Category: Family

Sportsmanship is a difficult lesson for kids to learn. I know this not due to my own experience with the kids, but also because I’ve gleaned it from other parents. We sit and talk about it and the same things keep coming up, the same problems encountered, the same stories are told with seemingly only the names changing along the way.

We had our year-end Cub Scout campout this past weekend and I was afforded an opportunity to give the boy a lesson in sportsmanship. Within our Pack, we have a game called Ga-Ga. It’s basically like a game of dodge-ball on a small court. The rules are few and simple and the result it that the games are fast and plenty.

My opportunity arrived when I looked over and saw the boy kicking the ball away from the court. There was a smattering of exasperated “Comeon”‘s from the other kids. I stepped into the fray at that point, ordering the boy to bring me the ball and hand it to me.

So when he walked over, picked the ball up and kicked it at me, I swatted it back at him and told him to HAND IT TO ME. He finally did. At which point I turned and handed the ball back to the kids playing in the Ga-Ga court. I then turned back to the boy and told him “You’re done playing for the rest of the day.”

I can’t say for sure, but I think he’d been prepared for me to ban him for awhile. But I’m sure he didn’t think I’d ban him for the rest of the day. It was only mid afternoon and there was still lot’s of Ga-Ga to play. The realization that it would all take place without him didn’t set well with him, to say the least. I finally had enough of his complaining and started in on him “This isn’t the first time I’ve had this conversation with you, and it probably won’t be the last. Your behavior was completely out of line and I won’t let you get away with it. So you are done, for the day. You don’t want to listen to me when I tell you to calm down; you don’t seem to understand that it is just a game and unimportant in the scheme of things. So now, you will sit and watch while your friends play.”

He continued to protest, even threatening to never play any sports again. I ignored his drama. He eventually found other things to do, though every now and again he’d ask if he could join the kids playing Ga-Ga. I told him the same thing each time he’d ask “I told you- you’re done for the day and I meant it.” Ga-Ga was played until it was almost dark out. At one point, the kids even lined the court with their flashlights so they could play “Night Ga-Ga.”

The boy watched.

The next morning, more games were started up just after breakfast and before we started packing up the camp. The boy asked if he could join the games. I told him he could.

At one point, I looked over while they were playing. A bunch of kids yelled that the boy had been hit. He quietly stepped out of the court and waited for the current game to end and the next one to begin. Perhaps he finally learned a lesson about sportsmanship.

At least for this weekend.

The boy was upset with his sister this morning.

In many ways, that statement is like the proverbial “man bits dog” statement. For the time being, it’s the safe way to bet that the two of them will be at each other’s throats in one way or another. It so happens that this morning the boy seemed particularly irked by the fact that, well, his sister exists.

First, it was arguments over breakfast and that she was constantly in his way. Then, he was upset when she reached for a bag of Doritos for her lunch because he also was having Doritos with his lunch. He was convinced that she was copying him and this naturally morphed into the more general complaint that “she always copies” me.

The Wife and I both told him to drop it and worry about himself. The whole exchange culminated with a trip to the corner for him because he “wished his sister wasn’t born sometimes.”

He finally had a little breakfast and subsequently hings quieted down until we got into the car. She was riding shotgun and he was directly behind her in the back seat. For whatever reason, she turned around to look at a car that had passed us. Suddenly, the boy jabbed his fingers into her face. He didn’t want her staring at her.

I yelled at him yet again, (“You could poke an eye out!” It felt so cliched.) including telling him for the millionth time that he needs to find other things to get annoyed about.

I remember my own days of being annoyed at things my younger siblings did. I realize now I really should have spent my energies on other things, though I’m pretty sure at the time whatever annoyance my brother and my sister were creating was the most important thing in the whole world. This appears to be the stage the boy is going through. Hopefully, he’ll take the nagging to heart at some point, finally realizing the truly minor nature of the annoyances his sister presents.

I get that we’re finally coming down to the final few weeks of school. In fact, I think we’re coming up on 2 weeks to go. Naturally, effort levels are starting to tail off a bit, even if the homework load is not.

