Golf Cart

Diana found us an amazing rental house in Mexico. It’s one of those places with wall-less rooms overlooking the ocean, lots of amazing bric-a-brac, and just enough metal spikes along the walls to make you double check the locks before bed.

To acquire amazing views of the ocean, the house is situated atop an extremely steep hill. So steep, every morning we hear cars and trucks lose their grip on the rutted, loose cobbled road. We half expect to see a Bimbo truck land in our little outdoor tub over coffee.

On our first hike into town, we all said, “Buns of steel! We sure are gonna get a workout, huh gang?”

On our first hike back from town, Luca said, “Carry me!”

Luckily, there are lots of little golf cart rental places around. We went with the one recommended by our rental manager because he knew the telephone number. They delivered the cart and showed me how to siphon electricity from a nearby telephone pole. They also demonstrated how to put a little rock under the back tire to prevent the cart from rolling into the ravine.

“Wait! How do you drive this? Any tips?” I asked as they happy sauntered away.

“Go slow!” they said with a wave.

I decided to try a test run before taking the whole family down Road De Los Muertos. I took Elijah with me because he was almost eleven and had a good life.

We executed a jerky, panicky 27 point turn in our driveway and crept down the hill. The nobby wheels held wonderfully and we only slipped a billion times. Our napping neighbors were awakened by Eli’s screams of, “We are going to die!” And, “This is the best day of my life!”

It’s funny how tequila makes you a great golf cart driver. By the end of the first day, I was flying up and down our hill. I’ve even secretly taken the boys on little morning excursions where I work the pedals and they steer. Diana is not a fan of these trips.

When we get back to the states, I plan on trading in my Prius for a far better Mexican model.

Gun March

You can guess where Diana is on the violent videogame debate. Especially after the most recent tragedy in Florida. If it were up to her, she would round up every violent video game in the world and blow them all to smithereens. But that’s violent in its own way, Diana. Shame on you.

I’m far more lenient. I won’t let them play the ones where you kill realistic looking people with blood all over the place. But I’m ok with the ones where realistic looking aliens kill realistic looking robots and cartoony people kill cartoony people.

Why? Because I love playing them.

On the Eve of the anti-gun “March For Our Lives,” Diana suddenly declared all gun games off limits. The boys reacted to this like getting shot by a super cool gun in a video game. The kind that liquefies you.

Apparently, when the kids in Eli and Luca’s school participated in an anti gun walk out earlier in the week, one of Luca’s friends spotted a helicopter in the sky above the event and shouted, “I’m gonna shoot you out of the sky! I’m gonna shoot you!”

Diana and the offender’s mom decided it was the video games’ fault and the ban began.

Diana couldn’t make the gun march, so I kept the boys’ spirits up by playing “Parent’s Just Don’t Understand” by the Fresh Prince on the way.

Eli muttered, “Yeah. Parent’s just don’t understand about gun games.” I said, “Yes. That’s exactly why I’m playing…never mind.”

We attended the march and were properly inspired, but the boys were still long faced about their digital arsenals. Over lunch, I suggested we look up “Best non-violent video games” and I would buy them one.

The website’s suggestions included, and I am not making this up, “Flower” and “Desert Golf.”

We ended up buying a baseball game and something called “Ultimate Chicken Horse.” By the sounds of it, “Ultimate Chicken Horse” will do more damage to them than blood splatter.

Later that night, our neighbors came over for pizza and wine. And instead of screams of death and maiming from the basement, we heard laughter.

And chickens.

Science Fair

Thursday night, I arrived at the school science fair to conduct my own experiment: How Many Parents’ Names Will I remember? My hypothesis was zero. My results were zero.

I love the science fair. I love the one potato clock that seems to be passed down from student to student every year. I love the dueling volcanos. I love the kids who just let their nerd dads do their projects. I love the kid who thinks two Star Wars ships in a blackened shoe box counts as science (it does and if there was an award for best science he would’ve won).

I chatted with a fellow ad dad who showed me his son’s work: A white poster board with a hand drawn lemon. He said, “We had some tears last night.” I told him I liked his lemon.

