Quindergarten and Otto goes Solo

Quin hasn't turned five yet, but he thinks he's five, and all ages shoud come with the transformation that comes with believing your five. His underwear is too tight now, he told his mom, because he's five. Otto can have them, the benevolent blonde said. He's stronger now that he's five and, despite all evidence to the contrary, he can read now that he's five. Sometimes I tell him, "Quin, you're not actually five." But it doesn't seem to bother him. I guess official statistics become meaningless once you think you're five. Actually, I'm thinking about testing the psychological effects of just saying I can do things because I'm 38.

"I can finally fulfill my dream of become a pro football player."

"Why, because you're in great shape and were an exceptional athlete in college?"

"Nope. I'm 38."

Actually, this 38 year old has been doing very mild chair exercises to try and fix is back. I hurt it in the saddest way possible. It's wasn't football and I wasn't saving my family from a pack of cougars. I was at work, and was carrying a computer monitor when I stepped on it's cord. I did that weird thing where you stop yourself with your own progress, thus setting evolution back several thousand years. And I look the part on an early humanoid, walking slightly hunched over and sounding like I'm powered by periodic grunts. I should add that the computer monitor was one of those big ones from the 90s.

The injury comes at a bad time because Quin is now officially in kindergarten, and Otto is now on his own in preschool. I was hoping I could play and frolic and help the boys blow off some steam. Instead, I get to stare at the ceiling until the muscle relaxers put me to sleep.

What he lacks in size he makes up for in attitude.

Still, Quin has elevated our spirits in ways we thought they never could be elevated. For example, he said about Sarah and me that "school is a lot more fun when you're not there." Well, OK, stings a little, but the drugs help. I wanted to fire back how much easier life was before he was around, but I could sense that we'd won some sort of victory. And, most importantly, Sarah could feel a little less bad about shipping her baby boy off to Cruelty's stomping ground, aka public school.

Tonight, however, Quin followed up his second full day with the heart-wrenching, "Sometimes I want to cryOtto is prepared for his new life. but I also get real excited." Sarah could barely swallow her salad thinking of her little boy alone and sad and without his mom. I think in her head she sees him curled up on an icy plateau with high winds and children taunting him from the backs of hungry polar bears. It can get bad in these parental heads. We say we want the best for our child but it's hard from veering to the worst. And there's no way that I can see to comfort her. On his first full day of school, Quin was supposed to be in the after school program, but someone screwed up and he ended up in front of the school waiting for his mom to pick him up. He made fleeting mention of this before he went on to explain, with shrill excitement, ten other things that happened to him. But that one mention of waiting for a mom who wasn't there sent Sarah into a tailspin.

What did I do? I tried to comfort her. I shared with her that on my first day of kindergarten I too was left out front with no one to pick me up. It's a true story. I hung out by myself for over an hour before a neighbor of the school saw me. She called around until someone came and picked me up. Turns out my mom's Jeep had broken down and, in the days before cell phones, was forced to walk to the nearest communication. Sarah doesn't want to hear how her child's childhood mirrors mine. I'm a large man with smelly parts and libido and in no way should I even try to compete with the Evian bottles of purity that are her little boys. I should have listened to myself two years ago when I wrote this:

Unfortunately, I can’t comfort her like she comforts me. The dynamic has changed. Two little boys have their incomparable “boy mom:” The woman who understands the importance of trucks and dirt. She tips over stumps to find bugs. She discourages their experimental leaps off the patio but is there when they go terribly wrong. She’s a mom now. Words are smaller now. She's used to tears and laughter, smiles and first steps, so my familiar consolation is probably more annoying than helpful. Instead of trying to tell her things will be all right and sounding like that mosquito at bedtime, I stand by on call for when I can do something.

"On call," those are the words of a dad to live by. Just be there when you're needed, and you'll be fine. If that leads to a lot of awkward standing around, then at least look busy. That's why we have "projects" and football. They keep us distracted until we can actually be of value.

Which brings me to Otto. He was supposed to be the real emotional one during this transition. He'd just left

They've got each other's back. his cozy home daycare to be with Quin at the preschool, and then a month later his big brother left him for Kindergarten, or "five-year-old school" as it's called around here. Turns out, Otto is fine. He didn't even flinch. The month he and his brother had together was priceless. Big brother could help out the younger guy and teach him the ropes of the Rainbow Room--you know the cliques, the gangs, the pitfalls and where to put the firetruck when you're done playing with it.

