Role Model

It's funny, Addison's going on a field trip today. And it's not the type where they go across town and look at flowers or pumpkins or Christmas trees. It's the kind where he's got to ride in a bus for an hour. A lot of parents (and maybe one of the ones in this house) are pretty nervous about sending their kids so far away, but I'm not at all. Should I be? Eh, he's fine. The truly frightening moments for me come when he's with me.

One of the scariest realizations I've ever come to as a father was when I saw how determined Addison was to imitate me. I would make him laugh, he'd try to make other people laugh. I like the Cubs, he'd say he liked the Cubs. He'd wake me in the morning to see I slept without a shirt, off went his shirt. I'd lose my temper, he'd do the same. It's not always cute.

By the time Colin came around, I knew the drill. I had to stay on my best behavior at all times. (Right. That happens.) But I knew that there was a strong possibility there would be two mini-me's running around. Only I was dead wrong. Colin doesn't imitate me (not nearly as much as I expected). No, Colin . . . imitates Addison. Addison likes Transformers, Colin loves Transformers. Addison sleeps with his sleeping bag on his bed, Colin does the same. Addison plays games on the Wii, Colin watches intently. (Sometimes this flattery annoys the living crap out of Addison, but that's another story.)

Basically, seeing someone who patterns himself after me develop a behavior clone of his own reminds me of this development from the movie Multiplicity, in which Michael Keaton's character, Doug, discovers that one of his clones has cloned a clone.



I don't mean Colin puts pizza in his wallet. It's just that now I'm realizing that any personality defects I may have passed on to Addison are only going to multiply as Colin learns to imitate them. This probably means I'm going to have to actively involve myself in my sons' lives to try to help them develop normally or something. I should get on that.

Super Dooper Uper Shmooper Great

Best compliment ever? (Also, I like this picture because it's not black & white, it just looks that way.)

Last Friday I had the chance to read to Addison's class. I read a few poems from Shel Silverstein's Where the Sidewalk Ends and one from Runny Babbit (the flime really tew). It's a ridiculous amount of fun to go into his classroom and to have kids remember who I am (and to see Addison readily admit that I'm his father). They hang on every word, their eyes light up like bulbs, and they laugh at every funny voice and poetic punch line. They are wonderful children. I could totally be a teacher for 15 minutes every day.

But maybe the best part about it is the thank-you notes they send home with Addison after the day is through. In the past, all the kids have signed a couple of cards, but this time they each wrote individual notes and drew pictures. It did my heart good to read them. One in particular made me smile a little extra wide. I'm sure by now you've seen what it said.

The girl who wrote it (I'll call her C to protect her anonymity) is a twin. The C could easily stand for Cute. Super dooper uper shmooper cute. She always makes a point to thank me for coming and say something adorable. One time it was, "You're a very nice person." This time she added, "I really enjoyed it. Please come again!" But the note was the best. I don't know how kids can form such a glowing perception of someone in such a short amount of time, but it makes me want to live up to it.

I doubt it's possible, but I'll try.

Look, Your Worshipfulness . . .

This girl knew how to wear her some shoes.

There was a princess party at our house on Saturday. Rapunzel's a princess, right? Our niece Rosalie turned 5. Hooray for 5. Hooray for Rosalie. Hooray for princesses.

Hooray for dancing.

She whips her hair back and forth.

The dancing was probably the most fun part. That and reclaiming my testosterone-infused lair from the Land of Pink.

Colin: Big fan of dancing.

Addison, too. Dancing, swords, and major air, make a surprisingly good combination.

Two Things

1. Not one, not two, but . . . okay, yeah, two new American Idol Hollywood Week recaps are up at Beth's place (I Should Be Folding Laundry). I really do mean to brag. They're both awesome: Wednesday | Thursday.

2. I recently asked Addison what he and I had in common. He said that we both liked to play Wii. Okay. Then he added the best part. "It's not something we have in common, but it kind of is. We like the colors red and green." You should know that by this he meant that my favorite color is red while his favorite is green. So you get the part about that being something we don't have in common. So why is it kind of a commonality? He explained by making a laser sound effect and gesturing with his fingers to air-draw two lightsabers crossing.

Photo by Dori. Awesome by Addison.

Maybe we will rule the galaxy as father and son.

Seriously, I want to see the world through this kid's eyes. (Who am I kidding? I so do.)

First Thing

When the first two sentences you hear in the morning are . . . 

"Can we snuggle for a bit?"

and

"You're the best dad ever."

. . . it's already a great day.

Sorry, Thursday, you never stood a chance.

From Bears to Tears (try not to let that rhyme)

The risk of building anything is the fear that it will fall.

On Sunday, Addison cried. Three times. Three. Separate. Times.

No, seriously, this was about 10 seconds later. Addison totally saw it coming.

The first time was immediately after the Bears lost to the Packers in the NFC Championship Game. Through the entire second half he had been begging to play Wii, but when the game was over he disappeared. I figured he had given up. A few minutes later, I heard the whimpering.

He had buried his head in the pillows of the guest room bed. He was sobbing. I asked if he was okay. He was not.

