T-Ball Brain

Happy Fatherhood Friday everyone! If you still have a few marbles rolling around your skull after reading today's post, click on over to fill your brain with funnies from all the great bloggers over at dad-blogs.com .

So apparently this season I've taken one too many whacks in the head [figuratively] with the t-ball bat.

Allow me to set this up for you.

Last Friday, Grampap-E was planning to attend Big Brother's t-ball game.

Mom-E had taken the boys on a road trip that day to meet up with a high school friend and her new baby.

I called Mom-E on my way home from work, about an hour or so before the game. Mom-E informed me they got stuck in traffic, had made a pit stop at Gramm-E and Grampap's house, and would be cutting it close on time to get there for the game.

"No problem," I said. "I've got a plan."

(Ladies, when a man says 'I've got a plan', that's codespeak for "I'm about to do something dumb.")

"I'll call Grampap-E. He can meet me at our house. We'll drive together, pick up some Subway--better know as Chip & Chocolate Juice Way to the boys--and meet you at the t-ball field. That'll give you time to feed Bab-E Brother, the boys time to eat, and Big Brother time to change."

Mom-E replied, "That sounds good."

(Guys, when your wife says 'That sounds good', that's her codespeak for "I will not be surprised if you do something dumb.")

So, here's how the "plan" worked out:

1. I met up with Grampap-E at our house. I changed my clothes, let the dog out, and gathered up some extra snacks for the boys, and baby food for Bab-E. We headed out with enough time to pick up Subway for everyone.

2. Mom-E arrived a little early, and said, "We'll just meet you at Subway because the boys are asleep in the minivan."

(Guys, this is codespeak for, "I'm lining up my front row seats to watch you look dumb.")

3. We no sooner get to Subway, than I realize I forgot ALL OF BIG BROTHER'S BASEBALL STUFF. I mean ALL of it. No hat, glove, team shirt, cletes. Nothing.

"Hey, does the kid's meal happen to come with a baseball hat, jersey, glove, and shoes?"

4. All 3 boys are now awake, hungry, and screaming. Grampap-E and I quickly get food. Mom-E drives home to rescue Big Brother's baseball stuff, which is scattered throughout the house.

(If looks could kill, Mom-E has already laser beamed off my head when I told her I forgot the t-ball stuff.)

5. We're all back to our house. Big Brother is screaming that he doesn't want to play t-ball. Bab-E Brother is screaming for Mom-E's milk. Little Brother is screaming because that's what he does when he wakes up from his nap. Mom-E is screaming at me with the look in her eyes that says "We've had a very long, trying, hectic day, and your 'plan' isn't helping." Grampap-E is screaming with laughter inside his head because my marbles are hemorrhaging left and right.

We attempt to placate small children with chips and chocolate milk.

6. We find all of Big Brother's t-ball stuff EXCEPT his glove. We tear apart the minivan and "toybox" in the garage. No luck.

(The game starts in 5 minutes. Tick tock, tick tock.)

7. From somewhere--probably inside the minivan where we'd been looking--Grampap-E finds the glove.

AMEN!

8. We head to the t-ball field. It starts POURING DOWN RAIN.

9. We arrive at the field. It has stopped raining. The parking lot is covered with--literally--steam from the evaporating rain water. It is so hot that I feel like I'm in the sauna. My clothes feel like I took a shower without first taking them off.

Boys are finishing eating. We unpack the minivan. Big Brother's glove is NOWHERE to be found! I mean vanished.

(Hey, Busy-Dad-E, how's that "plan" working out for ya right about now?)

9. Grampap-E volunteers to make his third trip to our house in a span of about 30 minutes. Fortunately, Big Brother's team is batting first, which buys us some time.

10. Grampap-E returns with Big Brother's glove.

(Apparently, I improvised the "plan" by throwing the glove BACK INTO THE TOYBOX after we found it. Another marble falls out of my head. I'm left with just one.)

11. Big Brother plays his game and we all cheer him on.

12. Half-way through the game, it starts POURING DOWN RAIN AGAIN. The game gets called.

13. We get everybody loaded up in the minivan. Grampap-E heads home as well.

14. We make a pit stop for ice cream on the way home.

(It's all part of my "plan". Yeah, that's it. Chocolate is a natural antidepressant to help Mom-E cope after her hectic day. Ice cream makes kids happy. And I only have one marble left, so I don't have to worry about brain freeze.)

And now you know why I "retired" from coaching after one soccer season.

Mom-E has also relinquished me from all future planning-related responsibilities.

Have a good weekend,
Please send me my marbles if you find any,
Busy-Dad-E

Pass the Pee-Ball

Happy Fatherhood Friday everyone! Thanks to dad-blogs.com for having “good aim” with their sponsorship of this fun-filled event. Don’t forget to flush to leave a comment here before checking out all of the great bloggers over there.

It’s May and that can only mean one thing over here at Busy-Dad-E: it’s T-BALL season!

It doesn’t get better than a hoard of wild, screaming 4 and 5 year-olds running aimlessly over the field while wielding metal bats! I love it!

(Seriously, it’s great fun, good exercise, and teaches about commitment, teamwork, and sportsmanship—and that just what it takes to GET to t-ball practice.)

For those of you who were entertained with the antics of last year’s soccer and baseball seasons, no doubt there will be more of the same this year.

