The mystical powers of old-school New Balance

The 11-year-old will wear anything. In that sense, he's like a lot of 11-year-olds. It also serves as a reminder that for as much as our kids are like us, they're also incredibly different. 

For example, I LOVED sports growing up. When I was seven, I remember using chalk to sketch out hashmarks in our cul-de-sac for a makeshift asphalt football field. When I was eight I spent what felt like the entire summer playing pick-up baseball with the other kids in the neighborhood.  

(Two things: 1) Parents go to jail  nowadays for letting their kids wander around unsupervised for eight hours at a time; 2) Is pick-up baseball even a thing anymore? It sounds like something straight out of 'The Natural' though it felt like a perfectly normal way for a kid to spend a summer day as recently as the '80s.)

By the time I was nine, I was on my first Little League roster, and I played baseball, basketball and soccer for the next decade. 

The 11-year-old doesn't like sports. In fact, it's fair to say that he loathed his rec soccer experience to the point that we both decided that, in the interest of everyone's health, it was best if he retired at age eight.  But here's the thing: he's a fantastic rock climber, something that wasn't even a thing when I was growing up in North Carolina in the '80s. Mostly because I grew up in North Carolina in the '80s. But he's been doing it for a couple years and he's awesome.

It's an amazing feeling to watch your kids succeed, especially when it's something you can't do. But again,  it's those differences -- despite all the similarities --  that make them weird and funny and interesting. 

Another example: The six-year-old LOVES looking nice. He's even been known to don a tie for special occasions. 

Yes, he's wearing two dress shirts; the dark striped one is serving as his sport coat because he doesn't own one ... yet.

The six-year-old is also an early riser -- well before me -- and when I make my way downstairs on school days, he's always fully dressed and sometimes he's already made his breakfast. Meanwhile, I still have to wake up the 11-year-old, and I still have to lay out his clothes. Unlike his brother, he's not a morning person. In fact, I'm convinced I could lay out a burlap sack and he'd slip it on, still half-asleep, wander downstairs for a quick bite to eat, and forget for the millionth straight day to brush his hair or his teeth before we headed to the bus stop where the neighbors would have further confirmation that I was raising a cave man.

I'm like the six-year-old in that I like looking presentable. The idea of wearing sweatpants somewhere other than the gym (and the bus stop; at this point, that's basically an extension of my living room) seems insane to me. But not the 11-year-old. In fact, the other day, we got into a shouting match about just that. I was going to take the kids to the coffee shop, and I asked the 11-year-old to swap out his Adidas sweats, lovingly covered in the dog hair of our nine-year-old yellow Lab, for jeans. 

Instead of the 20 seconds it takes to change your pants, we wasted 30 minutes yelling about why wearing sweatpants bedazzled in dog hair in public reflected poorly on him, me and the dog. We went back and forth, me making empty threats, him having none of it, until he eventually relented. He did put on those jeans. And he also got the last laugh because the bottom of said jeans were inadvertently tucked  into his socks. 

This drives me nuts.  

He does it 2-3 times a week, never on purpose, and he's perpetually put out when I bring it up. 

"Why does it matter?" he'll ask incredulously

"Why does it matter?" I'll respond, doubling down on the incredulity. "BECAUSE TUCKING YOUR JEANS INTO YOUR SOCKS ISN'T A THING UNLESS YOU'RE RIDING YOUR BIKE TO WORK AND EVEN THEN IT'S QUESTIONABLE."

You'll be surprised to learn that, like the sweatpants and jeans tucked into his socks, the 11-year-old doesn't much care for what he wears on his feet. He'll gladly slip on his worn-down sneakers, the brownish-gray pair that didn't start out that way but now serve as a metaphor of his dirt-and-mud-filled existence.  Put another way: He's due some new kicks, though that would never occur to him. 

So I took it upon myself to order him some old-school New Balance, the ones that were originally popular when I was growing up and, thanks to the hipsters, have made a comeback. The 11-year-old knew none of this and, other than a pair of Chuck Taylors when he was five, he's only worn Keens. 

I didn't ask him before I placed the order because his default response to something new is to reject it outright. Instead, I casually mentioned the shoes had arrived and left the box on the kitchen table while he finished dinner. A few minutes later, he laced them up, took them around the house for a quick test drive, and announced that he really like them. 

I was shocked. 

