SuperCoach, and Little League Parents

It's the hardest second job ever.  The money sucks with horrible pay (as in nada), and in reality you'll spend plenty of money on stuff for the kids and get shorted by the parents but you don't care.  If you do it right, you'll spend tons of hours working for clients who don't really know what they want.  With that said, moms and dads have been sneaking out of work early year after year for pleasure of spending time coaching kids at the fields, courts, and pools for the love of their kids and the game.

Let's meet SuperCoach.

Let's start with a little history as youth sports have evolved over the years.  In my youth, we rode our bikes to practice with our gloves threaded over the handlebars, and our cleats tied together hanging over our necks.  Practice unis consisted of blue jeans, a concert tee-shirt, and of course, your team's dusty adjustable mesh-backed lid.    We would show up to the high school field and wait for them to finish.  We would and take batting practice off the one dad who could make it in time, eat sunflower seeds, and spit like the pros.  We had a bag of a few bats we all shared, and some crusty old helmets that contained little padding, and smelled like gym socks or worse. I can't remember seeing a piece of new equipment in a bag after my first year of little league.

Today, there are at least four or five coaches for each baseball team (7-8 for football).  The kids show up wearing practice uniforms, Oakley sunglasses, $200+ composite bats, customized flat-brimmed hats, and batting gloves hanging out of their back pockets.  They practice on pristine fields with grass infields, covered dugouts, and have scoreboards tracking pitch counts.  They don't ride their bikes to the field, but rather are dropped off by minivan or SUV.  These kids are big-leaguers from the start...and that's just in little league.  There are travel ball teams that have better swag than the Pittsburgh Pirates, and they'll fly across country to play in tournaments.  To put it simply...Little League is the new "Big Leagues."  The thing is, they're not the big leagues...this stuff is just for fun and we just can't forget that fact (more below).

Super Coach gets one or maybe two official practice days a week to mold his group of kids into a winning machine (or at least make the kids into players that can run the bases counterclockwise), but will often schedule time on the weekends or whenever he can to help the kids develop at the local batting cages.  Super Coach has to sneak out of the office early on game day to prep the field, throw whiffle-ball batting practice till his arm falls off, and then wrangle this gaggle of cats into game readiness.  The thing is Super Coach loves the game, his kid, the the other kids, and is good friends with that 4-eyed ump that blows every call.  In little league, the baseball isn't the hard part...often times its those behind the fence that makes life difficult for Super Coach and the kids.

Look around your stands at the next game...you'll see some of these folks in front of you, next to you, or it might just be you:

Day-Care Parent.  These parents drop their kids off a few minutes early, and often show up late to pick up.  They barely slow down as they kick their kid out of the side of the minivan on their way to something they actually care about.  Their kids will miss practice for Cub Scouts, band practice, or just because practice is far away and they just aren't feeling it.  Day-Care Parent never works with his or her kid at home, but whines the loudest to know why Junior isn't playing well, playing enough, or having a great time.  Why can't my kid catch?  Well, have you ever practiced with him...SuperCoach already knows the answer, but asks anyway.  Day-Care Parent skips lots of games, but loves the fact they get 6-8 hours of day-care a week for the price of registration.

MLB Dad.  MLB dad thinks Junior, at 10, is going to the "Bigs."  News Flash to MLB Dad...the best player in [insert your town name here] is not going to the Major Leagues.  I was at the gym several years back and a friend approached me and said he wanted to introduce me to a guy whose kid was going to play college baseball.  My friend thought I might have some advice for this passionate baseball dad being a former player.  This dad told me all about his son, his travel ball team, and the fact his son was playing year round and would play more than 90 baseball games that year.  My first thought...that sucks for that kid, what about soccer, football, basketball or swimming? Anyway, this young man had both a personal hitting and pitching coach, and this Superdad was "pretty sure he would choose college over the draft."  Holy cow, was I talking to the father of the next Ken Griffy, Jr. (Bryce Harper for you young people)?  Was this some phenom who would be called on the first day of the upcoming Amateur draft?  Nope...this Incredikid was 12!  Yup, 12 freaking years old with hitting and pitching coaches? MLB Dad's kid looks in the stands after every pitch, never has a fun time, and doesn't even smile after a win.  MLB Dad can't keep his mounth shut, and tries to coach Junior during every at-bat from the stands.  MLB Dad lives in Fantasy F-ing Land, and whether he knows it or not the pressure is killing his poor kid, and his kid will hate him, the game, or both if he keeps pushing him.

Ex-Player Dad.   Ex-Player Dad knows the game, and how it should be played, and just can't come to grips with flat hats no matter how hard he tries.  Ex-Player Dad doesn't like showy players, and learned the game from watching Pete Rose on the This Week in Baseball. Getting dirty is how the game is played, and Ex-Player Dad cares more about seeing hustle than success, but beams with pride when he sees his kid play the game the "right way."  Ex-Player Dad doesn't think about his kid going pro because he knows the odds, and moreover that luck and opportunity (i.e. staying healthy) are as important as talent and drive. Ex-Player Dad knows if it's going to happen, it won't be because of him, but it he won't be a bar to progress either.  It is a delicate balance of providing the kid the platform for success and the occasional shove, but preserving his desire to play the game.  Push too hard, it's over by high school.  If the kid is going to make it, you'll know it, and it will be because he loves the feeling of hitting the ball, making the great play, or throwing the 3-2 fastball for a called third...not because you lit him up after a strikeout looking.  The kids that make it love taking batting practice, playing catch, or just watching the game.  

