Graduation

 

Just like that, Elijah is a high schooler. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I love you, pal. Congratulations. 

14!

Bad blogger! Bad! Bad!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Especially me.

Bird is the Word

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

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

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

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

“There’s a bird in there.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grover

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We stopped playing ball.

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

We decided to let him out of the deal

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

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

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

Football Domination

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mattress

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Luca Surgery

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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