World Cup Runneth Under

I want to enjoy the World Cup. I really do. I want to be a global citizen. I want to see what all the other countries see. Unfortunately, I can't. Heck, I even played soccer as a kid, so I get the sport. However, as an American I had no chance. The way I was brought up experiencing sports on television negated any hope of understanding or enjoying soccer as a spectator sport. So, I decided to write down a few tips to tailor the experience to an American audience who grew up on the NFL, MLB, NHL and NBA.

#1 Add multiple cameras
Have you watched the NFL recently? I would rather sit at home and watch the game on my giant high def TV than schlep out to a stadium. I really get to experience the action. There are 50 cameras. Some on wires over the action. They bring me down to the field. The show me the game from directly overhead via the blimp cam. Why does soccer have what seems like a single camera that slowly scans the field back and forth? The action kind of moves. It's blobby. Can we not afford a few more angles? Is a director too much to ask? I'm speaking directly to you, Fox. Make it happen.

#2 Allow timeouts
I am used to quick bursts of sports action followed by breaks. I don't have an attention span. Basketball has quarters. Baseball has innings. Break it up a little for me. Give me little chunks of soccer. Not only will timeouts give me a chance to get a drink, they will allow for a little coaching. A chance to run some plays. Do the coaches even need to be there during the game? It seems as if they just watch. Bring them off the field. Motivate. Give me some in the huddle shots of some guy with a white board screaming in spanish. Add some clock management.

#3 The extra time confusion
Really, can we not afford to have the time kept by someone on the sideline so that we can all see how much is left? America is goal oriented. When we shoot baskets in our driveways, we count down from 5 so we can launch a 3 to win an imaginary playoff game against the Lakers. 3,2,1 and the Celtics win the Finals. Not soccer. It goes into injury time and then all of the sudden the game/half is over. What, that's it? No last chance hail mary kick? Don't even get me started on the time counting forward, not back to zero.

#4 No flopping
I'm looking at you, Italy.

#5 More scoring
I don't know what to do here, but something drastic is necessary. Make the net bigger. Get rid of offsides. Make the field smaller. Really, if I see another game end 1-1 I'm gonna slit my throat. It's like sex without an orgasm. Ties are communist. Even the NHL figured that one out. I'm an American. I don't drink one beer. I drink as many as I can. That is how I want my scoring. In excess.

#6 The announcers
Is it so hard to get a little color up in the booth? Think Monday Night Football. Get a few loose cannons up there talking about how this player or that was out all night doing blow with a group of hookers. Bombard me with information. Instead we get the word goal yelled for 3 minutes. Or the word goal repeated seven hundred and twenty seven times. That's all you got? Are goals really that scarce. And, yes, get rid of those stupid horns. Or at least equalize them out of my television broadcast. That's do-able, right?

I am an American. It's not my fault I get more than 3 channels. Can't the soccer people understand that?

The AdDaddy Family Christmas Letter

Well, it was decided this year that we’re writing a Christmas letter. I said that I would take a crack at it. If it’s anything like doing laundry, I’ll make such a mess out of it that I’ll never have to do it again.

So, here goes.

2009 was clearly a year of growth as we welcomed child number three. Baby Girl was born on July 7th. We planned poorly, as a July birth cancelled out our yearly vacation to Penobscot Bay in Maine. At least I have something to hold over her head as she gets older. Like the rest of the AdDaddy’s, Baby Girl likes to get comfortable and isn’t the best at change, so she was induced. Baby Girl weighed 7 pounds, 6 ounces at birth and came out screaming, but quickly settled into a routine of peaceful sleeping and eating. Mommy came up with the name of Baby Girl. I was involved at first, but as we got closer, I decided that I couldn’t think of any more names, so I sold the baby’s naming rights to Mommy for three chicken pot pies. A good deal if you ask me. Baby Girl has a beautiful name and I enjoy chicken pot pies more than I enjoy stressing over the ultimate decision of naming our third child. Baby Girl’s middle name is in honor of our beloved grandmother who passed away late in 2008. We miss her very much. Baby Girl is a beautiful baby. She looks just like me. The AdDaddy genes are strong. However, like Boy and Girl, Baby Girl is fortunate enough to have her mother’s eyes. Currently, Baby Girl is doing all of the things a baby her age is supposed to do. Smiling, laughing, babbling, rolling over, we’re even on the verge of starting to feed her solid food.