Big Brother was genuinely excited about playing baseball again this year. In particular, he had fun trying out his new cleats by running about 100 yards down the aisle of the sporting goods store. While he was running, Little Brother pretty much started to strip because he wanted to try on Big Brother’s new shorts. (I’m guessing there’s a “no nudity” policy at the store.)

You may remember that last season at the first practice (about 45 minutes) he “outscored” his entire team BY HIMSELF…in terms of TRIPS TO THE POTTY.

Box Score:
Big Brother 3
Rest of Team 0

This year, I picked up the boys after work, and drove all 3 to the practice field. As we drove, the boys munched on their “snacks” (aka dinner).

Amazingly, we arrived about 20 minutes early. However, 20 minutes early in our world just means we had enough time to go to the potty—TWICE—before practice started.

If you’re having a bad week, just picture all 3 boys and I crammed into a Port-O-Potty. Bab-E Brother was strapped to my chest, facing forward, in the Baby Bjorn. Big Brother and Little Brother were standing on opposite sides of the potty, their feet at the level of the seat. I’m bracing them as they each leaned in for relief. Amazingly, all persons, clothing, and personal items—including binkies and burp towels—made it out dry (mostly), and no one “crossed the streams.”

Having depleted themselves of the “chocolate juice” they consumed on the ride to practice, the boys were ready to play.

Big Brother took to the field without hesitation, did a good job following instructions, and was having a good—and potty break-free—time.

Dad-E Little Brother was rescued by the arrival of Mom-E, who joined us at the start of practice, equipped with Little Brother’s fat bat and wiffle ball, which assuaged his jealously over not being able to play with the bigger boys. Thank you, Smart Lad-E!

However, if urinary frequency at the t-ball field is an “infectious disease”, then Big Brother must’ve developed some immunity, but not before transmitting the responsible pathogen to Little Brother.

In short, the “Pee-Ball” Torch has been passed.

It doesn’t help that, being relatively recently potty trained, Little Brother has to go pee-pee the moment that first drop of urine hits the wall of his completely empty bladder, and sometimes even before that moment.

As the official score-keeper, it appears that Little Brother 1-upped Big Brother by going potty 4 (FOUR) times during the 45 minute practice (but 1 of those times we trekked to the potty, only for him to say “I don’t have to go potty!” the moment we get there, so does that really count?)

Despite that, everyone, Bab-E Brother included, had a good time, and we’re looking forward to revisiting the Port-O-Potty the next practice tonight!

Have a good weekend,
Play ball and stay dry,
Busy-Dad-E

Shin Splints

I mentioned in passing a few posts ago that Big Brother had started fall soccer season. To my surprise, Big Brother’s first practice went very well. He was excited, played hard (and not in the dirt), and even answered a question. Apparently, my lack of coaching was the key to his success.

I knew it wouldn’t last (at least based on last soccer season).

After a rain out, Big Brother’s second practice was last Monday. I use the word “practice” very loosely here.

For no clear reason, Big Brother completely REFUSED to participate. I mean he stood on the sidelines with Mom-E and Little Brother without even so much as setting a tip-toe on the field, fuming under his breath the entire time.

His lower lip was so pouty there was enough room for an entire flock of seagulls to poop on it.

And when I arrived (a little late—all practices start at 5—which is tough on work days), nothing I
said or did could persuade him to act otherwise.

Ahh, the sweet sound of money well spent. Flush, down the drain.

The team’s word of the day was “encouragement.” Big Brother definitely needed some encouragement at practice, that is, if encouragement is defined as a swift kick in the behind followed by the words, “JUST DO IT!”

Big Brother was so hopping mad that he didn’t even join his team when they handed out popsicles (not that we would’ve let him have one, given his behavior).

I admit to feelings of despair on the way home.

I’d pretty much resolved myself to the fact that we’d witnessed the end of Big Brother’s athletic career (I mean, I wouldn’t want one of my children to quit something they’d committed to, but why continue to invest all of that time, energy, and frustration, if he’s just going to refuse to play?)

To borrow from a “Far Side” cartoon: “And then a miracle occurs.”

Big Brother happened to tell us, “my shin guards hurt my legs.”

Oh. Shoot. You’re right. You know, they are looking a little small. Apparently the 3 granola bars you’ve eaten since spring soccer season all went straight to your legs.

“Big Brother, would you like to get new shin guards?”

“YEAH! He exclaims.”

So off we go the next day to the sporting goods store, and we leave with a new, bigger size shin guards and cool black socks to go over them.

In an about-face, Big Brother is now VERY EXCITED about soccer.

You’dve thought before this we had been asking Big Brother to play soccer in an iron maiden.

Fast forward to our first game on Thursday.

Big Brother returned to the same form as the first practice. He ran wild around the fields (yes, fields, plural. For his age group, the kids end up kicking the ball on no less than 4 different fields.)

He even scored a goal (and arm-tackled one of his own teammates on a breakaway.)

Of course, according to Murphy’s Law, there were no popsicles (and no snacks, for that matter) after the game.

The whole thing reminded me that sometimes there’s not much difference between parenting a baby and an almost five year-old. It’s all about figuring out what your child wants/needs. With a baby, there’s pretty much just 3 choices (hungry, sleepy, or dirty). With a five year-old, the possibilities are unlimited, but at least they can tell you when their shins hurt.

