F

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

We may have been a bit too successful with Elijah.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lawyer Up

Remember my ode to neighbor Paul a few weeks ago? One of the things I love about him is his utter okay-ness with my son and his son destroying his lawn with sports. Over the summer, they carved out a baseball diamond in his poor grass. Rather than punish them (like I would), Paul nailed up a Wrigley Field “Watch for foul balls” sign on his garage.

But as the air crisps and the leaves change, the boys have switched their attention to football. The sport of kings? Sure. I discovered this by way of the makeshift goal posts clamped to our fence, constructed from PVC pipe.

Luca is now in 100% football mode, or as the early 2000’s would say, Beast Mode. He even joined his school’s flag football team (more on that in a later post). And with this change, his video game tastes have changed.

Over dinner with the cousins a few Saturdays ago, Luca broached the subject of buying the newest Madden Xbox game. He was a little gun shy, because all Xbox games are obscenely expensive and he was entering the time of the year when “Your birthday is coming” is the way I, uh, punt those conversations away.

Luca asked if we could come to a deal to get the game early. Little did he know, I was enjoying a tasty bourbon and was lubricated enough to buy him anything.

I offered the game in exchange for picking up Grover’s poop for the rest of the year. Luca began crying because he felt he was being dealt a bad deal.

“No no no, you don’t understand. That was my opening offer. Now we negotiate. You and I go back and forth until we have a deal.”

Luca wasn’t quite sure what to do, so cousin Finn offered to act as his proxy. Finn was a tough negotiator because the idea of picking up dog poop sickened him on every level.

Elijah stepped in for me. I was happy because Eli once negotiated me into buying him 4 pounds of candy from Amazon.com.

The kids went ‘round and ‘round, eventually landing on poop clean-up for the next eight weeks, with harsh penalties for skipping doodie duties. I wasn’t really paying attention, as I was deep in my own negotiations with my brother over whether a second bourbon was a terrible idea or an awful idea.

Deal done, we went home and bought the game. Eli did us the favor of writing up a completely un-legal document. If you look closely, you’ll see Luca purposely misspelled his name in case we have to go to court.

Skunks

The purpose of this blog is to give Elijah and Luca a semi exaggerated snapshot of their lives growing up. It makes sense that 99.9% of the posts are related to them and their bodily fluids. Occasionally, I like to expand the aperture a bit to include neighbors, friends and other bedroom community silliness.

This is one of those silliness…es.

We hit the jackpot when it comes to neighbors. Our northern border is occupied by our very best friends, Lexa and Chris and their daughters, whose names I refuse to learn how to spell correctly. The fact that Lexa drives Diana to get her eyeball shots every single month sums her up perfectly. Chris is the mellowest, yoga-est instigator you’ve ever met. His laid back, dulcet voice recently convinced me to ride a skateboard for the first time in my life, down Evanston’s largest hill. More on him later.

Our neighbors to the south are a hive of the cutest humans on the planet. The children sing gleeful songs on their back porch at 6am. I have never seen mom Kelly frown once. Ever. Paul is a dad from a bygone era. If I look over the fence, he is either building something for his children or teaching them how to throw a perfect spiral. He’s almost flawless. Almost.

Paul harbors an unnatural hatred for our local skunk population. Every skunk in the Chicagoland area got the message that Evanston is filled with pacifists, so hundreds of them strut across our yards nightly with Pepe Le Pew like abandon.

Where I merely request aloud they refrain from spraying our geriatric dog, Paul fights them with every tool in his arsenal. His yard is littered with lemons and limes, rumored to be a deterrent. Given how fat they all are, I assume the skunks are using them to make pies. Paul also purchased a gigantic flashlight to scare them off, powerful enough to illuminate Saturn from his back door.

Because we are bored and our children no longer want to hang out with us, Chris and I have made it our mission to torment Paul, skunk-style.

A year ago, we bought a stuffed skunk and placed it in the middle of Paul’s yard after dark. With the help of Kelly, we filmed Paul attempting to scare off the inanimate critter. Hilarity ensued.

Okay, time out. Yes, I know there are real problems in the world. Yes, I know it’s only because of our upper middle-class privilege that we can engage in such stupidity. But please let me have this.

When this year’s skunkvasion hit, Chris wanted to up the ante. A stuffed skunk no longer gave us the same thrill.

So we purchased two adult sized skunk costumes and stood in Paul’s yard dressed head to toe in hot black fur. When Paul looked out his back door, he saw two six foot tall rodents drinking bourbon and playing croquet. Why bourbon? Why croquet? Partly because Chris is a poet. Mostly because we hatched the plan while drinking.

Paul reacted the way anyone would: by pelting us with lemons and limes.

Now, when Paul points out skunks to his youngest (and more adorable) daughter, she responds, “Those aren’t skunks. Skunks are Rick.”

The Greatest/Worst Cub Game Ever Pt2.

Sorry about the delay. I took most of the week off and have been passionately doing nothing.

