again.

Later that day my friend Tom told me that your feet temperature is the biggest indicator of your sleep success. I grouchily replied, “Shut it, Cliff Clavin.”

So Luca is now back to sleeping in his bare feet and the ghosts are attacking only once a night.

I Scream

2011-05-11T12:26:00.000-07:00

My grandfather Al was a fastidious man. He would actually do work on his Colorado mountain cabin in a crisp pair of wool slacks and a pressed dress shirt. It’s why he will always be 100% more cool than I'll ever be.

When Steve and I were little, little tykes, he took us to Baskin Robbins for our first ever ice cream cones. Within 2 minutes of receiving our cones we both licked too heavily, sending the strawberry goodness tumbling to the filthy B&R floor. My five year old memory envisions his head popping off his neck as we wept.

What does this have to do with 2011? Everything.

Halfway through Mother’s Day, I suggested we go to our local ice cream parlor. I think I said, “Hey, no one else in Denver will think if this, given the fact that it’s 80 and sunny!” The ice cream was actually part of an elaborate bribe structure to get Eli to behave at Home Depot.

We arrived at Bonnie Brae Ice Cream and, gasp, there was a line around the block. Luca could care less since he didn’t actually know what the heck we were doing. Eli, on the other hand, tried with all his might to keep it together. He knew one wrong move and his hopes at getting pink ice cream would be dashed. He stood in the hot, hot line with his eyes closed, saying a little prayer.

Finally, we crossed the threshold and entered the madhouse that was an ice cream store on an 80 degree day. The high school aged staff had ceased giving a crap about the wants and needs of thousands of Denver yuppies.

While Luca put on a clinic of “How To Be An Adorable One Year Old” for the old ladies, Elijah sat at a tiny table, eyes bulging with anticipation.

1 pink cone. 1 mint chocolate chip cone. 1 cookies and cream waffle cone. Stat.

I handed Eli’s pink cone to him and turned to receive cone number 2. Then I heard it.

A scream that punctured the eardrums of everyone in the parlor. Eli had knocked his pink ice cream off his cone and was screaming at its meltingness on the floor.

Diana, the hottest mom in the room, scooped down and grabbed the pink blob off the ground and handed it to the sullen ice cream girl behind the counter.

“Can you just put this on a new cone?”

I grabbed her wrist. “Ew! It’s been on the floor! Give him a new one!”

Diana rolled her eyes at my ignorance of the 5 second rule and asked for a new scoop in a cup, this time.

I walked across the parlor to pay and to distance myself from Eli. I heard him scream again and shriek something about the difference between cones and bowls.

He was that kid! That kid who everyone stares at in the ice cream store. The tantrum kid! I locked eyes with Diana from across the room and we both burst out laughing.

Eventually, we got Eli outside to calm down and he managed to force down his ice cream. Luca commandeered Diana’s cone and inhaled it. But not before covering the entire front of her shirt in ice cream.

Mother’s Day

2011-05-09T11:41:00.000-07:00

We’re on our third screen door. They keep getting destroyed. How? Well, our children cannot bear the thought of being without their mother. Elijah or Luca will spot Diana trying to make an escape to our garage and they’ll start crying and shrieking, “MOMMY! MOMMY! MOMMY!” And, on occasion, Luca will rip through the screen like The Incredible Hulk and chase her down.

So it’s not like Diana needs reminding how much they love her. But we had to mark Mother’s Day in a non screen door way.

Eli and I brainstormed on Saturday.

“I think we should make her breakfast in bed,” I suggested. Elijah got excited by this. So I asked what he thought we should make. I said, “What do you think mommy’s favorite food is? We’ll make that.”

Eli thought for a moment and said, “She likes water.”

Menu complete, we moved on to the card making. I quickly drew some green flower stems and Eli beautifully scribbled some flower tops. I then asked him if he wanted to do a few more cards. I’d do the outlines and he could color them. But he had to suggest the subject matter of our drawings.

“What about ant traps?”

“I don’t know if mommy likes ant traps. Let’s keep thinking.”

“Cars? Star Wars? A train? Dora The Explorer?”

