Ep. 1: Talking Ninjago, NFL and life lessons

On the very first Our Monkeys, My Circus Podcast, I'm joined by the eight-year-old, who promptly calls it "Monkey Hour" -- which, honestly, might be a more apt description.

Either way, I thought it would be fun to ask him about things going on his his life (all Ninjago-related, by the way) and get his thoughts about things going on in my life (mostly work-related). Basically, sit across from each other and talk since we don't do that nearly enough. 

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We covered everything from Ninjago vs. Star Wars, the eight-year-old's guess at what I do for a living (he wasn't really close), what it's like to be a big brother, and the one time he outsmarted his old man. 

And even though I write about the NFL for a living, the eight-year-old has zero interest in football, or sports in general. That's fine by me. And in fact, it worked out perfectly when I read him some of the biggest NFL headlines of the week to get his take. The topics: Johnny Manziel vs. Merril Hoge, Gronk, Rex Ryan vs. the Patriots, Old Man Peyton Manning, and Jason Pierre-Paul vs. fireworks. 

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That moment when your 8-year-old realizes you're a fraud

Maybe fraud is too strong a word but the underlying truth is that at some point your kids, who just assumed you were infallible for the first six or seven years of their life, slowly come to the realization that not only are you capable of being wrong, despite a 30-year head start, you're not even that smart.

This lesson was brought home with a resounding thud the other day. The eight-year-old, who consumes roughly 20,000 calories a day, is always hungry. This is not an exaggeration. Not 10 minutes goes by before he asks, "What else do we have to eat?" 

So the other morning, in the 90 seconds between finishing breakfast and feeding the dog (which no doubt reminded him that he was due to eat again), he decided to double down. Instead of asking for more cereal, the eight-year-old asked for one of those Simply Balanced Fruit Strips (you know what I'm talking about).

My knee-jerk reaction: "Nope. It's way too early for you to be hopped up on sugar. Pick something else."

His response: "No, these are good for you, I promise."

At this point, I'm starting to get angry because we've had this conversation a million times. I say something, he tries to explain the nuances of what I said and what I really think, and how, if I take a closer look we're really on the same page about this.

But we're not. 

So I say, "Listen, here's the deal: If any form of sugar is listed in the first four ingredients, not only are you not getting it, you will not be allowed to play with your Ninjago LEGOs for a week. (If a week sounds extreme, it is; I was hoping he'd weigh the consequences and just drop the whole thing. He didn't.)

Eight-year-old: Okay.

Me: Fine.

So he proceeds to read out the ingredients:

A shit-eating grin creeps across his face as his eyes slowly go from the side of that box to back me. I had been outwitted by what I thought was an innocent, unassuming kid. It took eight years, but the tables had finally turned, my authority -- my unquestioned genius -- now hanging in the balance. 

This feels like a "Game of Thrones" moment. I just need to figure out how not to end up like, well, everyone but Tyrion Lannister. 

When your kid's birthday party is obviously about you

I once heard that the number of kids you should invite to your kid's birthday party is n+1, where n = your kid's age. So for my youngest, who turned four in a Harrisburg, PA hotel room last week (more on that in a second), that would mean four friends would join him in celebrating his big day.

On Saturday, we had the party and while I didn't take a head count, I'll conservatively guess we had 50 people at our house. In my defense, this was less about my son's birthday and more about me and the wife blowing off steam. (In completely different ways, mind you; she loves to cook and entertain, I love to pound beers, commiserate with like-minded -- read: overwhelmed -- dads and eventually pass out face down in the play room.)  After a summer that went by in fast-forward in July only to feel like slow motion in August, I was ready for school to start. The lack of structure, both for me and the kids -- but mostly the kids -- along with the constant complaints of boredom and hunger are enough to make you an unwavering proponent of year-round education.

So last year we began this tradition of inviting neighbors, family and friends over to celebrate both the little man's birthday and the return of another school year. It went so well we did it again over the weekend -- this time with an expanded guest list. 

We probably had 20 kids there, from 18 months to 14 years old, and other than the play room looking like it had been carpet-bombed by a drunk Santa, there wasn't any child-on-child violence that I was aware of. Though, to be fair, I make it a point to be blissfully ignorant of what kids are doing to each other because I don't like dealing with the inevitable awkwardness that comes with having to confront someone else's little monster.

Great parenting, I know, but don't misunderstand: It's not like I'm abandoning my kids in the face of danger. I only ignore the potential "Lord of the Flies" situations when my wife's around. But if I'm running solo with the kids, I go to great lengths to avoid these circumstances altogether. That means no playgrounds, malls, after-school get-togethers and play dates because little people, in general, are nuts. And forget trying to rationalize with the truly insane ones. Invariably, that leads to blank stares from horrified onlookers and "What the hell did you think would happen?!" looks from parents who have been there before.