The Proudies.  The reality is most of us fall somewhere in between on the spectrum above. We want the best for our kids, and try to give them every opportunity, but we recognize the realities of the situation. The bottom line is all parents should be beaming with pride when his or her kid steps to the plate, free-throw line, or up on the block.  If your kid hits home runs, dominates on the mound, wins every race, or bombs three-pointers, it's easy.  Sure you should be proud.  But, as a coach and parent, I find I'm far more proud of the kid who gets his first hit 6 games into the season or the one who fights off five fouls balls and gets a dinker single.  It takes a tremendous amount of guts to get into the batter's box knowing you've had little or no success, but digging in anyway and giving it your all.  Sports are fun, but they can be scary too.  I'm proud of all of the kids, and whether or not they succeed, but I'm beaming with pride if my kids are out there diving for a ball, making a special play, or just digging hard down the line to beat out a grounder.

Reality

I would never squash a kid's dreams of playing anything professionally, and I'm fortunate enough to have had that chance however brief.  I remember asking my dad if I could play pro-ball (about 10-12 years old), and he said "of course, you can do anything."  Well, that's a nice line, but the reality is there are tons of guys like me.  We actually beat the odds and got drafted, played in the minors, and yet we aren't retired at 40.  What happened?  Reality happened...ohh, this is gonna hurt MLB Dad.


The reality is 1 in 11,437 little league baseball players will take the field as a Major League Baseball player. Take that in for a second.  A very large little league probably has 500 kids, so that's one kid out of more than 20 leagues making the big leagues.  The Bigs are probably out (MLB dad still actually thinks his kid is the one).  Hey MLB dad...that's .00009%

Well, shoot, the odds of making the Minor Leagues are far better right?  At least my little Johnny can have the "Bull Durham" experience...more like bullshit.  The odds of those same little-leaguers just making the Minors...the odds are 1 in 2,298 or .04%.

One more thing, if your kid doesn't have the physical gifts, and I'm talking about those you are born with, it doesn't matter how much batting practice you force him to take, he's gonna be in the stands next to you watching the A's (and that's not a bad thing), but he won't set foot on a major league field unless he is cutting the grass.  Most of the drafted players have ungodly arms, can run like jack-rabbits, have lightening fast hands, and/or all of the above.  I've seen some of the greatest infield plays of my life in A ball...far from the fresh cut grass in Yankee Stadium.  NO ONE GETS DRAFTED ON THEIR LITTLE LEAGUE PERFORMANCE.

So, let Johnny Rocket-arm play with his buddies, but if it's not working out, that's okay too.  I've been around the game a very long time as a player, umpire, coach, and now as a parent.  I love the passion my son shows for the game, and he's pretty darn good at it too.  However, I have no illusions that Incredikid is going to make his living swinging a bat or throwing a ball.  Nope, he's going to do it swinging a golf club.  Okay, probably not that either, but he might make some money taking a client out to the golf course or throwing a game with his boss for a promotion (never do that son).  Anyway, I have a goal to make sports fun for the Incredikids.  That might mean hours of throwing batting practice at the park, catching bullpens in the yard, or rolling grounders, but only if the Incredikids want to be there.  There are times when it's work for them...sure, that's how we learn anything, but I always ask myself who am I doing this for?  If the answer is me, then it's not something that needs to be done.  My father had it right...he would help me train anytime I asked (it was often long and painful for him), but he almost never made me do anything I didn't want to do, and certainly it was never for him.

I'm not saying that we shouldn't coach kids hard to learn to play hard, and honor the game and opponents they play.  If the kids have the passion, they put that pressure on themselves, they don't need us adding to it!  I remember one of my coaches from little league driving us down to Oakland to play the Fruit Loops and the other Kellogg sponsored teams.  We would pile in his yellow suburban, all 12 of us (yeah, no seat-belts baby), and roll down to play in Oakland.  Our parents were hardly ever there, and we played hard every day in the powdery all dirt fields of Alameda County.  Some of my best memories are playing on that team, and coming home to tell my folks how great we played.  Maybe sports were purer then, but we can make them that way again.  Cheer hard, be positive, and don't be that douche yelling "strike three" when you team gets a big strikeout.

Greatness is Not Acheived on Level Playing Fields

I'm embarrassed.  I'm embarrassed that I actually believed we had sunk to parenting lows with "everybody gets a trophy" leagues.  I was wrong...I admit it.  The latest concept is the "your kid is too good for the league" parent.  No, I'm not talking about Incredi-kid, but his joining the Little League Major division is where I finally saw this concept first hand.  PA-THE-TIC.

This year Incredi-kid was drafted into the Majors.  I was concerned he would struggle since he is 10, and most of the kids are 11 or 12.  I believed his skills had developed enough for him to meet the challenge of playing up.  So, I decided not to sign up for baseball as a coach, and then volunteer to help on whatever team (or level) that Incredikid landed.  Well, he was drafted to the defending champs who have 2 of the best returning players in the entire league.  I've been around baseball a long time, and these kids are really good.  One of them happens to be 5'10 or so, and more athletic and strong than just big.  We'll call him the "Beast."  The Beast mashes at the plate, and throws fire from the mound.  Now, Incredikid is 5'1, pretty tall for a 10 year old, but he's a beanpole and looks downright puny next to this monster.  I must admit, one of my prouder moments was watching him dig-in at the plate during a practice against the Beast early in the year.  He struck out, but stood in like a champ fouling a few off before he went down swinging.  12 year old versus 10 year old...this was the expected outcome, but overcoming that fear in week two of practices was really important for Incredikid.