"I wanted the Bears to win!" He was as angry as he ever has been when denied Wii time, which is pretty much the zenith of his anger.

"I know. Me too." Pause. Realization. Peace. "But they lost. I'm sad, too." It felt good for me to say that. Any angst I had over the loss (and their was plenty) had dissipated at just admitting the fact and trying to help him do the same.'

"I hate the Packers. They're stupid." Here's where it was my job to tell him we don't use words like hate and stupid and that we have to learn to lose graciously.

"Yeah, they are. But they won."

Fun with Fireworks, Fun with Photoshop

If it were up to him, Addison never would have stopped running up and down that dune.

I decided to change the look of the blog again, as well as the fact that I haven't posted since Idol ended. There will be some new things, I promise. 

We went to see the fireworks tonight, and it was great fun. 

That is all.

Idol Eyes Migraine Substitute

I can't do an Idol recap this week, at least not tonight. Computer screens + my eyes is a five-minutes at a time deal right now before it triggers a migraine and I get nauseous. If I'm watching Tim Urban sing while that happens, so help me, I will yak all over this keyboard.

In lieu of that, I'll give you this little episode from the Kellogg house tonight. Addison has been quoting Shel Silverstein poems lately; he just loves them. So tonight before bed he treated me to a recital of "Ridiculous Rose." Here goes:

RIDICULOUS ROSE

Her mama said, "Don't eat with your fingers!"

"Okay," said Ridiculous Rose.

So she ate with her toes.

And then he added, "What if her name was Ridiculous Rutt?" Peals. Of. Laughter. Mostly his, but I'm not made of steel, what am I supposed to say? That's not funny? 

My Name is Adam and I'm Here to Say . . .

I like to make up freestyle raps about my kids. I perform them as first-person narratives from their point of view. "My name is Addison, I rock the mic. Lego Star Wars is what I like." Or, "I'm Colin James, and I'm livin' large. Don't mind Charles 'cuz I'm in charge." That kind of thing. When Addison joins in, it can get pretty funny. Here's how we broke it down this morning:

Me: "Addison Michael, that is my name. Be-ing awe-some is my game."
Addison, without missing a beat: "And I like to lion tame!"

Then he adds, "I don't really. I just made that up because it rhymed."

Who's On First?

It's pretty sad that the only things motivating me to blog here are TV (Lost and Idol) and contests, so here's a real piece of family stuff. A week or two ago, Addison and I performed in his elementary school's talent show. It was a lot of fun, even the endless rehearsals of "Who's on First" to which we subjected ourselves.

The night of the performance I had been drumming into Addison's head that only I would have a microphone and that he'd need to project just like before—I would take care of the mic. Right before we went on, he was begging me to let him hold a mic, and I repeatedly told him no. Sure enough, right before we went on, he was handed a mic, and the rest was hilarity.

Since we've finished, Addison hasn't wanted to reproduce the whole routine, but anytime anyone says "I don't know," we'll both say, "Third base!" We'll do intentionally, too, with one or the other asking what the capital of some state or far-off country is. Colin's gotten into the act, too. Yesterday, he said, "What's the capital of . . . third base?"

What indeed, Colin. What indeed.

Let's Get It Started

Yes, Addison has moves. No, I don't possess those same moves. Yes, I will do my best to learn.

Beach + Blizzard = Pure Summer Joy

The night didn't start off particularly well. Neither of the boys ate their dinner. They wouldn't sit still. They wouldn't stay quiet. They didn't show any signs of wanting to make good on our plans to go to the beach after dinner, scampering around the back yard, cranky, tired.

We corralled them. Swimsuits were donned. Beach stuff was packed. The van was loaded. Off we went to Kimmel Beach. Wait, we missed the turn. Okay, now we're on our way to Kimmel Beach. Just have to find the parking lot. No, this ain't it. Aaaand, here we are. Suddenly it all turned. Everything from then on was pure magic.

Kimmel Beach is just secluded enough. Not a ton of people go hunting for it, especially in the evening. But there are enough people that you don't have to be entirely paranoid about sharks. The big benefit, though, was the feeling that the four of us had about an acre of beach to ourselves. Easy to let them have fun. Easy for them to splash without collateral stranger damage. Easy to keep an eye on them at all times.

And the keeping an eye on them part was the best. Colin tried to jump over waves (funny). Addison rode the waves in his life-jacket (a little fun, but scary). We all got to watch a bunch of guys doing some kind of boarding . . . not wake boarding or paddle boarding or boogie boarding . . . I want to say water boarding, but I know that's not right. Anyway, we saw guys riding small surfboard type things right along the shore, and it was fun.

Then we ran up and down the face of a mini-dune a dozen or so times, taking breaks to watch the sun think about setting as we caught our collective breath. So much fun. So much sand trapped in places it had no business hiding. So much relief not even carrying around a camera.

After dusting off as much sand would agree to dislodge and changing into slightly drier clothes, we got into the van and Colin laid these pearls of wisdom on Heather's ears: "Thanks for going to the beach, Mommy." For a two-year-old kid, that's like a 500-word essay on how much he loves you.

