Frat House

Wet, dirty clothes everywhere. Clods of dirt covering our foyer. Empty bags of chips strewn across our basement, under the blue couch and stuffed under beds. Pieces of a ripped up soda can on the steps. A pair of rubber boots filled with water. 

Diana looked across the disaster and sighed, “I live in a frat house.”

I lived in a frat house. Our house is in far worse condition. And we don’t have a 6 foot bong called “Bob the Bong.”

I’m not sure where the tipping point happened, but we’re fearful our house will never be clean again. Oh, we make Elijah and Luca clean up. But within minutes, our house is back to being a wildebeest birthing center. 

This doesn’t work well with Diana’s increasing fear of THE VIRUS. As more and more cases pop up across the country, the more Diana needs things to be clean. I am required to step into a chemical bath before kissing her.

The boys haven’t just stopped at destroying our house. They’ve turned their sights to our neighbors. Last Sunday, Luca accidentally broke a window two doors down during an especially ambitious game. The footage of the event can be found here:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LNaHUxi6H-U

Luca begged Diana not to tell me about the window, because he was afraid I’d freak out and yell at him. So, she quietly swept the glass under the rug, so to speak, and worked out the new window details with our neighbors without my knowledge.

Our neighbor Paul came to our door a little while later to let us know he wanted to pay for part of the damage. 

At which point I totally freaked out. In my defense, the math in my head was Luca broke a window without telling me or anyone and was sticking Paul with the bill.

Much like our filthy house, my rage had hit a tipping point and no amount of Luc explanation could quell my yelling. 

With Diana’s calming help, I finally understood the whole story and apologized to Luca profusely for losing my mind. I felt awful for yelling but also for forcing Luca to keep things from me because of my yelling.

I decided to leave the empty raspberry container in the middle of the room, where it belonged. 

Viruses and Comics

There’s a big scary virus making its way across every news channel and website. What was once an “Oh those poor foreign people” issue is now so bad that a lot of our agency clients have informed us that they’d prefer we keep our dirty Chicago germs in Chicago. 

It’s hard to talk to kids about a potential global pandemic. Especially when your wife is stockpiling medical masks and seriously reconsidering her stance on guns. You know, for the zombies. We told them right now everyone is safe. The virus isn’t bad for kids and the best way to stay healthy is to wash your hands every thirty-eight seconds until they are raw.

 It was in this shaky, opening of a George A. Romero movie atmosphere that Elijah and I decided to attend the big Chicago comic book convention. Luca was busy catching other diseases at an overnight water park birthday extravaganza.

I almost canceled our trip downtown, but my friends made a tiny bit of fun at my suggestion. I chose to put my son in danger rather than not look 100% cool 100% of the time.

We arrived at the convention with my brother and his crew and I stopped all the kids before heading in. I said, “Safety meeting. There are some germs out there that we don’t want. So let’s all be careful out there.” There. That should be enough.

We found ourselves in a line before the other line before the line to get in. Hundreds and hundreds of nerds (myself included) shuffling around, all thinking the same thing: “Did someone just cough?”

Eventually, we made it into the hall. It was appropriately hilarious and awesome and sad and we had a blast. My virus fears were abated by a gigantic IPA in a plastic cup. Eli knew exactly when to ask for a $50 souvenir (at the beginning of my second IPA) and I barely resisted the urge to buy an obscenely expensive Superman sweater.  

I’m fairly sure we made it out with our insides unscathed by the super bug. My insides did take a bit of a beating from IPAs and convention snacks. 

Bas-ket-ball

After the Super Bowl, I was looking forward to a bit of peace and quiet on the sports front. Don’t get me wrong, I love that Luca is so sporty. But I was getting concerned that his passion for the NFL was turning into an obsession. And if anyone is going to be obsessed with anything in our house, it’s gonna be Star Wars. Case closed.

I looked forward to a couple mornings where we spoke about anything but the NFL. Maybe the weather? Maybe the impending doom of the Corona Virus. Maybe moral and ethical decisions that lead the Rebellion to kill millions on the Death Star. 

As I bounded out the door for my weekly business trip, I stopped to give Luca a kiss. He asked, “Dad. If I feed Grover every day, can I buy an NBA game?”

What? NBA? Now we’re into the NBA? Yup. Luca jumped in to NBA obsession like Toni Kukoc driving the lane. I stopped watching the NBA in 1993. 