For someone who cares so little about clothes, this felt like a breakthrough. 

He wore them for the rest of the night, thanked me at least three times for getting them, and when he woke up the next morning the first thing he did was was put on his New Balance. 

He even wore them to the coffee shop -- along with his sweatpants. And I was cool with that. Hey, you can't have everything.
 

Ep. 14: Talking summer, little bros and kindergarten debuts

Five years ago, our oldest began kindergarten. His little brother was a few days shy of his first birthday, and our mornings consisted of bus-stop drop-offs and figuring out how to co-exist; I worked while he played, ate and pooped. It wasn't exactly a symbiotic relationship -- or at least it didn't feel like it at the time. 

Now that the little one is in kindergarten -- we loaded him onto the bus an hour ago -- and it's just me and the dog, the mornings are weird. Weirdly quiet, weirdly ... boring. I can probably get used to boring -- it's my default setting, but it'll take some adjusting. 

In the meantime, the podcast is back, after a brief 10-month hiatus! And to commemorate the soon-to-be six-year-old's public-school debut, he makes a guest appearance.

Remember, you can subscribe to the podcast via iTunes, Stitcher or Tunein.

How not to motivate your five-year-old

The 10-year-old retired from soccer a year ago. I want to think I learned some lessons from the experience, mostly about how to motivate a kid who wholly loathed everything about it -- from dragging him to practices to begging him to pay attention during games. 

Honestly, I was relieved when he found rock climbing; partly because it was something he loved, but also because it meant I didn't have to endure the weekly stress that came with sitting through those practices and games. 

Win-win.

And not only that, I could apply what I learned through that four-plus-year ordeal to his younger brother, who began his foray into the wonderful world of rec-league soccer last fall. The five-year-old has been slightly more engaged in the process, and genuinely seemed to like practice. He still struggled to focus during games, but save a couple kids, this is a recurring theme for every parent. Five-year-olds are notorious for their terrible attention spans. It's one of the reasons they can't run for president. 

After the fall season, the five-year-old would occasionally ask me to practice with him, and I was always happy to oblige. So when soccer started up again a few weeks ago, he seemed excited to get back out there with his coach and teammates. The first few spring practices went well, and I felt like he was less prone to the distractions passing clouds or random clumps of dandelions sometimes offer. But just to make sure, I did want any great parent would do: I offered a bribe. 

So here's how it went down: The first game of the season was last Saturday morning. About an hour before, while I was getting him into his uniform, we had this conversation:

Me: Hey, so here's the deal. If you score a goal, I'll get you some LEGOs.

Him: (Eyes widen)

Me: What do you think of that?

Him: Are you SERIOUS?!

Me: Yeah. In fact, as soon as we get home from the game, we'll go right out and get them.

Him, still skeptical: So do  you mean a little LEGO guy or like a LEGO set?

Me: It'll be a set! All you have to do is pay attention to your coach and score a goal! Oh, and one more thing. Let's keep this between us. 

Just so we're clear, I don't care if he ever scores a goal. But when I first tried the "I'll bribe you to play soccer" master plan when the 10-year-old was just starting out, I made the mistake of promising him a dollar for "paying attention." The lack of specificity meant that he was under no obligation to try to kick a passing ball, or chase after the ball should it not be in his immediate vicinity. It also meant that he'd turn to me during the game -- which, by definition, meant he wasn't paying attention -- to ask if he had done enough for that dollar. 

Lesson learned. This time I offered up details to protect myself against loopholes unwitting kids have a knack for stumbling into. Plus, I felt like the five-year-old was quite capable of scoring and I was just helping to nudge him in that direction. 

I didn't really see a downside -- he'd pay attention, probably end up scoring a goal and feel great about it while we cheered him on. Added bonus: He'd get some LEGOs. 

Smash-cut to midway through the third quarter when literally every one of his teammates had scored at least one goal and he was still sitting on zero. There he was, standing in the middle of the field, bawling like ... well, a kid whose brilliant old man promised him LEGOs if he scored a goal and he hadn't really come close to doing it. 

There's more: I didn't tell the wife about my plan, so when she walked around the other side of the field to console him once he made his way to the bench, she had an "Oh, wow, he really is upset about not playing well!" surprised look on her face. I knew differently, though I certainly wasn't going to bring that up. 

