We took A.J. to the Lincoln Park Zoo yesterday, a perfect spring day of sun and breezes. Even A.J. was excited by beauty of the day. Leaving our house, we drove past an open pasture that was covered in a fresh wave of dandelions.
“Look at all those dandelions!” he said. “It’s like a dandelion party.”
Not as many dandelions at the zoo, but A.J. liked the polar bears and the seals and the lions, and I think he was most impressed by the way the red wolves howled every time they heard a fire-truck or police siren.
After the zoo, we took a detour for lunch at the Four Farthings, where everyone was watching the NFL draft on TV. My wife wanted to know why the draft was on TV and why anyone would want to watch a bunch of football players in ill-fitting suits walk up to a podium and pose for photographs. I didn’t really have a convincing answer for her.
By the time we finished with lunch, A.J was dragging.
“Can we take a cab back to our car?” he wanted to know. I like the way he wants to act the street-smart city kid—hailing cabs, hopping on the L—even though he’s growing up in the hinterlands.
Still, we walked back to the car. And every time we heard a siren, we howled like red wolves.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Taking the Field
Long before I became a father, I had vowed that I would never allow myself to be roped into coaching kids’ sports. I guess because I’m a devoted sports fan and maybe because I appear to have the mentality of a preadolescent, people are always telling me that I should coach Little League.
To me, that’s just like volunteering to babysit for half the neighborhood a few times a week all summer.
But when we got to A.J.’s first t-ball practice on Sunday and learned that no one had offered to coach his team, I found myself trying to organize a bunch of six-year-olds. (I don’t know why I stepped forward. I guess just seeing so many little kids standing around doing nothing and waiting for some direction made me nervous.) So I had them pair off and play catch, rolled them some ground balls, and told them what position to play.
A.J. seemed okay with all of it. He was happy just to be wearing his uniform and playing on a real baseball field. I made sure he got to play a little shortstop, which is where he had been hoping to play. He took his position there, then turned to me and said, “Daddy, shortstop is the best position because so many balls get hit there.”
While he was saying this, someone hit a ball almost right at him and it rolled past him and into leftfield. I don’t think he was ever aware of it. He looked really good in his uniform, though.
The kids were a lot of fun. They were goofy and easily distracted and their noses ran like faucets—basic six-year-olds, in other words—but no problem, really.
They had a lot of questions for me:
“Is it true that we’re getting trophies?” (Maybe at the end of the season.)
`
“Can I go to the bathroom?” (Yes.)
“Can I ask my mom for some water?” (Wait until this inning’s over.)
“How come that kid can’t hit?” (Uh….)
There was one kid who looked a little panicked, like he had no idea what he was supposed to do or where he was supposed to go. He was playing first base, so I tried to explain his job to him and told him he looked a like a real pro out there and gave him a few high-fives. When I was through with all that, he still looked as panicked as ever.
He got through the practice though, and so did A.J. and so did I.
To me, that’s just like volunteering to babysit for half the neighborhood a few times a week all summer.
But when we got to A.J.’s first t-ball practice on Sunday and learned that no one had offered to coach his team, I found myself trying to organize a bunch of six-year-olds. (I don’t know why I stepped forward. I guess just seeing so many little kids standing around doing nothing and waiting for some direction made me nervous.) So I had them pair off and play catch, rolled them some ground balls, and told them what position to play.
A.J. seemed okay with all of it. He was happy just to be wearing his uniform and playing on a real baseball field. I made sure he got to play a little shortstop, which is where he had been hoping to play. He took his position there, then turned to me and said, “Daddy, shortstop is the best position because so many balls get hit there.”
While he was saying this, someone hit a ball almost right at him and it rolled past him and into leftfield. I don’t think he was ever aware of it. He looked really good in his uniform, though.
The kids were a lot of fun. They were goofy and easily distracted and their noses ran like faucets—basic six-year-olds, in other words—but no problem, really.