Girl, now four, continues to be Daddy’s little girl. I wish I could pretend that I don’t love the fact that she comes to me when she cries, but I do. She is having a great year developmentally. She continues to ride horses and her language is expanding daily. So much so that at times I can’t get a word in edgewise. She is full of energy and will be starting gymnastics in the new year to hopefully burn some of it off. We brim with pride everyday as we watch her grow. Girl is in preschool at the Collicott School. She is very social and seems to have a new boyfriend every week. She enjoys holding hands and long walks around the playground. Girl is incredibly happy to be a big sister. In fact, we suspect she thinks that she is actually Baby Girl’s Mommy. Girl is clearly in charge. She reads to Baby Girl, plays with her, even tries to feed her. Hey, the less the real Mommy and I have to do the better. Girl is really looking forward to Christmas. She is infatuated with Santa. Ironically, when she is within thirty feet of him at the mall, she covers her head and trembles. He is like the Beatles. Or I guess like the Jonas Brothers. I’m gonna need to know these things soon.

Boy is now six. He has his father’s skills at math and listening. He intuitively understands arithmetic but needs to be told seventeen times to brush his teeth. Boy is enjoying kindergarten at the Cunningham School. I am impressed daily with his advancements in reading, writing and drawing. Boy also started playing town soccer this year. I really got a kick (pun intended) out of watching all the six year-olds run around after the ball. There was a range of kids. There were some who ran like heck after the ball until they fell down and others who ran like heck after imaginary butterflies until they were substituted out. Boy was somewhere in the middle. I would sit in my chair with an iced coffee and laugh the whole time. Except when I was asked to jump in and help coach. Luckily, I still have a few skills and can beat them all handily. Thank goodness we didn’t keep score. This past year was also a time for more milestones. The training wheels came off of his bike and he lost his first tooth shortly after, although the two are not related.

Mommy and I are doing fine, considering the chaos that three children create. Our evenings consist of Mommy falling asleep on the couch around 9 and me staying up until around 11 doing what I love to do, watching bad sitcoms and playing guitar. Work is busy for me. I am now the creative director at the agency I work for. My days are mostly spent in meetings and I’ve been traveling to exciting faraway places like California, Europe and Columbus, Ohio. Mommy has embarked on her new career as family chauffeur. Her days consist of shuttling me and the kids back and forth between school and the train as well as the countless number of other things that keep the house running smoothly. She continues to ask for a new car, but instead will be getting a black chauffeur’s hat and driving gloves for Christmas.

Merry Christmas. Love, Mommy, Daddy, Boy, Girl and Baby Girl

Grand plans are accomplished over time

Boy jumps into our bed on weekend mornings. Sometimes he asks and sometimes he doesn’t ask. I unconsciously make some room. By unconsciously I mean I better move or I will get kicked. I don’t really have a choice at this point. He has slowly trained me like a dog. Next, the TV gets turned on. Channel 60. I’m not even sure what channel that is, I just know it has cartoons and he knows them all. I try to go back to sleep. It used to be easy. He was smaller, but now it’s hard. He is bigger, he doesn’t sit still and Mommy is 7 months pregnant. So, here I lie in-between a five-year-old with the pointy elbows and the jimmy legs and Mommy who I’m not allowed to touch at this point. She’s uncomfortable and I am hot like a furnace. Baby Girl has even gotten into the act. There are just too many people. No pun intended, but I find myself lying in the bed that I made.