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Play room, the day after. Note little man in the background, still in the collared shirt he wore to his party the day before  ... and his tighty whities.

And yes, I know, a lot life is about managing the dumbasses in your universe. Don't worry, I've got that covered; I'm the dumbass in my kids' lives. Trust me, they get plenty of practice with that.

(So here's the lesson: Hey parents, if you're in public with your kids, how about you keep an eye on what they're up to? I know you're exhausted and possibly hungover but guess who else has problems to work through? Problems, by the way, that shouldn't include making sure your lil' pumpkin isn't wreaking havoc in our general vicinity. Okay, that escalated quickly. Moving on...)

*******

About that hotel birthday... 

So we traveled from upstate New York to Asheville, NC and back over Labor Day weekend, and while 800 miles is a long way to drive under any circumstance, there's no way it's happening with two kids in the car.

(Not an exaggeration: I heard "Do we have anything else to eat?" every 15 minutes. This is not an exaggeration. Hey, kids, you realize we're in the car and not sitting in La-Z-Boys in the Twinkie aisle at 7-11, right? RIGHT?!)

So we stopped on the way down and again on the way back. And when we woke up Monday in a Harrisburg, PA Residence Inn to drive the last leg of the trip, it also happened to be the newly turned-four-year-old's birthday. 

That conversation went like this:

Me: Hey, it's time to get up, we're going home today. Oh, and it's your birthday!

(His eyes open, he quickly sits up, looks around, and realizes where he is.)

Four-year-old: How can it be my birthday in a hotel?

Me: (stares blankly)

Little-people logic

In terms of age, my two sons are 4.5 years apart. In terms of disposition, they're from different planets. Which means I spend a lot of my time comparing them. Because that's what parenting is all about: Keeping score, picking a favorite, and hoping that one makes enough money to take care of you when you're crapping your pants on the reg. 

Anyway, I've been scribbling on the Internet since 2004, and sometimes I stumble across words I'd written years ago, having no memory of originally putting them there. This happened the other day.  And it reminded me that despite their differences, kids -- mine, yours, all of them -- are basically the same. 

My oldest is eight (and a half, he'll remind you). Here's a conversation we had in April 2011, when he was four:

four-year-old: can i have some gum?

me: do you remember the rules?

four-year-old: just chewing, no swallowing.

me: right.

(five minutes later…)

me: hey, where’s your gum?

four-year-old: sorry.

My youngest just turned four. Here's a talk we had in January 2014, when he was two:

(driving in the car, 3 degrees outside)

two-year-old: Daddy, my hands are cold.

me: Why did you take your mittens off? Why don’t you put your hands in your pocket?

(after a beat)

two-year-old: My pockets are cold too.

Translation: "Your move, old man."

Because it's perfectly fine to bribe your 3-year-old...

Back in June, I was on CBSNews.com to talk about the after-school special that is Tom Brady, Roger Goodell and the (still) never-ending Deflategate melodrama. This isn't about that. This is about how I had to bribe my then-three-year-old for 15 minutes' peace to do the interview in the first place.

With preschool over, weekdays consist of me and the little guy finding ways to amuse ourselves until 3:30pm. Most days, it's easy. Writing from home means I can dress like a hobo while my kid runs around the house pretending to be Darth Vader. Yes, it involves me answering some form of the same question roughly 200 times, but it could be worse.

But when I'm forced to talk to folks outside my house, whether on the radio or through Skype or whatever, thing things become slightly more complicated.

Usually, I'll prep the three-year-old with some version of, "Okay, here's the deal: Daddy has to make an important phone call so I need you to sit on the couch and watch Backyardigans. And unless it's an emergency, YOU CAN NOT GET UP. Got it? Great!"

Invariably, my son will sashay into the room where I'm talking on the phone and proceed to have a conversation with me about LEGOs, our dog, cheese -- no topic is too obscure. And there really is no rhyme or reason to it other than, like clockwork, he'll show up to interrupt me minutes after agreeing to, you know, not interrupt me.

So when CBSNews.com called to set up the interview, it pretty much meant that I'd need to incarcerate the little guy.

And that's exactly what I did.

Fifteen minutes before CBS called, I had him use the bathroom (this is the oldest trick in the book -- put him somewhere only to have him yell, 'I NEED TO GO POTTIES!' seconds later), then I put him in his bed, gave him the iPad, fired up Spider-Man and His Amazing Friends, and told him to enjoy the show while giving him the same old "Daddy has to make an important phone call" speech.

But this time, I also put up a baby gate outside his bedroom, essentially locking him in. Because we all know he'd end up downstairs to see what I was up too, and nothing classes up a pretending-to-be-serious interview like a three-year-old walking through the shot asking you for a refill on his chocolate milk.

Miraculously, everything went off without a hitch. The interview wasn't a complete disaster, and the little man seemed to thoroughly enjoy that 15-minute break from his old man.