Have a good week with no shin splints,
Busy-Dad-E

"T" is for Tired Ball

Happy Fatherhood Friday everyone! Welcome to readers new and old. Thanks to dad-blogs.com for this great forum.

On Tuesday, I got to watch Big Brother's t-ball game for the first time (I've been to several practices, but missed the first game due to travel for work).

Big Brother's excitement level for t-ball was somewhere between drowsy and lethargic.

Apparently, rushing around to get to the game used up most of his excitement. The game started at 6pm, which is a little challenging for us, as Mom-E is also at work on Tuesdays.

I left work at 4:15, picked-up the boys from their at-home daycare, drove them home, fed them "dinner"/snacks (prepared the night before) (while letting them watch Bob the Builder--the only way to get Big Brother dressed when in a rush--and they have to eat before the game or they'll morph into Crabby Bears), and then drove to t-ball.

We made it into the car by about 5:40 (albeit neither child was wearing shoes). Big Brother hadn't taken a nap, and as I might've predicted, he fell asleep in the car.

We get to the t-ball field right at 6pm. I put Big Brother's shoes on first, and then wake him up. He is not thrilled to be at t-ball (and a wee bit groggy). He proceeds to sit down beside the car and mope while I put shoes on Little Brother and get him out of the car.

We head towards the field, I'm carrying Little Brother, Little Brother's sippy cup and hat, and the diaper bag, all the while using my cattle-prod voice to encourage Big Brother to move along.

As we're walking, Little Brother finds it amusing to pull off my hat, exposing my balding head to the 90-degree blazing sun (Oh spray-on sunscreen, where are you when I need you.)

I begin to wonder where the Candid Camera people are, or at the very least the whereabouts of neon sign over my head that reads "If you think this is funny, just wait 'til he's got 3."

(I'm sorry bab-e, you have no idea what you're getting into.)

*****

Already exhausted, we arrive midway through his team's first at-bat.

Big Brother goes through much of the game in a TOTAL FOG. Fortunately, he's out in left-center field, where absolutely NOTHING gets hit.

At one point, right in the middle of the game as someone is batting, he starts running right across the field towards me. You guessed it, he had to pee. Fortunately, Mom-E has arrived from work by this time, and is able to assist His Urinariness.

At a few other instances during the game, we spot Big Brother grabbing his crotch out in the outfield. Mom-E and I fear the worst (an impending pee-a-thon), but are relieved (pun intended) that he's just trying to keep his pants up. (He has a belt, but there is no such thing as baseball pants that fit 4 year-olds. Several small clowns could fit into those pants).

Big Brother gets to bat twice. He actually hits the ball pretty solidly up the middle (most of the kids hit just a little trickle to the pitcher's mound). However, after he hits, he stands there with NO idea what to do (or is too tired or too afraid to move).

This phenomenon generalizes to most of the kids. They hit the ball, and then stand there with a neon sign over their heads reading "What do I do now?" Only after much yelling encouragment from coaches and fans do the kids run to first base.

Big Brother manages to run the bases (most of them). He makes it to third. On the next hit, instead of heading home, he makes an excursion to the pitcher's mound (the more direct route back to the dugout).

His fatigue becomes even more evident as the game progresses. At the changover between innings, after all the other kids from his team have returned to the dugout, he's still standing out in left-center, staring aimlessly.

He has no clue that he's alone out there. Maybe it's because he's adjusted his hat so big that it's covering his eyes and most of his upper face.

To add insult to injury, there are two other kids there, one on each team, also named "Big Brother." This is another source of confusion, as he starts to run out of the dugout every time someone calls out, "Big Brother", even when it is not his turn.

At 7pm the game is over. Out of nowhere, the opposing team let's out a loud cheer, and the players run through a 10 yard-long tunnel created by the arms of the parents.

Big Brother, on the other hand, manages to be carried IN the arms of his parents, his head plunked down on my shoulder.

Now I know what they mean by "Take me out with the crowd."

We'll try it again next week, hopefully with a longer nap before the game.

Have a good weekend,
Busy-Dad-E

Pee-Ball

Happy Fatherhood Friday everyone! This is the (lucky) 13th week of this fun-filled event from dad-blogs.com. Welcome to readers new and old. If you were a fan of Big Big Brother's soccer season, then I’ve got more blog-worthy youth sports antics in store.

WeaselMomma, this post carries a Yellow Level "Pee-Alert", so please protect your furniture accordingly.

It’s the middle of spring, which can only mean one thing: pee tee-ball season!

Big Brother had his first tee-ball practice last week, and it did not disappoint.

I really enjoyed being on the parent-END of practice, instead of the coach-END. First of all, I got to sit on my hind-END during practice (most of the parents pretty much tailgate with folding chairs and snacks).

Second, it was reassuring that the one kid who threw a FIT complete with screaming, crying, and refusing to play was the COACH’S son (aka NOT MINE). This really helped normalize my soccer experience. I felt bad for the coach, but it was still quite refreshing.

Big Brother, on the other hand, had a LOT of fun. In fact, he got SO excited that he had to pee, and pee, and uh, pee.

If there was a small bladder club for 4 year-olds, Big Brother would be the VEE-PEE.