The Beast isn't the biggest kid in the league eitiher.  There is a bigger kid who is 6'2 at 12 (the "Giant")...yup, he's my size and maybe a little bigger after seeing him on the mound last night (more below).  Anyway, there is a group of parents that believe these kids, who are just much bigger and more talented than theirs, are a "danger" to the other kids in the league and should be banned from pitching.  No, its not really because they fear their kids safety as no kid has suffered any real injury from one of these flamethrowers...it's because they are just too good.  These parents claimed it is based on size, but they aren't calling for that gumpy kid who couldn't throw a pitch through a wet paper bag's ban. No, they are okay with that lobber since little Johnny can hit against him even though he's six foot as well.  They want the studs removed to give little Johnny Strikeout a better chance at the plate.  They hide behind calling the kids "unsafe" and spread fantastic tales of knocking kids out with pitches (that never happened) to push their agenda.  The real agenda is to get give their kid a better chance to get a hit.

My recommendation to these "field-levelers" is to pull Johnny Strikeout out of the league today as his safety is being threatened.  No, not his physical safety.  The Beast is too good, and he's only hit one kid all year.  He, the Giant, and a few others have amazing control that goes with their great velocity.  No, you need to pull Johnny because you are RUINING HIM FOR LIFE.  Yes, all caps means I'm yelling.  There is no field-leveling in life.  If we all played on a level playing field, we'd all be mediocre, and that sucks for the world.  You are making your kid mentally weak.   I don't care whether it's swimming, basketball, or gymnastics, there is always that kid that's bigger, faster, stronger, and just better.  One must learn the skills to work harder, longer, and try a little harder than you are used to, and the fields, pools, and tracks are places we learn this valuable skills.  Greatness is not achieved on level playing fields.

Dick Hoyt is a hero of mine.  His son Rick can't walk or speak without a computer (Rick has cerebral palsy), but Team Hoyt has raced over 1091 times including the Iron Man Kona and 5 other Iron Man triathlons.  Team Hoyt is amazing, and the story is better than I can summarize in a paragarph.  Watch this video, and try to hold back the tears (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cxqe77-Am3w), when you see Rick's face at 3:10 as they fly through the lava fields in Kona.  Team Hoyt doesn't need help, a hand up, or a special accommodation. They freaking rock the races, and together achieve greatness!  What they do is so awesome because they overcome so much.  A 65 year old guy shouldn't be able to tow his son 2.4 miles in a boat while swimming amongst thousands of competitors in open water.  How does that same father carry his son112 miles on the bike through the brutal winds and blazing heat of the Kona lava fields, and then push him all 26.2 miles of the a marathon in just over 13 hours?  It's not fair after all.  He's got it harder than the rest, and it's more difficult for them to win.  The look on Rick Hoyt's face as they come down the finish shoot with his right arm triumphantly raised...that is why it must be done.  Overcoming great odds is greatness defined.

Our kids cannot always be great.  Life just doesn't work that way, and being great all the time would make it boring.  Being great is being a 10 year old and facing the Beast, the Giant, or whatever nickname you have for the best player in the league.  This is not a new deal folks, there has always been some kid with whiskers at 12, and he is just better than everyone else.

Overcoming the fear...yes, its scary for the kids to face gas at the plate is bravery.  Glory often follows.  It maybe gloriously fouling off a few pitches before striking out, or  lacing a line drive into left field for a single as Incredikid did last night off the Giant (yup, I'm bragging).  The smile on Incredikid's face as he ran down the line was one I will never forget.  It was one of those defining moments where you see your child achieve in the face of adversity that doesn't happen on a level playing field.

This morning Incredikid had a little extra bounce in his step and shine to his smile.  Last night, if just for a moment, Incredikid tasted greatness.  That little taste...that feeling of absolute accomplishment, will serve as fuel him to taste it again in the classroom, on the field, and hopefully in life.

When Being Super Isn't Enough

We Superdads and Wondermoms think we can do it all for our kids.  We give life, feed, bathe, house, and train them on how to be...well how to just be anything and everything.  We strive for perfection in all ways, a perfect childhood full of cake and rainbows, but the reality is that's not how life works not matter how hard we try.  This week, however, this Superdad was confronted with the most difficult thing about being a parent.  This week, no matter what I could do, I was unable to protect my family, and especially my daughter, from the pain of loss. 

We all experience loss, it's a reality of humanity, and we all need to learn how to deal with it.  We hope that kids even get to know loss until they are ready to deal with it emotionally.  When might that be?  God only knows, but a broken heart is not something a 7 year-old should suffer.  Thankfully, our situation was the loss of a pet family member, but the feeling of helplessness was horrific nonetheless.  We've all heard the horror stories of kids getting sick, parents dying far too young, or family members suffering catastrophic injuries.  As I type this, I can only imagine how heartbreaking it must be to be confronted anything like that.  I got a taste of sorrow this past weekend, it's a drink I know we will all have again, but I just hope it's not for a long time.

