Friday, November 21, 2014

Lessons from Boston: Something Bold, Something New

It’s Saturday night in downtown Boston. I’m pacing the sidewalk in front of a gastropub, outside with the smokers. I’m not smoking. Instead I’m canceling a 9 p.m. dinner reservation across town at a restaurant I’ve never been to, and making a 9:30 reservation at another I'd never heard of until ten minutes before, all on the advice of a stranger.
Guide books be damned. The decision is made. Now let’s hope it's the right one.
There are lessons in travel, if you’re open to them. More so than just in the discovery of new places or the facts behind a historic sight, but actual instructions for life. A weekend trip my wife and I took to Boston recently contained one lesson that repeated itself to the point of being unavoidable.
We went to Boston to celebrate my wife’s birthday. It was a round-numbered one, so important. She dreamed of going to Italy for this milestone, but with four kids and all the bills that come with that, Boston was the best we could afford -- and we could barely afford that. Still, she was born in Massachusetts, so it kind of made sense to visit the City on a Hill in celebration of her existence. Plus, I’d never been there, despite the wanderlust of my youth. So, to Boston it was.
When it comes to things like vacations, I’m usually a bit of a planner. Before a trip I’ll grab tour books and surf the web for weeks in advance to find out everything I can: Places to eat, colorful markets, sections of town that just shouldn’t be missed. I find it and put it on a list. Then I map out the days of the trip. We’ll wake early, walk here, eat there, shop here, drink this, have lunch at that place, watch this show, dine here, nightcap there, and then back to the hotel. Every day I’ve got a schedule in my head, even if I don’t always share it.
Before this trip, however, things were different.
For starters, we’d both been so busy with work and kids and whatnot that I didn’t do one-tenth the usual research. Second, it was her birthday and her town -- and no place for my annoying vacation control issues -- so I figured I’d just do whatever she wanted. Other than booking hotels, I didn’t make a single list of sights we had to see, places we had to go, or things we had to do.
Of course, once the vacation started so did my obsession with order.
Redefining “Old’ In the Mountains
Getting older is never easy. Luckily, what counts as old is a relative term.
The first night of our weekend we spent at a sleepy inn in the Berkshires, as planned. We figured it nearly impossible to work all day Friday then drive the five hours to Boston and still get there at a decent hour. So we broke it up with a stop at the Red LionInn in Stockbridge, a little village immortalized in a painting by Norman Rockwell. The innkeepers also own County Curtains, and my wife had always been curious about the inn, so it was an easy choice. 

Red Lion Inn -- Stockbridge, Mass.
When we told my mother-in-law we were planning to stay at the Red Lion, she replied, “That place is old.” And that pretty much sums it up.
The Red Lion began as a general store in 1773, becoming an inn in the decades after – one of just a few continuously operating inns from that era in New England. It is old, literally. I’d describe it as closer to charming than worn on the spectrum, but it’s definitely on that spectrum. The wood plank floors, bent from centuries of settling, creak with each step. Doorways lean one way, stair cases the other. I kept telling my wife, the old inn’s been around for generations and would certainly stand through one more night. It did. It was also clean, and the canopy bed proved surprisingly comfortable – an important matter, because when the parents of four kids get away for a weekend, all they really want is uninterrupted sleep.
We’d gotten to town too late to eat that first night, winding up in the old tavern in the old basement just after the kitchen and everything else in Stockbridge closed for the evening. So our hunger woke us early the next day. As my wife readied herself, I inquired with the Innkeepers about a good place for breakfast.
For those who don’t know, I take food seriously. I not only eat it every day, but I also like to cook it, and love to find places that cook it well. We’re not talking fine dining here, necessarily – though I’m okay with that on occasion. I’m more into cool, interesting places with well-prepared food, whether a four star restaurant or a street vendor makes no difference.
Finding food is how I like to explore a place and get to know it. That’s why I’m such a fan of Anthony Bourdain. He does it for a living.
Whenever I go someplace new these days, I ask myself “Where Would Tony Eat?” WWTE? If we can find a place worthy of Tony (which is what us friends call him) then it’s a good day. Again, that’s the kind of thing I usually seek out in the research phase of the trip. This time, we had to just ask the innkeepers, who pointed us to the Elm StreetMarket.
I wasn’t at all worried when we had to pass two other places capable of serving breakfast to get to the market, though my wife grew skeptical.

Elm Street Market
On appearances alone, the Elm Street Market seemed my kind of place for breakfast, if only for the questionable atmosphere. It’s a grocery store, butcher shop, deli and breakfast place all crammed into a tiny, little storefront market. Along one side of the store stands a wall of coolers holding milk and eggs. Across from it, separated by an aisle of groceries, sits a five-seat breakfast counter, propping up locals as they hovered over plates of pancakes, eggs and corned-beef hash. Behind the counter, a hulking short-order cook worked the grill, while a frail, older gentleman doubled as server and cashier. We ordered at the counter and sat at one of a handful of tables squeezed up against the storefront windows.
As we sat there, we began to wonder if it was actually the best place in town for breakfast or just the one in the good graces of the innkeepers.

