The Question

There comes a time in every kid's life when things change. They notice subtle differences. As parents, we've watched our children grow from little wrinkly things that constantly cry to little things that make us constantly cry. It's a joyous time, seeing them become miniature versions of us ( without the cynicism and scars.). But, even though we know it's coming, we dread the time when they get old enough and ask The Question. You know...The Question that leads to The Talk.

It happened with my son one evening. I'd just gotten home from work and was looking forward to relaxing. My son sat next to me. I waited for the “Let's play catch” or “Let's play a game on the Wii.” But he sat there quietly.

I tensed up waiting for the tickle attack, but even that didn't happen.

“Daddy,” I could tell this was going to be a difficult discussion from the tone of his voice.

“Yes, bud?” I was prepared for pretty much anything. He'd been on a what-if kick lately. So, I was ready with most of the professional quarterbacks and whether or not they could throw the ball to the moon.

“Why is President Obama so bad?”

This, I was not prepared for. The last presidential election was the first he remembered. (He was about 2 years-old for the previous one. Even though we lived close to the center of the political world at the time, I'm pretty sure the whole process didn't register with him. I know what you're thinking, at two he drooled and had the same bodily control as most politicians, so there's no reason for him not to remember that election.) Anyway, after the last presidential election, he was very proud that he knew who the new President was. So, I was a little concerned and quite unprepared for his question. I fell back on the best Parental Response. “Why do you ask that?” (That'll buy you a good five minutes while they try to figure out how to re-word questions like, “Why is the sky blue?” and “If I hit my sister with a bat because she's annoying, but she's not bleeding too much, how much trouble would I be in? Not that I did.”)

“Because, he is destroying the country.”

Usually, I vote the opposite of my mother-in-law (just because it's fun to piss her off.) But I haven't actively set out to irritate my children yet. So, I was pretty sure he didn't get that impression from me. “Who told you that?”

“A commercial on TV.”

“That's not really true.”

“You mean Mitt Romney's a liar?”

“Not really.”

“But he said he won't raise taxes and Barack Obama will. And we'll be out of money.”

“He's just saying that because he wants people to vote for him.”

“You mean he's going to raise taxes?”

For a minute, I thought about explaining global economics to my son. Then I remembered that he's doing math problems in school that make no sense to me. (For that matter, the last time I helped my daughter, who is in first grade, with her math, we BOTH got letters from the teacher. Luckily my wife gave me an excuse and I didn't have to go to detention. But I did have to promise to never help my daughter with math again.) There's also the fact to count above ten, I have to take off my shoes and socks and I was too comfortable to move right then.

“Well, see, it's like this. They both want people to vote for them. They say what they think people want to hear.”

“Barack Obama does that too?”

“Yes. It's all part of running for election.”

“We have to choose between two liars?”

“Well... They aren't really lies. They are campaigning.”

He gave a look that only a kid presented with adult logic can get. “So, we have to choose between two liars. That's stupid.”

“Let's play a game on the Wii,” I suggested.

“OK, but it's still stupid.”

“I know, Go talk to your Grandma. She was alive when they signed the Declaration of Independence. She can explain it.”

“Really?”

“Yep.” If the President can campaign, so can I.

Herb III

“I'm going to play goalie tonight,” my daughter said as I carried all the pads onto the dek.

Yes, I do not learn very quickly. While I did survive multiple games of being locked inside a large cage with rabid, armed and armored children in the spring, I decided to push my luck. (In case your memory is as bad as mine, or, on the very slight chance, you have not read my blog, let me refresh your memory on the “sport” known as dek hockey. Take a group of kids that have no concept of mortality and mind numbing pain (The mind numbing pain was when their sticks hit my shin, hand, foot, head...), cover them with shin pads, elbow pads, thick gloves and a helmet. Now, add wooden sticks (that could very well be sharpened and should be declared weapons of at least local mass destruction.). Because of local zoning and for safety reasons, you have to put them in an enclosed area with a fence at least fifteen feet high. In itself, this isn't too bad. But some idiot came up with the bright idea that adults need to be added and they do not give the adults any safety gear, not even tasers.(“They” say it's to coach, but I think it's so there's fresh prey for the little hooligans.) Last spring, my son and daughter both asked me to coach their teams. This season, my daughter moved up from the we'll-teach-them-the-basics-of stick-handeling-and-passing, AKA “Throw in raw meat and run and hide” league to the real league and they both wanted me to coach the team.

After most of the season, my daughter had gone from turning pirouettes in the middle of the dek and sometimes having a general idea of where the ball was on the dek (usually the side opposite of where she was looking) to wanting to play goalie. It was the last game of the season and we had third place locked up.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!” Without another word, she started taking off her shin pads so she could put the goalie pads on. If you've seen professional hockey, you've seen the pads they wear. Well, they wear the same pads for dek hockey. I don't mean the same pads metaphorically. They are The Same Pads. But, my daughter is about ¼ the size of a professional hockey goalie.

“I can't walk,” she said from behind the pads.

I carried her over to the goal and gave her the basic lecture. “Keep your pads together. Square up on the ball. Keep your stick in front of you.”