Where were we? Oh yes, Luca and I had finished our psychological warfare all resulting in a couple tickets to the Cub game. Once there, we settled in to our great seats (Thanks again, Gary).

We watched the parade of ceremonial first pitch thrower-outers. Some corporate guy! Twin girls! Country Western star Frankie Ballard!

It just so happened that Country Western star Frankie Ballard had seats right in front of us. His band was an amazing collection of knuckle tattoos, long beards and dusty snap button shirts. Some didn’t even drink beer, so you know there was some dark stuff in their pasts.

Although his publicity shots are of a clean cut, lanky, pompadour pretty boy, Frankie was wearing a white Cub’s hat and jersey, gold rings and pair of Elvis sunglasses. So, I’d appreciate it if you’d read any future Frankie dialogue with an Elvis voice.

I made my typical dad small talk. “So, first pitches, huh? You really zipped it over the plate, there.”

“Thank ya. Thank ya very much.”

From the moment the game started, Luca could not stop chattering. Stats, anecdotes, possibly made up details of every plater.

Frankie leaned over his chair and addressed Luca. I though he was going to tell him to shut up, instead he said, “Hey little man. You sure do like baseball, huh? You ever see yourself a real Major League baseball?”

Luca shook his head.

Frankie tossed him a ball. “That there is a genuine first pitch baseball. I want you to have it, man.”

Luca began levitating a few inches off his seat. Luca thanked him profusely and I shook his hand like an 80 year old man.

Frankie went up to do the 7^th inning stretch and I suggested to Luca that we have Frankie sign the ball when he came back and I’d buy one of those plastic cubes for displaying. 

Frankie was flattered that Luca wanted his autograph and his bandmates gave him some good natured ribbing. Ball signed, Luca put in its display case and held it gingerly. The ball promptly fell out of the case and rolled out of sight.

For a second, Luca looked as though someone slapped him in the face. Then huge tears fell from his eyes as he completely lost it. One of Frankie’s bandmates raced to buy a new ball and Frankie quickly signed it.

Luca heaved, “It’s…not…the…first…pitch…ball!”

I knelt down and grabbed Luca by the shoulders. “Luca. You gotta get it together. Frankie got you a new ball. It’s almost as good. Maybe even better. Don’t do this. Take a deep breath.”

Luca heaved, “It’s…not…the…first…pitch…ball!”

Frankie leapt out of his seat. “I recon we can find that there ball. Let’s go, boys!”

Frankie and his band spread out across the section. The Cub fans were more than happy to let half drunk honkytonk boys reach between their legs among the hot dog wrappers and nacho cheese.

Suddenly, Frankie held the ball in the air. “I got it!” Perfection.

Luca hugged Frankie and Frankie whispered in his ear, “I love baseball almost as much as you, kid.”

All was right in the universe.

The Greatest/Worst Cub Game Ever Pt 1.

This is another two-parter. Stay with me. It’s worth it.

All summer, Luca begged to come to work with me. Sure, you can come. Next week. Next week. Next weeeeeeeek.

Suddenly, I was looking down the barrel of a promise with only a few days left of summer break. I had a pretty clear Friday, so I decided to bring the little guy in. I also tacked on a surprise Cub game, you know, to distract from the lateness of my…everything.

I texted Diana to let her in on the plan. I also explained to Eli why I didn’t love him enough to take him to the game (This was actually to even out the Youtube concert I took Eli to earlier in the summer. It’s a great blog post).

The night before, Diana told me that Luca knew everything, since he monitors all her communications like the CIA group tasked with catching Jason Bourne. However, he wanted to give me the pleasure of surprising him, so he was planning on playing possum.

There is nothing more delightful than a child lying to you all day. Rather than let him off the hook, I spent the day turning the knife.

I suggested he wear his Cubs jersey to work, you know, to look nice. Luca and I locked eyes. I knew that he knew. But did he know that I knew that he knew? Luca suspiciously dressed. Yes, you can dress suspiciously.

I was living in a 1980’s sitcom.

On the commute in, Luca kept up the act. “I can’t wait to spend the day at your work. The WHOLE day.”

I named fictional restaurants we could visit for lunch. “Maybe we can go to Michael Jackson’s steakhouse. They have great burgers.” So…many…other…jokes.

My co-workers dropped by to help in my psychological warfare (and suck up). They’d marvel at his Cubs jersey and ask if we were going to the game. They’d even offer to score us tickets. Luca would sit silently, confused as to if this was all part of the plan. It was.

I had a few dumb meetings and then it was time to spring the trap. I glanced at my tickets (Thank you, Gary Doyle) and realized WE WERE LATE.

After that whole build up, I quickly packed my junk and said, “Look. I know you know what’s up. Let’s skip this charade and get to the game.”

Luca said, “Yay!” Everyone wins.

And then we met a celebrity, snatched a ball, lost it, found it, cried, laughed, hugged and many other things, all to be revealed in pt 2.