We were starving, so the food did the job just fine. Yet it also answered our question. We later learned the inn actually owns the market and there are better breakfast places – which we passed on our walk there. That morning we learned a general lesson about advice from unknown innkeepers. But that’s hardly the grand lesson of this trip.
After breakfast, we strolled through the village of Stockbridge, self-described as “America’s most famous main street.” Nothing was open yet. A cute town, but if you’ve seen the painting that made Stockbridge famous than you’ve also seen the whole of this quaint little place. Our stroll took less than ten minutes. We checked out of the Inn and headed for Boston.
Along the way, we took a detour through the village of Lenox, another Berkshire mainstay. It had a bit more going on than the more famous one. And, though we thoroughly enjoyed our night in the mountains, we decided that if we ever stayed in the Berkshires again, we’d skip Stockbridge and go to Lenox.
Still, on this trip, we had a grander destination in mind.

Finding Food and Trusting Fate in Boston
I’m not a big believer in fate. People who’ve been through some crap and seen random badness in their lives generally have one of two reactions: either it was meant to be, or there’s no way it was meant to be. I fall in the second category.
I also don’t believe “things will always work out,” as many are apt to comment when things aren’t working out. Maybe that’s why I try to plan things. To give fate a hand, and to make things work out.
But, there’s no denying that sometimes it seems the universe conspires to make things go a certain way, despite our best efforts to push in another direction.  And that brings us to Boston.
We began in Boston as America began -- at Faneuil Hall in downtown. After strolling the shops, the outdoor produce market and the indoor food hall, which was more like a food court than a true market, we were hungry again and ended up in the waiting area of the Union Oyster House, which has the distinction of America’s oldest restaurant. There’s that theme again.
Standing there, convincing ourselves to wait forty minutes for our turn to eat, my wife expressed her concern that we were in a possible tourist trap. I looked around, and low and behold she was right. We also remembered that we don’t like oysters that much. So we left.
Once on the street we wandered in the direction of a few restaurants that were showing up on the Urban Spoon app. That random choice led us to the heart of Little Italy. We’d been told by pre-trip advisors to go there, and I had planned in my head to do that for dinner. Now we were there for lunch.
Boston’s Little Italy, also called the North End, bursts with restaurants, bakeries and bars, and bustles with trendy locals and tourists alike. We were overwhelmed with choices. I was extra overwhelmed because I never expected to find so much of Italy in a town I always thought of as Irish.
We first looked for a place a friend from home told us about, but couldn’t find it. We wandered some more, got hungrier. We settled on a seemingly trendy place, where Tony would likely have eaten, joining a line of urban hipsters that stretched down the block. We stood there, not moving, for too long. Then we jumped out of line and wandered to a fine little Italian place called Gennero’s, with fresh pasta and room enough to feed two hungry travelers right then and there. It was delicious. 

Café Victoria-- Little Italy, Boston
After our late lunch, we joined the masses for an Italian style coffee and cake at Cafe Victoria. It wasn’t Italy, but it was as close as we could get. Full and groggy from the meal and cake, we checked into our hotel to get settled and rest up before dinner.

Our choice of accommodations in downtown Boston was one thing we had little say in. By the time I booked the place, every other hotel nearby was full or way out of our price range. The Mandarin Oriental, for example, wanted over $1000 bucks for their last available rooms -- I'm guessing a suite. So we stayed at the Omni Parker House, which turns out to be the oldest continuously operating hotel in America. Go figure.
I swear I didn’t pick all these old places to make my wife feel young (or old); it just happened.
As it turns out, the Omni Parker House has quite a history, particularly with Boston’s literary elite. As for me – an upstate New York literary underling – I was struck most by how damn small the room was for the price. And they didn’t even have free WiFi. Other than that, there was little to complain about. We could see the Charles River from the window and the bed was comfortable (though a bit small).
One thing I knew about our plan for the rest of the evening, I wanted to have a plan. We spent part of our time at the hotel that afternoon researching restaurants for dinner. After all, this was to be the climactic meal of the trip -- Saturday night dinner, right? I figured, since we’d had Italian for lunch, we should have seafood for dinner. With that, I searched a bit and picked Boston Sail Loft, and then made a reservation. My wife was skeptical of the choice because one review put it on the list of Boston’s “douchiest” restaurants, saying it “is well-stocked with the finest assholes of New England’s famous prep schools.” As assholes go, prep schools one are a special breed. Despite concerns, I needed to have a plan and worried we wouldn’t eat if we didn’t have a reservation. So I booked it.
My wife also picked a gastropub called Stoddard’s near our hotel for a cocktail before dinner. Our plan set, we got ready, primped and headed out for the evening.

We arrived at the gastropub to find a relatively young crowd gathered in the cavernous, rectangular bar with a long line of taps. When two seats opened at the bar, we sat. What can you say, we're old.