Soon afterwards, all conversation turned to basketball and nothing else. Who plays what. Every stat. Shoes. Shorts. Athletic supporters.

Our home was also invaded by the “thud thud thud” of basketball dribbling. Constantly. Thud. Thud thud thud.

Last Saturday, Luca begged me to play with him at the park. Eli joined because I forced him to. I suddenly realized that although I hadn’t actually played basketball in 20 years, I was also at least a foot taller than my sons. 

I dominated. 

This must have been what Shaq felt like when he played against his sons. I parked myself under the basket and swatted away every shot they took. I leisurely hit lay-up after lay-up. I also taught them the fine art of trash talking. 

I came very close to rupturing my Achilles Tendon and decided they had enough. I also beat Luca in his NBA video game. But we all know he will quickly outgrow me in that endeavor.  

Fight! Fight! Fight!

I used to marvel at how little Elijah and Luca fought. When I was a kid, my days were filled with punching, scratching and drop-kicking my twin and getting punched, scratched and drop-kicked by my older brother. Plus screaming.

My mother’s love of vodka is starting to make sense.

For years, Eli and Luca barely raised their voices at each other. More often than not, conflicts would end with a little whining and a large amount of tattling. 

Within the last couple months, the boys have discovered the fine art of beating each other. And like most things that are both thrilling and bad for you, they’re addicted. They can barely be in the same room without attacking. The most minor infraction now leads to a tumbling, screaming mess.

Our floors are spotless!

Even though the boys are two years and twenty pounds apart, they’re pretty evenly matched. Luca’s constant athletics make him pretty strong for a shrimp. And Eli’s love of Youtube has let his muscles atrophy. 

But like all children fights, they always end in crying. Mostly Luca, because it’s the best defense for a little brother. Mommmmmmmmm! Eli crushed my skull. Mommmmm! Eli broke all my fingers!  Mommmm! Eli punctured my lung!”

Occasionally, there will be a real injury. For instance, yesterday at the cabin Eli shot Luca in the eye with a rubber band as a crescendo to an hours long fight. Real tears. Real concern we’d have to find a rural Michigan hospital. Thankfully he was okay, but Eli had to do some hard time without a phone in his room.

When you are banished to your room without screens, time has no meaning. I think Eli genuinely felt he’d been up there for an hour when we came down after five minutes to interrupt “The Great British Bake Off” to apologize. 

We let him off the hook and said if he even so much as touched Luca for the rest of the night I would give his phone to a racoon. 

Like all addicts, he took this to heart and then proceeded to sit on Luca, who screamed and we were off again.

Superb Bowl

We usually host the Super Bowl at our place. Partly because I love making snacks. Partly because I have to watch the commercials for my job and yelling, “Shut up! Doritos has something important to say to America!” isn’t cool at someone else’s house.

This year, our friend Kitty took over the Super Duties. This allowed her husband Joe to accomplish his lifelong dream of putting a TV in the kitchen. I was totally on board, as I was a suffering from a string of kitchen failures (pro tip: cook chicken thoroughly) and wasn’t feeling up to hosting. Diana and Elijah were also excited.

Who am I missing? Oh, right. Luca.

Luca demanded to watch the game at our house. His obsession with the NFL is all encompassing and he wanted total control over the event. So we opted for a kid party our place. Luca invited a small gaggle of 10-year-olds plus our Kansas City Chiefs loving neighbor, Liam. 

Small note on Liam. I love this kid. That’s it.

Luca volunteered me to co-host. This was because Luca demanded a high level of NFL knowledge in his attendees and I qualified more than the Wine/Grateful Dead lady. I kept my menu simple: pizza and chicken wings (thoroughly cooked). Plus seventy five bags of chips.

Luca was meticulous in his preparation. He made posters and built a Lombardi shrine under the TV. He acquired a Kansas City Chiefs shirt through manipulation and subterfuge. 

The guests arrived precisely at kickoff. They were a hilarious Rat King of arms and legs and floppy hair and boy stink. One kid showed up in a sport coat and he immediately became my favorite and I bestowed him extra Sprite and Fanta. 

Luca delightfully told the boys I needed utter silence during commercials because I’m a high powered advertising executive. This garnered me minor celebrity status, which I was more than happy to accept.