“Mmm. I dunno, pal.”

“Oh! How about a grilled cheese sandwich?”

We ended up agreeing on an elephant and a grilled cheese sandwich.

Mother’s Day was, as usual, filled with Diana’s springtime love; planting flowers without children hanging on her pants. We topped it off with a trip to the ice cream parlor, where Elijah had one of the most epic freak outs of his young life. I’ll describe that horror a little later.

Diana, you are the greatest mom in the world. You have raised two unbelievably kick ass kids. You’ve made me the happiest dad ever and to quote Lizzi Weinberg, “Your wife is a total knockout.”

I’d rip down a screen door for you any day.

First Bubble Bath

2011-05-05T12:38:00.000-07:00

I’ve gotten really bad at marking Luca’s firsts. I made such a big deal about Elijah’s first poop, smile or murder. But as with all second children, the firsts (ALTHOUGH JUST AS IMPORTANT, FUTURE LUCA WHO READS THIS) tend to get glossed over in favor of louder, more violent events.

So I’m proud to remember to announce Luca’s first official bubble bath.

Diana bought the boys some Dora The Explorer bubble bath the other day. It smells like strawberries instead of a small, Hispanic cartoon girl. Which is probably best.

Anyway, Elijah could not get his clothes off fast enough. He begged me repeatedly to let him turn on the tub’s jacuzzi jets and let the bubbles really fly. But I smartly ignored him.

I chased down Luca, nuded him up and held him over the tub. Based on the horror that crossed his face, I realized he had never been in a bubble bath before. I thought, “Meh, he’ll love it,” and dropped him in.

It’s not as though he hated it, but he did not like it. He stood in the tub with a perturbed look. He folded his little hands in front of his fat belly and minced around. I suddenly thought, “This is what my son will look like if he turns out to be a big queen when he grows up.” I also suddenly thought, “I hope he gets a better haircut if he turns out to be a big queen when he grows up.”

Eli sensed his brother was not happy with the bubbles, so he began smearing Luca with handfuls of the berry scented white stuff. Luca began shouting, “Out! Out! Out!”

I glared at Eli and hissed, “Can’t you see he hates that? Keep your hands to yourself.”

“Oh, sorry daddy.”

One of the things I love about Eli is his ability to take a joke to its breaking point. Seemingly oblivious to me just admonishing him about it, he grabbed two handfuls of bubbles and covered Luca’s fat belly, which resulted in fitful tears.

I yanked him out of the tub and quickly tried to towel off the bubbles. They were like a virus. Luca kept finding new patches of bubble and he’d shriek until I smooshed them with terrycloth.

Meanwhile, Eli poked his head over the tub wall and said, “Look daddy! I have a beard!” And he had a perfectly formed Van Dyke.

I had to admit, “That’s a pretty awesome beard, Eli.”

Puppies

2011-05-04T08:50:00.000-07:00

Last night we went to dinner with some pals. When we got home, we paid off our sitter and I retrieved Elijah from our bed. As I carefully placed my arms under his body I noticed something. Wet. Real wet.

It seems as though Eli convinced our sitter that he didn’t need a diaper to sleep and she bought it.

The soaking was exclusively on my side of the bed, so Diana simply went to sleep and sent me to the daybed. In hindsight, sleeping on a half urine soaked bed was pretty gross of Diana. But sleep trumps everything.

This morning, I awoke to Elijah crawling into the daybed with me. “Oh, hi daddy. You scared me.”

Shortly after, I bottled and diapered Luca and set him lose on the floor. I then crawled back into the daybed and tried to fall asleep. Eli even let me hold his hand for a minute.

But then it happened. There was a third body in the bed with us. LUCA. He finally figured out how to climb onto the bed. Game over, man. Game over.

Eli and Luca immediately turned into two puppies, crawling all over my head. They fought slash tickled each other slash irritated the heck out of me. After a particularly loud bout of hair pulling, I shouted, “Get off get off get off! Go bother your mother!”

They both shouted, “MOMMY!” and raced into our bedroom. Within seconds, both puppies were all over her. Diana found it adorable for three seconds. Then a child sized foot stomped her boob.