Stoddard's -- Boston
It was at Stoddard's that the stars aligned in our favor and fate, or more likely luck, took over. When our luck arrived, it didn’t come in the package you’d expect, unless a lonely, older woman sitting alone at a bar, surrounded by 30-something hipsters was expected.
I didn’t see her at first, but then she started talking. In the first words I heard she cursed, “Kids these days and all their politically correct crap.” My initial thought was, are speaking to me?  She was the oldest person in the bar by decades not years. And she was dressed for going out on a Saturday, her hair in a neat bun. Despite looking worn and tired, she had fight in her voice.
“When I was young comedians would tell offensive jokes, and nobody cared,” she said to me as a more formal introduction. I assumed then I was in for a tough night at Stoddard’s.
Over the next hour or so, this life-long Bostonian shared tidbits with us about her life as a nurse, and how she’d seen it all, and several more things that began with “Kids these days...” I wondered if  she thought we were kids too, or her compatriots.
Eventually, talk turned to our kids, and our lives, and then our plans for dinner.  "The Sail Loft?" she said as she shrugged her shoulders, added a “Meh.”
So, I asked where we should go, and she said told us, “Mare.”  She’d never been there, but she’d always wanted to. It was a date place and for special occasions. She hadn’t had either lately.

At the next lull in her soliloquy on life, I ducked outside and called for a late reservation at a restaurant recommended by a perfect stranger who’d never been there -- and I cancelled our other reservation at the so-called douchy place. An hour later, after our new friend left with half her meal in a bag for her dog at home, we hopped a cab and found our way to Mare – an Italian-style seafood restaurant on Boston’s North End.
To keep this long story short enough that I don't have to get it bound and numbered, lets just say that our meal at Mare was one of the best and most memorable we’ve ever had, second only in my opinion to a Friday night BBQ at Foxy's on Jost Van Dyke during our honeymoon.
Despite changing my sacred plans, we ate well that night in Boston.
I was beginning to see a pattern in our trip, that we had our best luck when our plans didn’t work out, our whims took over, and life and luck led us in another direction. The next day the pattern repeated.
We woke early again, long before 10 a.m. Sunday brunch service. To pass the time, we took a walk through Boston Common – a smaller version of Central Park – headed in the direction of a brunch place on the list supplied by the hotel. After a leisurely stroll, we arrive at the restaurant 5 minutes before it opened. There was only one problem; Nobody else was waiting to go in. After some consternation on my part, and some coaxing by my now wiser wife, we left to find someplace else, anyplace else.
Forty minutes later, we found a much better breakfast option on Newbury Street, Boston's version of Rodeo Drive. Our next few hours were spent perusing the shops -- exactly the way my wife should spend her birthday. The  trip felt complete. And when the early afternoon arrived, I was ready to go home. But my wife had other plans.
She thought we should have one last meal before we left. It was 2 p.m. I wanted to get on the road, sticking to the plan I'd hatched in my head. If we left at 2 p.m., we’d get home at about 7 p.m., I said. But we needed to eat, she said. We needed to go, I said. We hadn’t had chowder, she said. Fine, I said.
Our final quest, in search of chowder, took us to Boston’s Seaport District. Again, I had no idea about the place. But just a short jaunt from downtown we were surrounded by concrete docks and warehouses on one side and new hotels on the other. Interspersed between the docks and warehouses were recognizable restaurants like Legal Sea Foods and Rosa Mexicana. It was industrial longshoreman meets modern development.
I figured we could find chowder at any number of places, if we could only find a parking spot. As a newly burgeoning section of Boston, there seemed a severe shortage of places to leave the car. We drove around for too long, circling the blocks like I used to when we’d go to Adams Morgan for dinner. It sucked. I was ready to go home.
Then we took a wrong turn and ended up next to another old warehouse. We looked up and saw a sign that said, “Parking for Yankee Lobster Customer’s Only.” That was the name of the tiny store front with the red awning we’d just passed while attempting a three-point turn.
“Look up Yankee Lobster,” I said to my wife, who had been Googling chowder places on her iPhone. 
“On it,” she said. Seconds later, Google and other sites reported that the Yankee Lobster was a perfectly fine place for a cup of Chowder. So we parked, and went in.
Thank god we didn’t find a spot earlier and wind up at Legal Seafoods, or some other Godforsaken chain.

Yankee Lobster Co. -- Boston
Once inside the little storefront, we knew we’d arrived at fresh seafood Nirvana. A crowded room greeted us with sideways glances, as people refused to take their faces away from their soup. Fresh fish and lobster crammed the cooler, colorful specials were drawn on the chalk board. Hipsters? There were hipsters. Not just eating there, but working there too.  Hipsters were running the joint.
We waited in a short line and ordered our food at the counters, as was the design of the place. I got the chowder and fresh fish fry. My wife got grilled lobster tail – lobster on her birthday. 

I always ask, Where Would Tony Eat? He’d eat at Yankee Lobster.
We sat outside in the courtyard next to the dining room, because it was too full inside and the sun was shining on us on a warm November day. Then the food arrived.
YankeeLobster Co. is not only cramped, dingy, fresh and beautiful, the food is damn good too.

Thanks, Boston. 
It was fun.
I don’t believe in fate. But sometimes the universe does conspire in your favor. And boy did it. So, on this trip to Boston, I learned a something about plans. I learned that we can make all the plans we want. Plans are good, after all; They give us structure, and help us achieve goals. But sometimes the real beauty happens when we go off the plan and improvise.
It makes me think about the life my wife and I have built. It pains me that I couldn’t take her to the actual Italy for her birthday. And that so many of our plans haven’t worked out like we wanted or hoped.
But I look around at our home and our lives and all the little people in it, and I know that many wonderful things have happened that we never imagined, despite all our plans.
So. That’s it.
I'm going to keep planning things, because that’s what I do. But I'll always be ready to improvise. Because, sometimes luck and fate do take over. And sometimes, things do work out.