On Wednesday night we noticed Incredi-daughter's cat was missing.  I know what some of you are thinking, "a cat, who f-ing cares?"  Well, my family loves our animals, and always will. If you think there is something wrong with loving your pets as family members, you won't like this blog or me so click that little "x" in the upper right hand corner and considering not coming back.  This blog is not for you.

Four years ago, we lost one of our cats to a car.  It was so sad, but Incredi-daughter was only two, so she never really got it.  Six months later, we decided to get the Incredi-kids kittens for Christmas.  We met with two different families who had kittens, but neither had two available.  Family Number One was a nice family in our home town. Sure, their house smelled a combination of stinky feet, cat piss, and mac n' cheese, but they were local and had a cute little kitten was there and available.  Thankfully, and you'll see why, they only had one left.  The second family was not very close, but they had what we really wanted, a Russian Blue like the one we lost.  We walked in and instantly got nervous.  First of all, they were clearly big-time stoners.  There was a bong on the table (they didn't try to hide), video games on the TV, plenty of bloodshot eyes, and three grey kittens running all over the place.  They clearly loved their cats though, and we told them we would see them on Christmas Eve to pick up the male kitten.  Then fate stepped in.


On the night before Christmas Eve, I called to arrange to pick up the kitten from Family Number One the next day.  The dad stammered and said he was "real sorry, but all the kittens died when the heater in the garage kinda conked out a few days ago...I don't have nothing for ya."  I was so pissed, pissed for my daughter, pissed for those little kitties, but mostly pissed because my perfect plan was a mess.

I had one kitten all lined up from the Stoners, but where in the hell was I going to get a cat on Christmas Eve?  I immediately went online and found a 24-hour vet in the hood that had "kittens available."  I called and they had two left, so first thing in the morning I was off to find the replacement.  I walked into the vet's office and there was a big birdcage with two kittens in it.  The first was a black kitten that I had to jab to see if it was alive.  No go...this was for Incredi-daughter, and she would not like such a boring cat.  The second cat was this super-cute fluff-ball that was literally hanging upside down in the birdcage meowing. She seemed pretty crazy, and I didn't want a long haired cat.   I asked the receptionist if there were other kittens, and she said, "are you crazy, it's Christmas Eve."  Yeah, I realize that stupid...sorry I asked, go back to your nails and let me take the fluff-ball into the play room to try it out.  It was a disaster, the damn thing wouldn't sit still long enough for me to even pet it.  So my choice was Sleepy or Crazy.  I chose crazy since I figured Crazy wasn't going to die and ruin Christmas.

On Christmas morning Incredi-kids opened up two special presents that had been smuggled into the house only minutes before from the garage.  The kids went nuts, and immediately named the grey cat "Gray" and the fluffy cat "Fluffy."  The names were perfect in their simplicity, and ended up fitting them both perfectly as they grew up.  Incredi-daughter immediately took Fluffy down the hall, and reappeared minutes later pushing that crazy-ass kitten in a stroller wrapped in a blanket.  That amazing little spaz sat perfectly still...it was love at first sight for both of them.

Both cats were immediately part of the family, but most of all, Fluffy was best friends with Incredi-daughter.  Fluffy slept with her, played with her, and followed her from room to room anytime we were home.  The bond was shocking considering what I thought I had adopted, and we were just so happy to see our not-too-emotional daughter showering this ball of fur with love.  It was not a one-way street with them either, and they were best friends from day one.  Incredi-daugher rarely let me get out of the pet store without a princess collar or toy for Fluffy.  That cat was truly loved.

So, fast-forward 3.5 years, and Fluffy goes missing on Wednesday night.  Wondermom and I panicked, and looked everywhere thinking how hard this could be for Incredi-daughter.  This was unusual for Fluffy to be missing, but she had once hidden in the house all night so we remained optimistic.  Optimism faded during the day on Wednesday when she was still gone, but thankfully Fluffy was discovered in a new hiding space later that afternoon.  Disaster avoided, and we all breathed a huge sigh of relief.

The rest of the family went to San Diego on Thursday night, but I had to stay behind until early Saturday for work.  I came home late after dropping them at the airport and played with the cats.  I was so thankful Fluffy was home safe, and she got extra petting from me just because.  I looked at our 13 year-old cat and worried how the kids would take it when she goes, but she is healthy and happy so my thoughts went back to watching the hockey playoffs on TiVo.

I woke up Saturday morning at 4:30 a.m., and I couldn't find any of the cats.  I had to leave to catch my plane, so I searched everywhere.  I knew they weren't out, so I made sure the cats has run of the house and took off.  I would be back in 24 hours, and they had plenty of food and water.  I didn't think much of the hiding, but in hindsight, I should have known something was up.

We had an amazing day on Saturday, and I was so proud of my kids at the San Diego Zoo on Sunday. We walked everywhere, they didn't fight at all, and by the end of the day we were all done, cooked, finished.  Incredi-daughter talked about Fluffy the entire day, and told me at least 10 times she couldn't wait to see her cat when we got home.  Every cat we saw at the zoo did something like Fluffy.  It was so cute to hear her rave about her baby-kitty.

When we pulled down our street late that night, I told everyone to jump out of the car before I open the garage door to make sure the cats don't run out.  There aren't many worse ways to wake up than to hear our cats howl to get back into the house at 3 a.m.  The door went up, no cats ran out, and I pulled in and closed the door behind me.  Mission accomplished.  Incredi-daughter instantly ran into the house calling for Fluffy.  A few minutes later she found me unloading the car and told me she couldn't find Fluffy anywhere. I asked if she checked my room, and she said "no, but will you help me?" 