“Get off get off get off!”

First Bike Ride

2011-05-03T12:53:00.000-07:00

A few months ago, our office had a little happy hour where spouses and kids were invited. Elijah took this opportunity to go completely bonkers. He ran up and down the halls screaming and chasing every kid in sight.

At some point in the festivities Eli lost track of his bladder and whizzed all down the front of his pants.

I was standing with my boss when Eli raced up to inform me of his newly soaked sweats. I announced, “Who wants to take this kid home? He peed himself.”

My boss, who is an incredibly nice man, said, “I’ll take Eli. He’s cool.”

Eli looked him in the eye and said, “No, seriously. I peed on myself. Look.”

The point I’m trying to make is Hamann men have weak bladders. At any given moment, I’m about five seconds away from wetting my pants. And I’m willing to bet big money that my dad or one of my brothers is currently standing at a urinal.

Now hold that thought for a second.

Our buddies, the Goodriches, gave Eli a bike recently. I dunno if you’ve seen these, but it’s one of those bikes without pedals. It’s called a “Skuut.” But I refuse to call it that.

Last Sunday, Eli and I went on its inaugural run. He did pretty great. Especially since his sense of balance is that of me after several beers.

But he goes REALLY slowly. A woman in a motorized wheelchair literally passed him on the sidewalk. Eli convinced her to give him a ride.

And now the purpose of the pee opening. Eli asked me if we could ride to the park, a mere block and a half away. I suggested we take Luca in his stroller as well.

Suddenly and without warning, the gallon of water I had consumed earlier in the day came to full term. I announced urgently that we were heading home from the park. I shoved Luca to the end of the block and waited for Eli to catch up on his bike.

And I waited. And I waited. And I waited.

It became clear that I would not make it at the current pace. To encourage Eli to hurry, I turned to my old friend, Yelling. I shouted, “Get your ass in gear, boy!”

This was the moment Eli rediscovered his love of dandelions.

I raced down the block and grabbed Eli under one arm and his bike under the other. I then shoved Luca’s stroller the rest of the way home with a series of violent kicks.

I won’t reveal if I had an accident. But let’s just say Eli had the right to say, “Who wants to take this dada home?”

Easter Dad-ness

2011-04-29T09:01:00.000-07:00

Until this year, Christmas and Easter and Birthdays with the boys have been for Diana and my benefit. Kids under 4 don’t really understand the magic of religion and its brother, present getting. But this year Elijah was all jacked up about eggs and plastic grass and JELLY BEANS! Oh, and the icon of Christianity.

I arrived back from a quick trip to Whole Foods to discover that Diana and Eli had already colored the eggs I spend the majority of the day preparing (According to the internet, you need boiling water and eggs). I whined and stomped for a while and demanded I be in attendance for any and all Easter related cuteness from now on.

The next morning I awoke from a coveted sleep in to find the Easter baskets demolished. My blood boiled at the idea of me not being in attendance, but I thought about what Jesus would do if his kids and wife never listened to him. It brought up too many theological questions, so I just shoved a fist full of jelly beans in my mouth.

Eli embarked on a day long jelly bean binge. Luca, on the other hand, couldn’t quite decide if he liked them. He’d toddle up every five minutes shouting, “Bean! Bean!” But after two or three chews, he’d spit it out onto the floor. I spent a lot of the day picking chewed beans out of my toes.

Eventually, we packed up the boys and went to another Easter Egg hunt. This one at our friends The Goodriches neighbor’s house. He was a preacher of some unknown denomination. I geared up for some good old fashioned religion. But like the Denver church that sponsored our last egg hunt, he never mentioned JC once. In fact, had I not known he was a cloth man, I would’ve thought he was just a dude. I wondered if this still counted as going to church. I decided yes.

Anyhoo, after an hour or so of trying to prevent Luca from eating peanut butter snacks, I was summoned to the front yard. The Dads were in charge of hiding the eggs.