Saturday, November 15, 2014

Time For A Backward Skate ...

Talk about reeling in the years. My 11-year-old daughter ‘s school is hosting a roller skating party. That is not a typo. And no, you have not gone through a time warp back to 1984. An actual roller skating party. Not roller blading or ice skating, but that thing you usually only see nowadays when overly-tattooed women bash into each other in the aging female hipster version of men’s softball.

When I heard about this 6th grade roller skating party, the memories came rolling back.

Cool skates. No, that's not an oxymoron.
Ah, roller skating. If you grew up in the 80s, in Maryland, in the United States, on this planet, then you likely went roller skating a few times, at actual roller skating rinks.

“Dad? What’s a roller skating rink?”

Well, it’s like an ice skating rink without the ice. Instead of a hot chocolate stand and a Zamboni, they have bad pizza and an arcade. The music’s a little louder, the crowd a little edgier, and they have special skating intervals just for cool kids called “The Backward Skate.”

Growing up, my brothers and I went skating all the time. We’d beg our parents for a ride to the rink on a given Saturday, usually along with a few neighborhood friends. Then we’d get our bandanas for our back pockets, tie on the super cool, tan rented skates, and zoom around the rink at whet felt like lightning speed. Between 5th and 8th grade, we probably went skating once a month (a total exaggeration when I do the actual math). 

Going to the roller rink was our kid version of a social scene. Then, eventually, we got our own skates. When not at the rink, we’d skate in the unfinished basement, often to music and then with hockey sticks as we got older. As it turns out, my wife – who grew up in Pennsylvania – also skated a ton as a kid.  And they too would skate in the unfinished part of their basement. I imagine lots of 80s kids did the same.

I remember the music at the roller rink most of all. When the memories came flooding back, I immediately went to the internet and found “99 Red Balloons,” and “Electric Avenue”; my wife started singing “Calendar Girl.” (Clearly, I went to an edgier rink than she did).
Musical interlude:

The last skating party I remember was my freshman year of high school, which would make circa 1986. I don’t know what happened to roller skating after that. It just faded. Maybe it's still cool in some parts of the country. Maybe it was never cool.

Now, my daughter’s skating party is going be held at the gym, because roller rinks really don’t exist anymore (At least not around here). Most have been turned into parking lots, or housing developments, or … ice rinks.

But, I’m still glad to see roller skating make a comeback. Well, sort of a comeback. My daughter doesn’t want to go to the party because she said it’s too dorky.
Clearly I’ll have to teach her how to skate backwards.

If you roller skated growing up, share your memories. What songs do you remember skating to?

Thursday, November 6, 2014

Hey Nation, Take a Deep Breath

It’s that time every two years or so when all the political talking heads out there do their best to digest and explain what happened in the election.

They list lessons learned and often describe major shifts in the American electorate. As you peruse the web and watch cable news, you’ll find people saying that this election was a repudiation of the president, or that it proves America’s support for a more conservative agenda. You’ll also hear people saying this leaves the Democratic Party in disarray, or that it sets the GOP up nicely for the next presidential race. You might even see some people describe it as a seismic shift to the right by the nation.  

But you don’t have to look too far back to see some of the same people saying the exact same thing about the opposite parties.

After the 2012 election, pundits collectively mourned the death of the GOP. They described that election as a sign of a changing and more diverse American electorate. They said Democrats had unlocked a secret weapon in their use of technology and social media, and that it would take years for the other side to catch up. They said the GOP would have to change dramatically, both in its appeal and its approach, if it hoped to ever win elections again. 

So, did it? Is that what happened?

The simple answer is no.

Here’s the real lesson to be learned from the 2014 elections -- possibly the only lesson: Democrats really suck at voting in off-year elections.

It may sound like an excuse, or even like some political mumbo jumbo. But it’s not. It’s a fact.

Generally speaking, over the past few decades about 60 percent of voting-eligible Americans vote in the typical presidential election. In non-presidential years, that drops to 40 percent.

Voting in presidential years compared to off years.
Just look specifically at a few of the states (these numbers are preliminary).  In New York, where there wasn’t a heck of a lot on the line, the total number of voters this year was 3,509,641. In 2012, that number was 7,135,322. That’s 3.5 million fewer voters in 2014 than in 2012.

You see the same story when you look at the states more heavily involved in the “Battle for the Senate,” which are also typically up for grabs in the race for the White House. In Colorado, approximately 1,886,657 votes were cast in 2014. In 2012, a total 2,571,846 Coloradans voted. In Iowa, where voting is taken quite seriously, some 1,119,914 people cast ballots in 2014. In 2012, Iowa saw 1,589,951, or 81% of active voters.

You can look at every state, with highly contested races or not, and it’s the same story. North Carolina in 2014: 2,717,920 voters; 2012 saw 4,505,372. It goes on and on.

Political pros know about this smaller off-year electorate and know that it’s quite different than the presidential electorate. Simply put, there are a lot of Democrats and Independent democratic-leaners in the vote-only-in-presidential-year population. These are what we in the business call “soft Dems.” They are not soft in their beliefs, just soft in their voting habits.