We’ve fought the boy for most of the year where his writing assignments are concerned. His priority is getting them done. Our priority is trying to teach him some good habits now while getting him to do the work as well. Those habits include spelling, grammar and punctuation. The ability to write well about a subject comes with time, reading and practice.

Per his usual, tonight the boy just wanted to complete his homework, which involved writing 2 paragraphs about some reading he’d chosen. He needed to write a summary paragraph about the reading and then write a paragraph to answer one of five potential questions. He wasn’t sure how to proceed with answering the question, so I was helping him by asking him questions to get him thinking about what he needed to write.

Except the boy wasn’t trying. I’d ask him a question, he’d mumble a reply. I’d try another angle, he’d mumble another reply. I’d finally get him to answer a question, then he’d just sit there doing nothing. This went on for the better part of 30 minutes. It was getting close to his bed time.

Most importantly, I was getting frustrated. Mostly, at his gross lack of effort. So I started yelling.

He almost immediately teared up. I didn’t have, nor did I want to, yell for very long. I was mad at myself for yelling, but internally I was shrugging because what else could I have done? He simply wasn’t even trying to do the work well. I was trying harder than he was, and it wasn’t my homework!

We finally finished working through the assignment. Mostly because his effort level improved so dramatically. He’ll have to write a final draft in the morning, but the hard part is all done.

After he brushed his teeth, but before he went to bed, I pulled him aside and hugged him and said “Don’t make me yell at you anymore.”

He hugged me back, “I don’t like it when you yell at me.”

“I don’t like yelling at you,” I replied.

“I try to not make you yell at me, but I keep slipping up.” I didn’t answer him back.

In a couple more weeks, we’ll all get a break from homework. It will be welcome.

For a change, I was waiting in the car for the boy and the lass this morning. My plan was to get the kids to school, then head up to gas up the car as well as grab some gas for our mower, since we were out. Then I’d spend a couple hours this morning taking care of the grass, including using the weed wacker for all the edge stuff. It always looks a lot neater that way. Then, I’d spend the afternoon digging.

The boy hopped in the car, grabbing the coveted “shotgun” position. His sister wasn’t too far behind. In case there was any doubt about the value of “shotgum”, she immediately started in on her brother for “always” trying to get the front seat. I just let it ride.

As we started up the driveway I glanced over at the boy and noticed he was missing something. I also took a quick glance at the lass, whom was not. I then said “Didn’t Mom ask you to wear a sweatshirt this morning?” Yes, we’re 3 days from June and the kids still need cool weather gear on occasion.

The boy took a look at himself, then sighed an irritated hissing noise. His face screwed up in a grimace. I thought of saying something, then chose not to. Let him learn to deal on his own.

Halfway to the school, the boy grabbed his backpack and started rifling through it, looking for something. He got progressively more agitated in his searching. His back pack is only so big, so I figured he was missing something.

“I forgot my black notebook,” he said through clenched teeth. His jaw was set in a grimace and he was staring like he was trying to light small objects on fire with his gaze.

Two things he’d forgotten this morning in the rush to get out the door. I considered turning around to bail him out. Again, I chose not too for the same basic reason as before. He was in the middle of getting himself all worked up about forgetting his notebook, so let him learn that it’s not the big deal he thinks it is.

---

I took my time when I got home. I had a second cup of coffee, caught up on some WwF games, did some reading. The Wife came down and chatted for a bit before her morning regimen of phone calls began. I finally headed out the door to start my day.

The weed wacking went off without a hitch. I was done with it in about 20 minutes. Then I went to start the mower.

No dice.

I noticed fuel was spitting out of the muffler. I took it to a spot where I didn’t want living things and tipped the mower up. Gas drizzled out of the muffler. Not good. Not good at all. I tried a few more times and the mower started. Maybe running it would act to clean out whatever was causing the problem.

5 minutes later, I had my answer. Now, when I tried to pull the cord it held fast. I tried a few things I was capable of mechanically, but none of them worked.

I was pissed. The mower is less than a year old. My previous Toro never gave me problems until the final years that cause me to get a this one. That was 10 years of service without issue. This Husqvararna was letting me down big time. The grass is already 6 inches high since our current weather is perfect grass growing weather. Now, I was going to have to bring it in for repair and lose a couple more days, maybe more.