This was my first real dad bonding experience. Most of my pals who are dads were my pals way before they were dads. So we have way more in common than poopy d’s. Well, mostly Star Wars in common. But this was my first time seeing a bunch of dads from vastly different backgrounds thrown together in Dad-ness.

It was pretty great. We swore. We spit. We hid eggs in dangerous places like car exhausts and rose bushes and on top of the house. We pretended we didn’t want our son to get the most eggs.

The mayhem of egg finding ensued and we dads went back to the shelter of our wives.

15,000 Eggs

2011-04-27T07:56:00.000-07:00

I spent an inordinate amount of time trying to get Elijah to understand Easter on Saturday. Here is a typical exchange:

“Hey Eli. ‘Member when we talked about Easter five minutes ago? ‘Member? ‘Member God? And his son? The guy who Easter is all about? Who is God’s son? What’s his name?”

“The Easter Bunny!”

The sullen, tattooed barista at “Washington Perk” informed me that, “There’s gonna be, like, a million billion kids hunting for Easter eggs at Washington Park. It’s gonna be horrible.”

That sounded like a lovely way to spend a Saturday.

The New Denver Church, whose motto must have been, “We’re not going to get all churchy on you,” set up a massive egg hunt in a field just between the playgrounds. There was a huge roped off area, with delightfully pink police tape. Inside was 15,000, count ‘em, 15,000 Easter Eggs. There were literally hundreds and hundreds of kids milling around outside the tape, unaware they outnumbered the people keeping them away from candy 50 to 1.

I searched in vain for some kind of religious metaphor at play. Maybe the police tape was our sin and the…aw forget it. Let’s get some candy.

I found myself feeling that unfamiliar projection of competition growing in my bowels. I strangely needed Elijah to grab the most eggs in the history of the world. I decided to allow that feeling to manifest itself when he was in Little League, so I choose to accompany Luca on the hunt.

The announcer blared his 100th non-religious announcement over the loud speaker and we were ready to rock (Did, “We have a lost child over by the jungle gym” mean we were going to burn in hell?). The hundreds of kids suddenly grew very quiet.

Ready, set go and there was roughly 24 seconds of massive pandemonium. I lost track of Eli and Diana in the sea of arms, legs and plastic.

Luca toddled around the mayhem, occasionally pointing to an egg and saying, “Egg!” before a kid would swoop in screaming.

After the dust settled, I found Di and Eli. He had acquired three eggs. He was very proud of himself and I was very proud of him. But I was mostly proud he didn’t get trampled.

Suddenly, a 5 year old little girl came up to us. She asked very politely if Luca wanted one of her eggs because he didn’t have any. Now why on Earth did this bring tears to my eyes? What is wrong with me? I sniffed and said thank you to the little girl. And then cursed myself for being such a sissy.

She handed Luca an egg and he said, “Egg.”

And then the sugar rush began. More on that later.

Three Is A Crowd

2011-04-19T09:55:00.000-07:00

Can we just establish once and for all that Kitty is beautiful and talented and really funny? And her allowing of us to squat in her Colorado cabin is the greatest thing to ever happen in the world?

But let’s back it up to a few weeks ago. My Chicago Pal, Mike Ronkoske, won the “Spend The Weekend With The Characters of ‘HamannEggs’” contest. We spent a lot of that weekend on snow covered mountains and in bars and generally abandoning Diana to take care of the boys.

To make it up to her, I offered to be in 100% charge of the boys while we went to Kitty’s cabin. That way she could have fun with Kitty, but still be close enough to see the boys dismantle my brain.

Said dismantling occurred between the hours of 1-5am Saturday night.

Luca is not a terrible sleeper. But he is particular. He demands complete silence and darkness. His bare feet need to be exposed and he must have 3 pacifiers within arms reach. He must have his rotten Curious George next to his body and his blankey has to be gently draped over his face. He has to have a white noise machine cranked and his crib bumper must be present.

None of these things were available at Kitty’s. I’ll take responsibility for 99% of it. I’m a terrible packer. Elijah arrived with one pair of underpants to last him all weekend.