Elijah and Luca’s science experiments were both great this year. Why? Because both boys teamed up with kids whose parents were far more organized than Diana and I could ever be. Eli’s buddy had parents who scheduled multiple science sessions, helped print out photos of crystals, kept them on task and cracked the whip when they wanted to do stuff like play or hang out.

I assume Luca’s pal was in the same situation. Because his little “Which materials cleans pennies best” display was not the result of a child who prefers iPad viewing over eating.

The boys and I went home after a half-hearted attempt to find Luca’s sweatshirt. “I didn’t like that sweatshirt anyway,” he said. I told him that wasn’t the point.

Diana was at work, so we decided to play an xbox game together. Diana, when I write “xbox game,” I mean “volunteered at a soup kitchen.”

Where the boys got to observe another experiment: How many times dad can say the F-word while playing xbox. The result? 14.

Play

The series of events that had to fall into place perfectly for me to attend Elijah’s school play would make Robert Ludlum shake his head in disbelief. I planned my escape weeks in advance. By not only blocking out my calendar, but also threatening the guy who always seems to schedule things over my calendar blocks. My disguise of “guy running down to get coffee” was perfect. I didn’t end up using my chloroform and handkerchief combo, but it was in my trench coat just in case.

I raced home as fast as my sensible, fuel efficient auto would allow and then spent 45 minutes in the parking lot of Eli’s school waiting for the play to begin. Because dad loves to be early.

In the week leading up to the play, I attempted to give Eli a few stage freight pep talks. But it’s hard to comfort a kid who couldn’t care less.

The future Laurence Olivier said, “If I screw up, no on in the audience will know. If I forget my lines, I’ll just make them up.”

The concept of the play was brilliant. The acting troop collected the written accounts of first through fourth grader’s dreams and then acted them exactly out as written. They were hysterical and scary and delightfully poorly written.

Eli’s part was about a kid who dreamt about escaping a big blue monster in a dish washing machine. I’m not sure who would find it more interesting, Freud or DCSF.

And he was the best.

I am not saying this because he is my son and I love him. He was objectively the best actor. The other kids performed their lines well and hit their marks, but Eli WAS that kid who escaped the blue monster in the dish washing machine.

The crowd roared when he delivered his lines. I’m fairly sure two people were hospitalized for hyperventilation. At least seventeen moms fainted. And somewhere in Hollywood, Brad Pitt sensed he should probably retire.

After the play, we all went home and ate leftover chicken, the meal of every great thespian. I think Eli was proud of himself. At least enough to ask if he could take the following day off.

Luca Cheese

This week, Diana traveled up to the Mayo Clinic to get some world class experts to tell her stuff she already knew about her disease. I’ve been a little busier than usual lately, so Diana enlisted the help of her Dad to watch Elijah and Luca (with a little Schuyler thrown in for good measure).

Di’s Dad is great and obviously knows how to handle two kids, but the boys’ schedule is complicated and you gotta drop them off at different doors than the ones you pick them up and there is play practice and play dates and 400 other things to keep track of. Plus Grover duties.

Luckily for everyone involved, Diana constructed a massive “Guide to Keeping Our Children Alive.” She typed up hour by hour instructions about who needs to be where and when. Plus a crescendo list of emergency phone numbers. The Guide is deep, intricate, and exhaustive.

Or so I thought.

Last night, I got home a little later than usual and wolfed down some leftover pizza and spaghetti (mental note: refill blood pressure medicine). Di’s Dad and I watched a little MSNBC with the volume all the way up and then I went upstairs for some Be-Withs with Luca.

His lights were turned off and he was all tucked in his bed. I crawled in beside him and noticed it smelled like cheese. I asked if he had been eating in his room because that’s against the rules, mister man.

“I haven’t eaten anything.”

Really? Man, it smelled like cheese. Was Luca hiding Gouda in the radiator? Eli popped his head in to request sleeping in my bed. He said, “It smells like cheese in here.”

Eventually, I went into my room where Eli and Grover had taken over the bed. I found my 2 square feet and tried to nod off.