In the course of a 50 minute practice, Big Brother went potty 3 more times than the other 10 players on the team COMBINED (they went zero times). (It probably didn’t help that he drank part of a lemonade at Panera Bread before practice, and that his bladder capacity is about the size of a peanut shell.)

He was quite a sight standing on the pitcher’s mound. You knew he had to go potty when he started jerking around like a cross between a Fernando Valenzuela's wind-up and having ants in his pants. (If he continues to be able to dance like that in high school, he’ll have his pick of prom dates.) But he was having so much fun that he protested leaving the field.

And there were more signs that it should really be called PEE-BALL.

Even though his team is the White Sox, their team hats and jerseys are YELLOW.

Not only are the jerseys yellow, the “sponsor” is JIFFY LUBE.

One of his two coaches, who rides a Harley and looks like he once wrestled in the WWF (not WWE, I’m talkin’ old-school), wore a shirt that said “Size Matters.”

Let me tell you firsthand, that it DOES matter. If your child has a small bladder, then they will have to pee A LOT.

And the best part is that there’s only one Port o’ Potty at the baseball field (the same place where they had soccer). The THIRD time Big Brother had to pee, there was another kid who literally spent about 10 minutes in the potty. The other kids waiting in line started throwing rocks at the door. This did not speed things up. It felt like we were in “A Christmas Story” when Randy had to pee while Raphie was busy decoding Little Orphan Annie’s secret society message. You know, if you drink a lot of Ovaltine, that’ll make you have to pee, too.

Big Brother found it completely hysterical when the kids started throwing rocks at the Port o’ Potty. He giggled uncontrollably. (He probably would’ve thrown rocks, too, if I didn’t proactively give him the “we don’t throw rocks” speech for about the millionth time (only a million more before it finally sinks in). Obviously throwing rocks is potentially dangerous, but sometimes it’s still hard to tell your kids not to do something with a straight face when you yourself find it a little funny.) The rock-throwing only made him have to pee even MORE. We finally resorted to peeing on a tree (far) behind one of the dugouts.

Still, Big Brother managed to field the ball a few times, throw (albeit underhand), hit off the tee, andrun saunter around the bases once.

It was the hitting and running the bases part where shades his personality really came out. You see, Big Brother is like his Dad-E in that in social situations he is rather shy, quiet, and reserved (he talks in a whisper and he could make you think he’s deaf, but he’s really just taking it all in). By contrast, in the comforts of home he is quite outgoing and outspoken.

So, when it came time to hit the ball, he swung the bat like he was in a china shop, unlike at home when he tries to smack the tar out of Little Brother with any toy that resembles a bat (Don’t worry Little Brother, someday you may be bigger than Big Brother, and you can pin him down on the ground and hold ice on his forehead). And unlike when he has to pee, when he hit the ball it trickled out to the pitcher’s mound.

And when it came time to run the bases, you’d think the child had never run before. The same boy who literally FLIES around the house naked and requires two adults to catch him had to be coaxed to circle the bases.

After practice, the coaches had snacks for the players. Of course, Big Brother, my picky eater, snarfed down a bag of Spicy Nacho Doritos?!? He who would never eat anything spicy or nachoey at home. Go figure. Apparently if it’s a chip, he’ll eat it. Frito-Lay needs to start making chicken chips and peanut butter chips.

Oh yeah, and they had Capri-Sun drinks, too. I think that made him have to pee another 3 times after we got home.

I’d tell you more, but I have to go pee now myself.

Have a good weekend,
Busy-Dad-E

PEE-S: Next Fatherhood Friday, we’re going to have the first guest-post ever on Busy-Dad-E. That’s right, Busy-Mom-E is going to steal the show. “Why?” you may be asking.

I’m currently out of town for back-to-back conferences. On Saturday (tomorrow), Busy-Mom-E is going to fly SOLO with the boys to California so that we can all rendez-vous at the site of the second conference. Oh yeah, and she’s running a 5-mile race that’s 90 minutes away from the airport 6 hours before her flight because she doesn’t have enough to do that day.

I mean, flying with young kids is easy for two parents, so it shouldn’t be a problem for one parent, right?

Please note that she spontaneously volunteered to do this. As a peace offering, I got her an iPod Touch for Mother’s Day. Hopefully a few games and videos will help ease the burden slightly.

But I don’t think it’ll help when Big Brother has to pee, and she has to fit him, herself, and Little Brother in an airport lavatory. Talk about “three’s a crowd.”

Who votes for fluid restriction for Big Brother?

If you see a woman in an airport with two young kids looking frazzled, please be nice and offer to help because it might be her.

Stay tuned! If I don’t post between now and then, you’ll understand that I’m bus-E helping her recover from the flight.

Adieu Football

Bon Vendredi du Pere, Toute Personnes! Thanks to the folks at dad-blogs.com for organizing this wonderful weekly event (even if I didn’t win their Big Spring Contest.)

Since so many of you requested more funny soccer stories (okay, it was pretty much just Weasel Momma), I figured I’d try to oblige one LAST time.

That’s because SOCCER SEASON IS (FINALLY) OVER! (Not that I’m excited or anything.)

I hope I won’t offend the mom of one of my players who reads this blog, but my guess is that she feels about the same.