Not to worry though; once the game was over -- and nope, he didn't score, despite the coach's best efforts to get him a goal -- the five-year-old said loudly, and as tears streamed down his face, "I REALLY WANTED THOSE LEGOS" when asked why he was so upset. 

It was then that the wife game me the side eye, to which I responded with the ol' "Yeah, I may have overplayed my hand" shoulder shrug. 

Good news: We have five more games to get a goal.

Bad news: I don't know what to bribe him with next. 

Why trolls are important

Remember when trolls were, at worst, innocuous oddities? Now, instead of evoking images of furry-haired plastic dolls, they're considered a contemptible lot. Perhaps most shocking, it has nothing to do with the whole geriatric man-baby weirdness (seriously, look at that thing). Internet trolls, who take great pleasure in stoking discord through inflammatory rhetoric on message boards, comments sections and social media, have ruined the good name of those original trolls. 

I aim to do my part to change that.

Like most parents desperately trying to keep pace with two kids with grand designs on taking down the family institution (just like online trolls!), I frequently use kids' movies to distract them while I plot my next course of action. 

This plan rarely works. Mostly because -- as best I can tell, anyway -- the five year old has extensive counterespionage training. He knows that I know that he's up to something, and putting on a  movie only raises his suspicions. So instead of, you know, watching the movie long enough to let me get something -- anything -- done, I can only imagine he has this conversation with himself as it pertains to me:

"As long as I'm awake I will engage you with an inane running commentary that will, through sheer tenacity, wear down your defenses  and bend your will, and eventually render you helpless to do anything about my grand vision for eating sugar and staying up late."

And then he proceeds to ask some of the most ridiculous things you can't even imagine. 

"What are chairs?" is one I got recently.

I've discovered that most five-year-olds do this in some form, and I suspect there is a secret network they use to share ideas. I hope to one day infiltrate their ranks and troll them out of existence. IT WORKS BOTH WAYS, KIDS. 

Okay, back on Earth...

A few weeks ago, the kids and I had the evening to ourselves. We decided to rent "Trolls," an animated movie about the old-school furry-headed creatures, not the internet a-holes. At this point in the proceedings, with a 10-year-old and a five-year-old, there are very few kids movies from the last two decades that we haven't seen. Some are terrible, some are adequate but very few are able to capture the attention of a younger audience while also appealing to the old-timers tasked with sitting through it with them.

"Trolls" is one such film.

In fact, I'm willing to go so far as to say that it's my favorite kids film ever. This proclamation, I can assure you, has nothing to do with my unhealthy obsession with Justin Timberlake, but mostly because "Trolls" is a great story, with great characters and a fantastic soundtrack that works seamlessly with the storyline.  

I say this bit about the soundtrack as someone whose musical interests remain rooted in the 1990s, when I was in college and had people to tell me what I should be listening to.  This probably goes some way in explaining why my kids aren't that into popular music. And this isn't to say that we don't play music at home -- I do it every day -- it's just that, like sports on television, the kids have an uncanny ability to tune it out.

But a funny thing happened after we watched "Trolls" three times in 24 hours.

A few days later, we were driving somewhere. The kids were in the back and unusually loud and annoying. I had long ago given up playing music in the car to drown them out; they a) usually ask me to turn it off because "they don't like it" or b) start in with the inane questions that require me to turn down the music, ask "What did you say?" only to have them repeat said inane question, which invariably leads to me cranking up the music even louder to take my mind off driving off the nearest bridge. It's a vicious cycle.

But this time, I didn't say anything. Instead, I found the "Trolls" soundtrack on Spotify, fired it up ... and magic followed.

Immediately, everything went silent, save the soothing vocals of Justin Timberlake and Gwen Stefani. It was like sleeping gas poured out of the vents and the adults had gas masks. It was a legitimate "Eureka" moment. 

So now, anytime we're in the car for any length of time, "Trolls" gets played. In fact, the kids request it.  Just the other day, I said these exact words to the 10-year-old before a short car ride: "You want to watch 20 minutes of Rogue One on the iPhone or listen to 'Trolls'." 

"'Trolls' please," was the response, which came without hesitation.

That was my cue to expand operations. 

It is almost impossible to get the 10 year old to clean, well, anything -- the play room, his room, himself. Between all the arm-waving and sighing with such requests, you might think he was having a seizure. And when he eventually relents, it's a begrudging and half-assed cleaning effort, one that involves one-word answers, no eye contact, and a lot of stomping around.