We went upstairs and sure enough saw Fluffy sleeping under my beside table from the doorway. Alexa bubbled, "oh, there you are!"   I instantly thought was odd that she didn't come greet us, but they tend to get mad when we leave them alone overnight (seriously).  Incredi-daughter dove on the ground to pet Fluffy, and then I knew something was wrong.  The cat didn't move.  Incredi-daughter petted her and tried to hug her, but looked up and said, "something is wrong." I jerked Incredi-daughter off the floor and threw her on the bed.  While she watched from over my shoulder, I gently pulled Fluffy out from under the table and immediately knew that she was dead.  Unbelievable, from sorrow, to joy, to total disaster in a period of 4 days.

Incredi-daughter let out a scream I never want to hear again the rest of my life.  It was pure pain, and not the type of silent scream from an injury followed by crying, but a guttural groaning sound that only comes from the loss of true love.  She jumped from the bed into my arms, squeezed me so tight, and just sobbed uncontrollably.  Adrenaline was coursing through my body as I ran through the house carrying Incredi-daughter looking for Wondermom.  I was totally unable to do anything to fix this, and all I could do was to hold on to her and listen to her suffer.  The pain was unbearable.  Her loss, our family's loss, and I couldn't protect them.  It is my job to fix everything, and no amount of emotional duct tape could solve this problem.  Hours passed by, and tears flowed heavily as we wrapped our family member in a towel, put her in a box, and said our goodbyes.  The feeling of loss, such surprising and shocking loss, was thick in our home. 

Days later, and still smarting from the feeling that there was nothing I could do but be there, and it hit me.  There are times as a parent that being there is all we can do.  Us Superdads and Wondermoms think we can fix just about anything, insure happiness, and provide a perfect childhood, but we can't.  We can't cure death.  We can't prevent all suffering.  We can't stop the incredible pain that co-exists with amazing rewards of love.  What we can do, and must do, is be there when confronted with such loss.  I understand that this was only the first of many challenges we'll face as parents.  Whether its the first rejection by a crush or the loss of a loved one, where there is love, there will always be loss and pain.  Sometimes the healing power of a hug, lying side by side holding hands in silence, or just crying together is all you can offer.  It's not a quick fix, but the only way to heal the loss of love is share it ten-times over. 

I must say the Incredi-son was amazing.  He showered his little sister with love, understanding, and diverted her attention to happy memories of Fluffy.   It was incredibly mature.  I was so proud of the kid who is so tough and competitive on the field, but who can also be so emotionally nurturing.  He was there for his sister in a way I didn't think a 9-year old could be.  We must be doing something right so far with that one.

In the end, what I learned from this family tragedy is that being there, not just being present, but truly "being there" is about all you can do sometimes.  Being there is not fun and staying away would be far easier, but no one said being a super-hero was anything but the hardest thing we'll ever do.

[In many ways, this event happening on Memorial Day weekend had a purpose.  We talked a lot about the loss many families had protecting our freedom over breakfast.  Nothing could make us feel better, but Incredi-kids truly understand what Memorial Day means.  Thanks to all those who have sacrificed to keep us free.]

WONDER FREAKING MOM

We've talked about Superdad and Incredikids, but now it's Wondermom's turn. 

Thanks to the 1970's and 80's we have lost Ms. Cleaver forever.  No, we haven't really lost her, we've downsized her lazy-ass, and coordinated multiple job descriptions for efficiency and economy for the betterment of the family unit.  In other words, we gave her more work, less play, and she was rewarded by keeping her job and doing five others.  Wondermom's, like the modern employees, must do the work of many, but all for the same damn pay.  The unrealistic expectations come in the many roles for Wondermoms.  I'm sure I've missed some, so either comment and tell me what I missed or live with it.  Here are just a few:

Moneymaker:  I'm not talking about the moneymaker June Cleaver used to shake in that dress for Ward after a hard day with the Beav.  I'm talking about getting out there and bringing home the dough like Claire Huxtable. We can thank our parents for solving the nations 70's and 80's money problems by introducing the US to the two-income family (welcome to latch-keys, daycare, and Zoloft).  Today, Wondermoms do it just like Superdads, and that ain't easy.  Juggle job, doctor's appointments, getting Incredikids breakfast and off to school, and God forbid Incredikids gets sick on the day of the big presentation.  Oh yeah, and Incredikids will make you sicker than hell at least twice a year, but you'll slough your way off to work to save the "sick-days" for days when you're not really sick.  If Wondermom is lucky enough to stay home to take care of the kids, it's probably because she put up with Superdad's long road to making that possible, so reap that reward if you can moms (we'll just expect more out of you anyway with all that free time).

Household Technician:  I hate that damn Frontgate Family.  You know that catalog that comes out in the Spring with the pretty rich people on the cover looking perfect.  Who lives like that?  Everything is monogrammed, brand new, and perfectly decorated.  The catalog shows Skip, Buffy, their kids and the shaggy dog in front of their mansion or around their pool sipping mint juleps from plastic crystal.  Yeah, that whole thing is bullshit.  As soon as the camera left, the kids started kicking the crap out of each other, the dog dropped a deuce on the patio, Dad went into his office to "do a little work" sneaking a cigar like a 14-year old smoking one of granny's cigs in the garage, and Mom "ran to the store for a few things" but really stopped in for a few Mother's Little Helpers at the local pub.  No one really lives like that, and while it makes for a good crapper-backer mag, it's not reality and we don't need to try and live like that.

