A Tale of Two Boys

The collages below were created from the pictures that we have of David and Graham playing soccer. They are a good representation of all of the pictures that we’ve taken at the games. See if you can spot any differences in the way they play the game.

David, the happy child, is always smiling when he plays. Graham, the angry child, is always upset. David has scored 5 goals in 4 games. Graham has punched a kid, shoved a kid and violently shaken a girl by the shirt, and he’s easily the shortest kid out there. His wrath has generally been reserved for those who have legally taken the ball from him. We’re beginning to think that he might have a future in hockey, as the worlds shortest but meanest enforcer, or maybe boxing.

Naturally when my wife and I reviewed all our pictures from the games we decided that it was time to have a little discussion with the boy. I drew the short straw and sat my son down at the computer to look at all the pictures. “Can you point out your face in these pictures?” I asked him. He silently pointed to himself in all the pictures. “Can you tell me what is different about your pictures and your brother’s pictures?” I asked.
“He looks angry and I’m smiling.”
“That’s right,” I said. “I want you to be more like Graham. We’re not out there to have fun, we’re out there to win at any cost. Just think how many goals you could have scored if you cared about winning as much as your brother does.”
“Yes Dad,” David answered.

We’ll have to wait and see how things go this Saturday, but for now I think we’ve got this problem licked. I just better not see any smiles this weekend, especially not after last week’s drubbing.

In a related note, people often say that Graham looks more like my wife, and David looks more like me. Never has this been more evident than in these photos, and never has it been more likely that I’ll be sleeping on the couch.

Soccer Stars

Graham and David had their first soccer game this past Saturday. They play in a 3 & 4 year-old’s pre-kindergarten league, which is convenient since they are 3 and 4 years old respectively. They have a half hour practice before the games begin, which is much better than a mid week practice because they don’t remember things from one day to the next. I know this by the number of times I repeat myself.

At the first practice, Coach Peter introduced himself and began with some very important, technical drills like ‘look at me when I blow the whistle’ and ‘you must not touch the ball with your hands.’ Personally I thought that the drills were a little advanced for these kids, but he blew his whistle and 9 heads snapped around to look at Coach. The final drill involved a story about how the hungry goal liked to eat soccer balls, and how they needed to feed the goal. During this drill Graham, who either had the biggest jersey on the team or was the shortest person out there, actually scored a goal. He was ecstatic, I’m pretty sure that he thought they’d already started the game.

That’s Graham in the middle. Yes, the one in the dress.
We were ready for the game to start, and I use the word game in the loosest possible sense because under league rules they do not keep score. The point is to teach the kids about playing as a team, to teach them to follow rules and for them to have fun. Afterwards everyone gets congratulated on a job well done and everyone’s a winner. There are no losers in this league, except for all the kids on the opposing team who lost the game by a score of 5-2. That’s right, I kept score!

Two of our team’s goals came off the talented left foot of my son, David. I was worried when he didn’t score in practice but I guess he’s just my little Allen Iverson. “Practice? We talkin’ about practice?” I couldn’t have been prouder. Two goals puts him on pace for a 16 goal season which would obliterate the single season record. The record, of course, is not official for fear that it might make some kids feel bad about themselves, but it is whispered among the parents on the sidelines. Apparently, four years ago little Timmy Parker once scored 11 goals in a season, but there are rumors that he was juicing. One of his former teammates claimed that before games he’d often notice that Timmy had a red juice mustache.

After the game we celebrated by going to the park right next to the soccer fields. When David and Graham were done playing at the park we headed home, but not before stopping at a sporting goods store to purchase a whistle. TWEET! All eyes on Dad!

David on a breakaway.

Dirty Rockin’ Egg

The last time that my wife and I were on time to any kind of appointment was almost 5 years ago, before we had kids. It doesn’t seem to matter how hard we try or how early we attempt to leave the house, something always happens to slow us down. Someone needs a snack before we leave and then gets it all over himself, someone needs a chocolate milk before we leave and then gets it all over himself, someone needs to go pee before we leave and then gets it all over himself... you get the picture. That ‘someone’ is David or Graham, and occasionally me.