Why they don’t typically vote in off years, and why they didn’t this time, is a great question. The Democratic Party is the party of the marginalized. Maybe they collectively don’t feel there’s much on the line when the president isn’t on the ballot. This year, maybe they felt the same malaise and frustration with Washington that made so many Republicans vote and, instead of voting, they just stayed home. Anger is a better motivator than frustrated support.

But there's more to it than that. For some reason, when conservatives/GOP supporters are frustrated with government, they are more likely to vote. When liberal/Dem supporters are frustrated with government, they are more likely to disengage. We've seen this in the past few cycles, a frustrated electorate equals major GOP gains. Why? Well, that's a deeper question than can be answered here.

Still, as people out there talk about repudiations of the president and shifts in the electorate, it’s important to remember that, even though these soft Dems didn’t vote this time, they are still out there somewhere. Past behavior tells us, they will likely vote again in 2016.

As the Republicans among us gloat and Democrats mourn, we should all take a collective breath. The Senate has changed hands. That’s true. But it’s still the same America that elected President Obama two years ago, which is the same America that gave Republicans a landslide in 2010 (an off year).   

Two years from now, who the heck knows what will happen. But one thing we know, a lot more people will vote in 2016 than did this year.

Sunday, October 19, 2014

5 Signs Your Child Has Become a “Tweener”

From the moment our kids come into this world the more experienced parents out there warn us that it’s the teen years when the real challenge begins. It usually goes something like this:
New parent says, “I haven’t slept in a month, I’ve changed ten diapers since lunch, and they won’t stop crying long enough for me to drink a glass of water.”

Experienced parent dismissively responds, “Just wait until they're a teenager.”
Okay, okay. We get it. Being a parent of a teenager must really suck. Warning received. 

Rarely, however, do we hear similar warnings about the almost-as-challenging tween years. Yet, this is often when the trouble begins.
For those who don’t know, the tween years technically occur between the ages of 10 and 12. But observable tween traits don’t usually kick in right when a child turns double digits. It takes a bit of time. Then, before long, you’re in full-fledged tweendom. You quickly learn that the tweens aren’t as much about an age as an attitude -- often, a bad attitude.
Knowing your child has entered the tween stage of “development” can help with the adjustment. So, here are a few signs that your once loving, pleasant and occasionally-obedient child has become a tween:
1). They Choose Solitude Over Family Time: The first sign your child has become a tween presents itself in the simplest way -- you don’t see them as much. You know they’re in the house somewhere. You saw them get off the bus, and their shoes and bag are strewn about the mudroom.

The tween's habitat of choice: their bedroom.
(Of course, I edited this in Instagram to give
it a more tween-friendly, yet foreboding, vibe.
A few months prior, they would have been sitting at the kitchen table gabbing about their day, or doing homework, or playing in the yard outside. But no more. Now their favorite thing to do is to sit alone in their room, maybe reading a book, listening to music, or – God forbid – playing on some sort of electronic device you broke down and bought them so they’d fit in with their tween peer group.
Apparently, tagging another tween’s family photos on Instagram holds more intrigue than actually hanging out with their own family.
2). They Suffer from Uncontrollable Eye Rolls: Not long ago, that goofy pun-filled joke dad always tells would have been greeted with a smile, and maybe a shake of the head. Now, your child rolls their eyes and then retreats to their room again.
The same thing happens when you suggest partaking in family tradition, like apple picking or playing a favorite board game. The constant eye rolling and accompanying “ugh” sounds come with such frequency they can appear involuntary. If anyone figures out how to control these, message me, or text me, or tag me in a post. Heck, you can even send smoke signals. (Eye roll)
3). They Begin Speaking Tween: There was a brief time between when they learned to talk and the tween years that you understood every beautiful word your child said – and even the not so beautiful ones.
Then, suddenly, you notice they start saying things like “totes magotes” instead of “totally,” or they replace the word “crazy” with “cray cray,” or they begin to verbalize any form of textese, like OMG. If any of these things happen, well then, IMHO, they may have already crossed into the abyss that is the tween years.
You may also notice that tween boys start talking about girls, and tween girls begin talking about boys. (Parental eye roll and guttural “ugh” sound).
4). They Become Remarkably Easy to Embarrass: Before entering the tween phase, most kids didn’t have a clue when to be embarrassed. Like the time they made toot noises with their mouth in a public place, just to make their siblings laugh. Or the time they had a screaming fit at the grocery store because you wouldn’t buy them the Beanie Boo the store cruelly put on the end cap of the cereal aisle. Not embarrassed by that at all.
Then, suddenly, your child develops an acute sense of embarrassment. And, as it turns out, the most embarrassing thing in the world is actually you. It’s true. Nothing embarrasses a tween more than being seen in public with their parents.

Consider drop-off and pick-up (to or from any kid event, really). They used to bounce over to your car, hop in, and then sing along as you played the radio leaving the parking lot.
Now, they slunk to your vehicle, addressing you with the warmth of a passenger getting on the city bus. And if you so much as roll a window down with the radio playing before you’re out of earshot of the other tweens,  they will hate you forever. That’s a quote.