Since I’m not excited, I won’t sing the following song:

“Soccer season’s finally over, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la.
I must’ve found a four-leaf clover, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la.
Oh no, tee-ball starts to-morrow, fa-la-la, fa-la-la, la-la-la.
No rest for the Busy-Dad-E, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la.”

I also won’t share with you these top 10 things that I did during our last two soccer games:

10. Tied shoes (several times for several players). That’s going to leave a (cleat) mark.

9. Coaxed kids who were supposed to be playing to leave the sideline and come onto the field. (C’mon, you know you(r parents) want (you) to play.) By the end of the last game, I almost needed to start offering cash to get them to play.

8. Coaxed kids who weren’t playing to leave the field and go back to the sideline. (You didn’t want to play when it was your turn? Now that it’s someone else’s turn, you want to play? Did you come over to my house and watch Big and Little Brother play with toys? Even if it’s been two years since Big Brother looked at a particular toy, if Little Brother plays with it, then it becomes the hottest toy of the Christmas season.)

7. Asked the girls on the team to stop playing “tag” on the field. (Maybe if the YMCA started a Youth Tag league, the kids would show up and play soccer?)

6. Asked the boys on the team to stop playing in the dirt piles. (I started to propose a YMCA Youth Dirt Pile-Playing league, but the boys would just continue to play in the dirt piles.)

5. Escorted hysterically crying children back to their parents after they fell down chasing after the ball, were pushed down, or just started crying spontaneously.

4. Separated players from our own team who were fighting over the ball. (You’ll push and shove your own teammates to get the ball, but if the other team has the ball, you could care less. Hysterical.)

3. Asked Busy-Mom-E to take Big Brother potty during the game. Twice.

2. Carried Little Brother around the field while coaching to keep him from screaming. (Is he the coach, or an overinvolved parent?) Oh well, at least you don’t need your hands in soccer.)

1. Total number of minutes that I actually coached soccer during the last two games.

Let me just say that the soccer season ended on a somewhat unpleasant note for Big Brother. At yesterday’s game, it was unseasonably hot, and all of the kids were a little tired and cranky. Halfway between picking him up and arriving at the field, Big Brother decided he just didn’t want to play soccer.

Trying to change the mind of a stubborn strong-willed child is like beating your head against the wall (i.e., don’t do it.)

Eventually we did get Big Brother to play for one quarter. All it took was saying, “You can take your Blue’s Clues letter on to the field with you and play in the dirt.” He actually did engage in the game briefly, before returning to the dirt piles.

And of course, just as the game was finishing, he managed to throw dirt into his eye. This prompted a hysterical screaming fit. “My eye! My eye! I need a towel!” (There wasn’t a towel.) Big Brother was not going to calm down to let us do anything to help him.

Fearing a scratched cornea, I did the only thing a sensible thing a dad could do under the circumstances. I laid him down on the ground, pinned his limbs down with my legs, and squirted washed his eye with water from his water bottle. Ta-da!

Mom-E swore at that moment she saw a neon sign above my head that said, “Yes, I can control my child. Just not now.”

As much as I complained, it was a good experience. The kids had fun (at least when they were playing tag or playing in the dirt piles). This helped ease the pain of going 0-6 in our games, and losing by a margin of at least 5 goals per game. I had fun too, because for at least a moment (what now seems like a year ago), it made Big Brother very happy.

What else can you do with 3 and 4-year olds who really weren’t that excited about playing soccer in the first place?

That said, without a doubt, our team had the best, loudest, most high-spirited team cheer of any team in the league. Unfortunately, we made it a habit of checking our enthusiasm at the door.

Of course, I’m willing to bet that at the team’s end-of-season party, all of the kids will want to PLAY SOCCER! There can be no other alternative. I, on the other hand, will want to drink mojitos on a floating chair in the pool. Or, if there’s no pool, I guess I’ll just drink mojitos.

Tee-ball, however, will be even more fun (mostly because I won’t be coaching. At least until I get an email from the YMCA the day before saying, “Uh, we need coaches, or, uh, something bad’ll happen, uh, so we’re glad you’re the coach now.”) @#$%-ing YMCA!

So bring on the tee-ball! Wait a minute, did I just get excited about giving metal bats to 4 year-olds? Oh, am I going to have plenty to write about here.

Have a good weekend,
Busy-Dad-E

Goal!

Happy Fatherhood Friday everyone ! As always, thanks to the folks at dad-blogs.com for organizing this event, and thanks to you, the readers, for visiting.

This week I'd also like to say a special thanks to ShankRabbit for his "Have Friends. Get Music." contest. More cowbell!

It's been a few weeks since I've talked about Big Brother's soccer practices or games.

Due to the combination of spring break and rain outs, we didn't have any soccer-related activities for 2 weeks, until our game last night.

I was expecting that the long hiatus (2 weeks is long when the whole season is only 6-7 weeks), that my players would probably forget what a soccer ball looked like, not to mention how to play the game.

And things started off on the wrong foot when I was running borderline late from an all-day meeting at work. I had to change into my soccer clothes in the Port-O-Potty at the field. I was afraid that this would "set the tone" for the rest of the game.

Fortunately, I was wrong.