Easter Sunday was no different. We were a few minutes behind our scheduled departure time for the short drive to my In-Laws’ house where we planned to hunt Easter Eggs. In an attempt to get the boys to hurry up I used the old turn-it-into-a-competition trick and told them that “The last one in the car is a dirty rotten egg!” David and Graham bolted for the door. Now, I had intended that this would be a competition for the two of them, but they decided that it was for all four of us, which is totally unfair because I have to buckle Graham into his seat and that made me the last one in the car.
“You’re a dirty rockin’ egg, Dad!” yelled Graham. Somehow it didn’t seem quite so bad to be the dirty rockin’ egg. Candis thought that Graham was mispronouncing ‘rotten’ but I’m convinced that he really does think that I’m rockin’.

My Father-In-Law and I were put in charge of hiding the eggs in the expansive back yard, which turned out to be a mistake because neither of us counted the number of eggs that we’d hidden or remembered exactly where they all were. Apparently these are things that are important, because it’s difficult to ensure that you’ve retrieved all the eggs without knowing those two facts. I readied myself to play the role of referee and hoped that I wouldn’t have to call any Technical Fouls while David and Graham each took a basket and commenced Operation Eggs Traction. (Extraction - get it? I came up with that one all by myself!) *PATS SELF ON BACK* The boys would routinely spot an egg on the far side of the yard and sprint past 5 or 6 easily visible eggs to get to it. Aside from the fact that these two kids apparently couldn’t find an egg if it was screaming their name, the game went smoothly. They played fair and even showed each other where stashes of eggs were hidden so that they could both go grab some. Candis thought that this was nice, well-mannered behavior, while I made a mental note that they lacked the competitive spirit and killer-instinct to be champions and quietly devised ways to instill this in them.

After they had found all of the eggs (I think) David and Graham decided that they wanted to hide the eggs for the adults to find. This was when the underhanded tactics and cheating began, and unfortunately there was no one to play referee. Contestants were spilling other’s baskets to slow them down, they were stealing eggs from one another’s baskets, there were even rumors of one team adding eggs to the game to increase their final count. It was despicable. It was competitive spirit and killer-instinct. It was men against women and the fairer sex did not fair so well despite all their Machiavellian machinations.

It is ironic that my 3 and 4 year old boys were better behaved than the adults. David and Graham managed to share, to be polite and to genuinely be well behaved. This tells me that we haven’t screwed them up yet, but don’t worry our actions later that day assure me that it’s only a matter of time before we do.

The Mess

This story happened a while ago but I’ve been wanting to write it down so that I would never forget it. Once you read it you will wonder if it’s even possible to forget such a story, but I’m still going to write it down for posterity nonetheless. It’s one of my favorite stories to share with expecting parents because of the horrified, what-have-we-gotten-ourselves-into look that they give me as I convey the details.

Candis had not been feeling well for the past couple of days, and when I left for work on that particular morning she was still in bed. She was running a fever, extremely nauseous and completely drained of energy, what she needed was some rest. I sternly lectured the boys before I left for work making sure that they understood that Mommy was sick, that they were to play quietly, that they could get snacks out of the pantry so long as they just left Mommy alone. They agreed that they would be good and help Mommy to get some rest.

It actually worked pretty well for several hours, either that or Candis was too hopped up on Day Quill and other over the counter drugs to realize what was going on. Sometime before noon however, there was a knock on Mommy’s door. David entered with Graham in tow, “Momma,” he said, “there’s a really, really big mess out there, but we didn’t make it. Do you want us to clean it up?”
“Yes please.”
“OK, but we didn’t make it,” said David attempting to proclaim their innocence once again.
“Well who else would have made it?” asked Candis. This is a logical question and the answer would have been useful if 3 year olds were logical beings. They are not, so instead of a logical answer David again proclaimed their innocence before leaving to go clean up the mess.

After a few minutes curiosity prevailed and Candis went to go look at the mess, all the while imagining that she was going to have to reprimand David for lying about who made the mess. Unfortunately for Candis, David had been telling the truth. They did not make the mess. No. The dog made the mess.