I spent the remainder of the morning draining the gas tank, since the gas continued to flood into the engine, and then finding and bringing it someplace to get it serviced. My frustration abated after I’d dropped it off. I had other things to do and started focusing on those.

---

The boy got off the bus from school today with his arms folded across his chest and a scowl on his face. Hmmmm, perhaps things had gotten worse for him after the morning’s forgetfulness?

His sister was in a good mood. She scuttled on into the house, chirping at the dogs as she went by. I had to ask the boy 3 times to check the mail because he was so busy with his funk he didn’t hear me the first 2 times. He was walking slowly. Deliberately. The weight of his troubles squarely on his shoulders.

“You want to talk about it?” I asked. I took the mail from him.

“I forgot my notebook. I forgot my library book. I forgot my planner. I forgot my homework. I forgot my Friday folder,” he spat out. He continued staring down at the ground, dark clouds swirled around his head.

So much drama.

“So what happened?” I asked. Surely, he must have received a speech or something from a teacher or something.

“Nothing,” he said. “I just forgot all that stuff.”

“The teacher didn’t yell at you?”

“NO!!“

Wow.

“Kid’s didn’t make fun of you?”

“NO!!“

I paused for a minute. He was in a hell of him own making. He’d forgotten a bunch of stuff and the penalty had been minimal, if there’d been any at all. His anger was solely about his forgetfulness. It wasn’t like he’d had a lawnmower die on him and now had a looming repair bill, and growing grass. I decided to try and lighten his mood a bit.

“Did you get kissed by a girl?” I ask slyly.

“NO!!!!” he bellowed. His eyes focused on me like lasers.

My first thought was “That was a bit defensive…” but I held my tongue and let it drop.

Someday, he’ll have different sources of frustration. Hopefully he learns how to cope better by then.

We were supposed to go camping for Memorial Day weekend, but the weather has been too uncooperative. We can deal with rain and we can deal with cold, but both at the same time while with the kids wasn’t happening. The main point of the camping is, well, the camping- meaning outdoors, campfires and relaxing. Huddled, shivering in a tent with kids complaining about being bored is know way to suffer through a weekend. Unless it’s Hell.

So we let the kids sleep in our basement last night. They setup a small play tent and their sleeping bags and camped out in the basement. They went to bed late and started kibitzing. Shortly thereafter, they were talking, burping, farting and laughing. Anything but sleeping. Since our basement door is right next to the family room, we got to listen to it all.

The Wife was smart and went to bed early. I stayed up a bit later, listening to the antics going on downstairs. Finally, around 10:30 I gave up on them and started getting ready to head up to sleep myself.

Which was when the boy padded up the stairs and made what, given the circumstances, is a top 10’er for him.

“Dad, I can’t sleep because my sister keeps talking.”

Let’s just say, I was speechless.

We were listening to Pandora Radio this afternoon. The Wife was on the way home, dinner was marinating on the counter and the kids were playing World of Goo on my Nook. More on that in another post. Pandora changed songs and the soundtrack from Gladiator started to play.

For whatever reason, the boy noted the music and then looked at the artwork floating on the screen. We listen to Pandora through Tivo and they put up a graphic of the cover art for the album and it floats around the screen. The kids like to check it out. He noted the word “Gladiator” and asked me about it. I told him it was a movie, but not one he could watch.

“Because it has a lot of killing in it?” he asked.

“Yeah, that’s part of if.”

“Ah man. Killing in movies is cool.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. My tone remained neutral. I was genuinely curious as to where this would go. I knew if I came on too strong, he’d clam up and get defensive.

“I don’t know. Killing wouldn’t be cool in real life, but in movies it’s cool the way the do it.”

Interesting. Without any prompting he distinguished between reality and fantasy. Now, I was actually curious about something else- perhaps he was ready for a movie like Gladiator?

“Why do you think killing in movies is cool?”

“I don’t know,” he answered and started to fidget. He was getting a little defensive.

“Well, what movies have you seen with killing that make you say it’s cool?” Off the top of my head, the only movie I could think of was Avengers. I was having a tough time thinking of any other movies he’d seen like that.