Real families live in their houses, make messes, and sometimes just try to keep the floor visible.  Wondermom has to follow her family of heroes around picking up shoes, clothes, and toys (Superdad too, that lazy slob).  As fast as she picks up, another mess is made, but she'll make sure the house is ready in case house guests happen to show up out of the blue (even then she'll apologize for some reason for the mess).  Superdads, yeah, we help "maintain the house" by putting on the tool-belt here and there and working on "projects." In reality we hide out in a room with the game on super-low hammering here and there to keep the illusion going.  Yard work takes hours, but we make it seem that way to make up for our lack of overall effort  I guarantee you that damn mower takes a long time to start doesn't it?  Your Superdad might just have to drink two to four ice-cold beers from the garage fridge to properly pre-hydrate before getting down to work on such a hot day...(nothing like bud-light and power tools).  Wondermom holds the house together, and for that we salute you.  The thing is it's okay for the house to look lived in, I'm not talking frat-house filth, but who needs freaking pillows on the couch you can't lay on?  What we really want is a little more time with you, and if it means the dishes wait until tomorrow, let em' be baby!

Hells Kitchen:  I stayed home sick last fall and watched afternoon television for the first time in a long time.  Who the hell are these people, and what freaking world do they live in?  They were making this amazing dinner from scratch with presentation like a four-start restaurant.  Organic, hell yeah, and the Wondermom had hit the Farmer's Market to handpick the bok choy or some other exotic veggie I've never heard of.  So between the house, childcare, Superdad care, and Wondermom keeping her moneymaker tight, she's expected to run a healthy, organic, low-fat, yet amazingly tasty kitchen.  The truth is Wondermom is doing great if she gets everyone fed, and it's unrealistic to put that kind of burden on her.  Superdads will each just about anything as long as it tastes decent and the kids will eat it without a fight.  So take a night or two off each week, have dad make "breakfast for dinner"  one night and make sure to have left-overs at least one day during the week.  We'll live.  If you like to cook, let it rock, and thanks to my family's Wondermom and her expertise in with the "eat clean" menu, we have our chef who keeps the Supergut in check. It's no easy task to have dinner ready at night, but believe me it feels awesome to walk into a hot dinner after a long day to make us feel like the king of the castle...even if its only once and a while.

Cougar-Time:  In addition to everything else, Wondermoms are getting crazy about fitness and looks.  I have the benefit of being married to a hardcore triathlete, and yes, that's very good for me.  However, I think it total crap that the media through women's magazines and TV, have portrayed Wondermoms as bony-thin models 12 weeks post-baby who dress like they're going to the Kentucky Derby everyday. First of all, models don't look like that without makeup and air-brushes, so F the media for portraying moms like that.  Second, those aren't real moms, they're women who have the benefit of trainers, dieticians, and their inherent ability to puke on demand like 98 pound jockeys.  Those bitches don't take care of anything, get divorced more than they change the oil in the Range Rover, and have the IQs of a well-developed meth addict.   Sure, workout, take care of yourself, stay healthy, and while you're at it make sure Superdad keeps that gut down to a minimum too, but don't freak out that you can't fit in your wedding dress 20 years later.  I'm sure  Superdad's waist is a little more seasoned than it was when you got hitched, and that's just what happens when we get older.  So quit watching Real Housewives of Wherever, and recognize that we love it that you look hot in sweats and one of our tee-shirts while playing catch in the front yard with Incredikid...that's smoking hot for sure. 

The Calling.  Take it from one Superdad, what we love most is to look at the Incredikids and how much they love you moms.  In the end, we're all going to look like the California Raisins watching Robot Vanna turn the letters on "the Wheel" as we tell Incredikids on speakerphone how to raise their kids.  You'll tell Superdad to turn up his hearing aid, and help him get up from the couch.  We'll share meals that wouldn't have fed one of us 25 years earlier, and our kids will tell us the waistline doesn't start just below your nipples so pull down the damn pants.  I truly hope we all live long enough for those days because this journey is the hardest, most rewarding trip we can ever take, and while it seems tough at times juggling all this other crap, it's damn fine when it all comes together.

Sometimes we just have to remember to enjoy being.  It's okay to pull the hair into a pony, wear the sweats, and forgo the makeup.  Don't worry, we get it.  There are going to be crazy days that require workouts at dawn, multiple stops at the gas station, and even the dreaded Micky-D's dinner concession.  The bottom line is it's great to bring home some cash, look great, cook like Rachel Ray, and keep a beautiful clean home, but in the end it won't matter much if all that comes at the cost of your relationships with the family.  Know that while Superdads don't say it enough, probably because we're too busy with our Fantasy Draft research, playing Words with Friends, or yelling at our favorite team for blowing it in the Stanley Cup Playoffs, we love and appreciate what you do for us. Sure, us Superdads may change a few diapers, go on a few field-trips, and read bedtime stories, but we aren't you and will never be...we get it.  So with Mom's Day soon approaching, please accept this sincere thank you from Superdads everywhere.  

Oh, and thank God you don't have an invisible jet...the Cheerios, apple cores, juice box stains, and papers jammed in the console would look like shit.  