A few minutes later, Luca came in asking if he could join our bed party. After allowing it, I realized it wasn’t Luca’s room that smelled like cheese. It was Luca. Luca’s body had turned into cheese.

I then realized Diana’s exhaustive Guide To Keeping Our Children Alive was missing one key section on bathing. Our children had not bathed in 4 days. Hence, the cheese.

I told Luca he needed to de-cheese after school and I added “Wash Stink Off” to the Guide.

What Do You Do?

“What do you do if a bad guy comes to your school with a gun?”

Welcome to the worst question I’ve ever had to ask Elijah and Luca. A sick and lost kid opened fire in Florida and killed 17 of his classmates and teachers. This, coming out of the deadliest year for mass shootings in America.

Oh, it could never happen in Evanston. We’re too liberal. We’ve got good parents. We’re an anti-gun community. Our kids are smart and healthy and have good support.

And yet, I had to ask.

I knew their school runs “Code Red” drills, which is so sad I can barely keep from barfing. But I wondered if the boys gave the subject any more thought than putting a book on their head during a tornado drill.

“I would run,” Luca said, “We have a door to the outside in our room.” I explained that running wasn’t always the best answer. He should listen to his teacher and do whatever he said. Sometimes hiding is better. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would be debating active shooter strategies with my 8 year old.

Luca nodded with eyes that said, “I am going to run.”

Eli said they have a whole plan. Lock the door, hide, get in the closet if you can.

Luca said, “I am going to run.”

Eli looked genuinely hurt. “I’m on the third floor. You would just leave me and run?” And my heart broke again for the umpteenth time.

The night of the shooting, I sat in shock like most of America, unable to turn off the cable news. Eli came in and sat with me. We watched in silence as pundits tried to find blame, as the same clips of children racing on the sidewalk with their hands raised played over and over.

I wondered if this was bad parenting. Shouldn’t I be protecting my little boy from this kind of reality? Should I be building a Disney Star Wars utopia for him to live in? Shielded from the horror of, well, life?

Eli simply said, “This is sad.”

I said, “Yep. Let’s go read books.”

And then we read comics and talked about zits.

Underwear and Pigs

A few weeks ago, Diana went to New York to see a man about her blindness. Long story short, the trip was super successful, and she learned her good eye will most likely stay good for the next ten years or so, as long as she keeps getting injections.

Diana brought along our neighbor Lexa to act as seeing eye friend in case they needed to take her eyes out to wash them or something. It ended up being a mini NYC vacation for the ladies, which was just as good.

That left neighbor Chris and I to kid duty for a few days. It felt like a plot for a bad 90’s movie, but it mostly ended up being a series scheduling mishaps and near abandonment.

Chris had to work late one of the nights, so I took charge of all four kids. Whenever Callie and Lydie come over, I continue my efforts to make up for that time I yelled at everyone when they were six.

We ate pizza and played board games and generally made a mess of the house. An hour or so before bedtime, I suggested we play “Pig.” Pig is a card game taught by my step mom that involves a lot of yelling and the crowing of a loser each round.

In order to keep interest in the activity, I suggested a series of punishments for the loser. This involved a teaspoon of hot sauce, standing in the snow for 5 seconds, and a teaspoon of vinegar. Come to think of it, most of the punishments involved a teaspoon.

The grand punishment, devised by me, was the loser of said round had to spend the rest of the game wearing one article of Diana’s wardrobe. This was gleefully accepted by the kids. After the round, the loser was crowned: Lydie.

The kids erupted and went upstairs to pick out her punishment. I stayed downstairs and cleaned up a few dishes.

It dawned on me that there were articles of clothing that weren’t appropriate for a 10 year old to be forced to wear. I did not want game night to devolved into an underwear party.

I called upstairs, “Hey! No Diana underwear!”

Luca began chanting, “Underwear! Underwear! Underwear!”

I called again, “No underwear!”

A few minutes later, Lydie came down in a perfect choice for her punishment: a tasteful Diana robe (that was technically my robe).

We got back to the game and I realized Luca was still upstairs. I called upstairs, “Luca! Get Diana’s underwear off!”

“Fine,” he said. And we finished the game with me losing a round and having to run through the Grover poop graveyard.