Dusty says, "Hey, Gummybear, come be with the guys."

Back to School: Butter the popcorn!

Me: How about this movie? It's got Brad Pitt.
Sparkly: Saw it.
Me: Where?
Sparkly: Social Studies.
Me: It's based on a work of fiction. Involving gods and goddesses.
Sparkly: Yeah, wicked boring.
Me: How 'bout this one? It's got Chihuahuas...
Sparkly: Saw it. Spanish class.
Me: At school again? When did this happen?
Sparkly: Same week my class took a field trip to Taco Bell.
Me: *sigh*
Dusty: I saw all six Star Wars movies in school. It was awesome!

What happened to losing?

I began playing organized basketball in the fourth grade. But the basketball experiences that shaped me much more were the pickup games played on the courts in the center of town. The action there was intense, yet there was never an adult in sight. We kids ran the show. Boston Globe Sunday Magazine

I don't remember as a kid, in a game of street hockey, having problems with dads beating the crap out of each other—like you hear now. Or cheating. If Johnny played dirty, he didn't play, okay? No appeals to the league, meetings. No adults required. And it wasn't that we weren't competitive. I had a poster the size of my wall of Bobby Orr scoring the winning goal in the Stanley Cup series of 1970. I was into hockey.

Now, when I entered high school and I was made to compete, I rebelled. You can put me in the outfield, and threaten me with not graduating, but you can't make me chase after the ball. Talk about killing the joy of the game. Gym coaches were the prison guards of my scholastic experience.  Then, after school, I would play Wiffle ball until the street lights came on.

What's the difference? The kids were in charge. We self-organized.

The other day, I was having a tire replaced. The owner of the shop called a distributor, asked for delivery and ended the conversation this way: "I didn't foul you. I rebounded it fair and square." That bounce of the ball occurred fifty years ago. In high school. Still couldn't let it go. I bet there was a real shiny reward at stake.

Yet, I couldn't tell you if any game of street hockey stood out. Except one: we played a bunch of middle-aged men in a pick up game. Our youth against their experience. Man, did they rub it in when they won. We were stunned. That's not how we played. We hip-checked each other and apologized later, and congratulated the winner (good game, good game), assured that it could probably be us next time.

I remember playing just for a win, not a trophy. The stakes were low. Now everyone gets a trophy, and I'm guessing the kids aren't fooled with this award inflation.  If one trophy is the problem, how are more trophies the solution? Who introduced trophies in the first place? My guess is not someone ten years old.

I'm wondering if taking adults out of kids' games is the answer. Along with the shiny.

Meet the Kids

Dozens of times, I've started typing a vignette about one of my kids...and I stop. The thought that goes through my head? I haven't introduced them, nobody knows who they are, blah blah, blah.

So I'll fix that. Now.

I have three children, and I'll address them by carefully chosen nom de 'nets. That I just made up this second.


My thirteen year old daughter, Sparkly.


She'd totally wear these.

Why Sparkly and not Sparkles? No stripper names for the children! That's a rule. It's fascinating to me to see my face (my mom's face) play out on an opposite gender child. Hmm. This will require a post all it's own.

A typical conversation I've had with Sparkly:

Sparkly: Papa, superman is flying low.
Papa: Bad news, so is supergirl.

Sometimes, it's like having a conversation in my head, we're so similar.

My ten year old son, Dusty.


Imagine a hundred pounds lighter, and a dirty uniform.

He wants to be Dustin Pedroia like I want to be Scott Westerfeld. Really. Badly. He also defines hero worship for me. I can do no wrong in his eyes. He makes me want to be that person he sees.

A typical conversation I've had with Dusty.

Dusty: Papa, coach says I need a cup for little league. What's a cup?
Papa: Gets awfully hot out there, in the outfield...
Mama: PV!

Yeah, I get yelled at. A lot. I misbehave more than the kids.

My (almost) one year old, Gummybear.


Actual size.

Can't walk, can't talk, but boy how happy we are when he sleeps. The boy has been afflicted by low aspiration syndrome.

Typical conversation I've had with Gummybear.

Papa: How's the little baby business today?
Gummybear: Um, gai!

He's allergic to everything except dirt. You try keeping weight on someone who can't eat dairy, wheat, or fruit.

That's the brood. From now on I'm going to be blogging about my kids, so keep this post handy. Or I just might leave a link up on the side bar. You never know.