Amazingly, our team actually improved during the layoff. Go figure. Maybe exposure to my coaching made them worse? Don't get me wrong, we still gave up a truck-load of goals and we still had trouble keeping 3 players on the field at all times, but this game was much less lop-sided than others.

The most important thing was that all of the kids had fun. I had fun, too. What's not to laugh about kids kicking the ball in the wrong direction, or running full-speed for 20 yards after the ball has gone out of bounds (putting them right in the middle of the adjacent field)? And let's not forget a lots of crying because we don't want to play, and lots of picking up the ball with our hands.

And Big Brother earned the "Reformed Dirt Pile Player Award."

I'm not sure what happened, but his effort, listening, and politeness at the game was impressive and unparalleled. Did Busy-Mom-E sew magnets into his uniform that repelled him from the dirt piles?

In fact, he SCORED HIS FIRST GOAL! And the best part was that Grampap was there and videoed the game for posterity.

(For those of you keeping score, that means lifetime youth soccer goals for Big Brother=1, Busy-Dad-E=0.)

I must admit to being guilty of a little fatherly pride here. I felt imitating Steve Martin's "victory dance" in the movie Parenthood after his kid catches the pop fly that wins the baseball game for his cellar-dwelling team. Oh wait, I think I actually did a victory dance.

The most touching part was after the game, as I was putting him in his carset. Big Brother looked at me and said, unsolicited, "Dad-E, I love soccer." (And he said it again on the way home.)

Wow!

It's amazing how one moment of your child's happiness makes countless moments of frustration for you as a parent/coach just disappear. I'd go through it all again in a heartbeat to see him so happy and hear that reaction.

In a single moment, Big Brother summarized one of the core goals that I want for the lives of my children (and aspire to facilitate as a parent): I want them to pursue interests that make them happy and elicit their passion.

Maybe that interest will be soccer for Big Brother, or maybe it'll be something completely different. I'll support and encourage him either way, which is much more important than the "what it is" part.

As I strive to balance a full-time career, marriage, and quality time with my boys, it's moments (and days) like this that I'd like to bottle-up and store.

This is what keeps me going as a parent, what keeps me going through long days at work, evenings and weekends with the boys (and Mom-E) that slip by all too quickly, and long nights with Mom-E cleaning up the "aftermath" of it all--the gargantuan amount of mess (and dishes and laundry) created by small children.

Way to go, Big Brother. You made me extra proud to be your Dad-E today. And you always will.

Have a good weekend,
Busy-Dad-E

Game On

Thanks in advance to everyone who visited last week for Fatherhood Friday, and to everyone visiting this week!

Disclaimer: This is NOT a blog about youth soccer.

That said, today's topic: youth soccer.

(I can't help it. It's just too funny. I promise to write about something else next week. Unless I don't.)

As you may remember from last week's adventures of soccer coach Busy-Dad-E, we left Big Brother's team of 3 and 4 year-olds at their first practice.

Perhaps we should've stayed there.

Fast foward to Thursday night and our first game.

I won't reveal the final score, but let me tell you that when I was a kid, my team lost EVERY sporting event that my dad ever videoed.

I'll just say that Busy-Mom-E videoed the game, and some things apparently run in families.

All 6 players on the team were excited about the game, except for 1) Big Brother, who was hungry, 2) Athletic Girl, who was tired and wanted to sit on her mom's lap, 3) Little Girl, who did not want to play but also preferred to sit on her mom's lap, 4) Big Brother's friend, who wanted to see his dad, who showed up at the game before going to work, 5) Boy #1, and 6) Boy #2, both of whom preferred to sit IN the goal.

Their excitement was apparently a testament to my coaching prowess.

Okay, so in an effort to keep the kids relatively "corralled" on the field, somebody at the YMCA thought it would be wise to line one end of the field (our goal) with about five, big, fence-like nets. The only problem was that it made the entire end of our field look like one BIG goal.

I mean, that wouldn't confuse 3 and 4 year-olds.

Of course, they were a little confused to begin with about which direction to go with the ball.

That is, IF anyone felt like kicking the ball or running after it.

Good standing around, everyone! Good standing! (We're supposed to be positive with them at this age.)

Picture it: we're playing 3 on 3. We kick the ball out of bounds. The other team gets the ball. They start to play again. Suddenly, Athletic Girl has returned to mom's lap, Big Brother has sat down to pick some weeds, and all of our other players have disappeared.

Now we're playing 3 on 0. I'm grabbing any child with a red shirt, including Little Brother, to put them IN to play.

At other times, we're playing 4 or 5 on 3, and I'm grabbing any child to take them OUT of play. Moms? Dads? Anyone related to anyone on our team, can you throw me a bone here? I don't multitask well (coach, cheer, and make substitutions while carrying around someone else's child)--I'm not a woman.

Meanwhile, the other team has a RINGER. I mean this kid couldn't have been more than 2 feet tall, but he could dribble down the field like a hot knife through butter. He lit us up for a hat trick. I wanted to ask the other coach to see his birth certificate, in the hopes that he was too YOUNG to play in our league.

We did manage to kick the ball into the other team's half of the field, more than once, I think.

We finally make it to halftime. I'm exhausted already. Please note that exactly TWELVE minutes have passed since the start of the game (two 5-minute quarters and a 2-minute "break").

We try to regroup. The operative word here is TRY.

