Ted Nugent turns 6

As a kid, whenever I made a wish (candles, stars, chicken bones), my two go-to items were chocolate cake and a .22 pistol.  I know, not the highest of aspirations ... but I was a sugar-starved bumpkin with a penchant for shooting stuff, so those were obvious choices.  Dylan, similarly, has a go-to wish list: dolls and stuffed animals.  We're working on her making good decisions, and I think it needs to start with this list of hers.  First of all, she has a room loaded with stuffed animals and dolls.  Sometimes I swear that her teddy bears are getting freaky beneath her bed because they seem to multiply every time we do a cell room sweep.  Secondly, she doesn't play with 99% of them.  I'm trying to get her to see the practical side of wishing for sweets and weapons.

This year, for her 6th birthday, my advice finally took hold.  She crossed off "stuffed animal" from her list and added what all 6-year old princesses want: a compound bow.  I was ecstatic, but Regina took out her crystal ball, looked one week into the future, saw Grady wearing an eye-patch, and quickly talked me out of a trip to The Sportsman's Warehouse.

Despite the bow-less birthday, Dylan still had a memorable day.  Hilary at the bakery gave her 6 donut holes -- which she shoved into her mouth before I could suggest that she save a couple for snack.  After school, Regina surprised her with a trip to Christy's to get her ears pierced.  For dinner, it was an all-request meal: cake and pizza ("The student has become the master," I thought).  And, before the pizza came out of the oven, Dylan hurled all over the kitchen floor.  I came home from irrigating to a sick girl standing over the toilet, and Regina holding her nose and a mop.  I figured birthday girl barf would be glittery and rainbow colored.  It's not.  It's super-gross.

Luckily, Dylan rebounded from her flu, and two days later she had 10 little princesses over for a cookie decorating, trampoline bouncing, Barbie-cake and pizza eating, and general willy-nilly behavior party.  It was exhausting.

Dylan has shoved most of her new gifts beneath her covers and I'm fairly certain she examines each one like it's a clue from CSI: Eastside when she's supposed to be sleeping.  Tonight, while Regina was at book club and Grady was snuggled up in bed, I ate dinner on the couch while Dylan told me about her day.  We turned on the television and everybody's favorite bow hunting show, Chasing Tail, was on.  "What's that thing he's shooting," Dylan asked about one of the character's very expensive bows.  "A compound bow," I said before I could stop myself.  And I could see the flicker of recognition behind her eyes ... Oh yeah, I was supposed to be getting a bow for my birthday.  You thought you could get that one past me with Hello Kitty and Lalaloopsy.  Well played, Dad.  Well played.  So, I guess we'll be taking a trip to The Sportsman's Warehouse soon.  Maybe my wish will come true while we're there and I'll get some cake.

Easter Recipe

Want the perfect recipe for an Easter disaster?  It's easy, just combine one part Vomit with two parts Rain, stir gently, then sift in a Choking Child, an Hour-Long Cough Attack, and a pinch of High Fever.  Bake at 350 for twenty minutes, remove from oven and sprinkle on the Innocence of Childhood Lost and ta-da! Happy Easter!

Two weeks ago, in a fit of enthusiasm, we volunteered to have the family Easter party at our house.  Regina's good at this kind of thing, e.g. she plans in advance.  I'm perpetually surprised when major holidays (except St. Patricks Day) suddenly pop up.  Regina kept us on track: eggs were decorated or filled, pork and lamb roasts were ... uh, roasted, lemon bars were baked, and Dylan taped random school art on our walls.  Nothing says Easter like Dragons! Abe Lincoln! Ferris Wheel! and okay, an Easter Bunny or two.

By Sunday we were locked and loaded (this isn't a euphemism for getting drunk in the garage, alone) for the party.  And then it started raining.  And then I fed Grady a cashew.  He choked, he barfed, and he coughed for an hour.  Things were regressing quickly so I did what good dads do: I skeedaddled.  No, I didn't get locked and loaded in the garage, to my mother's joy, I took Dylan to Easter service.  By the time we got home, Grady was passed out from cough-exhaustion, the food was out, and the party was ready.