“Avengers,” he started “and that other one…” He was trying to remember. Nothing came to my mind. Then he blurted out “Oh, the one we just saw… Les Mis.”

Ah yes, Les Miserables. We’d let the kids stay up and start watching it one Saturday night, not expecting either of them to watch the whole thing. The lass didn’t make it, but the boy did. He was particularly interested in the battle scenes towards the end of the film.

Thinking about it, I realized he was likely swept up by the emotion of the movie. The singing and the music are very powerful in Les Miserables, even if the lyrics are a bit beyond his understanding. The fighting and death likely seemed glamorous because of the skillful portrayal done by the movie. Plus, as he’d alluded to earlier, he understood no one was really dieing so there was no consequence, no sense of loss.

I then went into an abbreviated discussion of what Gladiator was about. Explaining the basic plot, without getting into too much detail. I also talked about the violence in the movie, how it was all hand-to-hand with swords and shields. He was perplexed that there were no guns or explosions in the movie. At one point, he wondered why they didn’t just use gas. I had to keep explaining that the story took place at a point in time where there was no gas or other explosive technology.

By the end of the discussion, I was convinced he wasn’t ready to watch it yet. It’s one thing if he could pick up on the themes involved in such a story. It’s another to just be swept up by the emotion brought out by a film. Some other time.

The scream that came from the upstairs was an other-worldly cry of anguish. A passerby could have been forgiven for thinking some horrible act of torture had been perpetrated. Dog #1 got up and started pacing around, panting- a sign of nervousness and confusion. The birds went on alert.

Unperturbed, I got up and went outside to check on the Wife and the lass, whom were busying themselves with more plantings. The Wife had a shovel full of dirt and the lass was bringing a flower to her. The lass saw me first and asked “What was that scream?”

“Well, it wasn’t me,” I responded. Clearly, things were going smoothly out here. Several pots were already filled with flowers. Next door, the neighbor was mowing his lawn.

From the second floor emanated the sound of plastic objects colliding at high-velocity.

The Wife then answered the lass’ question. “That“, she paused for emphasis, “was your brother.” She was packing some more dirt into a pot.

Wordlessly, I turned and went back into the house. I trudged up the stairs with my hands in my pockets, my head hanging forward as I prepared to deal with an enraged boy. As I approached his room, the crashing plastic noises ceased. They were replaced with stomping noises.

I turned the corner and entered his room. The boy pretended he didn’t notice. He then very deliberately and with great flourish tossed another block into the container. I didn’t need to say anything.

“I can’t get these stupid blocks to hold together. They won’t work,” he spat at me. He gestured towards the blocks that were assembled to form a wheel and axle. These aren’t normal blocks. They’re Wedgits. I won’t try to describe them here, other than to say they aren’t the normal stacking type of block. Check the link.

“You mean like that?” I questioned. There was a wheel assembly sitting there, exactly like he wanted assembled. So clearly, they could be assembled that way. Even more clearly, he’d gotten frustrated trying to accomplish the assembly and coped by screaming and throwing things. He’s 8, how else should he respond?

“Yes, they won’t go together because they hate me.”

Anthropomorphizing. The ultimate way to dodge personal responsibility. Clearly, the blocks have it in for him. Probably paying him back for all the time that’s passed since the last time he’d played with them. Wonder if they were silently taunting him the whole time? Was Woody hiding somewhere, orchestrating things?

“Here- watch,” he commanded. So I did. He huffily knelt and started grabbing the necessary parts from the basket. A wheel, an axle, the support parts. It wasn’t enough to simply reach in and pick the pieces out. He had to thrust his hand in and grab haphazardly, scattering the uninteresting pieces. In some instances, he did this two, three, four times before he finally nabbed what he was after. By God, he was going to punish those miserable pieces of plastic!

Having procured all the pieces, he muttered “Like this” as he hastily began assembling them. I didn’t even have time to tell him to “Calm down” before he’d finished. The pieces had gone together exactly in the way moments earlier he’d claimed they couldn’t.

He sat there, dumbfounded.