Otto, though, is keen on figuring things out. He wasn't even yet one year old when he discovered a shortcut to toddler glory. Quin was closing in on three and having some trouble focusing on eating his dinner. So making a "happy plate" became a big deal. (In case you have a life with adult friends and adult activities, a "happy plate" is a plate with no food left on it.) Worried that our eldest was veering towards some behavioral issues, we really hammered the applause when he finished his food. Otto, who sat silently in his kid chair and diligently mowed through his dinner, had to endure this every night. To get in on the accolades, he too made a happy plate, but with an asterisk. After we cheered Quin for his eating endeavor, Otto grabbed everything on his plate, set it on the table, and then made touchdown arms to signal his achievement. It was as if he said in a mafioso voice, "See, there's my friggen happy plate."

It was hard not to give him a standing ovation. For one, it was creative, and two, it was like seeing the early development of a wealthy banking executive. Oh, one day to be protesting on one of my own son's lawns. Then I'll know they've made it.

So here's Otto, now the big kid at his school, walking the halls like he's got Staying Alive playing in his head, and Quin happy to ditch us for a day of kindergarten. I think those are good signs. As long as they don't mind their mom and their gimpy father crimping their style at the end of the day.

I feel ya big guy. I do.

Quin is on his way into Kindergarten

What a meandering trail we've traveled. With rocket shoes on a wet tile floor. I'll only ask once and then my whiny interrogation is over: How in the Hell is Quin in kindergarten?

Sarah had me sneak peaks over the classroom windows. It was his kindergarten evaluation and we weren't allowed in, which is good, because like all parents our kids seem to do better when we're not around. We were late to the orientation, but just by a few minutes. Quin didn't mind at all, and neither did Otto, they were just excited to be going to a big school, one with a gym and a cafeteria and built with those same pale bricks that built every school in the 60s and 70s. They bounded in front of us and Sarah and I sped walked towards the elementary school that wasn't coming any closer. It seemed to fall away with every step, and with that, our child's future in peril by my sleeping in.

But we arrived and found smiling middle-aged women still able to fake it around yet another sweaty, overprotective set of doe-eyed parents. Mrs. Knoll took Quin's hand and they departed as if they'd made a date he couldn't wait to go on. That left Sarah and I to alternately fill out paperwork and stare at the door wondering what could be going on. Quin sometimes cracks under pressure, would he crumble? Was he curled up in the corner and sending the clear message that he wasn't ready? You know he's only four. Maybe he's not ready. I bet he's not. No, he's not ready. We're certain of it. We only want the best for him.

I gave up on flogging our progeny and decided to peak into the low hung kindergarten windows. I rose on my toes, with at first my bald dome visible, and then furrowed brow before finally getting my eyes in place above the pane to scan the room. It dawned on me that just seeing that could set Quin back a year. He didn’t, so I took in the details: the little chairs around little tables, shelves of art supplies and colorful bins full of toys. It took me back to a place where I drew and colored and ate graham crackers and never knew I'd be so head-over-heels about someone who can't pee without taking his pants clear down to his ankles.

It was at one of those tables where I saw Quin engaging in a casual conversation with a woman fifteen times his age. She spoke to him, and then he responded--a novel idea but one that, for me, is hard to come by without clapping in front of his face followed by a lecture on listening.

My toes asked me to stop so I dropped before going back up for more. This time he was writing. He can write? I asked myself. He had a classic #2 pencil and he seemed to be taking instruction from the teacher. Who in the sweet Christmas was this kid? I've been fake-writing his name in greeting cards with my left hand because he routinely refuses to do it. I wanted to beat on the glass and warn the woman that that kid could be a doppelganger.

Sarah, just a few inches shy of my 5-foot nine and three quarters, begged me to get a tiny video clip. And so, being the douchiest parent of all time, through a window I sneaked a video of a child doing a closed screening. There's so much wrong about that, but here it is:

Quin would emerge as if nothing had happened and, according to him, that's what went down, "Nothing.” I wanted to pick him up and hold him against a wall and shout whisper, "Tell me everything that happened in there!" But I'm not crazy like that. The teacher said that he did "great" and that she did not yet know which class he'll be in. They mix the top and bottom performers, she explained, so the class has a combination of all types of learners. I wanted to know more...Did he beat the kid before him? Was he more than you could have ever imagined? How did he do versus the Japanese?

All we got was that it was positive. That'll do.

I chase down and (with help) catch a criminal

I'm that guy who does things he shouldn't do when he least should do them. I could offer countless examples, but odds are you already know a guy like that. I'll take you to the place where I was, in the passenger seat of the car, my wife driving because my back hurt too much to steer. It is here, at a stoplight, where I should not have jumped out of the car, riddled with ibuprofen and muscle relaxers, and chased a criminal. But I did, because that's what I do. 