Princess Banana Peel helps

And that slow, downward spiral of a day turned itself around quickly.  Family and friends arrived with food and drink, we stuffed ourselves silly, and we watched four little critters find, then drop, eggs, which were then re-found and re-dropped in an infinite loop.  We finally called a timeout, put the remaining eggs in their baskets, and got ready for the Main Event: Big Kid Egg Hunting.

Two may enter, one may leave

To really spice things up, someone brought cash-filled eggs.  We hid cash and candy eggs in the front lot of our house, then turned the teenagers loose.  Think Bloodsport meets The Hunger Games and you'll get an idea of what we were privy to.  I saw my niece, who is barely recovered from a broken back, yes, a broken back, body slam her brother and dive for a plastic egg hidden in a squirrel hole.  My nieces and nephew sprinted, stiff-armed, and judo-rolled their way around the hunting grounds, then would stop and scour through piles of leaves like they'd lost a contact, all the while muttering, "Eggs ... the eggs."  It was great watching.

When the party ended, Grady, who had rebounded nicely after his fistfight with the cashew, crashed out in his bed in his diaper and collared shirt.  He looked like a fraternity pledge on initiation night.  We hid Dylan's basket outside and put her to bed where, hopped up on Peeps, she must have pondered the meaning of the day ... no, not the resurrection of Jesus, but the existence of the Easter Bunny.  The next day she woke up and asked Regina if parents are really the Easter Bunny.  "You really should ask your father that," she deftly maneuvered.

Despite the coughs and rain and existential Easter questions, and everything else that could have dragged a party down, the day was a success.  We celebrated with family and friends, we had health (at least most of the time), we had alcohol (locked and loaded, baby!), and we had action sports.  We couldn't have asked for more, it would just ruin the recipe.

Soy Un Perdedor

I've lost a few things lately.  Some small items -- sunglasses, wallet, dog bowl -- went missing for no more than a few hours, but I'm a slovenly Virgo, so in my messes, there is order; I generally don't misplace much. (Except for that dog watering bowl.  Seriously, have you seen it?)  I've also lost a few big things.  My favorite snowboard went sledding out the back of my truck somewhere between the ski park and home, and my cool, collected self went walkabout during a rugby match.

Before Kids (BK), Regina and I used to hit the ski park every weekend.  We'd hold mittened hands on the chair lift and laugh at the dudes who skied in jeans.  But babies have a way of putting a halt to sport, and while I've snuck out of the house to go boarding a couple times a year since Dylan was born, our dream of becoming the first X-Games boarder-cross couple has gone down the half-pipe.

But now that Dylan's five, we've brushed the cobwebs off our boards and taken her to the mountain for a few lessons.  Our theory is simple: get in a few lessons, pump her full of hot chocolate, and let her sugar-riddled brain overcome any fears of learning the falling-leaf.  As you've probably guessed, it was on one of these trips that I didn't latch my tailgate properly and lost Mr. Mountain Slayer, my snowboard.  But that wasn't the only thing I lost lately.

I realize now that the sight of a 41-year old hooker screaming obscenities may be funny on a Reno street corner, but it's not cool on a rugby pitch.  The only upside that I can find about my fit was the kids were out of earshot and that Regina had packed a large cooler of beer, and everyone knows that beer makes everything less embarrassing.

Dylan has been following in her father's losing footsteps.  Her jacket, lunch pail, homework, backpack are all fair game when it comes to the What-Gets-Left at school game.  Fortunately, her Hello Kitty gear is easy to spot, and usually gets returned.  On our last cattle drive, Dylan lost her reins.  I wasn't worried when they slipped out of her hands and somehow ended up around her horse's ears.  Barney is so old that there are drawings of him in caves in France.  But Barney was literally feeling his oats and took off at a gallop down the road.  I was too far back to catch him, but Regina finally got her horse in gear and headed off the runaway about a hundred yards down the road.  Dylan did awesome.  She was scared, but clung to the horn and stayed straight in the saddle.