“I dropped my stick.”

I picked it up and put it in the general area of her palm. The problem was she had the blocker pad on her right hand. There were two things wrong with this. First, she's a lefty and as everyone know, the catcher pad goes on your primary hand. (Although, at this age and size, the goalie is pretty much a mound of pads with a helmet on top. (Sometimes there is actually a head inside the helmet.)) The other problem was I had no idea where her actual hand was.

“I dropped my stick again.”

I picked it up again. “Ok, just keep your eye on the ball and have fun.” Then some of the kids got ready to warm her up with practice shots.

I'm sure you've seen the drills in professional hockey where the players line up and each one shoots on the goalie. The shots are organized and everyone goes in order. Well, with six to nine year-olds, this is everyone shooting at the same time. Luckily, my daughter dropped her stick and was currently stuck on the dek. Every time she got a grip, she needed two hands to push herself up, so she dropped the stick again. Then she'd grab the stick and fall over and start the process all over.

After a few minutes, I checked again and we both agreed, maybe she wasn't quite ready to play goalie. So, we got her out of the pads and the other goalie padded up just in time for the game to start.

Since we couldn't get second place or lose third place with this game, I told the kids we were going to have fun. I wanted them to relax and spend the next hour running as hard as they could. After the first period, our goalie said he wanted a break. My daughter chirped up that she was ready to play goalie now.

There's a three minute break between periods in dek hockey. During the season, I'd gotten the pattern down. We had three kids that could play goal and we usually switched goalies. My system was, get the current goalie to lie down while I called the kids around to give them The Speech. While I undid the seventy or eighty clips that keep the pads in the general area of the goalie:

• I went over what the kids were doing right and what we needed to work on the next period
• Called the kids back into the circle
• Repeated what they were doing right and what we needed to work on now that all the kids were gathered around.

Once the pads were off, the next goalie dropped down into the pads and I:

• Reversed the seventy to eighty snaps.
• Made sure the kids were all ok.
• Figure out who was going to be playing starting the next period
• Realized that instead of fastening the clips around the boy's legs, I'd actually fastened the pads to each other (Think about tying someone's shoes together.)
• Remind myself that I was not supposed to swear around the kids
• Redo the clasps
• Get the shoulder pads on and the goalie jersey (This is not a cosmetic. The jersey is only thing that holds the shoulder pads above the kid's waist.)

By this time, four minutes of the three minute break have gone by. We do our cheer and the next period starts.

I spent a few seconds thinking about the wisdom of this decision. I called the kids into a tight huddle.

“Ok guys, we have a new goalie. Can you protect her?”

“yes.”

“You can do better than that!”

“Yes!” eight little voices yelled loud enough for a couple of parents in the stands to look over.

My routine had been fine tuned over countless weeks. But, I had not taken into account my daughter.

“Where's my stick?”

“Let's get your pads on first. Drop down.”

“Am I going to get to wear the jersey?”

“Yes. Let's get your pads on first. Drop down.”

“And the shoulder pads?”

“Yes. Let's get your pads on first. Drop down.” She has the cutest laugh when the vein in my forehead throbs.

Five minutes later, the shin pads were on her. The other team was lined up.

“Coach, can I play center?”

“I want to play defense.”

“Dad, can I play defense too?” That was my son.

“Everyone plays the same positions they were when the period ended. Ok, stand up.” That was to my daughter.

“I can't”

I picked her up and set her on what I think were her feet. Then pulled the shoulder pads over her head and the yellow jersey. “Where's your helmet?” Not that there was much room for it.

“I dropped my stick.”

We were already seven minutes into the the three minute break. The jersey made a very nice dress on her. She held up her hands. At least I think she did, the sleeves of the jersey covering her “moved”. I put the gloves on her “hands.” and snapped on her helmet.

“I dropped my stick again. We both bent down and I found out that the helmet beats skull.

“Mommy said we're not allowed to say that word anymore.”

She was finally ready and we had a thirty foot walk to the goal. Thirty feet for me to pass on all my knowledge to my only daughter. Thirty feet to tell her everything she needed to know so that she could be The Goalie. Thirty feet of me saying goodbye to my little girl and turning her over to the hard, cruel world. (She might have been ready for this, but I wasn't.)

“Daddy, I can't walk.”

Thirty feet for me to carry her.

“Ok. Keep your pads together, square up on the ball.”

“I dropped my stick.”

I put it back in the area of her hand. “What's the most important thing?”

 

“Have fun,” came from the mass of pads.

A couple of seasons ago, I was able to coach my son when he scored his first goal. I lost my voice in that game. My daughter stood in the goal like I'd shown her. I yelled encouragement to her. When she made her first block, I lost my voice. Over the season, all the parents had learned what to yell to help the kids. Between my yelling and the parents, our games were never quiet.

When the other team had a break away, everyone stopped and you could hear a pin drop as everyone held their breath. I watch the kid charging down on my daughter as the stands went silent. When she blocked the shot, EVERYONE exploded. That was when I lost my voice for the rest of the game.