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.  

New Year’s Eve 2019

Over the last 12 ish years, I set aside poop and pee stories for a heartfelt end of year post, filled with cliché and weepy declarations of love. However, I didn’t bring my computer on vacation for the first time in over twenty years. It was glorious. 

That makes my post woefully late. I’m hoping to trick the Mole People who construct Blogspot out of mud and dung into thinking this is actually December 31^st. If not, I’m sure the four people who actually read this will forgive and forget. 

We were in Mexico, at our usual beachy, surfy spot. But this time we came with our best friends and neighbors. We also randomly hooked up with another fun Evanston family and headed to the nicest restaurant in Sayulita. We utterly miscalculated the exchange rate, so it was lobster for everyone! Sorry, college education.

I laughed and sang and danced, which was not very on brand for me. And went home early with Luca, which was very on brand. The night ended with everyone back home banging pots and pans to ring in the new year. There might have also been some tequila in there.

Okay, now onto the good stuff.

Dear Elijah,

I honestly don’t know how you do it. Every year you get sweeter and funnier, yet maintain your status as the coolest kid on planet Earth. I know you gotta do your own thing, but remember your dad is here to listen to your troubles, or to just sit and watch TV. You’re my favorite chef, my favorite comedian, my favorite Tic-Toc star. I love you, pal.

Dear Luca,

Never in my life did I think I’d have a kid like you. So full of life, so excited, so good at sports. You defied the genetic odds! I’ll always be here to throw the football, or play Xbox or sit in the dark and listen to your secrets. You’re my favorite quarterback, sound effects machine, my favorite philosopher. I love you, pal.

Dear Diana,

My love, you are simply the greatest. You never cease to surprise me with your passion, your heart, your hilarity and your beauty. You’ve built the most wonderful life for this family and I can’t thank you enough. I’ll always be here to cuddle on the couch, eat Cheez Its and ride out the apocalypse. You’re my favorite politico, cheerleader, HGTV star and kisser. I love you, pal.

Dear Grover,

Don’t die.

A Thanksgiving Christmas Post

Shoot. I’m behind on my blogging. Again. I have lots of Christmas stories to tell, but I would be remiss if I didn’t tell the story of our Thanksgiving disaster.

We decided to host at the cabin this year. Our great pals Kitty and Joe and daughter Gigi  joined, along with my brother and his brood.

Joe and I were put in charge of food because I love cooking and Joe used to have a miserable job in fine dining. Joe and I share a deep German Lutheran work ethic and a Clark Griswold obsession with making family holidays perfect, so we had not one, but two meetings regarding the menu and preparation.

I was put in charge of the bird. Because I live in Evanston and am a moron, I bought a local, artisanal turkey which cost more than my first rent in Chicago. His name was Jeff and had been hand fed corn, received daily shoulder rubs and listened to true crime podcasts on his Apple Earbuds. He also was fond of David Sedaris short stories.

Since Jeff was fresh and not frozen (as if), we need to get him up to the cabin the night before Thanksgiving. This would allow him to get acclimated to the slight difference in elevation in Michigan. 

I packed Jeff in a giant cooler filled with ice and filled the rest of our minivan with my children and Steve’s children. I brought the kids because we’re 50% sure our cabin is haunted I was not going to deal with the Corpse Bride of Lawrence all by myself. 

I’m not sure if you remember, but the day before Thanksgiving this year was a weather mess. Wind shoved us all over the highway. Diana called to inform us of reported power outages all over the state. 

I was crawling out of a deep yelling at Elijah earlier in the day hole, so I tried to be the picture of positivity. “Hey gang! If the power is out at the cabin, everything is going to a-okay! If worse somes to worse, we’ll just skip skip skip back on home to Evanston. Sure traffic is terrible and the weather is near deadly, but we’ll sing songs!”

We turned into our driveway and everything was pitch black. But the cabin is in the middle of a forest, so pitch black is kind of the point. I opened the front door and noticed a lack of telltale security system beeps. Maybe we didn’t pay our bill? I slowly, painfully flicked a light switch.

Nada. Jeff began to sweat.

I called Diana and yelled at her because it was all her fault we met and fell in love and got married and had two wonderful children and made a beautiful life together. 

I drove into town and we went to a bar that was untouched by the outage. The Michigan power company website promised our power was almost back on. I couldn’t tell if this message was passive aggressive Midwestern torture or legit. 

I floated the idea of driving back to Evanston to the kids. Steve’s son Finn spoke for the group with a barely audible, “No.”

I couldn’t enjoy my fried perch, knowing Jeff’s time was rapidly running out. And my perfect Thanksgiving was in mortal danger. What would Joe say? 

After dinner, I suggested we head back to the cabin for one last look before the big fun drive back. Finn repeated, “No.”

Once again, I entered the darkened house. This time, I was greeted by the security system, letting me know our power was on and if I didn’t use the right code, the authorities would be there in roughly four hours.

Thanksgiving was saved! The next day was perfect. Family, friends, wonderful wine and laughs and beautiful food.

Jeff ended up pretty dry.