On Saturday, we needed to do some cleaning, mostly in the kids' play room and bedrooms. But before I brought it up, I blasted "Trolls" on the house boom box (we don't really have a house boom box, though now I wish we did). After about a minute, I mentioned we needed to do some picking up. 

I'm not making this up when I say this: Not only were they eminently amenable, they did it while dancing. It was right out of a Roald Dahl book. 

Smash-cut to 15 minutes later and the house was clean. More amazing than that? Nobody cried!

Most amazing of all: This isn't even an April fools' joke.

So thank you, "Trolls," for your important contribution to making me a better parent. 

How many Cloud Guy handshakes can you count?! pic.twitter.com/s1U7qJIcZ9

— DreamWorks Trolls (@Trolls) March 14, 2017

A pale blue dot

The nine-year-old loves science. He loves space-related topics in particular, and while he still watches way more "Phineas and Ferb" than any human should, he'll drop everything for a documentary about the planets, moons, distant galaxies and black holes.

Science fact has led to science fiction. (Or maybe, more accurately, science fiction -- namely, Star Wars -- led to science fact, which has now come full circle.)  He watched "The Martian" the other night, but not before his mom gave him the "Okay, there are some bad words in this movie -- mostly because a guy is stranded 100 million miles from home and he's understandably frustrated" speech. He seemed unfazed by the language, which could mean one of several things: He's pretty mature for his age (debatable); he hears it all the time at school (plausible); or he's caught me  cursing when I didn't think anyone was listening (almost certainly).

Whatever, he loved that movie. And it's my sincere hope that he continues to love science (since the already-long-shot odds of him making it as a professional athlete were officially dashed when he announced his retirement from soccer last fall). I was well into my twenties before I learned that lesson. After goofing off for much of high school and college, graduate school was a rude awakening; it became  a perpetual game of catch-up -- I was with students who had spent their entire academic lives doing science and math.   It wasn't too late for me to cram a lifetime of book-learning into 3-4 years, but it wasn't ideal either (duh).

The point: The importance of science and math is a point  I make often. But kids, it turns out, are sometimes more receptive to advice when it's not coming from the same person who hounds them about brushing their teeth, or cleaning their room, or making sure THEIR JEANS ARE RIGHT-SIDE-OUT before tossing them in the general direction (but never into, mind you) the dirty-clothes hamper. 

(Added bonus: Me taking those same jeans out of the dryer only to realize that the pockets were stuffed with tissues, candy wrappers, erasers -- you name it -- and now the content of those pockets are distributed equally between the lint trap and the other clothes in the load. This happens frequently. And by frequently, I mean every time. Good times.)

So it doesn't hurt that a rocket scientist frequents our local coffee shop.  This isn't a euphemism -- this guy helped build Skylab. He's now retired, but still as sharp as ever, and he's always excited to talk to the kids about, well, anything -- but he brightens whenever the conversation turns to space. 

Naturally, he was excited to hear that the nine-year-old was riveted by the "The Martian," and even more excited when I told him that the nine-year-old blew through 13 episodes of "Cosmos: A Spacetime Odyssey," the Neil deGrasse Tyson reboot of Carl Sagan's "Cosmos," which originally aired in 1980.

There's so much to love about this series, but the most poignant, at least for me, were the final minutes of the final episode. You hear Sagan talking about Earth. He calls it the "Pale Blue Dot," a name inspired by an image taken by Voyager 1, looking back at our planet, as it left the solar system. 

"It has been said that astronomy is a humbling and character-building experience." Sagan says. "There is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world. To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another, and to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we've ever known."

I didn't say anything to the nine-year-old when we watched it together, but those words stuck with me. And days later, I decided to show him the clip again, to get his thoughts.

"It's funny," he said afterwards, which was about the last response I was expecting. 

"How do you mean?" I asked. 

"That part where he talked about the 'rivers of blood spilled' by kings to become rulers of a 'fraction of a dot' -- that part was funny." 

The implication (I think, anyway):  Relative to the vastness of our universe, it's sorta silly that people do all these horrible things to each other for fleeting "glory and triumph."  

The lesson: Sometimes, the philosophical ramblings of a nine-year-old are worth paying attention to.