They had a lot of questions for me:
“Is it true that we’re getting trophies?” (Maybe at the end of the season.)
`
“Can I go to the bathroom?” (Yes.)
“Can I ask my mom for some water?” (Wait until this inning’s over.)
“How come that kid can’t hit?” (Uh….)
There was one kid who looked a little panicked, like he had no idea what he was supposed to do or where he was supposed to go. He was playing first base, so I tried to explain his job to him and told him he looked a like a real pro out there and gave him a few high-fives. When I was through with all that, he still looked as panicked as ever.
He got through the practice though, and so did A.J. and so did I.
Saturday, April 21, 2007
Commuters
Just about every morning, around the time the traffic reports come on the radio, I remind myself to be thankful that my daily commute involves walking down a flight of stairs to my home office. One of the best things about my work-at-home job is that on most days I don’t have to deal with 90-minute train rides and monumental traffic jams.
I thought of all this when I read Nick Paumgarten’s entertaining piece in the April 16 New Yorker, about commutes from hell. Paumgarten tells about one woman's six-hour dailyy commute, argues that commuting makes people unhappy, and quotes “Bowling Alone” author Robert Putnam to the effect that unhappiness increases relative to the length of a commute. “Commuting is connected to social isolation, which causes unhappiness,” is how Baumgarten quotes Putnam.
That doesn’t make complete sense to me. Becase the downside of my no-commute life is that spending day after day at home with only your family and your laptop for companionship can be a little crazy-making. The isolation effect is especially bad out here in the hinterlands, where there aren’t enough welcoming distractions to get me through some days—no coffee house down the street to walk to, no welcoming corner tavern to kill time in. (It’s not that there are no coffee shops or corner taverns out here, just that they’re too spread out and tend to be not worth the drive.)
So one of the solutions I’ve worked out to the social isolation problem is to get on the train every once in a while and spend an occasional day in the city, where I meet old friends at actual corner taverns or coffee shop or sometimes even an art museum (something completely lacking out our way.)
It’s ironic: For me a train ride into the city is a cure for social isolation, and for the everyday commuter, if Putnam is to believed, it’s the cause of social isolation.
I guess that’s the difference between having to get on the 7:40 express and choosing to get on the 7:40 express.
I thought of all this when I read Nick Paumgarten’s entertaining piece in the April 16 New Yorker, about commutes from hell. Paumgarten tells about one woman's six-hour dailyy commute, argues that commuting makes people unhappy, and quotes “Bowling Alone” author Robert Putnam to the effect that unhappiness increases relative to the length of a commute. “Commuting is connected to social isolation, which causes unhappiness,” is how Baumgarten quotes Putnam.
That doesn’t make complete sense to me. Becase the downside of my no-commute life is that spending day after day at home with only your family and your laptop for companionship can be a little crazy-making. The isolation effect is especially bad out here in the hinterlands, where there aren’t enough welcoming distractions to get me through some days—no coffee house down the street to walk to, no welcoming corner tavern to kill time in. (It’s not that there are no coffee shops or corner taverns out here, just that they’re too spread out and tend to be not worth the drive.)
So one of the solutions I’ve worked out to the social isolation problem is to get on the train every once in a while and spend an occasional day in the city, where I meet old friends at actual corner taverns or coffee shop or sometimes even an art museum (something completely lacking out our way.)
It’s ironic: For me a train ride into the city is a cure for social isolation, and for the everyday commuter, if Putnam is to believed, it’s the cause of social isolation.
I guess that’s the difference between having to get on the 7:40 express and choosing to get on the 7:40 express.
At the Ballpark
We took A.J. to see the White Sox play the Texas Rangers a couple nights ago. A.J.’s a big Sox fan, but much more exciting than the game to him is the kids’ baseball learning complex the Sox built behind the left field bleachers. They have batting cages back there, and pitching speed radar guns, and a Little League infield for fielding practice, and a track where kids can race against an automated likeness of Scott Podsednik, the White Sox base-stealing specialist. It’s like a big habittrail for baseball-crazy kids.