Don't you miss the whacky, poorly-
planned, haphazard outfits of the
pre-tween years, with a healthy mix
of patterns and colors? Oh, youth.  
5). They’re Newly Obsessed With their Looks: Just a few years ago, they were more likely to dress like Punky Brewster -- in  a colorful, mismatched outfit that inaccurately reflected your family’s general sense of fashion. Now, they wear only carefully selected clothes that portray the exact image they hope to put out there, right down to socks. If you dare advise them what to wear, you get the eye roll.
And then there’s the hair. Remember the wild, unkempt pre-tween hair? If not for a parent routinely instructing the boys and girls to grab a comb or brush before leaving the house, they simply wouldn’t ever touch it. No more. Now, they can fuss with their hair for hours before getting it just right. And if they do get it right, they might just take a selfie and post it to Instagram.
So there you go.  If you notice your child exhibiting any or all of these characteristics, there’s a chance they’ve become a tweener right before your eyes – or more likely, while up in their bedroom.
Don’t fret though, because, as we’ve all been warned since they were born, this is a cakewalk compared to the actual teen years. So enjoy it. 

Sunday, September 28, 2014

One Smiling Moment -- The Truth Behind an Okay Photo

We all know a picture is worth a thousand words. Yet, sometimes that’s not the whole story. Whenever I see a photo of a family our size (four kids) smiling back from a picturesque locale, I imagine the happy story it’s telling is more than likely a work of fiction. But that’s okay; I like fiction.
A picture I took of our four kids smiling from the shores of Green Lakes State Park recently is no exception.
You wouldn’t know from looking that it was our fourth attempt on this walk to get a group photo – the three before ending in tears, temper tantrums or fake toot noises. Truth be told, that single photo may have been the only moment during our entire visit that all four of the kids were smiling at the same time. And the real story behind it would likely take more than a 1000 words to tell. We'll soon see.
We went to Green Lakes State Park on a recent fall Saturday because I needed to get out of the frigging house, and not while going to work, the store, dance class, or another damn soccer game. I needed to go someplace just for the pure purpose of leisure – R&R as they call it in the Army (or so I’ve been told).
Those who know our family well know that the past few months have been tough, with my wife out of town often attending to family health matters. She’s spent many nights sleeping – and not sleeping – at hospitals with her family, and I’ve spent many days at home with our four lovely children. I have the far easier part of the equation, and I know it.
Still, when she’s out of town I often have to call in the cavalry just to get our kids to the various events and practices that dominate our lives, all while meeting my various work responsibilities. It can be draining.
Once in a while, we all need to take a break from the deadlines and duties of our children’s overscheduled lives, and just do something fun -- even when that means taking all four kids on an outing. Think of “fun” as a relative term here.
I’m an old pro now at taking all four kids places by myself, and even successfully took them all to the State Fair alone a few weeks ago. I haven’t written about that trip, though, because we pretty much spent the entire six hours going from one dirty bathroom to the next. Apparently, filling their bellies with chocolate milk 20 minutes after arriving wasn’t the smartest move. It did, however, give me an idea for a portable potty seat/stroller that I think would sell to parents of Kindergartners.
Anyway, as this more recent fall Saturday afternoon arrived, and soccer ended mercifully for another 24 hours, I decided we should go on an unstructured, impromptu trip to the local state park. Just me and the four kids. I figured we’d hang out together, play on the swings, and take a walk around the 1.8 mile lake loop trail. No real plan, no pressure.
When I say Green Lakes is close to our house, it may be understatement. The entrance lies literally less than a mile from our door, and the park border itself is even closer – it’s where the local deer population goes to rest in their recliners after eating my entire tomato crop.
As for our family, we often visit the park in the spring and fall, though rarely in the summer because they charge to get in between Memorial Day and Labor Day. We have four kids and no spare money, so we go when it’s free.
We arrived this unusually warm fall day to find the parking lot packed with cars that had delivered others families looking for similar free respite from their busy lives within the natural settings of the park.
With three of my four children under the age of ten, our first stop was the playground – a plastic and metal jungle that is likely the least natural thing around. I sat on a nearby picnic bench. The one child over ten proceeded to sit near my eardrum so she could nag me incessantly about how she only wanted to come here for the hiking part of the visit.
“How much longer are you going to let them play?” she asked somewhere around ten times in a span of three minutes.
After I ignored her nine of the times, she joined them on the fancy monkey bars, and they played even longer than I had told her the first time she asked.
Once they were good and exhausted, I pried them each off the playing equipment and prepared them for the nature walk portion of our visit – a preparation that included a bathroom break, of course.
Finally on our way, the walk took an early negative turn. This happened when the oldest child shared with her siblings exactly how deep the lakes are – created by glacial waterfall plunge pools – and how just a few feet into the water, the bottom falls away to over a hundred feet deep. My six-year-old, who is the resident phobia queen, proceeded to shriek and cry, refusing to walk on the side of the path closest to the water’s edge.
“It’s just an irrational fear,” the older daughter chided, as she tried unsuccessfully to firmly console her younger sister.
Actually it wasn’t. It kind of freaks me out when I think about it, too. It’s like we’re standing on a cliff, but it’s filled with water. I was going to reassure her by saying you can drown just as easily in a few feet of water, but thought better of it.
Our almost two-mile walk along the lake continued, with shrieks and screams to spare. Occasionally, the siting of a fish in the water or a bird in a tree became the focus. And that was good.
The rest of the time, the eldest was convincing her sister that there was nothing to fear by walking as close to the water’s edge as possible, each attempt only causing more trouble.  Finally, I had to stop her from trying to help the situation, because she was only making it worse.
Toot noises.
Even though tension was high, with one child practically in tears for fear of falling into the incomprehensibly deep lake and another not talking to us because I'd instructed her to “stop interacting” with her younger sister, I thought it might be nice to get a least one happy photo. Yep. Good luck.
Our first photo stop along the shore of the lake was at a nice, little spot where a shallow section made approaching the water possible for all the kids. I got a good shot of them all facing the other way, but the moment ended with the boy making fart noises and everyone alternatively laughing and screaming at him.
Broken fern, bad lighting.
The second attempt failed because the youngest daughter had found a fern branch she loved, and she wanted it to be in the picture with us. This ended when the older sister ripped the plant from her hands, breaking its stalk in half. Again, tears. 