Helmets, Hamster Balls, and Bubble Wrap

I recently read an article about a helmet designed for kids to wear full-time until they are two-years old.  No, this brain-bucket is not for bikes.  This $85 helmet is for crawling and walking inside and out to prevent "serious" head injuries.   This isn't a helmet for those unfortunate kids that suffer from some skull condition that requires protection (like my favorite Ricky Henderson teammate John Olerud).   The helmet, which shall not be endorsed by reference in this blog, claims to protect kids from the life-altering falls, which according to one article, are "closely related to learning disabilities."  Are you shitting me?  Our society is officially FUBAR. 

If your kid is an Indredi-kid, read on  and I hope you enjoy some fun. If not, Google this invention of wussitude, and please consider purchasing my newly developed Kids Hamster Ball for safe outside play (it comes complete with padlock to prevent abduction), and my line of bubble-wrap clothing (coming this fall at Sears).

Let's start with us, the "old people" in the eyes of our kids.  I always love the emails that make their way around about being a child of the 70's, and how dangerous it was...how could we survive?  No car seats, seat belts, lead-free toys, hand sanitizer, bike helmets, or Velcro shoes.  We rode our BMX bikes in tough-skins, with no shirt, rocking untied Zips doing Evel Kneivel jumps in Piedmont Park. Helmets, yeah, we actually had one (for the group), but only if you were going really big, and it was a replica Dallas Cowboys football helmet that read "NOT FOR PROTECTION" on the inside.  We got dirty, fell down, and were generally bruised and/or slightly broken most of the time.  My sister almost always had a black-eye in our Christmas pictures from crashing into something or catching an elbow in a wrestling match...man, she was/is one tough chica.  We played hard all day outside and unsupervised, and didn't come home until dark or we heard Mom call "dinner" from the kitchen window.  If some dude drove up in a "molester van" we met him as a group of OP short wearing tough kids (not really tough, but we sure thought so), and he better have a good excuse for being in the neighborhood in that white Econovan with no windows.  If he seemed shady, someone would say they were going to get their big brother or dad who would "beat him up."  Somehow we didn't get kidnapped or get punched out by those poor guys just doing their job selling encyclopedias.

Every Fall day after elementary school we met at the high school field and played full contact football without pads in the back of the end-zone during the Varsity's practice.  It was actually a "football like" game in which the ball carrier ran round until he had taken enough pounding and threw it up in the air for the next courageous warrior to takeover...it was epic.  We had dirt clod wars, played with firecrackers, and jumped off the two-story Witter Field equipment shed into the high jump mats like the Fall Guy.  On summer days, we rode modified big wheels (no one will forget J'ader's green machine) down 3/4's of a mile of concrete death with one big left hand turn known as PE Hill hitting at frightening speeds, and then dragging them back up to do it again.  A crash on PE Hill meant a raspberry the size of a grapefruit, and possibly a trip to Merritt Hospital for x-rays, stitches, and some yelling from dad. Once were were done tempting fate, we stashed our rides in the bushes by the Tot Lot, and walked to Convenient Food Mart for a pizza bread, Pepsi in a glass bottle (returned immediately afterwards for a piece of Bazooka for the road), and some Lick-em-Sticks.   We dined on things like tuna casserole, Hungry Man dinners (in the aluminum tray), burgers and dogs (off the Weber grill with coals started with jet fuel), meatloaf, Double Stuffed Oreos, and drank whole milk.  We never had soy anything, took fluoride tablets, or drank juice smoothies.  How in the world did we make it?


Today's kids must be perfect, and perfectly protected from all things physical and emotional.  However, in that process, some kids are being raised just to be.  Kids have hours of homework (even in 3rd grade) so they can be smarter than us, but are given little opportunity to use their imagination to build forts and invent games.  Where are our architects and contractors going to come from?  Bill Gates, that no-degree having loser, did alright following his passion which was not jammed down his throat at school.  Yeah, school is great, important and all that BS, but it just doesn't directly correlate to intelligence, success, or happiness.  In addition to school, we need to exercise those mush skulls by playing, imagining, and dreaming.  People think having little "Chardonnay" read by 3 is going to make her rich and happy, but in reality, she is destined for a pole with that name...just let her play outside.

Speaking of outside, today's kids generally only play outside when supervised by at least one adult.  Almost 20% of the kids are obese turds from sitting in the house playing hours of video games all day.  We don't even keep score anymore since someone might feel crappy about losing.  There is a reason you feel crappy about losing, it sucks, and you don't want to do it much if you can help it.  We are raising generations of entitlement sissies, who can't catch a ball, run without inhalers, and grow out of their shoes long before they wear them out.  Trophies don't mean a thing anymore since we order them before the season so every kid to feels super-duper.  After all, "winning is trying, and there are no losers if you play."  Really?  Everyone wins?  Not in any world I've seen...if there is a winner, there is a loser, and teaching the kids this lesson is important for their future.  Competition makes one work, practice, study, and most of all learn how good it feels to reap the rewards that come from working harder than your competition. This doesn't just go for sports, good Lord, watch American Idol and all those pimple-faced morons whose mommies tell them they "sing great" only to hear them sing like a cat getting screwed by an elephant.  Just once would I love to see that mom in her Coleman Muumuu say, "see Johnny, I told you you suck, time to move out and get a job."