We would catch him. The "we" includes another guy who did the smarter thing and chased him in his car. Me? I saw this dude weave through the traffic at a stoplight, walk up to a car, and smash out it's tail light. Sarah said, "that guy just smashed that car's tail light!" It was a retired couple in their convertible BMW. He just sauntered up, shouted "Well son of a bitch, your light is broken!" and smashed it. This is where I did my thing, kind of like a broken superhero who's more dangerous to himself than the bad guys. That pseudo-superpower called adrenaline had me jump out of the car and yell at him. He ran, and in running, the hood on his winter jacket blew backward and, like an idiot, he turned and looked right at me. Who does that? You're running from a crime and you turn and acknowledge someone yelling at you? For a moment are you thinking, "Oh, hey, it could be someone I know..."

So I see his face and in that moment he became the guy who stole my sweet Specialized Stumpjumper mountain bike in Durango, and my Raleigh road bike in Portland. He's the punk who smashed the window out of my car on Jason street, the dipshit doctor who left a hole in my mom's head after her brain surgery and, for the Hell of it, the dude who broke our blue spruce in our front yard. He's all bad. And I'm running. Running with this little sarcastic part of me saying something about back pain and dying. But this shithead I'm chasing is running in a winter coat, and he's slow, and somehow, as a flat-footed 38 year old with years of fast food barnacled to my bones, I'm nearly gaining. 

He jumped a fence and ran through a backyard, at which point the smarter pursuant pulls up in his SUV and tells me he saw him head towards the alley. So I keep running, and soon the snarky voice in my head offers me this sticky note: "You're desperately out of breath, and alone in an alley."

Whatever. I take a short cut through an office complex and come out almost full circle to where I started. And I have this feeling that the dude went through the alley, threw off his coat, and is going to try to emerge as a different guy. Urrrrch! That's the sound of tires squealing to a stop. As I was just making my way to my wife and kids, who were still in the intersection and waiting for the police with the retired couple, the guy in the SUV screeches up to me. "I saw him! He's walking up there..." 

The retired woman (of the Christofferson's, originally from Houston we'd find out) made a mild suggestion The boys meet a police officer while their mom fills about a statement .about the police handling it. But we were already gone. This man I'd never met and myself barreling down 1st avenue in Cherry Creek to catch up with this guy who was very clearly the vandal trying not to look like the vandal. We stopped, and without a plan, jumped out and approached him. It was weird, and I felt like the cop I least wanted to be, but remember, that's what I do. 

Without even saying so much as, "Hey we're two fellows in khaki shorts and sandals and we're going to take you down," the guy just starts denying he had anything to do with anything. For a moment I felt a little Dennis Franz, some NYPD Blue touched with Columbo, when Mike (I'd find that to be my crime-fighting partner's name) and I told him it was futile to deny because he'd perpetrated the dumbest crime on the planet: Attack some innocent people and then, after being identified, return to the vicinity as if somehow we'd all forgotten some dude beating cars with a stick in broad daylight. Then we just stood there quietly until the fidgety cat  admitted everything. 

I don't think it's always that easy. Some 45 minutes later, after statements and some subtle suggestions from the police that we probably should be more careful in our vigilanteism, Mike drove me to find my family. The boys were pretty nonchalant about their dad chasing down a criminal, and my wife...well Sarah has kind of come to expect these kinds of things. She knows that guy. 

Olympic Performance Astounds Local Dignitaries, Parents, Zeus

The boys performed their Olympic tribute at school on Friday, and I'm not shy to say that I was near a heart attack of joy. There could be as much pain as your typical heart attack, but it's the good kind that comes with needing to shout like you're at a Bronco game, but sensing it might not be appropriate.

As we sat down, Sarah told me that I was "that parent." I'm "that guy" with the camera and the hours of editing and videos I force onto Facebook members who are now only tenuously my friends. I'm that guy. Apparently, I'm OK with it because as she notified me about my problem, I was about to do an on-camera interview with her about her feelings leading up to the performance. She backed out of the opportunity, but let me say, the tension was palpable. It was standing room only in the half-gym that adjoins the cafeteria at The Village for Early Childhood Education in Littleton. The Superintendent of schools showed up, and parents representing both the Red and Rainbow room were on hand. 