I hope that the things we lose don't create our memories.  I don't want Dylan to only remember her dash down the road when she thinks of horses, just like I don't want to have tailgate paranoia every time I get in my truck or flashes of embarrassment every time I play rugby.  I think the kids will remember the great stuff, like  pizza and Snickers in a ski lodge and a sunny day spent rolling around on the grass while their dad ran around with a bunch of guys in really short shorts.  I will remember, next time, to shut my tailgate.  And deep breaths, always take deep breaths.

The Education of Dylan and Grady

There are really only two things I remember about kindergarten: older kids spitting on us through the playground fence and someone breaking his leg on the Playground Spinning Thing.  Since 1976, the kindergarten classroom is the same, but the fence has been removed -- it was too tempting to spit through -- and the courts ordered the dangerous playground equipment removed.  I have no memory of pre-school, but I'm told I went for one semester and killed the class's pet hamster (I petted it, and petted it, and it just died).  In light of that, I really had no expectations for my children's kindergarten and pre-school educations.

Bonnie and Clyde in their Pacer (all outlaws drive these, right?)

Grady is just a pre-school interloper.  He goes two days a week and is done by noon.  But he really knows how to milk the attention in those few hours.  I started noticing it when I took him in in the mornings.  He's always greeted like Norm in Cheers, except it's from all the girls in the class.  Then, they instantly start trying to help.  "Grady, let me get your coat," and, "Here's your name tag, I found it for you."  It's better service than the Four Seasons.  The teachers have noticed, too, and have put a stop to it.  It's better for Grady's education if he does the assigned tasks himself, rather than pawning them off to cute girls.  But, it's not a bad gig either, and I figure, either way, he's learning something.

I should have known kindergarten was going to be a whole new world the day Dylan got off the bus and said, "Dad, Joe called me a ... pause, sound it out ... fuck."  Before the "k" sound left her mouth, I was headed for the truck, ready to go find Joe, or his parents, when I realized that Joe is probably six-years old and was just showing off a forbidden word he'd heard at home.  I steadied my pulse, took a breath, and told Dylan, "Don't sit near Joe anymore."

The other part about kindergarten that Regina and I didn't expect was that Dylan has spent nearly as much time in the principal's office in ONE semester as I did in seven years at that school.  Granted, I was a goody-two shoes and my offenses were a lot more on the delinquent side (which contradicts the goody-two shoes, I know), but, a kindergartner spending that much time in trouble?  We worry.

So, now we have a Responsibility Chart, and we preach the gospel of Standing Up For Those Who Are Getting Picked On, and Making Good Choices.  These are talks I'd imagined us having five years down the road, but sometimes the art of raising kids is no art at all.  It's improv, which is sloppy, at best.

Is it working?  We'll see.  Grady loves going to school and, for the most part, quit letting the girls do everything for him.  He's learning and loves to learn, so we're excited for his progress.  Dylan's learning too.  She's learned that she gets along great with both the principal and the school secretary.  But she's also learning to be her own person.  And, maybe the valuable lesson she's learned, is that sometimes it's better for her father's constitution to sit very near the bus driver than to sit next to little jerkwads named Joe.

The Perfect Place

For most, Thanksgiving means piles of food, getting together with family, and drunk uncles.  As fun as it is to sit around a TV with relatives and pretend to be interested in the Detroit Lions, we usually opt for a low-keyed Baja holiday.  This year we headed back to Cabo.

Cabo, of course, didn't disappoint.  Regina got the sunshine she'd been missing, Dylan found the last remaining seashells on the beach, Grady had a kiddy pool, and I had Pacifico and lime.  We were all happy.