Anyway, Luca spent the hours of 10pm-midnight in his empty Pack ‘N Play screaming, ‘MOOOMMMMMYYYY!” over and over. Eventually, Diana left to go sleep in one of the other 50 rooms in the cabin. I opted to stay and silently curse myself for agreeing to be in charge.

Eventually, I scooped the screamer up and put him into bed with me. Knowing he just won the lottery, he quieted down and fell asleep. Over the next several hours, I learned this about my son: he is an active sleeper. He kicks. He flails his arms. He squirms around like a worm. At one point, he sat up straight and brought his forehead down on my nose with blow so savage, the room lit up like it was midday.

Oh, and did I mention Elijah joined us? At 2 or 3am, he climbed into bed and I protested, “There are plenty of other beds IN THIS ROOM you can sleep in.” Eli responded with one of his deep sleep cries of terror.

So for the rest of the night Jimmy Legs Luca and Screaming Eli battled it out for who would cause me to smother myself with a flannel pillow.

And yet, the still managed to both wake up, happy and clams at 6am demanding to watch Kitty’s ancient VHS copy of “Charlotte’s Web.”

Different

2011-04-18T12:14:00.000-07:00

The family went to (the beautiful and talented) Kitty’s cabin this weekend. However, Diana and Kitty went up a day earlier than me and the boys. So Diana could, you know, not be around the boys for one minute.

I took the day off and decided to surprise them with a trip to the zoo. While we were in the car, I had Eli to ask me questions about where we were going.

“What color is it?”

“Lots of colors. Guess again.”

“What color is it?”

“No, it really isn’t a color thing. Here. I’ll give you a hint. There are both fur and scales there.”

“What color is it?”

“We’re going to the zoo.”

The boys loved the zoo. How can you not love a place with so many different kinds of poop? Eventually, we needed to make the complicated trip to the bathroom. I happened to select the smallest bathroom at the zoo, over by the bird area. I had to cram our giant stroller into one of those one stall/one toilet/one sink joints.

The bathroom was occupied by some volunteers, who were helping some fairly severely handicapped people do their business.

“Why is that guy in a chair?” Elijah said so loudly it disturbed the neighboring bird cage. The room suddenly got significantly more claustrophobic.

I got intensely into Eli’s face. I mentally told him to shut up for the love of all that’s holy.

“Some people use a chair to get around. Just like Luca in his stroller. But it’s not a big deal…”

“I don’t like him. He looks silly!”

I immediately grabbed Eli by the waist, mid-pee, and dragged him out the door while pushing Luca’s stroller with my foot.

We found a bench nearby and I sat him down.

“Now, Eli. I need you to listen to me very carefully. This is important. There are some people in the world who were born differently than us. Some people need extra help with wheel chairs. Or some of them look a little different. But that doesn’t make them any better or worse than we are. And we should never, EVER, say things like they look silly. That is not nice. Do you understand?”

“But he looked silly!”

“That’s what I’m talking about. I don’t want you saying mean things about people who are different.”

After me making him repeat “I will never say mean things about people who are different” a hundred times, he realized the only way he was going to get to go on the carousel was to learn a life lesson.

p.s. This photo is why we moved to Colorado.

FOUR

2011-04-14T14:11:00.000-07:00

This morning, I awoke to Elijah shout/whispering in the other room, “Daaad! I have a diaper full of pee pee and some of the pee pee came out over the top and now it’s all wet in here!”

After shushing him and threatening his life if he woke Diana or Luca up, I hugged him and said, “Happy Birthday, Eli. I love you very much.”

“Can I watch TV?”

As I hit the “on” button, I recalled Eli’s birthday party from last Sunday. We had all of ours and Eli’s friends over for Star Wars cake and what passes for pizza in Denver.

An unrelated side note, one of our appetizers was little cocktail weenies. Luca observed a plate full and clearly said, “Penis.”

Where was I? Oh, Eli. This was the first birthday where he understood what was going on. People were presenting him with gifts he had asked for. Not onsies or puffy books or socks. He got a helicopter, a Darth Vader costume and lightsaber, an Iron Man thing that shoots stuff to poke your eye out.

As he viciously dug into some dinosaur related thing, I found myself getting choked up. I actually had force myself to keep from bursting into tears.