At halftime, we find out that we were using the WRONG sized goals. Our youth-sized goals (maybe 5 x 3.5 feet) are replaced with "baby"-sized goals the size of my laundry hamper.

Thanks. We were doing good to kick the ball NEAR the "big" goals. It'll be much easier now that the goal is 4 times smaller.
Don't worry kids, we're still building self-confidence here, even if there is now less of a soccer goal to build it with.

The second half goes much like the first. I'm amazed at how fast our players dribble and move once they go OUT of bounds. Seriously. Apparently the lines on the field are holding us back.

We do manage to score 1 goal...for the other team.

At the end of the game, the coaches try to get the teams to form a line to shake hands. This was quite amusing to observe. You'd think we asked the kids to teach each other how to speak German.

We huddle up after the game. To my surprise, we NAIL our team cheer, I mean LOUD and in unison! It was great.

And at that moment, any dark clouds that were forming in my mind lifted. The kids had fun and got some exercise. The weather was beautiful. The parents cheered and laughed. They're learning about teamwork and sportsmanship, and they're doing pretty good with that. They look ridiculously cute in their uniforms. I laughed and smiled.

Everyone was a winner just by being there.

I feel very lucky and blessed to be a dad. It was a good day.

Happy Fatherhood Friday,
Have a good weekend,
Busy-Dad-E

P.S. Coming on Monday, the first of a new series of posts: "Big Brother Explains"

That's right, we'll turn to Busy-Dad-E's favorite 4 year-old for "how-to" and "where'd-that-come-from" advice. From fishing to babies, he'll cover it all. I'm not promising it'll be pretty (or pretty accurate), but it will be, as is my writing about fatherhood: uncensored.

Soccer "Practice"

Big Brother had his first (loosely-termed) soccer "practice" on Monday. It was quite fun (and eventful).

As you may remember, Busy-Dad-E was quickly promoted to the rank of coach by volunteering to "help" with the team. Or, as defined by the YMCA dictionary, help = you get to do it all yourself, at least until you can con, I mean "recruit", another parent to be your assistant.

Things started off on the wrong foot (literally) as I managed to bring two mismatched tennis shoes to change into at work. (Note to self, turn on lights when picking out shoes for soccer practice).

Many thanks to Mom-E for bringing the correct shoe before the start of practice. Congratulations, you're the grand prize winner of about a bazillion "wife points" for saving me from a great first impression on all of the parents:

"Hi, I'll be teaching your child how to play soccer, even though I haven't played organized soccer in about 20 years, and I can't seem to even match my own shoes."

I imagine at that moment the YMCA's lawyers were already drafting a memo to change their definition of "help."

Big Brother arrives to the practice field and is VERY excited about playing soccer. So excited, in fact, that--yeah, you guessed it--he has to go potty. I query the YMCA soccer coordinator about the whereabouts of the potty (I mean, surely you didn't assume that 25 3 and 4 year-olds who just mobbed the soccer fields wouldn't have to pee at some point?!?)

With a smile, he points to a tipped-over port-o-potty in the distance and says, "That port-o-potty blew over recently, and "they" were supposed to pick it back up. Maybe the church (where the fields are located) is open?"

Huh?!? Who's "they"? Even if "they" did put the port-o-potty up on it's proper side, would I really want my son to go in there, lest the flesh-eating bacteria consume him like those scarabs from "The Mummy"?

Guess what? Surprise! The church isn't open. Again, I don't know why they wouldn't want a tribe of 3 and 4 year-olds roaming around inside after business hours?

By this time, poor Big Brother has had an accident, being unable to hold it any longer, and lacking an inconspicuous place to "water the grass." Fortunately, we have a spare pair of underwear. Unfortunately, the only pair of sweats we have are now mildly soaked (and it's an uncharacteristically chilly day). Of course, Big Brother refuses to wear the hooded sweatshirt that would at least cover-up some of his pee-soaked pants.

Again, I imagine the impression I'm about to make on the parents:

"Hi, I'm your child's soccer coach. This is my son, Big Brother. He, uh, spilled some water on his pants because he was so excited about meeting everyone. Yeah, that's it."

Amazingly, everyone on the team has arrived within 5 minutes of the start time. Even some people who weren't on our team tried to practice with us. Apparently, either we looked very official and organized (doubtful), or they didn't know what the heck they were doing (much more likely).

We shoo off the "spies" from the other teams, and start out with some "circle time" to do introductions. I try to get everyone "pumped up" about having fun playing soccer. The parents do a nice job of introducing their children, who appear too struck with fear to speak, and cling all the more tightly to their parents.

And so, we move on to do some "drills", which are basically games that covertly teach some soccer skills. I had planned to do 3 different drills for about 5 minutes each.

If only I'd remembered that the attention span of the average 3 or 4 year-old is about 0.02 seconds.

So we've finished the drills, and I'm 14.94 minutes ahead of schedule. (Okay, not really.)

Everyone's favorite drill was "road trip." The idea is we go jog to one corner of the field, pretending that we're going on a vacation, and the kids are supposed to dribble their ball with them to our destination. The team did a good job of carrying their soccer balls with them. One boy just kept going, and didn't want to return when it was time to "come back home." Fortunately, we didn't have to call for search-and -rescue, but instead just used a lasso.