Well, mostly happy.  The Dia de los Muertos was nearly a month past, but most shops were still selling the skeleton dolls to tourists.  The first time Grady saw one, he was riding along on my shoulders and came face to face with a pair of 4 foot tall skeletons dressed in wedding clothes.  He clamped down on my neck like a bull rider and steered my head away from the danger.  I couldn't blame him though, those souvenirs got to be a little too much after a while.  Soon, Grady was skittish of every doll, Senor Frog statue, and lacquered puffer fish we saw.

What did make Grady happy was the pool and the chicks around the pool.  He's a constant flirt, so whenever any female passed by, he's stick out his skinny chest and coyly say hi.  "Ohh, what a cutie," or, "Que guapo," they'd reply and I'd pat him on the back.  "Thata boy, here comes another one, get ready."

Dylan was content to swim in the pool or play on the beach, but she also had a few pesos to burn, so trips in our rental turned into opportunities to shop.  When we could hear each other talk between the blaring Pitbull songs at the grocery store, she'd try to buy every item she saw.  I had to keep reminding her that pretty much all of things there were also available at home.  She finally bought a little turtle in a shop in Todo Santos.  "This is what you want?" we asked skeptically.  It was and, of course, as soon as she got back to the room she broke off its head.

We've always known this, but on vacation it becomes amplified: Dylan talks non-stop.  At the pool, it's just chatter and it's fun.  Downtown, we're often concerned that she'll offend (at one point I thought she was counting Mexicans, but she informed me that she was counting coconut trees).  And in the car, she just talks.  And talks.  We learned that some words do, in fact, rhyme with orange (but they only make sense to Dylan), and basketball court, and beach, and ocean, and whatever else she happened to see from her window.

For the adults, Cabo is about as easy a vacation as you can find.  Tired of the pool?  Go to the beach.  Too much sand?  Go get a taco.  Full?  Take a nap.  Awake?  Drink a Pacifico.  And, of course, we took full advantage of that cycle.  We did miss the chaos of a Hanna family Thanksgiving, but the sound of the waves, the laughter of kids by the pool, and, somewhere faint and far off, from a television at the bar, the sound of the Lions losing on Thanksgiving made it feel like we were in the perfect place.

Super Spastic Supper Frogs

The Super Frogs Pee Wee Soccer team, led by the young standout Dylan Hanna, dominated in league play this year and earned a chance to defend the coveted Scott Valley Golden Chalice.  They hosted previously unbeaten Manchester United at the hallowed grounds of Etna Elementary.  After 90 minutes of intense play, the score was a draw.  In an extra-time shootout, Hanna remarkably scored all 8 goals to seal the win and defat the English powerhouse.  Ok, I admit, this is the fantasy press release I wrote as my mind drifted after watching four and five-year olds swarm around a soccer ball like feeding time in a hog barn.

For some reason, I thought that since Dylan was a year older, her new team would act like mature five-year olds and fall in love with the "beautiful game."  The first clue things would be 2011, part II, came in the very first game.  At one point I counted half our players practicing summersaults while the other team dribbled the ball downfield.  The Super Frogs weren't in the middle of a goal celebration, they were just prematurely getting ready for gymnastics season.

In one particularly lopsided match, the Super Frog's highlight was when the other team ran the ball the length of the field (again), set up for a score, shot, and ... no goal.  Our goal keeper had pulled both goal cones and put them on his head, then ran off.  The other team was awarded the first ever Pee Wee soccer free-kick at goal.  That tactic worked, though.  It slowed the other team down and got in their heads enough to prevent them from scoring for a full minute.

The Frogs had a small identity crisis -- that may be the only way to explain their season.  The team sponsor, printed on the back of their green jerseys, was a family no one had heard of (rare in Scott Valley).  The coach finally admitted that the name was misspelled.  On the team photo, they were the "Supper Frogs" (Frog, it's what's for dinner.), and in all reality, they should have been called, "Please Keep Your Hands to Yourself," because that's what the coach had to remind the team fifty times a game.