What the hell is wrong with me, I thought. Was I jealous of his awesome presents? Possibly. They were pretty awesome. But that couldn’t be it. I could just take them from him if I wanted to play with him.

I think it was the same thing that always chokes me up. I love that kid. It’s been four years of the greatest moment of my life, over and over again. Those of you with kids you like know what I’m stumbling around trying to say.

So I’ll just say it to Eli.

Happy birthday, son. You have brought me more happiness in four short years than I ever thought possible. I love you. I love your mop of blond hair. I love your big, hilarious brain. I love your tip toed running. I love your obsession with all things with screens. I love your made up stories. I love your constant injuries. I love your constant wet pants. I love your laugh. I love your ice cold feet.

You’ll always be my best pal.

Die

2011-04-13T16:27:00.000-07:00

The only issue with forcing Elijah to watch Star Wars over and over like that kid from “A Clockwork Orange” is he’s probably been exposed to more death and dismemberment than a one-day-away-from 4 year old should.

And the whole death thing has been creeping into his vocabulary more than I like. He will shoot me with his tiny finger and shout, “I killed you, daddy!” I have to reprimand him about using the word “killed.” I say, “Don’t say ‘killed,’ that’s not nice. Say, ‘mortally injured.’”

The other day, Diana asked Eli if he had ever heard of God. He wasn’t quite sure of the concept, despite my prayer over the dead bird last summer.

Diana took it upon herself to explain the Man Upstairs.

“Well, God is this really great guy who lives up in the clouds and he watches over us, a lot like Santa Claus. And when you die, you get to see him.”

Big mistake. Elijah’s eyes filled with tears.

“I’M GOING TO DIE???????”

At this point, I imagine Diana donning a top hat and cane and tap dancing like Fred Astaire.

“Well, everybody dies…but it’s really great because you get to see your family and…”

“EVERYBODY DIES???? DADA DIES? GRANDMA SHEILA DIES? YOU DIE?”

This is where the story fizzles out. I think she distracted him with promises of birthday cupcakes and Star Wars killings.

I wonder if it made a lasting impact on him. Mostly when I have to comfort him at 4am when he’s screaming out in terror.

p.s. This is Elijah’s birthday present from my dad. I have never been so jealous of a 4 year old,

Together

2011-04-08T14:13:00.001-07:00

Every morning, I make up with the boys. And by “wake up,” I mean, “shove milk into their hands, turn on the TV and collapse onto the daybed.” But eventually, I have to transition from my awful parenting to Diana’s more effective parenting.

I simply say the magic words, “Let’s go wake up mommy,” and the boys spring into crazy action. They both race across the room screaming, “MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY!” And then they burst into where Diana peacefully sleeps. She barely has enough time to moan, “Nooooo,” before they leap onto her, usually smashing her tender bits.

Eli usually stays for 35 seconds until he realizes there is no TV in our room. Luca lingers longer so he can get his Loton. He repeats, “Loton…loton…loton” over and over until Diana squirts some hand lotion into his little hand.

For a while, he would immediately cram the lotion into his mouth. G-r-o-s-s. So Diana has been training him over the last few months to rub his hands together instead of poisoning himself. She smooshes his hands together and says, “Together together together” over and over. He got the hint and now says, “Gether gether gether,” a little too creepily for my tastes.

The other night, however, Diana was chasing both boys during the post bath Naked Crazies. She lost track of Luca while dealing with whatever trauma Elijah had self inflicted and she heard him say, “Gether gether gether.”

Knowing all lotions were out of baby reach, she knew something was up and raced around to find him. She found him crouched over a pile of doo doo. He was rubbing his hands together.

What was on his hands was not lotion.

The Little Boy Who Cried Maxime

2011-04-07T10:47:00.000-07:00

Elijah doesn’t love his Denver preschool. I think it’s partly because he feels guilty that his daddy has to shell out $600 a month so he can play with blocks. But Diana and I think it’s because he isn’t the King of The School, like he was in Evanston.