It didn’t have to be this way, you should learn from my mistakes. See, kids are cute. It started where the little head and eyes peering over the covers at me would wake me up. A quiet sweet voice. Daddy, can I please come into your bed? Sure, Boy. I’m thinking, eh, it’s 7 o’clock, I’m gonna have to get up soon anyway. No problem. He would fall right back to sleep and we’d all be comfortable. And we’re bonding. Slowly he would add things into the mix. Daddy, can I come in to bed with you and watch a show? Sure, we’ve already established that I am green-lighting Boy coming into bed, what’s wrong with a little Sesame Street while he’s there. I sleep through it anyway. Next, he tries to throw refreshments into the mix. Dad, can I come into bed, watch a show and have a cup of milk? See what they do? The key to everything with children is this: If they want something more than you don’t want them to have it, they will win. But there is no way in H-E-double hockey sticks that I am getting out of bed, going downstairs and getting him a cup of milk at 6 in the morning. Oh, yeah, it’s 6, not 7 at this point. He keeps trying to get his way, and I, for the most part hold my ground. If I get up and get the milk the precedent is set and he wins. No milk. Please? No. PLEASE!? NO. Don’t ask again. He tries it for about a week before abandoning the plan. It’s a fight that basically means I’m awake at this point. But I am not getting milk on principle. Soon, he starts coming in earlier and earlier. The little sh—starts coming in around 5. Trying to put on the TV. I need Mommy’s help managing this one. See, she hates the TV in the bedroom, but that is a battle I won because I wanted it more than she didn’t want me to have it. I set the precedent. But there is no way we are watching TV at 5. Not to mention, all that’s on at that hour is Billy Mays and the religious stuff. I can’t sleep through that. But, for about a week he keeps trying. He pushes, I push back. I can’t give in. I can’t I keep telling myself this. Next, he starts working the weekdays. He started with Saturday, which turned to Saturdays and Sundays, which we allow. He was mixing in a Friday here and there which he snuck past me. Which quickly escalated to everyday. I don’t know how it happens. Do you know how hard it is to de-establish the precedent? You have to really want it. You have to be prepared to deal with crying breakdowns and being yelled at as the sun is just coming up. So after weeks (really months) of taking verbal abuse, I’ve got it down to just weekends and no TV before 6. I can live with it, but it’s gotten worse as both Boy and Mommy grow. And now, Baby Girl jumps right into the mix. She didn’t set the precedents; she just takes advantage of them as law. She calls Dada; I get her out of the crib. She points to our room. I take her in and put her in our bed. She points to the TV. I turn it on. She’s like Patton; I just do what she orders me too. I’m developing a back and shoulder problem from being contorted around them.

In his head, Boy always has the end goal in sight. I truly think that he had a grand plan to basically switch bedrooms with Mommy and me. He would have multiple giant flat screens with different channels going. Sponge Bob on one, America’s Funniest Videos on another. All with Tivo. There would be a kitchenette for refreshments and an omelet station for breakfast. I would have to get up at 5 to prepare everything. School would be pushed back to 10, so he could start his days off right. He had the grand plan in his head and was slowly working towards it, bit by bit. He’s a trailblazer. Girl is more of a pragmatist. She sees the opportunities for what they are and just takes advantage. Why blaze a new trail when one already exists?

I’m a sucker. What it is teaching me is to always look for the end goal. What is this one simple request leading to? And how will it hurt me? Don’t let the Boy stay up late one time unless you are prepared for him expecting to stay up late the next night. And the one after that.