The light wasn’t right either, so we moved on.
The third attempt also involved ferns, but new ones.

Too big for selfie,
or fern gully.
This time we stopped on a bridge, and I tried to take a selfie of us all. The phone/camera was too close to get everyone in the shot. Luckily, a nice older couple was passing by and offered to take the photo. After I handed the phone/camera over to them, my eldest noticed the new ferns in her sisters hands and grabbed them gently from her, and went to place them on the bridge railing. As the older couple watched us, a wind gust blew the ferns off the bridge and into the creek below. You guessed it: tears.
The fern-loving younger one then tried to climb down into the creek to retrieve her beloved plants. The older couple stood there looking at us with my phone/camera poised and ready.
“Sorry,” I said to them, and meant it. “You’re free to go.”
They smiled awkwardly, nodded knowingly, and then they left.
For the fourth attempt at a family photo a bit farther along the path I decided to just take a shot of the kids, like the first two attempts, and not subject any strangers to our drama. The lighting was okay, the backdrop awesome, and for one brief moment they all smiled.
Click. (Or whatever sound the phone/camera makes).

Well, almost.

I would have done another take, but the boy started shaking his butt, while yelling, “I’m shaking my butt!” for all the park inhabitants to hear.
So, that one photo would have to be good enough. And, I swear, it’s a true representation of our awesome trip to Green Lakes State Park.

There you have it. I guess this picture is worth closer to 1,550 words.
On a related note, there’s been a lot written elsewhere about this phenomena of happy photos that don’t tell the real story. Personally, I don’t see anything wrong with it. If you think about it, that’s kind of how the mind works, too.
The actual moments of our lives are often wrought with angst, frustration and tension, but the memories can become good ones with time.
Remember that challenging trip the family took to the amusement park, with the insufferable heat, the long lines and the expensive food. It can end up being the best time ever. 

That happy photo is just the first step in the cleansing process. 

So, now it’s up to you, my mind; cleanse away.

Harry and the Hendersons inspired this last one.

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Monday, September 8, 2014

6 Tips to Help Parents Enjoy Soccer Again

It's the time of year when parents spend many weekend mornings searching the house for that missing shin guard, scouring local sports stores for another pair of soccer socks and loading up lawn chairs for a season on the sidelines watching our young ones chase soccer balls around.

Let's admit it: Soccer can be time-consuming, anxiety-inducing and even costly -- for kids, parents and coaches alike. With the right attitude, it can also be lots of fun. As a father of four, a long-time soccer fan and a youth soccer coach, here are a few tips that can improve your enjoyment of the so-called beautiful game.

1. This Isn't the Soccer of Our Youth

When I played youth soccer decades ago, our practices went something like this: The coach would tell us how to kick the ball, then we'd line up and one by one, with all the other kids watching, run up to a stationary ball and try to kick it. No matter how we fared, we'd then go to the end of the line and anxiously await another chance at glory. We'd be lucky to touch the ball three times during one of those "skill drills."

For games, the coaches would put 11 of us on the field per side -- even in second grade -- and then holler from the sidelines as a 20-child mass of flailing legs would bunch around the ball, moving slowly across the field, occasionally crossing a goal line to "score." It looked more like a rugby scrum than soccer.

Nowadays, most youth coaches are encouraged to avoid the line-them-up-and-take-turns type of drills in favor of what's called small-sided games. They'll give each kid a ball and make them run around a square; or break the team up into smaller groups to focus on a given skill or two; or have them play three-on-three games. This allows each player to make more soccer moves and decisions during practice, giving them more "touches" and actually practicing the skills needed to improve.

For any bystander who remembers the orderly practices of their youth, it can look like a total mess. But it works.

When it comes to games, soccer leagues that follow the age-appropriate curriculum suggested by U.S. Youth Soccer will put smaller teams on the field, again to maximize touches and to keep the pile of kids around the ball at a manageable level. For instance, those aged 6 and under should only have three or four players per team on the field for games. Teams shouldn't get to 11 per side until age thirteen.

2. Recreational Soccer has Recreation in the Name for a Reason.

Up until about third grade, almost all kids play in recreational leagues, where teams are made up of members of the same community or youth soccer organization and play each other. After that age, most clubs are divided into recreational and so-called "travel" teams.

If you and your child like the competitive side of the sport and entertain visions of soccer stardom, travel may be for you. If they make the team and play, they'll get all the competition they need to improve their skills. And you'll get to spend lots of time and money traveling around to games.