The drills are livened up by at least 1 child at a time (they took turns) crying about not wanting to participate, unable to tell anyone what they were upset about.

After the drills, we attempt to scrimmage. The team's first game is in 10 days, and so I'm trying to give them an idea of how a game might go (or not go, whichever the case may be).

We pick teams. Our league is 3 on 3 (no goalies), so we divide our 6 players evenly. The highlight is the boy who I will forever call in my mind "The Ladies' Man", who picks the 2 girls as his teammates without blinking. Even the parents laugh.

The scrimmage pretty much consists of Big Brother's team running off the field to get their soccer balls, and the other team standing around not knowing what to do, and then following Big Brother's lead. (It became readily apparent that each child must have their own ball at all times, or practice will consist of everyone crying).

Can we play a game with six soccer balls on the field simultaneously?

Did I mention that through most of practice I ended up carrying Little Brother, who was screaming his head off, inconsolably, because he hasn't seen Dad-E all day (who drove straight from work to practice)? Poor Busy-Mom-E.

It's okay, though. You use your feet, not your hands, when playing soccer.

Anyway, we get to try it again at our next practice on Thursday.

If my life were a reality tv show right now, I imagine it'd look a lot like the the Little League scenes from the movie "Parenthood".

See you on Friday,
Busy-Dad-E

Coach Busy-Dad-E

It seems not so long ago that I was playing YMCA youth soccer and biddy basketball, and Little League baseball.

Now it’s Big Brother’s turn.

He starts YMCA soccer next month, the whole family is pretty excited. We’ve already bought him some shin guards, soccer cleats, and a youth soccer ball. He’s had fun running around the yard in his “gear” (and even kicking the ball a time or two), which brings me a smile that warms my heart.

I’m excited about re-living this part of my childhood, about which I have very fond memories, vicariously through Big Brother.

I can remember my dad volunteering as an assistant coach for soccer, coach for basketball, and keeping official score for baseball.

Just last week, I got an email from the YMCA saying that they were in need of a coach and parents to help with the team. And so, I wrote back, saying “I’m happy to help as a parent assistant, but I can’t be the coach (I work full-time, travel to meetings periodically, etc.)”

The response comes back: “I will put you down as one of the coaches. For this age group we like to get all the parents involved during the season to keep it organized and structured, so there really isn't just one coach. I will be having a coaches meeting towards the end of next week. If you could make it and be the team representative that would be great.”

Okay, apparently none of the other Dad-E’s or Mom-E’s stepped up, and I’ve now been promoted to “Coach”.

Wow, talk about life coming full-circle (and feeling a little old, too). Don’t let it bite you on the back-side when it comes around!

While I’m excited, I’m also terrified. I haven’t played soccer since I was 10, not to mention coached anything.

In fact, the peak of my athletic career was as a Little League pitcher at age 12. At that point, I pretty much stopped growing, (most) everyone else didn’t, and physically I started getting left in the dust. By 10th grade, it boiled down a decision between riding the bench all season versus doing something else with my time.

And that brings me to my rant for today. I love sports, but our society has gotten completely out of control with it. I’m not even talking about the pro’s, but the youth level.

Sports are great for kids because it promotes values such as physical activity/fitness, team work, commitment, and discipline. Not to mention sports are just plain fun for them (and the parents who are watching).

We all have great stories about youth sports, like the kid who hits the baseball and starts running the bases backwards, or the kid who picks his nose/plays with dirt/picks flowers out in right field, or a huddle of kids all trying to kick a soccer ball (when the ball left the pile ages ago).

However, we’re at risk of losing the pure fun of youth sports. At earlier and earlier ages, the kids who are pretty good at a given sport start getting recruited for “travelling teams”, or summer leagues, or spring ball, or whatever. They often focus on playing one sport—year round. The ultimate goal of this seems to be to prepare kids to play Division I college athletics.

Fictitious example: “Johnny can’t play soccer this year because he has to play AAU basketball.” The problem is that Johnny is only 7 years old. Johnny shouldn’t have to decide between two sports (or a sport and a musical instrument or drama club or whatever for that matter). He should be playing and exploring (and having fun being a kid) while he can. He shouldn’t be required to “specialize” at his age.

I once missed part of a high school basketball practice to attend an after-school English honors program. The coach asked me “What are you going to do about English honors when we’re getting ready to play team X (big rival)?”

“What do you think I’m going to do?” I thought. “I’m going to go to English Honors. Do you realize that you’re a teacher, and you just accosted me about putting academics ahead of an extracurricular activity?” Unlike a large segment of society, I realized MY SPORTS CAREER WILL SOMEDAY COME TO AN END, AND THEN I HAVE TO FALL BACK ON MY BRAIN/SCHOOL. This even happens to some professional athletes who have a career-ending injury.

Okay, I’m putting the cart before the horse here. Big Brother hasn’t even officially started soccer. I’m getting carried away. I just vow not be be one of those "win-at-all-costs" fanatical sports parents. For now, we’re just going to go out there and kick the soccer ball around and have a good time. I just want him to have fun without being pressured.

And so, I leave you with Busy-Dad-E’s rules of coaching:
1. Have fun
2. Be a good sport
3. Always do your best
4. The rest is just details

Have a good weekend,
Busy-Dad-E