By the time we got to our seats just in time for the first pitch, he had run out of gas and had shifted into crabby six-year-old mode. His complaining eased up only when Sox slugger Jim Thome hit a hard foul ball right toward us in the upper deck down the right field line. Almost right off the bat I knew it was coming right toward me. Watching it coming at us reminded me of a scene from an old Warner Brothers cartoon where the falling anvil gets bigger and bigger as it drops toward Wile Coyote. But somehow I managed to catch it and immediately turned it over to Andy, who frankly, didn’t seem to fully understand what was happening. It was only when other fans in the section around us started buzzing about it, asking to see the ball, asking me if my hand was alright (it was about 35 degrees out that night), that A.J. began to get it.
And then he couldn’t stop talking about it.
“Is this a real major league baseball?”
“Is that scratch there from when it hit Jim Thome’s bat?”
“Can I take it to Show and Tell?”
The ball is in A.J.'s room now, in a little display case, but he takes it out a few times a day to look at it.
I’ve been a father for six years now, but I’m not sure anything has ever made me feel more like a dad than giving A.J. that ball.
By the time we got to our seats just in time for the first pitch, he had run out of gas and had shifted into crabby six-year-old mode. His complaining eased up only when Sox slugger Jim Thome hit a hard foul ball right toward us in the upper deck down the right field line. Almost right off the bat I knew it was coming right toward me. Watching it coming at us reminded me of a scene from an old Warner Brothers cartoon where the falling anvil gets bigger and bigger as it drops toward Wile Coyote. But somehow I managed to catch it and immediately turned it over to Andy, who frankly, didn’t seem to fully understand what was happening. It was only when other fans in the section around us started buzzing about it, asking to see the ball, asking me if my hand was alright (it was about 35 degrees out that night), that A.J. began to get it.
And then he couldn’t stop talking about it.
“Is this a real major league baseball?”
“Is that scratch there from when it hit Jim Thome’s bat?”
“Can I take it to Show and Tell?”
The ball is in A.J.'s room now, in a little display case, but he takes it out a few times a day to look at it.
I’ve been a father for six years now, but I’m not sure anything has ever made me feel more like a dad than giving A.J. that ball.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Making Babies
A.J. came downstairs to ask me a question.
He said, “Did you know daddies help make babies?”
I said, “Yeah, I knew that.”
Then he turned around and went back upstairs.
He said, “Did you know daddies help make babies?”
I said, “Yeah, I knew that.”
Then he turned around and went back upstairs.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Cleats
T-ball season is almost here--four days until the Opening Day parade. A.J. has formed some definite ideas about how his season will go, and they mostly center on two ideas:
1) He will play shortstop; and
2) He will wear cleats.
I suppose the shortstop business can be traced back to last year's T-ball coach, who, when he saw A.J. scooping up some ground balls, announced, "OK, A.J., you're going to be our shortstop." I don't think I've ever seen a boy look prouder, even though the coach wasn't exactly fully serious. At that age level, it's generally accepted practice to rotate the kids around the diamond, so they get an inning at each position.
Nevertheless, since about mid-February, A.J. has been announcing to me daily, usually completely out of the blue, "I'm going to play shortstop this year."
I usually make some long-winded, buzz-killing dad's reply: "Well, I think your coach will probably have everyone take a turn at all the positions..."
To which A.J. will say, "I know, but I'm going to be shortstop."
Then there's his other obsession: Cleats.
Last year, they weren't allowed. This year, they are. It seems like bizarre overkill to me to have six-year-old kids wearing cleats and baseball pants for T-ball. Whatever happened to a t-shirt, rolled-up jeans, and a pair of Chuck Taylors? I have a hard enough time getting used to the idea of six-year-olds playing organized baseball (I started at eight), let alone having to outfit them.