We were so going to Dairy Queen.

So we got ice cream. The boys sat still, but not in a boring way. Just in a "Heck, yeah, I want ice cream" way. Maybe there was a hint of, "We're so content, why in the world would we cause trouble?" in there as well. Addison danced to a smooth jazz version of "You Wanna Be Starting Something," but never left his seat. Both boys were quiet. It was pure magic.

The only real tension of the night was between my sensible side and the side of me that makes decisions. The conversation went like this:

Sensible: Just get a cone.

Insatiable: (Dirty look)

Sensible: Fine, get a small Tagalong Blizzard. Those are really good.

Insatiable: Medium. Final offer.

Sensible: Come on, look at your stomach! You're lucky I'm letting you have a small.

So while my Sensible side curled up in a bruised, broken ball of shame, I enjoyed the medium Tagalong Blizzard and the most enjoyable evening of the year. (Don't get me wrong, the Blizzard wasn't the highlight, but like I said, I didn't bring a camera. {Okay, forgive me . . . I really like the Tagalong Blizzard. [Alright, Sensible and Insatiable are back at it again, so I should just stop typing.]})

Thank God for simple pleasures.

Poppy the Puppy Song

Colin: Sing "Poppy the Puppy" song!

Me: (thinking) There is no "Poppy the Puppy" song. It's a lift-the-flap book you turned into a rip-the-flap book.

Me: (out loud) Addison, make up a "Poppy the Puppy" song.

Addison: (3 seconds later, to the tune of "Five Little Ducks") Poppy the Puppy loved to play / all, all, all, all, all, all day. / He didn't know a lot of stuff / but he liked to say, "Ruff, ruff, ruff, ruff."

Colin: Good song, Addison!

Good song indeed.

Teed Off

Addison has officially begun playing tee ball. His first practice was Friday, and I'm not sure who was more excited, Addison or his dad. But we took care of that competition by doing the one thing that will escalate any kid's interest (and most parent's exhaustion): we went shopping for new stuff.

We stopped at Blythe's Sporting Goods to pick up some new baseball cleats and a bat. Shoe shopping was easy (minus the constant Colin chasing around the store). The bat shopping, not so much (they actually sell teeny tiny little kid DeMarini baseball bats for $200+ . . . we did not get one of those). Maybe the most difficult thing about the shopping excursion was convincing Addison he didn't need a full arsenal of catcher's gear. 

If you've ever taken a pre-schooler to a practice of any kind of sport or activity, you know that the interest level varies from kid to kid and from second to second. I've experienced the wavering attention, sweeping disinterest, and tapering enthusiasm induced by soccer practice before, and I was pretty much expecting the same thing if not worse with tee ball. The simple fact is, baseball is harder than soccer. 

Any kid can kick a ball or throw it two-handed over their heads. But throwing a baseball at a specific target on command is difficult for some professionals. (Chuck Knoblauch and Steve Sax and many others developed serious psychological blocks that prevented them from getting the ball to first base. Rick Ankiel and Mark Wohlers were two pitchers whose psyches completely unraveled to the point where they became allergic to the strike zone.) Hitting the ball, even on a tee, isn't the easiest thing to do (for some kids, the tee makes it even harder, because they're even more afraid of hitting the tee than they are of missing everything altogether). And catching . . . shoot, catching is just plain hard for most kids.

Long story short, failure to execute difficult skills can cause kids to lose interest really quick.

Addison loved every minute of it, beginning to end.

The team's coach ran a good practice, which was key. He started them off, as every baseball practice should begin, with everyone pairing off and playing catch (in this case they were really playing chase after and pick up). Then they stretched. Then they took turns hitting five balls off the tee (which Addison was anxiously ready to begin from the moment he stepped out of the van, making his desires known to anyone who would listen). Batting practice also gives the kids who aren't hitting a chance to practice their fielding . . . which was pretty hilarious.

But here's what I noticed: when Addison was in the field, he wanted to field every ground ball. He beckoned the batter to run on every hit, not just their fifth and final one. When it was his turn to hit, he bellowed out commands to all the kids and the coach to take their positions fast because he was ready to hit. As soon as his previous shot stopped rolling, he asked for the next ball and gripped his bat impatiently until the team was ready for the next screaming liner. 

The only real time he got distracted was when he was playing first base and wanted to give me a high five after every play (and, at the end of practice, when he discovered some dog poo by the fence and ordered the entire team over for a look). He even caught a throw at first base, got momentarily ecstatic, and then returned to the flow of the game as if he realized this feat should be viewed as absolutely normal now that he had arrived as a real live baseball player.

You can set aside thoughts of me being an overbearing baseball dad who demands his kid to excel to MLB All-Star status at the risk of colossal disappointment. What I've always wanted has been for Addison to enjoy baseball. I was never all that good, really. I don't have tons of natural ability, and I would expect Addison to inherit my limitations. But the fact that he shows every sign of absolutely being absorbed and infatuated with the game . . . it's like an adrenaline overdose.