“Interesting…” I said and started walking out.

He’d recovered from his success now. “I know why they went together, Dad.”

“Oh? You mean other than the fact that you put them together?” I quipped.

Undaunted, he explained “They went together because you were here and they wanted to make me wrong. That’s how it always works. I always have to be wrong in front of you.”

The plastic objects still got the better of him, apparently.

The boy had just finished dinner and was in the process of pouring himself a glass of milk. He poured it well past the point of full and paused.

Then, he began a process of dribbling a little more milk into the glass, then pausing, and dribbling some more in. He was completely focused on his task and in this way, slowly brought the level of the milk up to the edge of the glass.

But he still wasn’t done. Once he had the milk close, he squatted down and eyed the level of milk compared to the edge of the glass. Not satisfied with the current circumstances, he dribbled more milk into the glass. He repeated this process several times before he was satisfied.

It wasn’t until then that he finally looked over at me. It was almost like he had only just realized I was there, watching. He gave me a goofy grin and shrugged his shoulders and kind of half-pointed at the glass. I didn’t say anything, although I did smirk. Then, he leaned over the glass and attempted to slurp some milk out of the glass.

And promptly dribbled the milk down his chin and onto the counter.

I remained silent in my spot. He rolled his eyes over to look at me, his head frozen over the glass. He had a “hand in the cookie” jar kind of face, then gave a small laugh. He wiped his chin with a dish towel and then turned to the cabinet and began rooting around. He pulled out a plastic straw.

After inspecting the straw for … something … and deeming it worthy, he took it in his mouth and hovered it over the glass. To accomplish this feat, he braced himself with both hands on the edge of the counter, stood up on his toes, then craned his neck out. Once in position, he slowly lowered the straw down until it just touched the top of the milk. Then he started slurping. He took the level down enough so that he could safely move the glass without further spillage and then cleaned up the spilt milk.

Having cleaned things up, he returned to the straw and drew a length of milk out, then pulled the straw out of the glass, put his finger on the end and withdrew it from his mouth. The milk remained suspended in the straw. He stood there, shaking the straw above his glass of milk trying to see if anything would come out of the straw. At some point his finger must have slipped and the milk came pouring out. Half of it went on the counter, the other half into the glass.

He looked over at me immediately. His hand with the straw remained hovering over the glass, frozen where the straw had emptied. He smiled again. A big teethy, wide-eyed cartoon grin and threw in an “Aw shucks” shrug. I remained silent, a smirk still on my face.

Returning his attention to the glass, he dropped the straw into the milk mechanically- simply releasing it from his fingers while his hand remained where it had been. He remained frozen like that for a moment, staring at the glass, hand hovering over the it, unmoving. He considered things for another second or two after it plopped into the milk, then he grabbed the dish towel and wiped up the spilt milk.

Apparently deciding the game was done, he took the milk and sucked it down through the straw in three gulps. Then, he placed the glass and straw in the sink, and headed off for the next thing.

Who knew a glass of milk could provide such amusement?

The boy’s writing assignment for this week was to write a description of a sunken ship. The Wife did the heavy lifting with him, having him think about words that could be used to describe a ship, think about what it might look like down there in the ship. She even had him look up shipwreck pictures on the web.

Today, it yielded a first draft:

Catherine couldn’t believe she was next to a sunken ship. It was very rusty. Also very dirty. If you touched it hard enough it would brake. She found out the ship was hit by a cannon and smashed all the air tight chamber. She saw a lot of fish and squid swiming inside the sunken ship. She could just barely see what the color of the ship was. It was red, black and white. It also had multicolored coral on it. The ship looked like it was almost snaped in half. It was laying on its side. Every on aboard was safe. Catherine could tell because there were no bodies.

The usual melange of typos, sentence fragments and problems with changing tense at inopportune times. It’s also a good start.

The Wife worked through it with him for a bit and turned into this:

Catherine couldn’t believe she was next to a sunken ship. It was very rusty and dirty. If you touched it hard enough it would break into pieces. She noticed that the ship looked like it was hit by a cannon, it was almost snapped in half and laying on its side. Whatever hit it ruined all all the air tight chambers. She saw a lot of fish and squid swimming in the ship. Catherine could just barely see the color of the ship. It had been red, black and white. Multicolored coral was growing on it. Catherine did not see any skeletons so she assumed no one perished. When she gets back she will tell her friends and family what she found.