But do I want my kid to be the only one on his team without cleats? This morning, we went to the mall and bought a pair of cleats, which, I have to admit, look pretty cool. A.J. tried them out in the store by sprinting down the aisle and sliding into an imaginary home plate. Then he got into a fielder's crouch and moved sideways, like he was getting in front of a ground ball.
"That's how I'll move when I play shortstop," he said.
1) He will play shortstop; and
2) He will wear cleats.
I suppose the shortstop business can be traced back to last year's T-ball coach, who, when he saw A.J. scooping up some ground balls, announced, "OK, A.J., you're going to be our shortstop." I don't think I've ever seen a boy look prouder, even though the coach wasn't exactly fully serious. At that age level, it's generally accepted practice to rotate the kids around the diamond, so they get an inning at each position.
Nevertheless, since about mid-February, A.J. has been announcing to me daily, usually completely out of the blue, "I'm going to play shortstop this year."
I usually make some long-winded, buzz-killing dad's reply: "Well, I think your coach will probably have everyone take a turn at all the positions..."
To which A.J. will say, "I know, but I'm going to be shortstop."
Then there's his other obsession: Cleats.
Last year, they weren't allowed. This year, they are. It seems like bizarre overkill to me to have six-year-old kids wearing cleats and baseball pants for T-ball. Whatever happened to a t-shirt, rolled-up jeans, and a pair of Chuck Taylors? I have a hard enough time getting used to the idea of six-year-olds playing organized baseball (I started at eight), let alone having to outfit them.
But do I want my kid to be the only one on his team without cleats? This morning, we went to the mall and bought a pair of cleats, which, I have to admit, look pretty cool. A.J. tried them out in the store by sprinting down the aisle and sliding into an imaginary home plate. Then he got into a fielder's crouch and moved sideways, like he was getting in front of a ground ball.
"That's how I'll move when I play shortstop," he said.
Friday, April 13, 2007
Snow Day
We had what I really hope is our last snow of the season this week. It snowed enough for A.J. and his mother to make a snowman in our yard. The snowman is now melting nicely, all his mass shifting down to his base, so that it looks like he’s been eating really badly lately. But his top hat remains at a jaunty angle and his carrot nose holds firm. I give him two days.
A.J. and I went outside yesterday morning to check out a tree that had fallen during the storm. The two of us started taking snowball target practice on it, then we turned on each other and played a game of snow dodgeball.
What he really wanted to do was play baseball.
“Can you hit me some ground balls?” he wanted to know. He’s determined to earn the starting shortstop job in t-ball, which starts next week.
“Buddy, there’s four inches of snow on the ground.”
“So?”
We weren’t the only team to have its practice snowed out. Later in the day, I was walking through town and the lacrosse team from the local high school came around the corner on a training run. I guess this is what you do when your field is covered in snow. They were in single file, about 25 of them, all in helmets and pads and carrying their sticks, and running straight at me. It was like something out of a Wes Anderson movie or something. I moved over on the sidewalk and gave them room.
It was only after they passed that it occurred to me that I could have high-fived each of them as they went by.
A.J. and I went outside yesterday morning to check out a tree that had fallen during the storm. The two of us started taking snowball target practice on it, then we turned on each other and played a game of snow dodgeball.
What he really wanted to do was play baseball.
“Can you hit me some ground balls?” he wanted to know. He’s determined to earn the starting shortstop job in t-ball, which starts next week.
“Buddy, there’s four inches of snow on the ground.”
“So?”
We weren’t the only team to have its practice snowed out. Later in the day, I was walking through town and the lacrosse team from the local high school came around the corner on a training run. I guess this is what you do when your field is covered in snow. They were in single file, about 25 of them, all in helmets and pads and carrying their sticks, and running straight at me. It was like something out of a Wes Anderson movie or something. I moved over on the sidewalk and gave them room.
It was only after they passed that it occurred to me that I could have high-fived each of them as they went by.
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