My poor wife went out to the front room to discover that ‘the mess’ was in fact the dog’s vomit. Worse yet the boys were busy cleaning it up per her instructions and when I say “cleaning it up” I of course mean “spreading it all around.” David being the resourceful boy that he is had decided that he would need something to scoop up the mess, and when you need to scoop something up what better device than a spoon? I’m not sure how many spoonfuls David had transported from the front room, through the dining room to the trashcan in the kitchen, but it was enough to leave a visible trail. Graham was not tall enough to reach the silverware drawer and was cleaning up without the benefit of a spoon, to this day we’re not sure what he was using to carry vomit to the trashcan.

Both boys looked at their Mom, their faces beaming with pride. Not only had they had helped her “clean up” the mess, but they would like it noted for the record that it was indeed a mess that they did not make. Of course that’s a technicality because while they didn’t make the mess, they did make the mess bigger.

This would be a horrendous situation to be faced with as a healthy parent, let alone one who was already nauseous and feverish. The situation was probably made worse when Candis called her husband to ask if he could come home early to help out. I listened to her retell what had happened. I laughed, I cried, I almost rolled around on the floor, it was an unbelievably funny story to listen to from the safety of my office. Then when the story was over, I politely informed her that I was regrettably unable to leave work early.

Just Me & The Boys

My wife is a Wedding and Event Coordinator which means that there are times when I have to watch the boys by myself on the weekends. It’s a scary prospect and one that we all try to avoid as it’s not in anyone’s best interest for me to be the lone parent for any length of time. I’m not fit to watch the house by myself let alone two boys who are looking to get me into trouble; “Yeah Dad, Mom always puts the banana peels in the disposal.” It’s OK though because they’re in bed by the time my wife gets home and then I just blame them for everything.

This past Saturday was one of these occasions. Candis left the 3 of us at the house and informed us that I was in charge by virtue of being the only one who didn’t need to be constantly reminded to flush the freakin’ toilet when you’re done!

The afternoon went quite well. Graham (our 3 year old) napped, I played video games on my Xbox and David (our 4 year old)... well... I’m sure he entertained himself with something. At one point he did come and ask me what side of the house he should put the trees on (he was drawing a house), “the right side or the wrong side?” I tried to tell him that he meant “right side or left side” but he was insistent that it was either “the right” or “the wrong.” Thinking that he was trying to engage me in a political discourse, I ignored him as I do with everyone who attempts this.

At 4:30 Graham woke up from his nap and the world ended. From what I could tell the following is a list of items that Graham was upset about:

• Mom was not home.
• Dad was home.
• Someone had put Dad in charge.
• He had to go to the kitchen to receive milk.
• Aforementioned milk was in the WRONG CUP!

I’m sure I’m missing some because I don’t speak caterwaul, but it eventually subsided and we moved on to dinner. Instead of just making something I made the mistake of asking “what do you boys want for dinner?”
“Pancakes” came the immediate response which was quickly seconded by the younger accomplice. Not wanting to disturb the peace or provoke the neighbors into calling social services I looked in the freezer before saying no, to see what I could make. Lo and behold, frozen pancakes. Cooking time: 45 seconds in the microwave. Effort on Dad’s part: minimal.
“OK, pancakes it is.” I was a hero.

I was still beaming with pride at having made dinner for my kids as I helped them wash up afterwards. David wanted to play ‘Mom and Dad’ (which makes me nervous on so many levels), but he wanted to pretend that they were a “Mom and Dad with no kids.” I know where he gets this from because Candis and I play this all the time, it really is a fun game.

As they played happily I decided that it was time for me to change the light bulb on the front porch that has been out for some time. This was a strategic move on my part, I knew that my wife would come home and in the course of asking how everything went we would eventually get to the question “what did you make them for dinner?” My plan was to change the subject and fake being upset. “Did you even notice that I changed the light bulb on the porch? I do all this work around here while you’re off at your fancy parties and then you don’t even notice. It’s like you totally take me for granted, I don’t think you really appreciate what I do around here.”

Unfortunately the plan hit a snag when I couldn’t find where we keep the new light bulbs, but I managed to wrangle one from a lamp in the basement to accomplish the mission. She won’t be happy the next time she turns on that lamp, but hopefully I’ll be at work when that happens.