If you recall, the game featured a thrilling ending. In the last two minutes, every boy was standing on our couch, screaming. Chips and popcorn and chicken wings covered every inch of the room. As a bonus, Liam’s dad came over and added his voice to the throng. 

And just like that, it was over. 

I look forward to discovering the three chicken wing bones hiding under the couch in the months to come.

p.s. I don’t have any good photos from the night, so here is a shot of Eli looking cute. 

Mission Control

Like all family decisions, I went from absolutely hating the idea of buying a cabin to being its most passionate defender. I love it so much. Since I spend at least once a week in Michigan for client junk, I’ve been able to use the house as a poop pit stop and occasional sleepover spot. I love sitting in my big chair with a big glass of bourbon and a big dose of Netflix shows the rest of the family hates.

As such, I constantly beg the family to spend weekends there. Which is kind of the point. Diana is always in, but the boys tend to need a little more coaxing (threatening). They miss their friends and cousins and stinky beds. But mostly they miss their screens.

The cabin has the most charmingly awful Wi-Fi, which is the point. It takes forever to download/stream/TikTok. Instead of everyone watching screens all day, it forces us all to spend time together as a family watching our screens’ loading bars.

With Christmas and Mexico and other holiday commitments, we hadn’t all been to the cabin for several weeks. So I put on my best whiny voice and cajoled everyone to head up last weekend. The only issue was The National Football League, or NFL. It was the last group of games before the Super Bowl and Luca was desperate to watch. 

I promised him we’d watch the games live. I hoped we could scoop all our Wi-Fi into a big pile and use it to stream the game. And if worse came to worse, I thought I could take him to the one bar in town, charmingly called “Freedom.” But I wasn’t sure it actually they’d be watching TV, what with all the militia meetings and bayonet sharpening.

We poured chips into bowls and moved the tv into our dining room, the location of our router. Said router would puff up its little chest and say, “I think I can…I think I can…” and give us the best four minutes of live broadcast it could. Then it would fall over, wheezing and covered in sweat.   

Luca took this complete lack of actual football as a challenge. He gathered every Wi-Fi enabled device we owned and placed them strategically around the room. Racing around the room, he’d refresh devices like a master plate spinner on Ed Sullivan. 

Eventually he got into a rhythm where we could see the almost the whole game. The afternoon was exciting and fun and full of family bonding. 

After the games, we had a lovely spaghetti dinner, lit a fire and retired to the family room to watch a movie. 

Secret Life of Eli

We’ve officially entered the Closed Door phase with Elijah. What goes on in there? What secret projects is he cracking? What mysterious activities are unfolding just beyond?

The world may never know. Well, I know. I constantly barge in without warning.

He’s almost always on YouTube. Or Tic Toc or whatever video based social media platform is currently in vogue. But as he spends more and more time behind closed doors, I worry he’s getting farther and farther away, and one day he’ll come downstairs a complete stranger. A bearded, strapping, Australian stranger. Yes, my greatest fear is he will turn into Chris Hemsworth. 

In the interest of maintaining a death grip on the few emotional threads I have left, I offered to take Eli and the neighbor girls to the mall to hang out, do a little light shopping and wear our leg warmers. They all giddily agreed.

My plan was to play it cool and embed myself into Tween life, Jane Goodall-style. But I also brought a book in case they ditched me.

Thankfully, they let me hang with them the whole time. Mostly because I had money and was open to spending it in small, Annie’s Pretzel chunks. 

After an awkward beginning where I made them go to J.Crew to visit some mid-priced casual pants, they got more comfortable and started being themselves. 

And let me tell you, the Eli self is a straight up goofball. Every store was a new chance for him to do a bit. He smeared eyeliner on himself and neighbor girl #1 (sorry Sephora employees), he pretended to be a DJ in the Apple store and caused a near riot in the candle store. I lost count of how many snowballs he threw. He did voices. He did characters. He did do much shtick he could be mayor of Vaudeville.  

I loved it. My sincere wish for both my sons is they never lose their sense of fun, never lose their goofball-ness. And Eli was living his best goofball life. As a result, I bought him as many bath bombs and cheeseburgers as he could carry. 

The best part? I felt like we made a real connection. It was a rare Eli and Dad love fest. And when we went home, he ran to his room to hide.