Incredi-kids need to play outside, imagine they are their favorite athlete in a game on the street, run till their cheeks glow red, and learn to play "kick the can" until dark.  They need to yell "car" to pause the game mid-play instead of hitting a button on a remote control. Incredi-kids need to start a garage band...in the garage...playing actual instruments.  They need to play street-everything and argue about the rules until someone takes the ball and goes home (ugh, the future lawyers).  Incredi-kids need to fall down, get a few stitches, and learn that mom and dad just ain't going to be there to brush off your boo-boos all the time.  Incredi-kids get that way from getting bonked in the head, learn that falling sucks and that you just have to get up and do it better next time.  Skin and bones heal, and every scar is a story worth telling.

  

Some Superdad Basics

Like many of you, I've been juggling the duties of spouse, parent, business owner, family member, and friend and I thought it would be interesting to write down my thoughts during my journey to be a Superdad.  Not to be outdone, Wondermom and Incredi-kids will have a certain presence in this blog.  I hope you enjoy a mostly fun experience, and I also hope to share anonymous stories (with your permission of course) that you provide me as we all strive to achieve global domination (or at least make sure the kids get to school on time with the required homework completed).  If you don't like occasional light-profanity, potentially offensive honesty, or laughing at ourselves, you might want to forgo my blog.  Otherwise, I hope you enjoy.  Comment freely, and message me anytime if you have a story or topic you would like to see here!

Some Superdad basics:

The Hall of In-Justice.  Every group of super-heroes needs their secret lair.  It's clean, organized, and has cool stuff hidden behind secret panels.   The Lair has a massive TV screen, computer, and a Mr. Rogers-esque place to neatly hang their clothes behind glass.  There is always a bad-ass sports car sitting in polished/pristine condition waiting to roar out of the garage.  The lair is secret, private, and a place to wind down after a long day of saving the world.

For the modern Superdads our secret lairs are a bit different.  First, our secret lairs are not at all secret.  The address of our secret lair is in at least 7 directories for school, church, sports, and whatever other organization forces us to divulge our private information to insure Incredi-kids participation.  Most of us have decent TV, but it's stuck on the Cartoon Network instead of ESPN, and the "mute" button is only a touch away for those times when the kids come down from their beds and we're watching "Eddie Murphy-Raw" on Encore.  The computer...well that's for logging into some toy website that sells $18 stuffed animals, getting emails from school telling us that strep throat or lice are going around, or getting one of the many Incredi-kid scheduling commitments. The car has four doors, and was purchased for its functionality and not sexuality.  Superdads never have privacy in the secret lair, and we always come home to a house full of kids (often times not just ours).  Wondermom, with that slight look of desperation that screams "help me", greets us with a hello and an air-kiss, but is mostly glad to have someone here to get some showers started.  At least one Incredi-kid comes down from upstairs after getting a lesson on respect, and in a showing of further disrespect blames Wondermom or the other Incredi-kid.  I'm sure Superman gets some solitude in the Fortress of Solitude, but the Superdad gets no such relief.


Secret Identities.  By my count each Superdad has at least four secret identities.

First, there is "Dad."  In my case it's "Baba", but it could be "Papa", "Pop", or "Father" if you're born in Brittan.  Dad is not a secret identity, but rather the baseline.  In this life of wearing too many hats, Dad doesn't wear one.  He tells it like it is, is stern but fair, and goes to the coffee shop or Home Depot on Saturday in sweats, flip flops, and without even running a comb through his hair.  Showers and shaving on weekends are only done if you have to go to a wedding.  Dad will play catch, build legos, or cuddle on the couch with Incredi-daughter upon demand (she owns us).  Dad thinks he can fix anything, and generally costs the family a few extra hundred by taking a shot before he spends any money.  Dad burps, farts, and believes he is the master of his universe (at least inside the walls of his house).  Incredi-kids think Dad is pretty cool...for now.  Dad is pretty damn happy most of the time.

The second identify is "Parent" with the other families. Parent Dad holds back most honest thoughts like, "man that kid is a little shit" or "that baby looks like Chuckie."   Sorry they're not all perfect, but Parent Dad generally keeps his opinions in check to protect the fragile public.  Parent Dad never curses, laughs too hard, or drinks "one too many" at any function. Parent Dad is boring.

Third, is "Worker-Dad."  Worker-dad generally sucks.  He's happy (or financially dependent) enough to pry himself from bed each day to go to the sweatshop and grind out a living, but is never at his happiest.  He goes on ESPN.com at work because he can't watch it at home anymore, and keeps in touch with the other Superdads through a series of vulgar texts and emails (on gmail of course).  Sometimes Worker-Dad is cool, but mostly he puts on his suit, chinos, scrubs, or dockers and takes on the world in a pair of comfortable shoes.

Lastly, there is "Party-Dad."  Party-Dad rarely goes out, but then he does it's on.  Party-Dad is FUN in all caps baby.  Party-Dad and Party-Mom will go wild when they get the chance, but they'll be home by 10pm since they have to get up to go to something the next morning...and 10 is pretty late (of course, they will check for texts from the sitter every 20 minutes). When multiple Party-Dads get together there is usually a serious effort to sound like we are still capable of holding our own in a fight, but it mostly sounds pathetic as the conversations that usually follow are discussions about hair loss, colonoscopy (gotta be careful), or how getting your nuts cut off isn't that bad if you do it during March Madness.  Party-Dad is super happy, until the next morning when he swears he will never come out again.

 These Superdads were channeling their inner Thomas Magnums during a Party-Dad moment!


Until Next time...same Dad time...same Dad channel!