When Dylan wasn't trying to tackle her own teammates, or practice rolling, or eat grass, she seemed to enjoy soccer and is actually pretty good.  A player's dad from another team was impressed with her ability to clean out a ruck by physically pulling players away from the ball.  Illegal? Maybe.  Using rugby skills in soccer? Awesomely definitely.

Conversations with Dylan on the way home from matches generally were along the lines of: You did a great job in the fourth quarter, but we realllllly need you to stop tackling your teammates.  It makes your coach sad.  And remember, the five candy bar deal from last year?  That still stands (1 goal = 5 candy bars).  But, in the end, the Super Spastic Supper Frogs had fun, got to be silly, drank lots of after-match Capri Suns, and ate granola bars.  To a bunch of five-year olds who don't keep score, what else matters?  Maybe Dylan should remind her dad of that once in a while, as long as he hasn't zoned out, writing fictitious press releases about the heroics of a young squad from Etna.

Princesses

Last night, as I was combing Dylan's hair after her bath, she farted on my leg and laughed.  Today, in her Pee-Wee soccer match, she repeatedly ran into the middle of the soccer-scrum, rooted around for the ball, body checked teammates and opponents, and chased down the ball, wherever it wound up.  When the whistle would blow, she'd get in a friendly shove match with her friends on the team until the entire team was rolling in the grass.  All this is from the girl who wants to be a ballerina when she grows up and considers herself a princess.  And not some phony Kate Middleton princess, but a real one who wears pink dresses every single day and never takes off her tiara.

This princess fantasy has been fed in a big way lately.  First, she was a flower-girl in her cousin Lacy's wedding.  Dylan was pretty certain that she was going to be the wedding's main attraction and called it "her wedding," or "my day."  When the four or five-hundred guests arrived, she she didn't falter -- they were there to watch her walk down the aisle.  I admired her confidence.

Grady was the ring bearer and Regina and I had our doubts that he'd even make it half-way (4:1 odds in Reno).  A 3-year old asked to preform any task in front of a large audience usually ends in a wet diaper and tears.  Grady must have taken aisle-walking tips from his sister because he strutted with the "ring" like a pimp strolling his turf.

We'd barely come down from the wedding-high (or, in my case, the wedding-hangover), when Dylan was asked to be the crown-bearer for homecoming.  I heard, "Dylan gets to crown the new queen," but Dylan heard, "Dylan is a princess and will wear a tiara and the entire homecoming parade and football game will be in her honor."  Of course, she was right.  In the parade, she got to throw candy to the fawning masses from the back of a '66 Corvette, and I'm sure she was thinking, "Let them eat cake," or something equally as queen-ly.

A few days previous, Regina took Dylan to a friend's house to borrow a princess dress.  There were poofy pink dresses and flowery gowns, but Dylan picked a red velvety one.  I was a little surprised that she didn't go with anything pink, until I realized that the dress came with a small sweater-thingy that had a white fuzzy trim.  That's right, just like Santa.  Dylan got to one-up ol' St. Nick and be the princess he could never be.

Dylan, with her escort and the previous homecoming queen and king, carried in the giant queen crown and, at the right moment, crowned the new queen.  I'm sure, as the newly elected queen pried the crown from Dylan's little fists, Dylan whispered something like, "Here's your crown.  For now."

Grady had nearly a good of time as Dylan.  He was surrounded by princesses.  There was one in particular that he had a huge crush on.  She, of course, was in the biggest dress of all and Grady was drawn to her like a housewife to a 50 Shades novel.  I had to pry him off of her just so I wouldn't look like the creeper dad who sends his son in for hugs on high-school girls.

Dylan and Grady were pretty quiet in the backseat as I drove them home that night.  They'd both had a big day and the sugar and adrenaline were wearing off.  We'd just about made it to the driveway when Dylan piped up. "Dad?  I think this was the best day ever."  "I think you're right, princess," I said.