When we dropped him off in Illinois, the cry of “ELI!” would ring out. There’d be a fight for the chance to be the first to kiss his ring. Then they’d hoist him on their shoulders and shower him with cookies and Star Wars chocking hazards. And that was the teachers.

Now, when we drop him off, there’s a cry of, “Meh…” Eli usually just slumps into a tiny red chair in the corner and sighs.

The saddest part is Eli now tries to get out of going to school. He used to fake being sick and fake injuries. But now he’s taken to being fake bullied.

A few weeks ago, we asked him how school was and he said, “Maxine hit me and kicked me!”

My first response was, “Ew. A girl beat you up? What’s wrong with you? Um, I mean, it’s okay that a girl beat you up.”

He said, “Maxime is a boy.”

“Oh, MaxIME. That’s somehow better.”

I resisted the urge to buy him boxing gloves or engage in some other half assed sitcom self defense and gave him some “just ignore him” platitudes.

But the attacks persisted and increased in violence. “Maxime kicked and bit me. Maxime broke a chair over my head. Maxime stabbed me with a shiv honed from a toothbrush.”

Diana finally confronted his teachers, who we assumed were too jacked on Denver Medical Marijuana to notice the daily beatings.

They responded that there had been zero incidences between Maxime and Eli.

So we simply listen now to the daily play by play of how Maxime abused him and say, “That sucks that Maxime broke your arm off and beat you with the bloody end of it.”

Peanut

2011-04-04T15:35:00.000-07:00

The story goes Diana’s older brother Donny was at a big, important soft drink conference a few years ago when he bit into a delicious, but nut-hiding desert. CUT to him an hour later being wheeled through the hotel lobby on a gurney, right past all the soft drink bigwigs. I imagine them twisting their waxed mustaches and laughing, “Mwoohahahahaha!” While they were punching kittens.

Well, we just found out Luca joined Donny’s ranks. He is officially allergic to peanuts.

Yeah. He’s that kid. The one who ruins school snacks and birthday parties and trips to Thail buffets.

We’d been noticing Luca was getting a little rash any time he ate peanut butter. Our Evanston doctor shrugged it off, but our Denver doctor thought it was alarmed.

Turns out they were both kind of right. Luca is allergic to the thing that makes both beer and chocolate taste better, but not THAT allergic. The doc said he may grow out of it and if he ate a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup he’d most likely just throw up. Throw up deliciousness.

He did recommend we remove all the peanuts from the house and get an emergency allergy injector thing. Which is by far the coolest part.

Let me be clear. I hope I never have to use it. But if I did, it would be just like that scene in Pulp Fiction where John Travolta injects that big headed lady with adrenaline. But without all the Heroin.

Elijah, in his bid to maintain his status as center of all attention, announced that he was also, in fact, allergic to peanuts. That’s good, because he’s got quite a few sunflower seed butter and jelly sandwiches in his future.

Ear

2011-03-31T16:40:00.000-07:00

When I arrive home each night from the office, the same thing happens. I head to the backyard with my bike and unlock the garage. I then look around to see if any of the neighbors are home to bask in my environmental commuting technique. I hang my bike and walk out of the garage. And then I’m greeted by Elijah standing on the back porch. Nude. Always nude.

It makes my heart proud that Eli has decided to continue his love of nakedness. But it does have its downside. Like getting peed in your ear.

Huh? What? You’re confused? Having your son pee in your ear doesn’t ring a bell? Well, it does for me.

The other night, both Eli and Luca were nude in our basement, engaged in an epic game of “Naked Crazies.”

Rather than calm things down, I decided to amp things up by turning into a Tickle Monster. Even though there were two of them, I was able to dominate them both with my superior strength and superior tickling ability.

Every time one child would attempt to escape, I’d grab him and resume the tickling. I should’ve known I was asking for trouble. After the third or fourth time Eli tried to escape, I pinned his arms to his body and tickled him violently.

And that’s when he peed on me. Or rather IN me. A perfect shot right into my ear. I reacted as though he stuck a red-hot poker into my ear canal. I screamed and recoiled and ran into the bathroom.

Which made both boys laugh even harder.