So the typos are fixed and the fragments are gone and most of the tense problems are gone. Without question a better version than the original. He added the bit about what Catherine will do when she gets back, which reads kind of like an after thought. Something like “She couldn’t wait to tell her friends about her experience” would be better. Although it might have been better to leave it out altogether- he switched abruptly from a nice description to dealing with what Catherine was doing. Strictly speaking, I’m not even sure the first sentence is necessary for the paragraph. Certainly, it works as part of a story, but for just a descriptive paragraph, it’s unnecessary.

That being said, that’s what he’ll be turning in. As I said last week, it’s his work and his threshold for reworking a paragraph is pretty low. He’ll read more and that alone will improve his writing. It doesn’t have to all happen right now.

The Wife’s approach resulted in little drama for this assignment. While I’m hopeful that these results can be duplicated, there’s a part of me that figures he’ll be in tears and screaming about the next one. That’s usually what happens just about the time we think we’ve got thing figured out.

“Hey! Come on over here and pick some of this stuff up. There’s no shortage of it to clean up,” I called over to the boy.

“What does that even mean?” he replied as he started walking over.

He came over and scooped up a handful of the amalgam of twigs, leaves, dead grass, moss and whatever other seasonings might be present. He then tossed it into the wheelbarrow. He obviously understood enough.

We were working in the yard, finally getting to the thorough cleaning it needed after the past Fall and Winter seasons. There were shards of pine trees, pieces of branches and lots of other evidence of the toll the past couple of seasons had taken. Over on the side, there was an upper half to a pine big pine tree. The piece that had snapped off was one side of a fork that split the main tree, about 20 feet up. The fork itself was about 50 feet long or so and probably 20 inches around at it’s thickest.

When it landed, it pretty much crushed all the smaller brush and trees in it’s way. The part of the fork that would have been the top of the tree landed partially in our yard and was the messiest part. There were shattered limbs strewn about in a radius around where the broken tree had landed.

The boy was helping me clean all those pieces up. I use “help” in a somewhat loose sense of the term. Right now, for boring jobs like yard cleanup that can’t possible hope to hold a child’s attention, I get about 5 minutes worth of effort before he wanders off to do something else.

A year ago, I would have let him go. This year, I’ve resolved to hound him to keep helping. He’s more than old enough to start learning to finish a job once it’s started. Even the boring ones.

Especially the boring ones.

I don’t know how many times he’d wandered off prior to this last time, but I’d maintained my patience well enough. We were nearing the end of the job, but there was still plenty to pick up.

I considered his question for a moment. My request was simple enough, what was there to confuse him? The only thing I could think of was the word “shortage.”

“Do you know what shortage means?” I asked.

“Yeah, it’s when you run out of electricity,” he answered.

Interesting. He was wrong, but somewhere along the way, he’d obviously picked up on the term “short” as it refers to electricity. It was doubtful he knew exactly what a “short” was, but he knew its result.

“Oh wait,” he blurted, “That’s like, a short circuit. No, I don’t know what shortage means.”

Well, at least he’d figured that much out on his own. “A shortage is when there is not a lot of something,” I explained. “So when I say there is no shortage of something, what does that mean?”

He paused to consider for a moment, then said “It means, like, there’s no not a lot of something.” Then he just kind of stared at me. The double negative seemed to have tripped him up.

“Annnnnnnnnnnnd…” I prompted.

“Annnnnnnnnd… that … means … there is a lot of something?” His voice rose and trailed off as he completed his question, like he had a tenuous grasp on the meaning but wasn’t totally sure of himself.

“Exactly,” I confirmed for him.

We continued picking things up. He asked if “shortage” could be used to refer to a “short circuit.” I told him no, they were 2 different things.

I raked things into a pile, he’d scoop them up and deposit the scoop in the wheelbarrow. When we got down to the final bits, the boy observed “Looks like there’s a shortage now, huh Dad?”