And there is that fear that we already know so well, a fear verified by our very flesh and blood, that at some of these events the kids don't perform. By that I don't mean they aren't up to par in their horse riding mimicry, or they forget to rise like a baby bird coming out of its shell to represent the "birdie" used in badminton, but they simply forgo their duty altogether and come sit with us in the stands. I've explained to Quin that that kind of defeats the purpose of us being there, like when, for example, he deserted his role as outfielder on the t-ball team to lie in the grass, or gave up on soccer to swing on the swings. 

I was nervous when the boys (who were lined up outside the door for their grand entrance) spotted Sarah and me in the gym. I asked her in a voice panicked enough to warrant a fire if we should hide. She agreed with the concept, but probably wasn't ready to watch by crouching behind the people next to us, an idea that had crossed my mind. 

The children marched in and our two little Aryans were together. Each of them wearing the tye-dyed shirt they'd made in class. Quin was clearly more enthusiastic than Otto, but Otto seemed to be interested as long as Quin was. Right away two kids went down: little Veronica broke ranks and joined her mother, and Kevin ran out of the group to eventually be wrangled by the school's principal. Would our boys take a dive?

No, they would not. And that's when the principal approached me to say how great Quin and Otto were doing before quickly veering out of the conversation when she realized that I was crying. Yes, that's part of a heart attack of joy. The first time ever in the history of the world, both boys participating in a public performance together. There were some distractions, like when Miss Roseanne asked them to begin their dance and Quin missed the cue petting his brother's head. And there might have been a glitch or two when the other kids were pretending to be archers and Quin and Otto just stared into some place in kid space, but as the event progressed, so did their interest. Together, the boys curled up like baby birds for the aforementioned badminton tribute, and later they'd break into formation for something like interpretive dance or floor exercises. Otto did kind of throw in the towel when he stood stoically amongst the whirling children, but Quin got a laugh or two for his rapid gyrating response to the orchestral music. 

All in all, it was fantastic. Mr. Carlos, the maintenance guy at the school, turned to me and asked, "How did she get these kids to do this?" I mentioned it must be drugs, and then weaved through the crowd to get a better shot from the bird's-eye-view of the stairs. From there I saw Sarah gulping air and leaning proudly into a posture that said, "I'm so into this," as well as "I'm barely holding my shit together." Me too--my joy arresting my heart and seizing my civility, clamoring to get a shot of history in the making. 

The Greatest, Most Handsome Olympian Ever

With the Olympics over and fans of the games falling back to the futility of surfing for inspiration, let me give you something to look at. Something that will light a little fire, and have your inner wolves baying at distant skies. Let me give you this man:

I love this man. I do. He is the most handsome and talented guy to ever grace the men's Olympic gymnastic stage, and should be revered as such.

He is an icon of athletic artistry and, despite his macho prowess, still pulls off just a touch of androgynous son of dictator. He burns a stare outward. Laserlike it etches his passion, scorching a trail from his genius unseen to the target of his desire. That is not you, Buster. YOU! Ha! He will not let you in his sideburn helmet. He barely tolerates you on the sidelines, idling and ogling. We are bleacher bitches, bums of the lesser achieved, and only lucky not to be hurt by the intensity frothing out of the speckled paste that is his Chilean skin.

"Chile?" you ask as if you had no idea that kickass could come from such a faraway place. As if Patagonia and wine were enough for South America's down under. We'll take his face and carve it into Easter Island; make it the most powerful gaze to last millennia, and perplex the shit out of future anthropologists.

Back down. Back away and don't look into the soft stools of his tired gaze. Don't burden him with your own flabby imagery. Make way and scatter the word of his greatness. Run, mortal, run. It's the least you can do before you wilt and blow away. Pansy dust to his towering thistle.

This man won't have it, but you need to take it. Why?

Simply because he is. He is who he is, and no one else. That could be a bad thing, you know, for example, you're a little creeped out by a guy who looks like Ron Howard and Hitler's love child, but this guy does not care if you care. He says, "I look like a creepy cop who'd take secret videos of you showering and then plant cocaine to shut you up, but I don't give a damn if you give a damn." That's admirable, and to take it to the international stage, and in tights, is a giant burst of don't-give-a-fuckness that deserves gold and the national anthem to be re-written and performed by this man rocking a two-headed guitar on top of a Trans Am. He'd do it too, and you'd be blown away that someone, someone not unlike a stripper with stretch marks, would get up in front of others looking like that. But there's something even more going on here. Somewhere between this guy's closeted Republican senator haircut, and the rainbow dance club eye brow ring thing, is the steely stare of a competitor. A competitor who runs like the wind, if the wind ran like a scared little girl from a spider.