But if what they really need is playing time, a recreational league may be a better choice.

Rec soccer leagues and intramural leagues focus on individual skill development, no matter the skill level of the player. Most of these leagues encourage coaches to give kids equal playing time and the opportunity to play different positions, which is critically important, because we don't know at that age who's going to blossom into the perfect striker.

If your kid plays recreational soccer, parents and coaches should treat it as such. Understand going in that your little superstars will be sitting the bench just as often as the kid who has never played the game before. In rec leagues, that's how it should be. Remember, it's supposed to be fun. Thus, the name.

3. Yelling is Futile and Even Embarrassing

I know how frustrating it can be to have some 16-year-old referee blow an offside call, costing your team the coveted victory. I've dealt with the crying kid who happened to be in goal when that fateful shot slipped into the net, in a clear violation of all soccer goodness. It should have been disallowed. But please remember that most referees, coaches and assistant coaches are just volunteers. And they are volunteering so that your kid can play this game.

It's rarely a good idea to yell at a referee. And, it's certainly never a good idea to yell at one of the kids on the other team -- even if they pushed down little Johnnie, without any regard for the rules. Let the coaches and refs handle it.

I remember one overzealous mom who thought it would be funny to yell the wrong instructions to a 9-year-old on the other team -- this, after the kid's coach had tried to give her the right instructions.

"Clear the ball, Suzie, like we practiced," the coach encouraged. The mom from the opposing team retorted, "Kick it toward the goal, Suzie." She thought it was a hoot. We were all embarrassed for her.

If parents must yell things, keep it positive and simple. "Go, INSERT NAME!" will cover most situations.

Coaches, too, should think about what they yell or even say really loudly, as we often must to be heard half-a-field away. Try following the simple rule of bookending. When you want to give an instructional critique that can't wait till halftime or the next practice, surround it with encouragement. "Good effort, Johnnie. Next time, try to get it closer to the sideline. But great hustle."

4. They'll Never Pass Like Barcelona

Nothing is better in soccer than watching a good pass -- that perfect ball from Xavi to Lionel Messi that lands on his foot and ends in a goal. I know we all want our kindergartener's team to spread out and pass the ball, like Barcelona does. Or, even like we did back in high school -- if memory serves us correctly.

The reality is that kindergarteners simply are not going to do that. There's a reason. Younger kids lack the developmental tools needed to "spread out" and see the field. Heck, some adults lack these skills. Kids this age are focused on their own feet -- or on the dandelions growing in the next field. They are playing to learn how to kick the ball, to follow rules and to have fun. Passing comes later.

I always cringe when some well-meaning grandparent yells at a 6-year-old who's streaking down the field with the ball for the first time in his life, "Pass It!"

Again, "Go" will likely suffice.

Think about it. If we all yell "Pass" every time the ball gets near any kid's foot, as many parents are apt to do, we create a bunch of soccer players who treat the soccer ball like a hot potato -- getting rid of it the second it comes their way. That won't serve them well if they decide to stick with the game.

5. Winning at this Level Shouldn't Matter, Because It Really Doesn't

When a team loses, the parents are often heartbroken. The kids? Not so much. Sure, they want to win. But most bounce back pretty quickly from even a lopsided loss.

I was an assistant coach with a team a few years back that went undefeated. It was a rec-level league for third grade girls -- U8, as U.S. Soccer calls it. Our wins were the result of luck of the draw as much as anything, though the head coach was a great teacher, too.

We knew the first day of practice our team was stacked with good players. Winning all those games, the coaches and parents loved it. The kids enjoyed it, too. But, how many of the kids truly improved their skills that year? Some did. But no more than on the team I coached the next year, when we lost most of our games. In fact, I saw more personal skill improvement on the losing team than on the winning team. Losing can do that to you.

And of all the victories over those two seasons, the most memorable win wasn't the final one clinching the undefeated season, but that first win in the losing season after we'd opened with an 0-4 record. It was special, not because we ended up with more goals than the other team (technically, this league didn't keep score), but because we overcame adversity, worked hard, pulled together and improved.

The focus of youth soccer should be on teaching them about fair play and sportsmanship; about hard work and teamwork; and about being healthy and active. Along the way, they may learn how to deal with adversity. If they lose, hopefully the learn how to lose with dignity; if they win, how to do so with humility.

With proper coaching and practice, they will each improve their own soccer skills, becoming better players and more confident kids. That can happen on a team that wins, as much as a team that loses -- as tough as it is for many parents to take.

6. Let Them Play

Finally, all of us involved in soccer -- as parents, grandparents and coaches -- should remember this simple youth soccer saying: "Let Them Play."

There will be time for instruction, for skill development and for learning the finer points of the game that all us adults can more clearly understand (from the sidelines). The best way for kids to learn is to play: to kick the ball, to trap it, to pass and to shoot, to score goals, to make mistakes, to win and to lose.

The reality is that most children who play youth soccer are never going to turn pro. I'm not trying to burst bubbles, but according to U.S. Youth Soccer, some three million children will register to play the sport this year. There are only 11 starting spots on each of the U.S. national teams.

Being great at soccer is a laudable goal, and we shouldn't take that dream away from any kid. But, there are many more lessons to be learned. As adults, we just have to get out of the way and let them play.