Ice Cream Man

So, we got dumped with snow again this week. The totals in the North East have already exceeded the average winter and it's still January. Which got me thinking about summer. Which got me thinking about the ice cream man. I remember watching Eddie Murphy (it was either Raw or Delirious, I don't remember) do a bit on what the ice cream man is like to a little kid. The panic that sets in. I remember thinking it was really funny. ICE CREAM MAN! Eddie was the king back in those days. Then I didn't think much of it. Until last summer. Boy and I are in the backyard playing baseball. Then we hear the distant bells of "the Entertainer" playing. Time stops. Boy drops his baseball bat at his feet. His head looks up at me and his eyes bulge. I swear I see his pupils dilate. The panic. Animal instinct takes over. ICE CREAM MAN! He sprints into the house. Now, I love the ice cream man. I'm not actually a huge ice cream fan, I just love the idea of the truck. It brings back memories of youth and good times. A bunch of years back, we had rented a big house on the Cape with a bunch of friends. We hear the ice cream man coming and I sprint out of the house to make sure I get there in time. I'm in my mid-twenties at the time. I look around me and it's all kids. Bikes are scattered along the side of the road. I get to the front and I order something like 10 Chipwiches. The 8-year-old standing next to me looks up and says "good order". I well with pride. So fast-forward to this summer. Boy runs into the house, grabs a butter knife and goes upstairs to his piggy bank and he is trying to pry open the plug on the bottom. He's shaking. He can't get it open. He goes looking for his wallet. He can't find it. Boy, I got you covered. He seems relieved, but we're still in crisis mode. Will we miss the truck? Will the truck take a last-minute detour down the wrong side street? He looks out the front door. We're still OK. He opens the door and barrels down to the end of the street. I can't keep up. Now, to a small child's eyes, the side of an ice cream truck can be daunting. It's an assault on the senses not unlike walking through Times Square. There are all varieties of things on sticks, sandwiched between cookies, dipped in chocolate, in shapes of feet, or with Spongebob all over the packaging. We don't have much time until we're at the front. He's deciding between about 5 different things. We're up. Rather than lament any more, he asks which of his possibilities is the largest. He goes with that. A respectable decision-making process if you ask me. It's a giant, 8-inch watermelon pop on a stick. Flourescents of green and pink. He downs the whole thing and runs around for about an hour. I hose him off. Then he goes inside and takes a nap.

The day I learned Boy knows math

Math tends to come easy to people in my family. Not that I'm trying to brag or anything. I have plenty of faults. I can't read or comprehend any kind of legal paperwork, but I can do math in my head. We were visiting some friends of ours recently. They have 2 kids, around the same ages as my kids. They also have a playroom. Anyone with kids knows that any kind of new toy becomes a bit of an obsession. Just this weekend I stopped and picked up a Little Tykes ride-on toy off the side of the road. It had a free sign on it, I figured I'd grab it. The price was right. It's the little one with the roof and doors that open. I came home late Sunday night and I threw it in the playroom. Today, the kids can't stay away from it. It's old, but it's new to us so it has the sheen of something never played with. Girl spent the morning in it. When Boy came home from school he took over. He sat in it to watch TV. He sat in it to eat his lunch. He sat in it to annoy his sister. Alpha male. So when we go to a new house with kids, it's as if their house is filled with all brand new things. New to him, at least. It's like looking in the fridge after Mommy goes food shopping. Ooooh, look at all the options. Hot Pockets, String cheese, potato chips. Anyway, we gotta get going home from our friends house at this point. It's late, we've spent too much time there. Boy, we gotta go. Please go use the bathroom. Nothing. Ignored. Boy, please go to the bathroom. Nothing. We also have excellent selective hearing in my family. I'll make a deal. Boy, if you go to the bathroom, you can have 2 more minutes of playtime. Shrewd negotiation I think. At age 5, everything is either an argument or a negotiation. Put your socks on. Buy me a lego. Brush your teeth. I'm watching Mythbusters. Eat your dinner. I want cake. I try to think like a 5-year-old, so I figure the 2 minutes of play to use the bathroom might work. Then he comes out with a counter. If I go to the bathroom 2 times, can I play for 4 more minutes? The adults kind of looked at each other. Did he just do multiplication at 5 years old? Absolutely. I hate lawyers.