Stay tuned.

A Caterpillar I Guess?

It’s no mystery how I come up with HamannEggs stories. Something strange or funny or sad or poop-filled happens to or near me. Then I mentally think, “Blog post!” One to seven weeks later, poof, a couple hundred words appear online. Complete with at least three proofreading errors.

Sometimes the HamannEggs come fast and furious. They get stacked up and I have to hustle to get them out before I forget.

Other times, there’s a H.E. drought. Where the boys just kind of live their lives. They watch YouTube without getting accosted by Trolls. They play Fornite without smashing our TV. They go on Pokemon Go hunts without getting kidnapped even once.

It’s kind of glorious. But man, it’s bad for the Blog business.

Last Saturday, Luca asked to go on a Pokemon hunt and I thought, “Don’t you mean a Blog material hunt?” I prayed for rain so I’d have something to write about.

We made it a block from our house when a dude started calling after us. A-ha! A scoop! The man looked like he could engage us in a lengthy conversation about his manifesto. You know, five percent stabby. It was a risk I was willing to take.

Fortunately or unfortunately, he just really wanted to show us a caterpillar. It was big and bright and creepy. Not exactly front page material, but it was something.

I suggested we take the caterpillar home and confine it in a jar. Maybe it would turn into a beautiful butterfly. Maybe it would die. Either way, I could fill my HamannEggs quota.

Luca was very concerned about keeping the caterpillar alive. Okay, fine. We filled a Mason jar with grass and sticks and some water. We invited the cuter than cute neighbors over to help us name it. Their suggestions were hardly blogworthy. Come on. “Greeny?” Sheesh.

We set the jar outside and I mentally reminded myself to check on it the next morning. Maybe I’d get to write a funny caterpillar funeral story.

Diana came home from work and made us set the creature free. Her reasoning was something anti-Trump. We tipped over the jar and the little guy crawled out, definitely not to be immediately eaten by a raccoon.

So, yeah. Caterpillars are neat, huh? School starts soon, so maybe one of the kids will fall in love or have a bathroom accident.

D&D

When Elijah and Luca were away at camp, I was in Germany to attend some meetings during an intense heat wave. I learned two things: 1. Germans do not believe in air conditioning. 2. At exactly 94 degrees, I begin to smell like a dumpster poured into a sewer.

After one such meeting, I was enjoying a comically large German beer while chatting with a delightful client. This client is the type of guy who wants to start a metal band called “German Blade Factory” after hearing the phrase in an ad about shaving supplies.

During one of our competitions about whose kids are the weirdest, he mentioned that he and his kids had recently bonded over the game Dungeons and Dragons. I blurted out, “What the hell are you talking about?”

D&D is still a thing? People actually play it? Better yet, children will actually do something that doesn’t involve Fortnite and/or Youtube?

Yes, German Blade Factory said. His kids loved it. They use their imaginations and solve problems and don’t fight each other.

You can tell by my excitement that I was a lonely, underweight child growing up. Despite not playing in over 30 years, I immediately purchased waaaaay too much Dungeons and Dragons stuff online. So much stuff that Diana accused me of drinking and shopping the next day. She was right.

I arrived home from Germany to an empty home and too much time on my hands. Which means trouble. I was concerned that I wouldn’t be able to entice the boys to play D&D with a pile of books and the recommendations of German Blade Factory.

I did what any idiot would: I threw more money at it. I visited not one, but two role playing game stores. I had many dorky conversations and purchased many maps and figurines and dice. So many dorky conversations.

When the boys arrived home from camp, I had all my newly purchased D&D stuff displayed on the dining room table. “Huh? Huh? What do you guys think? Huh? Swords. Ooh…look at that dragon. Oh! A Bugbear! Huh? Pretty cool, right?”

In unison, the boys unenthusiastically said, “Coooooooool.”

After some threatening and bribing, they agreed to join me in one game of D&D Sunday night. I even convinced Diana to join because she is a woman prone to pity. Out of nowhere, our neighbor girls joined in because their mother is prone to pity.

I turned off the lights, lit every candle in the house and adopted an ill-advised British accent that I couldn’t maintain. And man, I tried my best. I tried to weave a world of magic and sorcery and danger. I made sound effects. I acted out Goblins and Dwarves and scruffy, sword wielding vagabonds.

I knew I was in trouble when Diana silently stood up, poured her wine into my glass and patted me on the head before heading upstairs to her trashy novel. The neighbor girls decided “flirt with him” was their best move for any battle. Eli could barely keep his head off the table.

My only ally was Luca, who was utterly enthralled and begged to continue as the game disintegrated.  I told him we needed more than 2 people to play the game and he suggested we go to one to one of the dice stores to recruit members. But I couldn’t do that to him.

The next day, I found all my D&D stuff packed away in a sad little box. I packed the box away in my special Rick area in the basement, next to the canned goods, bottled water and other emergency supplies.

I figured D&D would be the perfect way to pass the time during the apocalypse.